The Cure for Dreaming(67)

“Mr. Underhill.” Father thrust out his hand, interrupting their chat. “Thank you again for inviting us.”

“Oh. Dr. Mead.” Mr. Underhill shook Father’s hand, and his white mustache wriggled with a smile. “So you arrived.”

“Have you spotted our entertainment for the evening yet?” asked Father.

“I think she’s right here.” Mr. Underhill gestured toward me with his champagne. “This is the girl I was telling you about, Lizzie. Go ahead, say the word to her—but stand back.”

The female half of the young couple, a pretty brunette with glossy ringlets, leaned forward with pouty lips and said with a chirp, “Suffrage.”

I slapped my mouth and hacked a deep, retching sound.

The girl squealed and clapped her hands, and her broad-shouldered escort gave one of those firm-lipped sorts of nods that males seem to make when they’re feeling especially mannish. I swallowed down my humiliation.

“You haven’t seen young Mr. Reverie, then?” asked Father.

“No,” said Mr. Underhill. “But all of our guests will be especially interested in his cure after that disgusting display outside the hotel just now.”

“I’ve always told Mother,” said chirpy little Lizzie, “that women like that remind me of freakish men with bosoms.”

Her escort laughed. “Lizzie!”

“I’m sorry, James, but it’s true. Just look at this one.” She nodded toward me.

I picked at the tips of my hot gloves and pretended not to have heard the insult. My blood simmered. My chest felt overly exposed.

Sadie and Teddy strolled our way, arm in arm, and under no circumstances was I about to bear the brunt of her wicked barbs, too. I pulled free of Father and veered toward the exit.

Ten feet before I reached the doorway, Henry walked into the ballroom while fussing with his tie.

I released a pent-up breath and stopped in my tracks.

Henry halted, too, and something worse than his usual fatigue weighed down his shoulders. He looked deathly ill— his lips cracked, his face drawn, his eyes devoid of all fire.

Father snatched my elbow and jerked me away before I could ask what was wrong.

“Henry looks sick,” I said, twisting my head to see his red vest disappearing behind us.

“You cannot interact with him before the demonstration.” Father tripped me over my feet to the farthest corner of the ballroom. “People will think the hypnosis is a fake, and that I’m a fake—or a fool.”

“I just want to find out what’s wrong with him. I don’t think that was an illusion.”

“He probably just drank too much last night. Showmen tend to do that.”

“Dentists, too, from what I’ve seen.”

Father plunked me down in a cream-colored chair near the stage. “Sit here for now,” he said over the frenzy of strings. “Mrs. Underhill will likely let us know when she’s ready.”

I leaned forward to better see through the throng of dancing bodies and spotted Henry wandering behind them as if he didn’t know where to go. The waiters with the trays of food didn’t even stop to talk to him. The frantic strumming of the orchestra propelled everyone in the room into a faster-than-average speed; people were flitting and swerving all over the place, rushing, rushing, rushing—except for Henry.

“Go check on him.” I tugged on Father’s coat. “He doesn’t even know where you want him to be. He looks even more out of place than we do.”

“We do not look out of place.”

“You were the one who wanted him here. Go take care of him.”

Father grunted and circled around the dance floor to meet up with Henry on the other side. He then gestured with his arms while speaking to Henry and pointed toward Mrs. Underhill, who had joined her husband by the frozen Statue of Liberty. Henry headed over to the ice sculpture as well, raking a hand through his hair.

Father hurried back to my side. “He hasn’t been feeling his best, but he assured me that everything will go as planned. He’s going to ask Mrs. Underhill if we should start soon.”

“Did he say anything about his sister?”

“No, and please, just sit here and stop fretting about everything. All will be well once we start the demonstration.” Father tugged his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead.

I rubbed the tops of my legs through the purple sheen of my skirt. “Show me Henry’s money.”

Father blinked as if he hadn’t heard me quite right. “I beg your pardon.”

“Prove to me you intend to pay him if I go up there and let him hypnotize me again. I won’t play nicely until you do.”

His jaw stiffened.

“Please,” I said.

He rustled an envelope out of his breast pocket, gave me a quick peek at the cash inside, and then tucked the envelope straight back into the folds of his coat. “He had better remove every last shred of your sass tonight, young lady. I’m getting tired of this.”

The orchestra’s song dwindled to a much-needed end, and the room slowed its pace and settled to a stop. Mrs. Underhill climbed aboard the stage in a royal-blue gown with a long train that swished behind her like a cat’s tail. She waved at the conductor to keep the music at bay and walked to center stage.