The Cure for Dreaming (17 page)

Percy shot him a sideways glance. “You make hypnosis sound like a woman.”

“It is like a woman. She's beautiful. She's mysterious.” Henry's voice softened to a lush purr that made my stomach flutter.
“Une belle femme
.
”

“Risqué,” said Percy with a chuckle.

“But you have to treat her delicately,” continued Henry, ignoring Percy, “and with utmost respect. Or else you'll find yourself waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, realizing”—he paused long enough for me to peek over my shoulder and catch him watching me through the darkness from beneath the curved brim of his hat—“you may have gone too far.” He kept his eyes on mine. “You'll be deeply sorry if you've inflicted any harm.”

Percy steered Mandolin around the bend to the right, and I forced my eyes away from Henry's.

“Well,” said Percy, “despite how sacred you're making stage hypnosis out to be, I would really love to pay you to show me how to perform some of these
skills
.”

“That information isn't for sale,” said Henry. “You're just going to have to mesmerize the world based on your own natural charms, Monsieur Acklen.”

Percy barked a laugh that seemed to shatter something fragile in the air, and I rocked against them both, wondering
if Henry Rhodes would put my mind back the way it was, if he was genuinely sorry for what he had done.

PERCY LED US INSIDE AN ELEGANT TWELFTH STREET
establishment with frosted glass light fixtures twinkling over dark wooden booths and tables draped in ivory cloths. Waiters in white coats waltzed about with bottles of wine and steaming plates of fish and beef that made my hungry stomach moan. I'd never stepped inside the place before that moment. Father always preferred eating at home, so we seldom dined in restaurants.

Our host, a tall gentleman with a dusky walrus mustache, took our coats and the boys' hats and led us up two short steps to one of the dining areas. In one of the booths we passed, a woman in a lavender dress picked at a salad with soundless jabs of her fork.

Another vision approached—I could tell, for the air grew hard to breathe, and the colors of the woman's booth bloomed into shades that demanded my full attention. Her supper companion, a bony-faced old coot with a half-dozen gold rings, said something to her that made her blur and fade into fog and shadow.

I stopped in a daze and rapped my knuckles against Henry's arm behind me. “They're disappearing,” I said. “Certain women.”

“Who's disappearing?” asked Percy. “What's going on with you now?”

I sealed my lips, picked up the hem of my gown, and continued following the walrus-mustached host. The illusion passed. My lungs breathed with ease. Everyone now seemed made of flesh and bone.

The host seated the two young men and me at a round table, toward the back, with the flame of a white candle dancing in a silver holder at the center. We removed our gloves, and the host handed us thick red menus. I heard him describe the evening's specials in a friendly enough voice, but I could no longer pay much attention to the menu or the possibility of food. All I thought about was how I was going to convince Henry to put me back the way I was before I, too, faded like my neighbor Mrs. Stanton and that poor woman poking at her salad.

“Psst—look over there,” said Percy in a whisper once the host had left us.

I craned my head toward the booth across the room that had caught Percy's eye. Four young ladies dined there in relative quiet, including redheaded and lovely Agnes Frye, my friend Kate's sister who had lured us high school girls to Wednesday's rally.

My skin prickled, warning of the arrival of yet another hallucination. The ladies' booth seemed to rush toward me for better viewing.

My eyes opened wide.

Lanterns switched on inside all the women's bodies. Their hair glistened with breathtaking luminescence—a light that
reflected off the surrounding wood. Their skin flushed with a brilliance that rivaled our candle's flame. I sucked in my breath and watched in awe as they glowed—literally
glowed
— before my eyes.

“See the emblem hanging off their left shoulders?” asked Percy.

Agnes lowered her left arm and revealed a bright yellow ribbon.

My fingers tightened around my menu, and I slouched down in my chair with the hope that she wouldn't see me with the boys and come over. I shook my head to regain control of my brain, as mesmerizing as this particular illusion was. The prickling faded. The ladies' booth dimmed and retreated to its position against the wall. The world tipped back to its normal balance.

