Lair of Dreams

“What man?” Henry pressed, hoping Miss Lillian wouldn’t throw him out for it.

“That Irishman who ran the brothel,” Miss Lillian snapped. “I remember it now. He came for her one morning, talking sweetly. He gave her a little music box as a gift. He promised her a husband if she’d agree to go back.” Miss Lillian sighed. “That was that. She went away with him. I saw her only once after that. She was sick with opium and riddled with pox all along her pretty face. Syphilis,” Miss Lillian hissed. “It had rotted her nose right off, so she wore the veil to hide it. She still had the music box.”

“That’s it! It’s her,” Miss Addie said, agitated. “Oh, we are not safe.”

“Now, Addie, it was a long time ago,” Miss Lillian soothed. “That time is past.”

“The past is never past. You know that, Lillian,” Miss Addie whispered.

“We are safe. Everything put away in the box,” Miss Lillian said calmly, and Henry didn’t know what she meant.

“What happened to her?” he asked.

“I haven’t any idea.” Miss Lillian sighed and brought an orange tabby up onto her lap, scratching him lovingly behind the ears. “But I imagine it was a bad end.”

“She’s connected to him,” Miss Addie muttered. “They all are. I know it.”

“Now, Addie…”

“Connected to whom, ma’am?” Henry asked.

Addie looked at Henry with wide eyes. “The man in the hat. The King of Crows.”

“Addie, you’re entirely too riled. I’m afraid we must say good-bye to you, Mr. DuBois.”

Miss Lillian rose, signaling the end of the visit. Henry thanked the Proctor sisters for their time and the tea. Miss Addie reached for his china cup, frowning at the contents. “I don’t like the pattern of those leaves, Mr. DuBois. Some terrible day of truth is at hand. For you or someone you love. Careful,” she whispered. “Careful.”





Henry was still thinking about the Proctor sisters’ odd tale as he raced into rehearsal. It was the sort of story he’d usually share with Theta—“You won’t believe what the Jolly Vampire Sisters just told me!”—if they weren’t on the outs. To top it all off, he was twenty minutes late, thanks to an all-too-brief nap he’d fallen into, unable to fend off sleep. In the dream, Louis had waved to him from the Elysian as it churned up the Mississippi. Henry tried desperately to reach the boat, but the morning glories were so thick they blocked his path. And then the vines climbed up his body, wrapping around his neck until he woke, feeling choked.

At the loud bang of the theater doors, Wally’s head turned on his thick neck. “Well, well, well,” he said, glancing up the aisle. “If it isn’t Henry. DuBois. The Fourth. All hail.”

“S-sorry, Wally, I… I felt sick, and I guess I fell asleep.”

Wally sighed. “You been sick a lot lately.”

“Sorry. I’m jake now, though,” Henry said, slipping into his spot at the piano. He wiped a hand across his clammy forehead. Sweat dampened his armpits and the front of his shirt. Onstage, the rest of the cast and crew were crowded around Theta, congratulating her on the day’s splashy newspaper article heralding ZIEGFELD GIRL RUSSIAN ROYALTY.

“Now that we’re all here,” Wally said pointedly, “let’s take the Slumberland number from the top!”

Dancers scampered into position onstage, tugging at bloomers and securing tap shoes. Henry’s earlier fear faded, replaced by exuberance as he opened the score. Finally, one of his songs had made it into the show. He put fingers to the keys, playing along, his excitement vanishing quickly as the tap-dancing chorus girls sang along:

“Don’t you worry, don’t be blue

Everything you dream comes true

Sing vodee-oh-doh, Yankee-Doodle-Doo

And shuffle off to Slumber-laaand!”




Henry’s breathing went tight, as if he’d been punched. The song was awful. His song. They’d ruined it. And they’d done it behind his back. Henry stopped playing.

“What’s the matter? You lose your place?” Wally asked. “You feeling sick again?”

Henry gestured to the piano score. “These aren’t my words. Where’s the song I wrote?”

“Well, uh, Herbie smoothed it over a bit,” Wally said.

“It wasn’t quite polished. I just gave it some zip and pep,” Herbie Allen said from the back row, as if he were Mr. Ziegfeld himself.

Onstage, everything had come to a standstill.

“What’s the big idea? Are we running the number or aren’t we?” one of the girls asked.

Wally wagged a finger. “Henry, play the song.”

“No,” Henry said. It was a word he used so infrequently that he was startled by the feel of it on his tongue. “I want to play my song.”

Whispers of gossip rippled down the chorus line.

“Everybody needs help now and then. Don’t take it personally, old boy,” Herbie said. Henry wasn’t a violent fellow, but right then, he had the urge to punch Herbert in his smug mouth.

“How else would I take it, Herbert, when you massacre my song?”

“Now, see here, old boy—”