The Cure for Dreaming(49)

“Father”—I held my throbbing head—“you look disgusting.”

“Get out of this office, Olivia.”

“Take that barbaric thing out of Mr. Reverie’s mouth.”

“I said, get out!” Father grabbed me by both arms and steered me toward the door.

“No, don’t hurt him.” I thrust out my foot to try to catch it on the door frame. “Please! Don’t hurt either of us.”

Father unhooked me from the doorway and pushed me out into the hall. The door slammed shut in my face, and the lock latched.

“Father!” I slammed my fists against the door. “Please, open up!”

“Go wait in the parlor,” he called through the wood. “And if you’re not sitting there patiently when we both come out, Mr. Reverie will never see a cent of my hard-earned money. You’re supposed to be tamed, for God’s sake. I was led to believe you were cured. What happened to you saying that all is well?”

I backed away, and the whisper of the gas feeding into the lamps merged with the wheezing of my lungs.

“Is everything all right, Miss Mead?” asked a small voice behind me.

Down the hall, Gerda’s blue eyes peeked out from the kitchen doorway.

“If you can find a position with a kinder employer,” I told her, “I recommend doing so as quickly as possible.”

I turned and staggered into the parlor and clutched my side, which cramped like the dickens from breathing too fast.




THE OFFICE DOOR OPENED WITH A LOW CLICK.

I stood up from my slumped position on our mustard-yellow settee and endured each approaching footstep as if someone were digging his heels into my heart.

Father came into view from around the bend, and as hard as I blinked, I couldn’t stop seeing him as a monster—I simply couldn’t. Behind him emerged Henry, rubbing his red wrists, his lips bleeding.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Silence, Olivia.” Father held up a hand with the long, rotten nails. “I’ve said this before,” he said through his teeth, “and I’ll say it again: This is all for your own good. You do not need to be burdened with impossible dreams.”

I wrapped my arms around myself and stared at Henry’s bleeding mouth.

Genevieve, I reminded myself. She’s waiting for him in that moldering hotel room.

“Fine.” I swallowed and rocked myself for comfort. “Hypnotize me, Mr. Reverie. Let’s get it over with.”

Henry stepped forward. “Do not be afraid,” he said in a French-tinged voice that possessed a sharp edge.

He held out his hand to mine, and I saw that his nails were as black and hooked as Father’s. He heaved a sigh that revealed a pair of canine teeth fierce enough to sever his own tongue.

I pulled my hand away, but his fingers shot out and grabbed my wrist. He jerked my arm toward him and plunged me into darkness with the firm command, “Sleep!”


“WHEN YOU AWAKEN, YOU WILL HAVE NO MEMORY OF this session.”

Henry counted from one to ten in a dreamy rhythm that reminded me of skipping rope with my braids jumping on my shoulders, and then, with his hand on my forehead, he told me, “Awake.”

My sandbag eyelids blinked open. I found myself on the settee again, my back slouched against all the scratchy needlepoint pillows my grandmother had sewn decades before.

Henry jumped off the cushion beside me, rustling up a breeze of dusty parlor air, and he exited the room in a streak of black clothing and blond hair. The front door slammed shut, and I wondered if he had even remembered to grab his hat.

Father loitered next to his armchair, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his face turned to the parlor’s exit.

“What did you make him do to me?” I asked from the settee.

“Everything was done with your best interest in mind, Olivia.” He tugged his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed his shiny forehead. He looked more man than monster again, but I had seen what he was capable of, and I still believed him to be a fiend. “If all goes well,” he continued, “then I’ll be satisfied, and young Reverie will get paid. That girl will get her surgery.”

A pair of solid footsteps marched toward us from down the hall. Gerda stopped in front of the parlor and untied her white apron. “I’m afraid I must give my notice, Dr. Mead.”

“I beg your pardon?” Father straightened his neck. “You’re quitting?”

“Ja.” She pulled the apron over her head. “I cannot work for a man who pays a stranger to harm his daughter.”

“What happened during the hypnosis, Gerda?” I jumped to my feet. “Did you hear them?”

“Were you eavesdropping?” asked Father.

Gerda slung her apron over the parlor rocking chair. “I’d like my final wages, Dr. Mead. I’ve worked a week and a half since you paid me last.”

Father huffed and muttered something under his breath about everyone wanting to take his money. Gerda stepped aside and let him pass. His feet made an awful tromping ruckus all the way back to his office.

“Miss Mead . . .” Gerda grabbed my hands with shaking fingers. “There are certain topics you won’t be able to talk about anymore.”

“What topics?”

“Please, don’t even attempt to say words that feel as if they shouldn’t be spoken. And cover your ears if you hear those words uttered.”