The Cure for Dreaming(46)

I squirmed and didn’t answer.

She shifted her legs over the side of the bed. “Please show me.”

I looked to Henry, who pursed his lips as if he didn’t know what to say.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said. “It’s an awfully embarrassing thing to share . . .”

“No need to be embarrassed,” said Henry. “If I’m an honest hypnotist, which I like to think I am, I should see how much harm I’ve caused.”

I sipped two calming breaths through my lips—in, out, breathe, deeper—and lifted my hand to the topmost pearl. Henry stood up from the sofa and trod toward me with hesitant footsteps, making my fingers shake and slide around on the pearl’s slick surface before I could twist the clasp loose from the buttonhole. I undid the second button, which allowed the air in the room to cool the skin of my throat, and I exhaled, as if I’d just freed my neck from the embrace of a noose.

The blouse remained taut over the lower half of my neck. I unbuttoned the third clasp and pulled the plaid wool aside to expose my bare skin.

Genevieve whimpered and sputtered out of view. Henry’s eyes widened. He came closer and peeled the fabric farther down.

“Is that . . . is it . . .” I attempted to smile away my mortification. “Is that the normal look of a bite from a gentleman who’s feeling romantic?”

Henry tucked my blouse back over my skin. “I don’t think romance had anything to do with that mark.”

“Perhaps . . .” Genevieve surged back into light. “You could maybe consider hypnotizing her father into paying your fee, eh? Then you could immediately end her hypnosis and—”

“What? Genevieve!” Henry froze. “You know full well I can’t hypnotize people into giving me money.”

“But—”

“Look what happened to Uncle Lewis when he tried that sort of thing. What good would I be to you if I’m lying in some gutter, bleeding to death?”

“But that was all because of a gambling debt,” said Genevieve. “This is different.”

“Something would go wrong, and I’d end up either in jail or in a coffin.” Henry tottered over to the window and scratched his forehead. “I don’t know what to do, Olivia. We really can’t change any part of the hypnosis before your father sees satisfying results.”

“But he’s already seen results,” I said. “He knows I can’t get angry with him. What more proof is he waiting for?”

Henry rubbed his face, but he did not answer.

“What is it?” I rose from the bed. “What do you know, Henry?”

He dropped his hands to his sides and faced me. “I have an appointment to go to your house in an hour. He’s asked me to make adjustments to the hypnosis.”

“What? More mind control?”

“He wants to show you off to members of some sort of organization—the Association of something or other.”

My mouth went dry. “The Oregon Association Opposed to the Extension of Suffrage to Women.”

“That’s the one.” Henry leaned his shoulder blades against the window. “He wants to demonstrate your treatment to some woman who’s in charge of the association.”

Oh, Lord. Sunken-Eyed John’s mother.

“What else did he say?” I asked with my hands balled into fists.

“He mentioned it’s the millionaires’ wives who are the strongest anti-suffrage voices, and he’s terrified of losing his rich customers if these powerful women think you’re a suffragist. If he can convince this lady that I’ve removed your ‘unfeminine’ beliefs, he’ll be invited back to her election-night party, where I’m to demonstrate to an entire crowd that suffragists can be cured.”

I stepped back, my breath tight in my lungs. “Am I the suffragist you’ll be curing in front of everyone?”

“You’ll be there,” he said with a grim nod, “but you might not be much of a suffragist by then.”

I dropped back down onto the bed with a force that jarred my neck.

Genevieve’s hand nestled against mine. “Surely we can get money some other way.”

“After both the theater and Dr. Mead pay me Tuesday night,” said Henry, “we’ll only be two dollars short of the rest of the surgeon’s fee. Just two measly dollars! How else am I supposed to legally find that sort of money? Before it’s too late for you?”

I sniffed back tears and buttoned up my blouse, nearly forgetting I had left my neck exposed and cold.

“Olivia.” Henry stepped toward me on the hard soles of his shoes. He cupped a warm hand over my shoulder. “Please, look up at me.”

I did as he asked, my teeth clenched, my every muscle tense and on the defensive.

His eyes locked on to mine. The force of his skills shattered all my barriers. “Close your eyes. Think of nothing but sleep.”

I did exactly that, for sleep swept its numbing, dark cloak over my face and chest and legs—down to the smallest of my toes.

“Relax. Melt down, melt down, until all you hear is the sound of my voice. Calm your breathing.”

My lungs relaxed, along with the rest of me.

“Yes . . . that’s good. Very good. Let your breathing grow slower. And slower. And slower. Melt all the way down until you feel the utter bliss of deep relaxation.”