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They opened their mouths—“dreamwithusdreamdreamdream”—and their din swelled as it joined the song, a discordant lullaby.

The fight left Henry. The dream army advanced. Henry closed his eyes and fell deep.Advertisement

A dog’s insistent barking woke him. Henry opened his eyes to blue skies sponged with shimmering pink-white clouds. He felt as if he’d been sleeping for ages. The prickly points of grass blades scratched against his arms and neck where he lay; his surroundings smelled of warm earth and river, sweet clover and Spanish moss. Another bark caused him to turn his head to the right. In the tall green grass, an excited, puppyish Gaspard snuffled closer. He smeared Henry’s cheek with his slobbery tongue.

“Gaspard. Hey, boy.” Henry sat up and buried his face in the dog’s velvety fur. Down the dirt path, smoke puffed from the cabin’s chimney. Henry could smell it now. Woodsy and sweet, it burned the back of his throat just right. A pot of jambalaya was on. Henry could almost taste the spicy roux.

He heard Louis’s fiddle sawing away on “Rivière Rouge.” Gaspard ran toward the cabin and Henry followed. Dragonflies floated on the feathered edges of sunflowers. Birds chirruped their June song, for it was high summer. It would always be summer here, Henry knew. The old hickory steps creaked beneath the weight of his feet. He was back. He was home. The door opened in welcome.

There was a bed against the wall, and a small table with two chairs and a stool, where Louis sat, handsome as ever, the fiddle nestled under his stubbly chin. Shafts of sunlight poured through the windows, bathing Louis in a golden shimmer. He smiled at Henry. “Mon cher! Where you been?”

“I’ve been…” Henry started to answer but found he couldn’t quite remember where he’d been or what that other life was like, if it had been important or lonely, wonderful or awful. He had a vague feeling that he was angry with Louis. For the life of him, he couldn’t think why. It no longer mattered. All of it floated away the moment Louis crossed the sun-drenched floor to kiss him. It was the sweetest kiss Henry could recall, and it made him want another and another. Henry pulled Louis down onto the bed and snaked a hand up his shirt, marveling at the warmth of his lover’s skin.

“I will never leave you again,” Henry said.

Outside, the morning glories bloomed fat and purple and spread across the ground in a widening bruise.

“Did you find Evie?” Mabel asked as Sam stormed into the library, tossed his coat on the bear’s paw, and threw himself on the sofa.

“Yeah. Sorry, kid. We have to do this without her.”

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“She’s not coming?” Jericho asked. He removed Sam’s coat from the bear and held it out to him, waiting patiently until Sam rose from the sofa, took the coat, and hung it properly in the closet.

“Remind me to give Evie a piece of my mind,” Mabel fumed.

“Save it,” Sam advised. “She doesn’t deserve any piece of you.”

There was a knock at the door, followed by a series of progressively more urgent knocks.

“I knew she’d come!” Mabel hurried down the hall and opened the door not to Evie but to a bedraggled Ling.

“Oh. If you’re here for the party, I’m afraid you’re early,” Mabel explained.

“I’m looking for Henry DuBois. I’m a friend of his. I tried his apartment, but he wasn’t answering. Then I remembered that the Diviners exhibit was opening tonight, and I hoped… Please, may I come in? It’s urgent—”

A taxi screeched to a halt at the curb and Theta jumped out, still in her stage makeup and costume. She tossed money at the cabdriver through the passenger window and shouted, “Keep the change!”

Memphis crawled out from the backseat, holding Henry in his arms.

“What’s the matter?” Mabel asked as they reached the steps.

“It-it’s Henry.” Theta sputtered, wild-eyed. “I came home and the metronome was going. He’s dream walking. But look—” Theta pointed to the faint red blisters forming on Henry’s neck. “I can’t wake him up. I think he’s got the sleeping sickness.”

Henry’s lips were parted; his eyelids twitched. Another mark bloomed on his skin.

“Should I call a doctor? Should I call my parents?” Mabel asked.

“A doctor won’t help. Neither will your parents,” Ling said. “It’s her. She’s got him. You’d better let me in.”

The angry wind howled at the windows and across the roof of the museum as Ling sat in the library among strangers while the dreaming Henry lay on the couch, precious minutes ticking by. pqdm.com