“What are the ribbons for?” asked Henry.

“Women's suffrage.” Percy frowned. “My sister is like them. She used to wear yellow ribbons, roses, and buttons all the time without any of us knowing what the deuce they meant.”

“You have a sister?” I asked.

“Yesss,” hissed Percy. “I have two older, married brothers, both respectable lawyers, and a twenty-year-old sister who's no longer a part of our family.”

“Because of the—?” I glanced back at Agnes and her friends.

“Yes.” He swallowed beneath his stiff collar. “My father learned she helped run a banquet for Susan B. Anthony
down in Salem last February, so he forced her to pack up and leave.” He closed his menu with a solid
thwack
.

Henry wrinkled his forehead. “You're not allowed to talk to or see your sister anymore . . . just because she wants to vote?”

“That's right.” Percy darted another quick peek at the suffragists. “After Father threw her out, she moved to Idaho so she could live the way she wanted and vote as much as she pleased. Mother nearly died from heartbreak and humiliation.” He reopened his menu and pressed his lips into a hard line. “My sister is a spinster now, just like every woman in that booth.”

“Agnes isn't a spinster,” I said.

“Who's Agnes?” asked Percy.

“Shh.” I held my menu over my face and slithered down another inch. “The redhead over there is my good friend's sister, and she has a loving husband.”

Percy knitted his eyebrows. “How?”

“What do you mean, how? She got married in a church the same way your parents probably did. Her husband is a pro-suffrage man.”

Percy snorted. “There's no such thing.”

“I'm one,” said Henry.

“Pshaw. You're just saying that to charm Olivia. All it does is make you sound like an effeminate French sissy, Reverie.”

“Anti-suffrage men are the ones who sound like sissies and cowards,” I said under my breath.

“I still want beer.” Percy scanned one of the menu pages. “What about you, Mr. Suffrage? Are you drinking tonight?”

“No.” Henry shook his head. “I'm performing. No one wants to be hypnotized by a drunk.”

“Oh, criminy . . .” Percy laughed. “Can you imagine what that would look like? Oh . . .” He slapped his hand over his mouth. “I suppose you can, what with that sozzled hypnotist uncle of yours.”

“I'm sure they serve Eiderling Beer at the bar here.” I nudged Percy's arm and wished him away. “Perhaps you should go order yourself one.”

Percy laughed again. “I thought you were a temperance crusader.”

“You were the one who called me that, not I. If you want a beer”—my desire to catapult him away emboldened my voice—“go get one. You said we're here to toast youth and rebellion, didn't you?”

“Yes . . .”

“Then go.”
Shoo
, I wanted to add, but he was already up and out of his seat.

“Don't hypnotize my girl when I'm gone, Reverie,” he said with a wink.

“Wouldn't dream of it,
mon ami
.”

Henry and I watched Percy bound down the short flight of steps in his quest for Eiderling booze.

I slammed my menu shut. “Hypnotize me back.”

Henry laid down his own menu. “I told you, I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Your father only paid me a quarter of his promised fee for your treatment. I can't get the rest of the money until Tuesday evening, before I board a train for San Francisco.”

“Why?”

“He wants to make sure the cure takes.”

I winced.

Henry reached his hand toward mine on the tablecloth, not quite touching me but near enough to ignite a tingling sensation in my fingertips. “We're so, so close to affording Genevieve's surgery. Your father's payment will get us what we need. It'll give her a chance.”

“You don't understand what people look like to me.”

“No, I don't, but as I said at Sadie's table, it's not necessarily a curse.”

“Of course it's a curse. You try living like this and tell me—” My anger flared; that blasted phrase threatened to shoot from my lips again. I smacked my palm against the table, which prompted two men next to us to turn my way and scowl.

“Hear me out before you get upset with me.” Henry's fingers inched nearer. “When your father asked me to hypnotize you, he said he wanted you to
accept
the world the way it is.”

“Don't you think I remember what he—?”

