Lair of Dreams

“Yes, all my favorites. With luck, we’ll see it performed. Luck and an end to this sickness. How is your friend George?”


“The same,” Ling said, pushing away the dumplings. Earlier, she’d lit a candle for George at the Church of the Transfiguration, and offered prayers at the temple, too, covering all the bases.

“He’s young,” her uncle said. “The doctors will find what’s causing this sickness very soon. And then they’ll find a cure. I’m sure of it.”

Ling nodded, grateful for her uncle’s reassurance. “Uncle,” Ling said, “could the sleeping sickness make it hard for my friend—my pen pal—to come to New York?”

“It could, indeed. I hope that she has friends or relatives in high places to help ease her way. Matchmakers, you say?”

“Yes. O’Bannion and Lee.”

“I’m not familiar with that firm. If you’re looking for a Lee, you can always ask at the Golden Pearl,” Uncle Eddie said. Anyone with the surname Lee could have mail from China sent there for collection, Ling knew. It functioned as a family name–specific post office as well as a store. “Chang Lee would surely know. He’s been here longer than I have.” Uncle Eddie shook his head. “A girl has to be careful: Some of those matchmakers are not reputable. The girls come thinking they’ll marry, and end up as servants instead. Or worse.”

“Her uncle arranged everything,” Ling said, but now she was worried. What if this O’Bannion and Lee wasn’t a reputable firm after all?

“Well. I’m sure it’s fine. What is not fine is the state of this opera house,” Uncle Eddie said, gesturing to the messy theater. “The Year of the Rabbit will be here soon, and I’m hopeful there will still be a reason to celebrate. I’d best get to work. Thank you for the dumplings.”

“You’re welcome, Uncle,” Ling said, gathering the basket and its top back into her knapsack and reaching for her crutches.

“Ling,” her uncle called as she opened the door onto the blustery day once more. “Have the dead told you anything about this sickness?”

Immediately, Ling remembered Mrs. Lin’s odd warning in her dream: It isn’t safe. She’d thought the warning had been about Henry. But could it have been about the sickness, somehow? Had Mrs. Lin known what was causing it—a water source, or meat from diseased farm animals? That was the trouble with dreams; they could have all sorts of meanings.

“No, Uncle,” Ling answered.

Uncle Eddie gave a decisive nod. “Well. I suppose if they had something to say, they would tell you first.”

“I suppose so,” Ling said, but she wasn’t comforted by his words. What if the dead were waiting for Ling to act? She could at least try to find some answers on her walks.

On her way back to the restaurant, Ling stopped into the Golden Pearl on Mott Street, where she found Mr. Lee’s grandson, Charlie, at the counter, stocking various teas and herbs in the small drawers of a large wooden cabinet.

“I’m sorry, Ling, but my grandfather is in Boston visiting my cousins. He’ll be gone for two weeks,” Charlie said. “Come back then.”

Ling thanked him, then checked the Chinese newspaper for the shipping news. The Lady Liberty hadn’t docked in San Francisco yet. There was still time to find out about O’Bannion and Lee and make sure that Wai-Mae was safe.

Instead of continuing straight back to the Tea House, Ling took a detour up Mott and down Mulberry, looking for any sign of O’Bannion and Lee. The streets were an odd mix of fear and optimism: Hopeful businessmen went ahead and hung decorations; paper lanterns and red banners with bold calligraphy stretched across Doyers Street from balcony to balcony. But she also saw white-capped nurses and somber-faced health officials marching briskly down sidewalks, knocking on doors. The yellow quarantine sign marred the facade of George Huang’s building like a wound.

“Please get well soon, George,” Ling whispered.

The door opened suddenly, and two public health nurses bustled out, their words muffled behind the barrier of their surgical masks. They went silent as they looked at Ling and her leg braces and then hurried on their way, picking up their conversation where they’d left off. Ling ducked inside, moving as fast as she could to the dark back of the tenement and George’s apartment.

George’s sister, Minnie, opened the door. “Ling,” she whispered, peering behind Ling. “How did you get in?”

“The nurses just left. No one was watching.”

“Come in,” Minnie said, ushering Ling inside.

“How is George?”

“The same.” Minnie lowered her eyes.

“Can I see him?”

Minnie showed Ling to George’s room and Ling sucked in a breath. He was very pale except for the strange red burn marks creeping up his neck. Ling had never seen George so still. But no—he wasn’t completely still after all. Beneath the thin skin of his lids, his eyes moved rapidly. George wasn’t just sleeping; he was dreaming.