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.
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.
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.