“But”—he scooted his chair closer to mine—“I didn't tell you to
accept
the world the way it truly is, Olivia. I told you to
see
it.”

“No, you—”

“Think about it. I did.”

I sank back in my seat.

“And you
can
see it,” he continued, his French accent gone. “Maybe not at every single moment, but when it really matters to you or the person you're viewing, or during moments of intense emotion, you'll clearly see that you shouldn't be with poisonous jackasses like that vampire at the bar.”

I sat up straight. “Percy doesn't look like either a jackass or a vampire.”

“Yet.”

I picked at the spine of my menu. “I want to see and say things normally again, Henry Rhodes. I've never had anyone like Percy show an interest in me before this week, and I don't want to spoil everything by acting like a lunatic.”

“What do you mean, ‘anyone like Percy'?”

“I know, compared to him, I'm plain and dull and—”

“Plain and dull?” Henry's voice rose to an embarrassing volume. “Is that what your father tells you?”

“Please”—I scooted my chair away from his—“you're talking too loudly.”

“It makes me furious when people like that ninnyhammer Acklen make people like you feel inferior to them. Tell me, exactly what type of loving partnership is that supposed to lead to?”

“Please, be quiet. He's coming back.”

Henry leaned forward again and grabbed my hand. “He's
not better than you, Olivia, and neither is your father. And you're far from plain and dull.”

I pulled my hand away and sat up straight and proper.

“What's going on, Reverie?” Percy swaggered over to us with a mug of beer. “Why are you blushing, Olivia?”

“I should probably go.” In his haste, Henry dropped his gloves to the floor. He leaned over to pick them up.

“What happened?” Percy plunked his mug on the table. “Did you say something lewd to her, Reverie? Or”—he bent forward with a grin—“are you attempting to court her by singing suffrage anthems?”

Henry got to his feet. “I can't stay. I'm performing soon and would like to check on my sister beforehand.” He slapped his hand on Percy's shoulder and leaned close to his ear. “I said nothing lewd to Olivia, Monsieur Acklen. She's angry because I told her to run away from people who are poisonous to her.”

“What?” Percy's brows pinched together. “Who's poisonous to her? What are you talking about?”

Henry fitted his gloves over his hands. “Thank you for the supper offer.
Adieu
. Good night.”

And then he was gone, hustling toward the exit as if he couldn't get away from the two of us fast enough.

Percy plopped down in his chair, still wrinkling his brow. “What was all that about? Was he trying to hypnotize you?”

“No . . . he just . . . it's hard to explain. He . . .”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Henry returning to us.

My neck muscles tensed. “Oh, no, here he comes again.”

Henry approached our table and handed me something limp and white that I realized was one of my own evening gloves. “I must have accidentally picked this up when I was fetching my own gloves,
mademoiselle
.
Je suis désolé
. I am sorry.” His eyes lingered on mine and then darted to the glove, as if he were trying to convey some sort of message.

“Thank you,” I said, resting the glove in my lap.

“You're welcome.” He left us again so swiftly that the air ruffled my hair and made the night feel even more out of whack.

“Criminy . . .” Percy peeked over his shoulder and watched him go. “My father always says theater people are eccentric and ill-mannered . . .”

I sighed. “You keep telling me what your father says and thinks, Percy. Weren't we supposed to be forgetting overbearing daddies right now?”

“I give my own opinions.”

“Not really. For instance . . .” I kneaded the fabric of my glove between my fingers and was surprised to hear the rustle of a piece of paper inside the thumb.

“For instance what?”

“For instance”—I set the glove aside on my lap and attempted to ignore that peculiar rustling—“do you truly agree with your father that women shouldn't vote?”

Percy lowered his eyes.

I lifted my chin. “I read his letter in the newspaper yesterday.”

He flashed a sheepish grin. “Oh, yes, that letter. Father's public opinion pieces always make me supremely popular with the ladies.”

“But what is
your
opinion? Do you think women are inferior creatures to men?”