The Cure for Dreaming(32)

“Hey! Reverie!” called Percy behind us. “Where are you taking her?”

We made it halfway down the mirrored hallway before I heard Percy’s footsteps jogging after us.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from here.” Henry steered me toward the wide front door that would lead to fresh air and escape.

Percy was on our heels. “Come back, Olivia. I didn’t even get a chance to drink my beer.”

Henry came to a sudden stop and turned on Percy. “Are you Miss Mead’s suitor?”

“Yes.” Percy pulled at his gray bow tie. “My name is Percy Acklen, and I am courting her.”

“Then how the devil can you worry about beer at the moment, batard? Those people were treating her terribly. One boy called her a tart, and that ugly one next to her was pinning her down and hurting her. You just sat there like an imbecile.”

“Now, wait a moment . . .” Percy stepped close. “Don’t throw insults at me when you were the one hypnotizing my girl. We all thought you were giving us a show.”

“Do you want me to take you home, Olivia?” asked Henry, ignoring Percy, his hand still cradling my arm. “I will explain everything to your father.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Please, no. My father will be furious if I come home early. He’ll make everything so much worse than it already is.”

“Oh, to hell with all of this.” Percy marched over to our jackets hanging off the scraggly coat rack. “I’m hungry and grumpy and need a good supper. Let’s go eat in the city and tell Olivia’s father everything went well. Who needs catty birthday girls and overbearing daddies ruining our evening?” He threw his crimson scarf around his neck. “You, too, Reverie. I’m willing to bet you also have a father who’s made your life miserable.”

Henry lowered his hand from my arm. “No. Just an alcoholic uncle-guardian who got himself killed in July.”

“Holy tripe. That’s even worse. You’re in.” Percy clomped back over to us on the loud soles of his oxfords, my coat in hand. “Come join Olivia and me. I’m paying.”

“Your buggy only holds two people, Percy,” I reminded him.

“True. Well . . .” He helped me into my coat. “Do you have a hired carriage, Reverie?”

“No. Miss Eiderling paid someone to drive me here, but I don’t think—”

“Then we’ll all squeeze in together. It’ll just have to be tight and cozy.” Percy offered me his elbow and plunked his top hat on his head. “Come along. Let’s get out of here and go toast to youth and vampires and rebellion.”





hree people did not fit comfortably into a buggy built for two.

Mandolin jostled us through the streets of Portland, and Percy, Henry, and I squeezed together on the padded green seat, my hips too wide to fit between the boys. I had to turn and sit sideways, facing Percy, while half my rump perched on Henry’s warm leg behind me.

“Comfy?” asked Percy, shifting his face toward me, his nose an inch from mine.

“Somewhat,” I said, and I gritted my teeth against a jolt from a buggy wheel slamming against a pothole.

Cologne and pomade and the scent of wool suits ruled the air around me. Youth these days will be the death of morality, I remembered the pumpkin-haired organist complaining earlier that day, and I wondered if she might be right. Wedged between the two young men like that, my chest shoved against Percy’s arm and my backside bumping against Henry’s femur, I must have resembled the heroine of Sapho, the play both the organist and my mother said was causing an uproar in New York City—the one about the strumpet and her lovers.

This was not the evening my father was envisioning for his newly tamed daughter.

Percy tipped his face toward mine again. “Is she still hypnotized, Reverie?”

“No,” I said before Henry could even think of confessing that my father had paid him to cure my mind. “I’m fine.”

Percy turned his sights back to the road ahead. “I’d like to learn a couple of hypnosis tricks.”

“They’re not tricks, mon ami,” said Henry with a bite to his voice. “They’re skills that require knowledge, compassion, and mastery. My uncle began training me back when I was just twelve years old, and he only did so because he believed I possessed both talent and responsibility.”

“Your uncle? The rummy who got himself killed, you mean?”

I nudged Percy in the arm. “That’s cruel, Percy.”

“Yes. That uncle.” Henry shifted the leg that rested below me. “He became the guardian of Genevieve and me after our parents died. And despite his weaknesses of recent years, he was once witty and kind and deeply in love with the arts of hypnotism and mesmerism.”

Percy shot him a sideways glance. “You make hypnosis sound like a woman.”

“It is like a woman. She’s beautiful. She’s mysterious.” Henry’s voice softened to a lush purr that made my stomach flutter. “Une belle femme.”

“Risqué,” said Percy with a chuckle.

“But you have to treat her delicately,” continued Henry, ignoring Percy, “and with utmost respect. Or else you’ll find yourself waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, realizing”—he paused long enough for me to peek over my shoulder and catch him watching me through the darkness from beneath the curved brim of his hat—“you may have gone too far.” He kept his eyes on mine. “You’ll be deeply sorry if you’ve inflicted any harm.”