The Cure for Dreaming(35)

Henry got to his feet. “I can’t stay. I’m performing soon and would like to check on my sister beforehand.” He slapped his hand on Percy’s shoulder and leaned close to his ear. “I said nothing lewd to Olivia, Monsieur Acklen. She’s angry because I told her to run away from people who are poisonous to her.”

“What?” Percy’s brows pinched together. “Who’s poisonous to her? What are you talking about?”

Henry fitted his gloves over his hands. “Thank you for the supper offer. Adieu. Good night.”

And then he was gone, hustling toward the exit as if he couldn’t get away from the two of us fast enough.

Percy plopped down in his chair, still wrinkling his brow. “What was all that about? Was he trying to hypnotize you?”

“No . . . he just . . . it’s hard to explain. He . . .”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Henry returning to us.

My neck muscles tensed. “Oh, no, here he comes again.”

Henry approached our table and handed me something limp and white that I realized was one of my own evening gloves. “I must have accidentally picked this up when I was fetching my own gloves, mademoiselle. Je suis désolé. I am sorry.” His eyes lingered on mine and then darted to the glove, as if he were trying to convey some sort of message.

“Thank you,” I said, resting the glove in my lap.

“You’re welcome.” He left us again so swiftly that the air ruffled my hair and made the night feel even more out of whack.

“Criminy . . .” Percy peeked over his shoulder and watched him go. “My father always says theater people are eccentric and ill-mannered . . .”

I sighed. “You keep telling me what your father says and thinks, Percy. Weren’t we supposed to be forgetting overbearing daddies right now?”

“I give my own opinions.”

“Not really. For instance . . .” I kneaded the fabric of my glove between my fingers and was surprised to hear the rustle of a piece of paper inside the thumb.

“For instance what?”

“For instance”—I set the glove aside on my lap and attempted to ignore that peculiar rustling—“do you truly agree with your father that women shouldn’t vote?”

Percy lowered his eyes.

I lifted my chin. “I read his letter in the newspaper yesterday.”

He flashed a sheepish grin. “Oh, yes, that letter. Father’s public opinion pieces always make me supremely popular with the ladies.”

“But what is your opinion? Do you think women are inferior creatures to men?”

“I think . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, repositioned himself in his chair, took a swig of beer, and hesitated far too long. “I think volatile subjects are best avoided in fine dining establishments, Olivia. Let me call over a waiter and order you a nice meal, and then we’ll talk about a lighter subject more suitable for a sweet little thing like you.”

“But—”

“Waiter.” He waved over a short server with large ears, who was just darting back to the kitchen. “We’re ready to order.”

The waiter scuttled over to our sides and asked what we wanted.

Before I could open my mouth, Percy told the fellow, “The young lady and I will have the salmon and a salad and a loaf of fresh bread, and could you cook the fish a little more than you normally would? So that the ends are charred and crunchy.”

“Could mine be cooked the regular way?” I asked the waiter.

“Oh, you’ll like it my way, Olivia.” Percy handed the fellow our menus. “It’s the only way to eat it.”

“I don’t even like salmon all that much . . .”

But the waiter was gone; my opinion hung in the air, unacknowledged, while Percy dove into a story about his travels.

“Did I tell you we spend our summers down at the beach in California?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “You said so when you told me about Nanette.”

“I’m a crackerjack swimmer, I’ve discovered. I’ve swum nearly a mile off the coast and never once tired from the waves smacking me around.”

Percy yammered on, and my heart shriveled into a disappointed little prune. I didn’t have to witness his true feelings by seeing any dangerous curved teeth or predatory gleam in his eyes.

I heard it in his voice, clear as church bells—and I’d probably even heard it and ignored it on Halloween night.

Percy thought me inferior.





y the light of a streetlamp outside the restaurant, I found two tickets to Henry’s Saturday matinee show stuffed inside the thumb of my glove. On the back of one of the tickets was scrawled a smudged note, yet I could still make out the message: Come to the side door of the theater after the show if you’re able. I want you to meet Genevieve.


I heard approaching hooves and looked up to find Percy driving his black buggy around the bend from the side street where he’d parked it. I crammed the tickets into the far reaches of the glove and slid the white leather over my hand, scraping my thumb on a rough edge.

Percy brought the buggy to a stop along the curb next to me and hopped out to the sidewalk. “You’re blushing again. It seems you’re always blushing.”

I shrugged. “I’m just warm.”