Lair of Dreams

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?”

Mr. Forman took the hint. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the Pears Soap Hour stage—Mr. Bob Bateman!”

To polite applause, a handsome man came forward. He seemed sweetly nervous. “How do you do, Miss O’Neill?”

“I’m doing much better now that you’re here,” Evie shot back, enjoying the audience’s laughter. “How can I be of help to you today, Mr. Bateman?”

“It’s awfully nice to meet you. You’re such a swell girl and all.”

“Gee, Mr. Bateman, that’s awfully sweet of you to say,” Evie said. “Oh, you brought me a comb. Golly, I hope this doesn’t mean that my bob looks a fright!”

More laughter. It was a great audience, a great show—one of her best. She hoped Mr. Phillips was paying attention.

“Oh, no, Miss O’Neill. You look beautiful,” he said, and Evie actually blushed.

“Careful there. This young lady’s engaged to a Diviner,” Mr. Forman interjected, to the crowd’s delight.

“He’s a lucky fella,” Mr. Bateman said, and Evie’s smile wobbled just a bit. She no longer knew what game she and Sam were playing.

“This comb belonged to my best pal, Ralphie,” Mr. Bateman said, and Evie snapped back to the moment.

“Oh. Uh-huh,” she said.

“He died during the war.”

There were clucks of sympathy from the audience.

“Gee, I’m sorry,” Evie said. “My brother was a war hero, you know.”

“Yes. I’ve heard that. I figured you might be sympathetic to an old Army man like me. The thing of it is, when he was over there, Ralphie married a French girl on the quick, but I don’t know her name and, well, the family has been trying to find her all these years. I’m sure you understand. I thought maybe you could get a name for us?”

“Of course,” Evie said quietly. She put her hand on Mr. Bateman’s. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

Mr. Bateman put the comb in her hands. It was just an old tortoise comb, something you could get at any drugstore. Nothing special. Evie closed her eyes. She rubbed her thumb over the tips of the teeth. Then, when she was ready, she held it between her palms, pressing gently, and waited for information.