Lair of Dreams

“Guillaume Johnson… Hmm. No picture of Mr. Johnson, I’m afraid. I’ll keep looking. What are these samples he keeps referring to?” Mabel asked, leaning back in her chair by the fire. “It’s mentioned in quite a few of Dr. Fitzgerald’s letters.”

“I noticed that, too,” Jericho said, sitting across from her. “Hopefully one of the other letters will make it clear.”

Mabel glanced at Jericho shyly. It made him nervous, like he was supposed to do something, but he had no idea what that was.

“Right. Back to it. I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” he said, carrying his crate up the spiral staircase to the second-floor balcony. From behind the stacks, Jericho watched Mabel at work. Her blue dress was smudged with dust, but she hadn’t made a fuss about it. Of course she wouldn’t. Mabel Rebecca Rose was too solid for that. Her only crime was being sweet on him. Why couldn’t he return her affections in the same way? She was certainly smart and clever. How many girls knew about mining disasters and labor strikes?

The bedeviling thing about Mabel was that she always seemed to do what other people expected of her. She was the very definition of a perfectly decent girl—earnest and helpful, with an unshakable faith in her constructed belief that people were, at heart, good. Jericho wasn’t sure he shared that sentiment.

Since the night Evie had ended their brief romance, Jericho had resented Mabel. If not for Mabel, he’d told himself, he and Evie might’ve had a chance. But now he wondered: Had Mabel just been a convenient excuse? Had it been Sam all along?

Mabel caught him looking. She patted her hair self-consciously. “Did you need something?”

“No,” Jericho said, and quickly turned back to Will’s letters, coming to one that intrigued him.



October 1, 1907

Hopeful Harbor, New York



Dear Cornelius,



It has been quite a time here. Earlier this week, members of the Founders Club, a private eugenics society, visited as invited guests of Jake’s. They were quite interested in our findings about Diviners, and over dinner, there was much spirited debate. The gentlemen of the Founders Club argue that we can create the strongest, most exceptional America through the careful selection of superior traits, as one would with livestock. They believe Diviners are this superior stock. But only white Diviners. No Negroes, Italians, Sioux, Irish, Chinese, or Jews need apply. They argue that these people lack the correct moral, physical, mental, and intellectual properties to advance our nation and make her the shining city on the hill.

I have never seen Margaret so angry before: “We are a democracy, sir, and Diviners are evidence of that democracy and of the proof that all men and women are created equal. For these gifts have been given in equal measure to people of all races and creeds, regardless of sex, whether rich or poor.”

The great debate escalated far beyond the polite decorum of a dinner table, and we adjourned before dessert so that a cordial spirit could be maintained. In the privacy of our offices, Rotke made her position quite clear—“I won’t be part of it. Not as a scientist. Not as a Jew. Not as an American.”

I agreed that their position was nonsense. Margaret was much more frank in her rebuke. I shan’t repeat her words here. We were resolute: We would thank the Founders Club for their time and interest and send them on their way. Through it all, Jake remained quiet. At last, he rose from his seat and crossed the floor. Even in this simple action, he demanded our attention.

“Don’t you see? We can take their money without telling them what we’re really doing. We’ll continue to conduct our own research on Diviners. Here and there, we’ll trot out a little something to keep the old men happy in their eugenics quest, parade a Diviner or two before them. Simple.”

“You’re wrong, Jake. They’ll come to own us in time,” Margaret insisted. “Mark my words.”

Jake shook his head and let out a peeved sigh, which did not settle well with Margaret, I can assure you. “Margaret, you’re too suspicious,” he insisted. “You don’t trust anyone.”

“If your people came to this country in chains, Mr. Marlowe, you might have the same mistrust,” Margaret responded evenly, but her eyes—hard, alight—told the true story of her emotions.

Next, Jake appealed to me, man-to-man. He threw an arm around my shoulders like a brother and squeezed. “William, surely you’re on board?”

“Well…” I began but said no more. It was cowardly, but my feelings on the matter are quite confusing. I don’t care for the Founders Club and their sham science of eugenics. But I don’t want to stop our research into those mysteries that lie beyond this world, either. It has become my whole world.