Lair of Dreams

At last, Jake made his way to Rotke and put his hands on her shoulders. “Darling, we need their funding. What we receive from Washington isn’t enough, and I’ve used nearly all of my trust.”


“Even if you can see that money comes from a terrible place?” Rotke challenged.

“Just don’t look in that direction.”

Then Jake took Rotke’s face in his hands, the hands that will shape this new America through steel and the atom and whatever we uncover of the supernatural world.

“Trust me,” he said as he bent her face toward him so that he could kiss her gently on the forehead.

I heeded Jake’s advice and did not look in their direction anymore.

“I’ll smooth things over with the old coots. Stay and enjoy the fire,” Jake assured us. And with that, our brave son, our golden boy, sailed off with a bottle of his family’s best brandy and a fistful of cigars to secure our future. But I fear the damage is done with Margaret. She and Jake will never be friends after this.

As for Rotke, she and Jake are to be engaged, I hear. A better man would be happy for them. After all, Jake has been my closest friend for six years. But I am not a better man, and I am not happy.

This afternoon, Rotke came to me. I could see by her eyes that she had been crying. She asked me to walk with her for a spell. We strolled the woods beyond the manicured hedges of Hopeful Harbor. I begged Rotke to tell me what was troubling her. “It’s Jake,” she said, wiping away tears. “We quarreled. He doesn’t want me to tell anyone I’m Jewish. Not his family, certainly not those eugenics idiots. ‘Darling, no one even knows you’re Jewish,’ he told me. ‘They don’t have to know. You don’t look it.’”

I asked Rotke the question in my heart then. “Does being Jewish matter so much if you don’t believe in God?” For as you know, Cornelius, I’ve never understood this obsession with where we are from that we Americans seem to have. We are from here, are we not? Sometimes I find this clannishness, these ties to old homelands, ancient traditions, and familial bloodlines, to be nothing more than fear—the same fear that keeps us praying to an absent God. If anything, I hope that our research into the great unknown of Diviners and the supernatural world proves that we are all one, joined by the same spark of energy that owes nothing to countries or religion, good and evil, or any other man-made divisions. We create our history as we go.

Rotke sees it differently. “It matters to me, William. It is a part of all that I am. A reminder of my parents and my grandparents. I can’t dismiss them and their struggles so easily. If I marry Jake, I’m afraid I shall be erased.”

She began to cry again, softly. I didn’t know what to do. I am not adept with crying women, especially crying women whom I secretly love. Before I knew it, I was kissing her. Yes, I kissed my closest friend’s fiancée. It was not the gentlemanly thing to do, Cornelius. I know you do not approve. I wish that I could say I regret it. I do not.

Rotke broke away from me, pink-cheeked from more than just the cold. Naturally, I apologized profusely until she had recovered enough to say, simply, “I believe we should go back now.”

You warned that my passions would get the better of me, Cornelius.

Jake greeted us upon our return. He was in grand spirits, practically boyish. “We have our money,” he said, waltzing Rotke around.

I looked away. Once you’ve learned how, it gets easier to do.

Jake clapped me on the back. “This is the start of everything. And you needn’t worry: I’ll handle all the affairs. You won’t have to engage with the Founders Club at all. I’ve ordered champagne to be sent up to the drawing room. See if you can find Margaret, and meet me there.”

Jake wants money for his experiments and inventions in his quest to build an exceptional, unassailable America. Margaret, the victim of this country’s less shining side, wants to prove that all men and women are created equal. Rotke wants to understand the realm beyond this one as well as her own gifts. As for me, my ambitions are great but without form. I don’t know what I want, save for the one woman I cannot have.

This is far too immodest a letter, Cornelius. The champagne was a fine vintage, and I am quite drunk. It doesn’t matter a whit. You won’t respond to this letter, as you’ve not responded to any of my entreaties. Likely, you won’t even read this.

I hear from Lucretia, whom Margaret saw in the market when she visited the city last week, that you’ve had a troubling cough. I do hope your health improves.

Fondly,

Your prodigal son,

Will