Lair of Dreams
“Imaginary science club member Henry DuBois the Fourth reporting for duty,” he slurred. He tried to salute, lost his balance, and banged into a garbage can. “Shhh,” Henry said, settling the top on it.
“Are you drunk?” Ling whispered.
“As usual, your powers of observation are acute, ma’moiselle.”
“What’s happened? Where’s Louis? I thought you were meeting his train.”
“Ah. Now we come to the heart of the matter. Or the lack of heart. One of us, it seems, lacks heart. He never showed. Ling, I need you to go in with me. I need answers.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Really? I think it’s a spiffing idea.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re observant. Say! Have you considered becoming a scientist?”
“And you’re a bad drunk. Henry, listen to me: The dream world isn’t safe.”
“I know. Ghosts. Monsters. Things in tunnels.” Henry slumped against the wall. “And that’s precisely my point: What if something happened to Louis last night? What? You’re making a funny face.”
“One hour in the dream world. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t get to the bayou without you. It takes both of us. You know that.”
Henry looked up at the cold, dead stars.
“I don’t believe in tomorrow much anymore,” he said.
When Henry returned to the Bennington, he found that Theta had left a note: “Meeting Memphis. Back soon. Welcome home, Piano Man.” A crisp five-dollar bill peeked up from the top of the piano-fund jar. A piece of masking tape had been affixed to the front. PIANO FUND—DO NOT TOUCH, it read.
Henry fumbled with the metronome. Vaguely, he was aware that he was drunk and angry and hurt, and that was a bad way to go into a dream walk. But he didn’t care. He needed to see Louis. He needed answers. And if Ling refused to go with him, he’d go it alone, see if he could get there on his own steam. The metronome’s steady tick worked its magic, and Henry was out in seconds, the heaviness of the alcohol pulling him more deeply under.
When he woke inside the dream world, he wasn’t on the streets of old New York. Instead, he stood on the platform of the train station, which glowed with an extra polish tonight. Everything appeared washed in a golden haze. Henry smiled. He’d done it. He didn’t even question how he’d done it.
“I’ve tumbled into Slumberlaaaand,” he sang as he stumbled toward the dark tunnel, impatient for the train.
Henry thought about the night before and all they’d seen there. He wavered at the tunnel’s threshold for another few seconds. But then all he could think about was Louis.
“Awww, to hell with it,” Henry said and stepped inside.
While the Sweetheart Singers warbled her theme song and Mr. Forman purred the show’s introduction into his microphone, Evie dabbed at her face with a handkerchief and looked out at the audience, where people waited hungrily with their objects. Her mind was on Sam. Theirs was supposed to be a pretend romance, nothing more. But then Sam had saved her life, and she’d kissed him. She’d wanted to kiss him—that much was clear. His kisses had been passionate and tender and dizzying; Evie hadn’t wanted to stop. When the party broke up at last, and Evie headed home, she glanced through the taxi’s rear window to see him standing there in the middle of the busy street watching her leave, his hands shoved into his pockets, a sweet grin on his face as the cars and taxicabs zoomed around him, horns honking angrily. The deal with Sam was supposed to make Evie’s life easier. Instead, she was more confused than ever.
“And don’t forget that the Sweetheart Seer will be the special guest of the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult at tonight’s grand Diviners exhibit opening, beginning at the spooooky stroke of deepest midnight! That sounds rather crrreepy-crrrrawly , Miss O’Neill,” Mr. Forman prompted.
“Yes. Rah-ther,” Evie said tightly. Through the glass of the engineer’s room, she could see Mr. Phillips, who did not look pleased to have his radio used in such an unscripted fashion. “Shall we bring up our first guest, Mr. Forman?”