The Cure for Dreaming(59)

Henry led me down a narrow walkway, toward the opposite end of the room, and the feathers of a dangling pink boa tickled across my cheek, making me think for a moment we were walking through a labyrinth of spiderwebs.

“The wardrobe mistress isn’t here today,” he said. “We all wear our own clothing for this show, but we’ve been allowed to come back here in case we want to add anything to our outfits.” He opened a back door and pushed a switch on the wall that illuminated a room filled with costumes on coat hangers, bolts of fabric, sewing machines, bobbins, and millinery head blocks. He let go of my hand and walked to a rack of clothing both colorful and drab. “I received Mr. Gillingham’s approval to give this to you.”

My stomach leapt. Henry pulled something off a hanger and returned to me with a pair of garnet-brown trousers.

Bicycle bloomers.

For me.

I dropped Frannie’s cloak, covered my mouth, and burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, but all I could do was hurl my arms around him and tip us both off balance.

He grabbed hold of my back. “Are you all right?”

“They’re beautiful. I’m sorry . . .” I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I love the bloomers. But it’s so hard. Oh, criminy, I love them so much.” I blubbered like a madwoman against the soft lapel of his coat.

“Here, sit down with me,” said Henry, and he lowered us both to the floor, which was scattered with threads of blue and white. He fetched a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gave it to me.

I blew my nose and watched tears rain down on the glorious trousers. Henry stroked my arms until my breathing slowed, and his face gradually grew less hazy through my drying eyes. My scratch marks on his cheek were but thin, hidden streaks beneath a covering of greasepaint.

I hiccupped. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I reacted that way. It’s hardly the behavior of a modern woman with bloomers, is it?”

“Don’t worry about how you reacted. Who cares? Now”— he bent his head close—“tell me your idea for Tuesday.”

I cleared my throat and drew a long breath. “Well, at the election-night party . . .” I coughed into the handkerchief. “Tell the audience you can cure more than just one rebellious woman. Tell them you can cure a whole crowd of us.” I spread the bloomers across my lap and toyed with the buttons on the hems. “When we first arrive, there will likely be women singing and chanting about the vote outside the hotel. Ask the men to go fetch them to prove your abilities.”

“All right . . .”

“If all goes well, when the gentlemen come back, they’ll say the women are gone. Inform the audience you’ll use the ladies at the party as an example instead. Invite them all in front of the crowd, with me included if it helps”—I met his eyes—“and hypnotize them all into silence. Take away their voices.”

His face went still. “Permanently?”

“Long enough to scare them. Show them the dangers of living without the ability to have a say in the world. And then, when they panic and beg in writing to speak again, point out the beautiful irony of a group of antis hating the idea of silence.”

He cracked a wry smile that gleamed in his eyes. “It’s brilliant.”

“Do you really think so?”

“It’s well worth a try.” He laced his fingers through mine in my lap. “We’ll definitely need to make sure you’re up there with the crowd to make your father happy, but I have a trick to avoid getting hypnotized if you don’t want to lose your voice.”

“There’s a trick?”

“It’s easy. Take your tongue”—he showed me the pink tip of his between his teeth—“and wedge it against the roof of your mouth.”

I pushed my tongue to my palate. “Is that all?”

“Theoretically, yes. When I’m hypnotizing you, all I’m doing is putting your conscious mind to sleep so I can communicate directly with your subconscious. When you distract yourself with your tongue”—he closed his mouth and seemed to test out the effect in his own mouth—“or when you mentally will yourself against the hypnosis, your conscious mind stays awake. I can’t get into the deeper parts of your brain.”

“But what if . . .” My face warmed. “What if my subconscious mind . . . enjoys the relaxation part of hypnosis too much?”

“Well . . .” He slipped his hands out of mine. “You’ve got to ignore that impulse to be relaxed. Be strong. Push me out. Imagine slamming a door in my face.”

“You’re awfully good at soothing a person, Henry . . .”

“Even if you like it, you’ve got to block me. Even if your father’s standing right there, keep yourself alert. Force me away.”

I squirmed. “Now I’m worried.”

“Let’s practice. Come on.” He sat up tall. “We’ll try it right here.”

“All right.” I rolled back my shoulders. “I suppose if you just use your usual techniques, and—”

He retook my hands and looked me in the eye, and I flopped forward and banged my temple against his shoulder.

“Awake! No, Olivia, you weren’t even trying.”