Lair of Dreams
“To think I used to feel sorry for you about what happened.” Lee Fan glanced quickly at Ling’s leg braces. The girls were all staring now, gossiping and gawking, and Ling wanted nothing more than to turn and walk back toward home, to go to sleep and slip into a dream where she could do anything she wanted—where she could run far away.
In a wail of sirens, an ambulance roared past. The street was abuzz with nervous speculation. A moment later, Gracie Leung was hurrying toward the girls, calling Lee Fan’s name.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Lee Fan asked.
Gracie was breathless and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Did you hear? Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” Lee Fan said, exasperated.
“Oh, it’s too awful!” Gracie mewled.
“Honestly, Gracie Leung, if you don’t tell me right this instant—”
“It’s George Huang!”
Gracie seemed to register Ling’s presence for the first time. “His mother went to wake him this morning and she couldn’t. She tried and tried. They brought in Dr. Hsu.” Gracie took a deep breath. “They think George has the sleeping sickness!”
The noise in the street crescendoed. The news was spreading quickly from person to person, an infection of gossip.
It felt as if a hole had opened in Ling’s stomach. But I just saw him.
“Ling! Ling!” Her mother was suddenly at her side, a protective arm wrapped around her daughter’s shoulders, as if she could keep her safe forever. For once, Ling didn’t want to push her away. She let her mother hold on tightly, but her eyes searched Pell Street frantically. Yes, the sun had been strong. Yes, there’d been grit in her eyes. But she could’ve sworn that for just a few seconds, it had been George she’d seen standing at the edge of the crowd under a winter sky, shimmering ever-so-faintly around the edges like the dead, his mouth opening and closing in a silent scream.
Dr. William Fitzgerald entered the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, walking briskly toward the museum’s library. As he passed the collections room, his assistant, Jericho Jones, called after him, but Will did not break stride, forcing Jericho to catch up.
“A club on Long Island, the Spiritual Divine, has asked you to speak at its hall in two weeks. And the Ladies Ghostly Sunday Supper Club has also requested an appearance.”
“No and no,” Will said.
Will stopped short, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “A child’s birthday party? I’m a curator, for heaven’s sake, not a performing circus clown.”
Jericho shrugged. “They were offering five dollars.”
“Tell them no.”
“Of course. Oh, and Miss Walker called. She said to tell you that she’ll come for you at two o’clock sharp tomorrow and not to be late. She said, and I quote, ‘Tell Dr. Fitzgerald that we’ll be taking my car, as I refuse to ride in that ancient, death-trap Tin Lizzie of his.’”
Will’s face registered nothing. “Thank you. Anything else?”
Jericho winced. “Your lecture group is waiting for you in the library. The Mystical Mediums for Peace Between the Dead and the Living?”
Will’s shoulders sagged. He let out a long sigh. “It’s official. I am a circus clown.”
Will gestured vaguely to the headband. “What is, um… that for?”
A woman in a beaded turban smiled knowingly. “It increases our contact with the spiritual plane!”
Will shot a withering glance at Jericho, who waved all five of his fingers—five dollars—and retreated to the second floor, hiding out in the rows of bookshelves as Will’s voice floated up from below: “Good afternoon. I’m Dr. William Fitzgerald, curator of this museum. Let’s begin, shall we? The history of Diviners is aligned with the history of our country, starting with the indigenous population.…”
Up in the stacks, Jericho whispered to Sam, “He can’t keep giving these lectures.”
“He can if he wants to keep heating the museum,” Sam answered. “Did you ask him about you-know-what?”
“Not yet.”
“Aww, c’mon, Freddy! That was s’posed to be your job.”