The Cure for Dreaming(47)

I collapsed into a heap at the bottom of a cozy black box.

“Now,” he said near my ear, “imagine a lamp switching on and finding the two of us seated in the safest room you can imagine.”

Gaslight whispered to life, and Henry and I were sitting together at Frannie’s kitchen table. A vegetable soup bubbled on the stove, and the Harrisons’ bright yellow wallpaper, as well as the children’s pinned-up drawings and poetry, surrounded us. Henry reached across Mrs. Harrison’s home-embroidered tablecloth and took my hand.

“You no longer need to say that all is well when you are angry.” He bent his face toward mine. “You are free to speak your mind, but you will do so with caution around your father. For now, in front of him, you will limit your volatile words only to moments when someone is about to get hurt. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Good. You will keep seeing the world the way it truly is so that you may remain alert for danger, but I will give your mind entirely back to you after the election-night show. For it will be just a show, Olivia. This is all merely a temporary spectacle to make your father happy.” He squeezed my hand and lifted his head. “Now, I will count to ten, and you will awaken and return to your home, where I will see you in less than an hour—ma partenaire.” He squeezed again. “My partner.”





he hour before Henry’s arrival at our house moved with the excruciating slowness of twelve hours. I passed the minutes on the bench in front of my late grandmother’s high-backed Beckwith parlor organ. My song of choice: “Evening Prayer” from Hansel and Gretel. My fingers lacked Genevieve’s skill, but, oh, what a glorious relief when I thrust my troubles into the black and white keys and pumped my anxieties into the foot pedals.

I must have played the song at least five times in a row; I lost track after the second or third round. Halfway through the fifth or sixth go, someone knocked on the front door. My fingers slipped, and the lowest keys belched a deep grumble.

Gerda passed the parlor’s entryway on her way to the front door.

“I’ll get that, Gerda,” said Father from down the hall.

Gerda stopped and tightened her apron strings. “Are you certain, sir?”

“Yes.” Father walked into view. “Return to the kitchen. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Gerda’s shoulders slumped, and for a hiccup of a moment, before she bustled back to the kitchen, the poor woman faded before my eyes. Our brown wallpaper behind her bled through her wavering wisp of a body. Her footsteps retreated to the back of the house.

I rose up from the organ bench and approached the hall, my pulse ticking in the side of my neck. Father opened the door, revealing Henry on our front porch, his short black hat in hand.

“Come in, Mr. Reverie.” Father pulled the door farther open and clapped the hypnotist on the back as he made his way across the threshold. “Thank you for coming out to my house this afternoon. I know you must be a busy lad.”

Henry shrugged. “It is no trouble, Monsieur Mead. I am happy to help if you feel the cure is not to your satisfaction.” The French accent was back in place.

Father shut the door and puffed up his chest. “As I said when I telephoned, I require more results.” He took Henry’s hat from his hand and plunked it on one of our brass wall hooks. “Come to my office for a moment and—”

“Father, I’ve learned something tragic about Mr. Reverie,” I said, and I clasped my hands behind my back to hide the terrible trembling that results when one deviates from the plans of a tyrant.

Father lifted an eyebrow. “‘Tragic’? That’s an awfully dramatic word, Olivia.”

“H-h-his sister . . .” I swallowed and averted my gaze from Henry’s startled eyes and gaping mouth. “She requires a surgeon to remove a tumor. It’s cancerous. Perhaps you know a local physician who could help her as soon as possible.”

Father cocked his head at Henry. “Is this true?”

“I really wish it weren’t, sir, but . . . she is sick.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.” Father tugged at his beard and seemed to search his brain for the name of someone who could help. His eyes softened. The quest for Genevieve’s well-being nudged aside his urgency to fix me. I held my breath and prayed this version of Father would remain with us.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t believe I know any cancer surgeons, unless you’re discussing an oral tumor . . .”

“No, it’s not that,” said Henry. “I appreciate you even considering the matter, but you don’t need to—”

“Wait a moment.” Father turned abruptly toward me. “How do you know this about his sister?” He placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder—not in a firm way, but enough to make my neck sweat beneath my collar.

“I b-b-beg your pardon?” I asked.

“I said, how did you suddenly find out he has a sick sister?” Father squeezed down on Henry, who seemed to shrink an inch. “Mr. Reverie didn’t once mention her during your treatment in my office. I doubt he’d announce something so private at his Halloween performance.”

“There was a . . .” Oh, hell. I hadn’t concocted an excuse for that particular detail. Damn! Damn, damn, damn!