Lair of Dreams

“Of course you can! Troubles have no business here in our perfect world. If we don’t like something here, we will simply change it.”


Ling’s sadness edged into annoyance. “You don’t understand. People have died. These are my neighbors. This is my neighborhood. It’s making trouble for us.”

A tiny centipede crawled across Wai-Mae’s leg. “They hate the Chinese. They have always hated us. Calling us names. The men, so full of hate, until the night when they come for you,” she said bitterly, crushing the bug with her thumb and wiping her hand in the grass.

“What do you mean?”

Wai-Mae looked up. For a moment, her expression was stormy, but then she blinked, and her smile returned. “Oh, dear Ling, I don’t like to hear about such things, to know that they are upsetting you.”

“Sometimes we have to hear upsetting things.”

“No. Not here. Never here.” Wai-Mae smiled, letting the sun warm her face.

“Yes. Even here. Especially here, away from the noise.” Ling took a deep breath. She’d put the truth off long enough. “Wai-Mae, I went looking for your matchmakers, O’Bannion and Lee. I’ve asked my uncle and at the library. There is no such firm. They don’t exist.”

Wai-Mae’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I believe there are some bad men bringing you over not to marry, but to…” Ling’s tongue couldn’t form the words. “To work.”

“Don’t be silly! My uncle arranged everything. Mr. O’Bannion will meet me at immigration,” Wai-Mae said decisively. “I will have a husband and a new life in New York.”

“I don’t think so. Wai-Mae, they mean to trick you. You’ll be a servant.” Ling swallowed hard. “Or worse.”

“Why are you saying these terrible things to me?”

“Because I don’t want you to be hurt! They’ll make you a…” Ling struggled with the word. “… a prostitute, Wai-Mae. You’ll never be married. You… you shouldn’t get off the ship.”

Two silent tears rolled down Wai-Mae’s cheeks. Her lips trembled. “It can’t be true. My passage is paid. My uncle arranged it.”

“I’m sorry,” Ling said.

“I won’t hear any more!”

“I’m trying to protect you!”

“I won’t hear it!” Wai-Mae stood up. She backed away, shaking her head. “No. You are wrong. I will be a wife to a merchant in America. A good man! A respected man!”

“Wai-Mae—”

Wai-Mae spun around, her mouth tight, her eyes hard. “You had no right to do that. To spy on me like an immigration official, questioning everything! I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” Ling said. She reached out for Wai-Mae’s hand, but Wai-Mae yanked it away.

“You will not take my dream from me!” Wai-Mae growled deep and low, her face hardening with anger, a transformation as startling as any they’d made themselves inside the dream. In the cup, the tea boiled over, splashing onto Ling’s hand. She gasped and dropped the cup as the liquid scalded her. An angry red welt rose up across the length of Ling’s thumb.

She’d been hurt inside a dream.

And Wai-Mae had done it.

Cradling her hand, Ling leaped up and marched toward the wood.

“Where are you going?” Wai-Mae asked, fearful.

Ling didn’t answer.

“But it isn’t time for you to wake yet! Let’s play opera. Or… or we can do more of your science, if you like!”

Ling did not turn around.

“Everything will be fine, sister! I know it will,” Wai-Mae said, trotting after Ling. “Please, don’t worry. Here—we can make something wonderful.”

Ling didn’t want to make anything else. The dream had turned sour. She kept walking.

“Come back, please!” Wai-Mae called. “You promised! You promised!”

Ling ran down the hill and through the forest, calling Henry’s name.





Henry and Louis lay side by side on the dock with their feet in the cool river, enjoying their last night on the bayou. His train was scheduled to arrive in New York tomorrow, and there’d be no need for these nightly visits anymore. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough for Henry.

“Henri, there’s somethin’ I need to tell you ’bout,” he said, suddenly serious, and Henry’s stomach tightened, like sensing the first drops of rain at a long-planned picnic.

“Sounds like an awfully serious talk to have without your shirt on,” Henry joked.

Louis sat up. “I shoulda told you ’bout it before. Concerns you.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not coming to New York after all?” Henry propped himself up on his elbows and stared out at the sun patches dotting the river. “You got the ticket, didn’t you?”

“That ain’t it,” Louis said, and Henry was relieved.