Lair of Dreams

It was I, however, who was ridiculous. It is imperative that we put aside our differences and work together in one last endeavor while there is still time. What I previously showed you of Liberty Anne’s prophecies was not all. Toward the end of her days, there followed far more disturbing warnings, dire predictions for the nation. At the time, I feared that her fever, which raged so fiercely, had addled her wits. For this reason, I locked away her final prophecy. I see now that I was remiss to have hidden this unholy correspondence from you. I fear we have underestimated the power of the man in the stovepipe hat.

My time grows short. I implore you: Let us bury selfish quarrels before it is too late.

Ever hopeful,

Cornelius





“You know what this is, don’t you?” Sam said, waving the letter in the air. “A gold mine! It’s the hook we need to make our Diviners exhibit a hot ticket: ‘Read the never-before-revealed prophecies of Liberty Anne Rathbone! Hear her dire predictions for the citizens of America before it’s too late!’ We just gotta hope Liberty Anne’s prophecies are somewhere in these boxes.”

“Only one way to find out. Let’s bring it all upstairs and have a look through everything,” Jericho answered, easily hoisting one of the crates onto his shoulder and ducking back through the doorway.

“Yeah. I was afraid you’d say that,” Sam said, grunting as he shouldered the heavy load.





“That’s all of them,” Jericho said as he carried in the last crate.

Sam fell onto the couch, gasping. “I may never use my arms again,” he moaned.

“No doubt the girls of New York City sigh in relief,” Jericho muttered, trying not to think about Sam’s arms around Evie. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

There were six crates in total, and every one had been nailed shut except for the damaged one containing Rathbone’s will. Sam reached into it. “Books,” he said with a sigh, pulling out musty tomes that released even more filth and dust into the air. “Always with the books.” Next was a cache of letters from Will to somebody named Rotke Wasserman in Hopeful Harbor, New York. Sam sneaked one from its weary envelope.

“‘My Darling Rotke… I miss you like the flower misses sun…’” Sam read aloud. He whistled long and loud. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Have some decency, Sam,” Jericho growled, snatching the letter away.

Sam put his hands up. “Okay, okay. Don’t get hot. Who’s this Rotke tomato?”

“She’s not a tomato. Rotke was Will’s fianceé. She died during the war,” Jericho said, tucking the letter back into the crate. “This doesn’t feel ethical.”

“Ethics don’t pay the taxman, Freddy. Listen, we’ll just have a look. If we don’t find Liberty Anne’s unholy correspondence, we’ll put the whole mess back in the cellar and forget about it, and nobody’ll be the wiser. Deal?”

“Yes. Okay. Fine.”

“We’re gonna need a crowbar to loosen those others,” Sam said, sneezing again. “Don’t suppose there’s one around here?”

“Somewhere,” Jericho said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “I’ll be right back. Don’t steal anything.”

“Who’d wanna steal this bunk?” Sam muttered, rummaging through the books. He opened one and saw Rotke’s name scrawled on the inside cover. Pictures had been sandwiched between its pages: one of a younger, blonder Will holding a tennis racket; one of him posing with an old Negro woman above a handwritten note—Will and Mama Thibault, Diviner, New Orleans, 1906; a grainy photograph of some fancy estate. Sam flipped the page and came to a few yellowed newspaper clippings of the sort Will liked to collect: articles about small-town mediums or people who could bend spoons with their thoughts; an odd mention of an Indian village that burned to the ground, killing everyone, after a stove blew up.

A paper slipped to the floor and Sam bent to pick it up. It was an aged envelope, slit across the top and emptied of its contents. Rotke’s name and a return address were on the back. He flipped over the envelope and stared, dumbfounded, at the addressee:


Miriam Lubovitch

122 Hester Street

New York, New York



“Sam?” Jericho was calling to him, but Sam could barely register it. “Did you get swallowed up?”

“Yeah. Big ghost came and got me. Forward all my mail to the spirit world,” Sam said hollowly.

The letter was postmarked September 1914. Sam tore through the book’s pages for the envelope’s missing contents but found nothing. He took everything out of the crate, but the letter wasn’t in there, either. Sam examined the envelope again. Across the front, someone had scrawled Return to Sender. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. It wasn’t his mother’s. Who had written it? Whoever it was, Sam needed to find him.

It was time for Evie to make good on her end of their deal.

Jericho appeared on the second-floor landing. “Sam!”