The Cure for Dreaming(53)

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

I hugged my arms around my middle. “I can’t tell you what I’ve imagined doing with the money. You’ve made sure I’ll be sick if I say the word out loud.”

“Does it have to do with education?”

“Yes, but I’m not even sure it’s enough for one year’s tuition. I’d probably have to apply for a scholarship, anyway.”

“Olivia . . .” He stepped in front of me. “Look at me.”

I peeked up and saw pink fingernail marks on his cheek in the lamplight shining out through the hotel window.

“Listen to me,” he said, and his wounds and his lips and his nose blurred away. Only his eyes remained. “Listen carefully, for what I am going to tell you is extremely important. You will no longer feel nauseated and vomit when you hear or say the following words: Suffrage. Women’s rights. Suffragist. Votes for women. Susan B. Anthony. College. In fact, you feel healthy and fully recovered from what happened to you this evening.”

The disgusting tempest in my stomach settled into peaceful seas. The clouds in my head cleared away.

“However,” he continued, “you will feel compelled to cover your mouth and make a gagging sound whenever you hear or say those words. Suffrage. Women’s rights. Suffragist. Votes for women. Susan B. Anthony. College. You will not suffer any pain or nausea. You will simply cover your mouth and make a sound. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Good. Now, slowly, gently”—he pressed his hand against my forehead—“awake.”

I blinked and wobbled.

Henry lowered his arm and cleared his throat. “I would have liked to do that before, but I couldn’t with him watching.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not taking your money.”

“But . . . election night . . .” I braced my hand against the wall. “Genevieve . . .”

“We have three days left to figure out a way for it to seem that I’m hypnotizing you in front of that election-night crowd—without doing a single thing to you. I want to give a performance that will somehow end up teaching your father and all those antis a lesson.”

“How on earth would we do that?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned his back against the bricks beside me. “But you’re obviously smart, and I’ve had years of experience in putting on a good show. I’m certain we can think of something.”

“What about Father?”

“Well . . .” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Subtlety will have to be the key to this performance. We’ve got to make him think we’re following his directions.”

“And then you’ll leave and take care of your sister?”

“Yes. I promise. We’ll catch the last train south that night.” He turned his head my way and pressed his lips together. His forehead puckered, suggesting a flaw in the plan.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You should come with us.”

I blinked as if he’d just flicked water into my eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“You could finish getting your high school diploma in San Francisco. Stanford’s not far, and I’ve heard they allow women.”

I pushed myself off the wall. “I can’t go with you. I hardly even know you.”

“My father’s cousin Anne lives in the city, and she’ll be housing me while Genevieve undergoes her surgery. She doesn’t have the money to help us with medical payments, but she’s able to provide a roof over our heads. I’m sure she’d welcome you, too.”

“I cannot run away with you.” I walked over to my tossed-aside bicycle and hoisted it onto its wheels.

“You have money.” Henry followed me to the bike. “You wouldn’t have to rely on me or any other man for income. But I’d be there for you, as a friend, if you needed anything.”

“I told you”—I hiked up the bottom of my skirt and swung my right leg over the bicycle’s red bar—“I don’t even know you.”

“Think about it, at least. Please, consider joining us.”

I tried to roll forward, but he pushed against my handlebars and blocked my escape with his body.

“I don’t want to leave you behind,” he said, “when I know I caused your life in Portland to crumble before your eyes.”

I scratched at a small bump on my turtle-shaped bicycle bell and mulled over the idea of my life crumbling before my eyes. An entertaining thought struck me during the mulling. A highly entertaining thought that led to an embarrassing snort.

Henry shifted his weight. “What’s so funny?”

Another snort erupted, one that progressed into a full-blown laugh that made my shoulders shake.

“What’s so funny, Olivia?”

“I just realized all the things I’ve done since I’ve met you and undergone your Cure for Female Rebellion and Unladylike Dreams—in bold, capital letters. Think about it, Henry.” I counted off each transgression by lifting my fingers on the handlebars. “I walked out on a formal dinner party. I rode in a two-seater buggy with two young men—and sat on your lap, no less. I accompanied you into your hotel room. I played hooky. I published a suffragist letter in the newspaper—”