Lair of Dreams

Henry smiled at the jibe. “So there are three of us? It’s getting mighty crowded in this dream world. Tell me,” he said, picking out a melody, “what do you do when you’re not talking to the dead or leading wayward musicians into magical train stations, Miss Chan?”


“I help my parents in the restaurant,” she said, sitting on the edge of the fountain to watch the goldfish darting about. “But I want to go to college and study science.”

“Ah. That stack of books you had with you.”

“I remember the first time I read about Jake Marlowe’s experiments with the atom. It made me think of dreams.”

“Naturally,” Henry deadpanned.

Ling trailed her fingers in the cool water of the fountain. “What are these quantized bits of energy we see inside dreams? When I talk to the dead, where do they come from? Where do they go? Can we change the shape of our dreams? I can feel the Qi all around me. If I could understand this energy, this power, perhaps I could turn it into a scientific discovery in the physical world.”

“Sometimes I can change what people dream,” Henry said.

Ling whirled around. “You can? How? In what way?”

“Well, don’t get too excited. I can’t change the dream directly. I can only give the dreamer a suggestion.”

“Oh. Is that all?” Ling said. She stuck her fingers back into the fountain, smiling as the goldfish nibbled at her fingertips.

“I’m wounded,” Henry drawled. “It can be useful, though. If it looks as if the person’s having a bad dream, I can help them out. I’ll say something like, ‘Why don’t you dream about something more pleasant—puppies or hot air balloons or top hats—’”

“Top hats? No one wants to dream of top hats.”

“How do you know? Perhaps they’re very formal dreams,” Henry said, smiling. “Anyhow, I give suggestions, and sometimes that’s enough to steer the person away from a nightmare.” He played around with a new melody. “Were you afraid the first time you walked in a dream?”

“A little. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I thought maybe I’d died and woken up in the afterlife.”

“And then you were sorry you hadn’t worn a top hat.”

Ling ignored Henry’s joke. “What about your first time?”

“I thought I’d gone mad. Just like my mother.”

“Your mother is crazy?”

Henry shrugged. “Oh, you mean to tell me it isn’t perfectly normal for mothers to spend all day in the family cemetery talking to statues of saints? Why, don’t you know, Miss Chan? The DuBois family is very respectable!”

“Has she always been mad?”

“No. Sometimes she’s just peeved.”

“It isn’t funny.”

“Oh, yes, it is. It’s terribly, terribly funny,” Henry said. He was used to delivering this patter to the jaded theater crowd, who liked to keep things light and entertaining, with no embarrassing sentiment to force them into pretending to care. Over the years, Henry had gotten pretty good at his act: “My parents?” he’d say, perched at the piano. “Tragic, tragic story. They were circus performers eaten by their own tigers just after a rousing performance of ‘Blow the Man Down.’ Poor Maman and Papa, gone with a roar and a belch and a half-finished chorus.”

But he realized how silly it was to pretend with Ling here inside a dream where everything you kept inside could suddenly show itself without warning. Lying about your emotions, putting on a happy face when you didn’t feel it, was exhausting.

Henry kept his fingers moving, testing various chord progressions. “My mother tried to kill herself. She sent the servants into town, found my father’s straight razor, crawled into the bath, and cut her wrists. But she’d forgotten that I was home. I found her. There was blood everywhere. I slipped and fell in it.”

“That’s awful,” Ling said when she found her voice again.

“It was awful. I loved those pants.”

“Your father must have been grateful that you found her.”

Henry scowled. “My father has never used my name and grateful in the same sentence.” He glanced at Ling, ready with another quip. She was looking at him. Really looking. It made him uncomfortable. “I’ve grown a second head inside this dream, haven’t I? Be honest. I can take it.”

“Your family has its own cemetery? You must be loaded,” Ling said.

Henry laughed. “Oh, yes, darlin’. We are, indeed, loaded.” He played a jazzy riff. “We’ve got a family crypt! Inscribed with nonsense Latin! Generations of the DuBois bourgeoisie lined up as a feast for the worms!”

Ling allowed a smile, then went serious again. “Generations. Your family’s been here a long time. My parents struggled to get here. I’ve never even met my grandparents. How did you find the courage to leave home?”

Henry had thought himself a coward for running away. It was strange to hear Ling call it courage. “My father was angry with me over my friendship with Louis.”