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The elevator arrived and Henry leaped on, eager to make his escape. “Please don’t worry on my account, Miss Proctor. Good day to you!” he said, his thoughts already on his music and Louis and dreams that were all good.

“Addie!” Miss Lillian shouted again, impatient.Advertisement

But Adelaide Proctor still stood in the lobby looking very afraid. And as the elevator gate closed, she called to Henry one last time: “Mr. DuBois: Anthony Orange Cross. Beware, beware, Paradise Square.”

A chill prickled along Henry’s neck as the elevator carried him up.

Henry got off the elevator with a feeling of unease. How did Adelaide Proctor know about Paradise Square and Anthony Orange Cross? He didn’t recall ever walking in her dreams or seeing her in one of his. When he had more time, he’d stop in and ask.

Henry stretched, feeling the tightness in his muscles. They ached a bit, like he’d been exercising all night. In a way, he supposed he had been. Hadn’t he and Louis gone fishing? But it was strange to feel it today in his body. In fact, he was exhausted. And no sooner had Henry sprawled into his favorite chair than his eyelids fluttered closed and he was fast asleep.

The dream started in his house back in New Orleans. Henry’s father sat at a long table. He wore the powdered wig of a Puritan judge.

“You will never see that boy again,” his father said.

Henry turned and ran through the cemetery, which was carpeted in morning glories. His mother’s porous saints moved their stone lips in unison: “They never should’ve done it.”

The morning glories climbed up Henry’s legs, the vines tightening around his muscles.

“Let me go!” Henry screamed.

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All at once, he found himself in a squalid room filled with opium smoke where half-dressed men lay about with glassy-eyed prostitutes. Henry heard the jangling tinkle of an old music box. He followed the sound around the corner and saw the veiled woman sitting on a pallet, turning the crank and crying very softly. She was small and delicate and young, not much older than Henry was. He could feel her anguish, and he wished he could take her out of this terrible place. He drew closer.

“Miss,” Henry suggested, “why don’t you have a different dream? A happy dream?”

The woman stopped crying. Through the netting, her eyes were dark and hard.

“All my dreams are dead,” she growled. “You killed them!” Serpent-quick, she plunged a dagger into Henry’s chest.

Henry woke with a start, breathing heavily, one hand over his heart.

“I’m okay. Everything’s jake,” he said, letting out a long exhale. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly three, and yelped.

“Applesauce!” Henry hissed, reaching for his music and his coat, pulling up his suspenders as he went. “Theta’s gonna murder me.”

Theta was standing in the wings pacing when Henry blew into the theater so fast he nearly toppled over.

“Sorry, sorry!” he said, kissing her cheek.

Theta’s dark eyes flashed. “Cutting it a little close, weren’t ya, Hen?”

“But I made it,” Henry said. “You look like a million bucks.”

“Yeah, but do I look like Russian nobility?”

“I’d buy it.”

“Only if I can sell it.”

“You’ll be the berries, Theta. You always are.”

Theta parted the curtain, looking out at the assorted members of the press and the photographer setting up his camera in the aisle, and spied Herbert Allen glad-handing the reporters. His voice drifted up and backstage: “Yes, I’ve written a swell new song for Miss Knight to sing today.…”

Henry peeked over Theta’s shoulder and scowled. “That talentless bastard. Shouldn’t he be off having another bad suit made?”

“He’s not gonna be too happy about what we’re doing.”

“Huh. Suddenly I’m filled with pep!” Henry joked, but Theta still looked nervous. He held her hand. “Don’t worry. We’re on our way.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Come on. Now, let us to go and razzle-dazzle ze press-ski.”

Theta’s eyebrows shot up. “Good thing you’re not trying to pass yourself off as Russian royalty.”

“As we say in my country, I am wounded.”

Theta squeezed Henry’s hands for luck. “Here goes nothin’.”

The reporters quieted as Theta swept onto the stage looking every bit the star in a borrowed chinchilla coat, a long strand of knotted pearls swaying against her green silk dress as she sauntered toward the footlights. pqdm.com