Lair of Dreams (The Diviners #2) (38 page)

In the next second, Memphis fell on the floor beside Mrs. Carrington’s bed. His arms shook and he gagged as if he might vomit. He felt as if he’d run full-out for miles. Muffled voices became clearer.

“Memphis! Memphis, sit up now, son. Come on.” Papa Charles’s hands were on him, helping him off the floor.

In her bed, Mrs. Carrington sat straight up. Her dark eyes were wide and blinking. Her fingers clawed at the air. Her mouth opened and closed as if she had been drowning and was now trying to choke the last of the water from her lungs.

“Emmaline!” Mr. Carrington cried as he rushed to his wife’s side. “Emmaline!”

With a shuddering gasp, she inhaled.

And then she was screaming.

MIRACLE ON 125TH STREET! DEPARTMENT STORE KING’S WIFE WAKES FROM SLEEPING SICKNESS!
screamed the front page of the late-edition extra.

Eager New Yorkers swarmed around the newsies, whose fingers could barely keep up as they peeled off the freshly printed newspapers, which told of Mrs. Carrington’s miraculous awakening. From her sickbed, Mrs. Carrington reported that she could remember nothing from her time asleep except for a happy dream about riding a blue bicycle
and a music-box song. Mr. Carrington claimed that his wife’s sudden recovery was due to “the great healing power of the Almighty himself.” Sarah Snow came round to take a picture, a fresh orchid pinned to her very fashionable dress as she sat at Mrs. Carrington’s bedside. The Carringtons made no mention of Diviners or of Memphis.

But as Blind Bill Johnson sat in the Lenox Drugstore sipping his coffee and listening to Reggie read the story aloud to an eager group of patrons, he knew who had done the healing.

The time for patience was over.

On the evening of what should have been Mabel’s first date with Jericho, she had come down with a terrible cold. Now that the rescheduled evening had rolled around at last, Jericho was second-guessing every choice he’d made. He’d gotten a reservation at the Kiev, a tearoom in the West Fifties where patrons could drink tea, eat blintzes, and dance to the orchestra between courses if they liked. He didn’t know why he’d chosen that place. He wasn’t a dancer, and taking a girl to a restaurant with dancing announced your intention to do just that. The whole evening had begun to seem like a bad idea, but it was too late to back out now.

“Hey, Freddy!” Sam said as he blew through the front door. “Listen, I gotta step out—holy smokes! Is that a… are you wearing a tie?” Sam leaned against the wall and watched Jericho as he struggled and failed for a third time to make the proper knot.

“I have a date,” Jericho said, unraveling it once more. “Why are you covered in dust? Never mind. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.”

“You’re right. You don’t want to know. And I hope that date is with an antiques dealer, because that thing around your neck is a genuine artifact. Did you find it in the museum or on a dead clown?”

“Go away, Sam.”

“And leave you in a time of crisis? Huh-uh. You need me. More than you know. Wait right here,” Sam called as he raced toward his room. Jericho heard drawers opening, and a moment later Sam
returned with a very fashionable gray-striped necktie. “Here. Borrow one of mine.”

Jericho regarded it dubiously. “Who’d you steal this from?”

“Fine,” Sam said, holding it out of reach. “Go out in your grandpa’s tie. See if I care.”

“Wait!” Jericho swiped the gray-striped number from Sam. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So, ah, who’s the lucky girl?” Sam asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. When Jericho ignored him, Sam grabbed one of Jericho’s Civil War soldier figurines and held it up to his mouth. “Oh, Jericho,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “Take me in your arms, you big he-man, you!”

“Please put General Meade back in Gettysburg. You’re changing the course of the war. And it’s just a date.”

“With girls, it’s never just a date. First lesson, Freddy,” Sam said.

“As always, I’m grateful for your sage advice,” Jericho said, finishing the knot.

Sam nodded approvingly. “You clean up nice, Freddy. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Sam grinned as he dropped into Will’s chair.

“Such as behave like a decent human being?” Jericho said, reaching for his hat and scarf from the hall coatrack.

“Who just gave you a proper tie?”

“Get out of Will’s chair.”

“You’re welcome!” Sam shouted as the door closed.

“I’m sorry about my mother and father and all those questions they asked,” Mabel said as she and Jericho sat in a leather booth inside the Kiev. “For radicals, they’re practically Republicans about my suitors.”

“It’s all right,” Jericho said, watching couples old enough to be their grandparents glide across the worn parquet floors to the tepid strains of a second-rate orchestra. It was a far cry from the sort of
nightclubs Evie and Sam attended every night. He hoped Mabel wasn’t too disappointed with this choice.

“Nice place,” Mabel said, just like the good sport she was.

“Mmm,” Jericho said around a mouthful of gooey pastry.

“It’s nice that they have dancing.”

“Yes. Dancing is… um, nice,” Jericho said. He felt like a horse’s ass. And Sam’s necktie pinched.

Mabel sipped her spicy tea, her stomach churning with nerves as she tried to think of a conversation starter that would turn the evening around, and fast. “Say, I’ve got a fun game!” she said, finally. “If you were a Diviner, what power would you want to have?”

“I’m not a Diviner,” Jericho answered.

“Neither am I. That’s why it’s a game.”

“I’m not good at these sorts of games.” Jericho ate another bite of blintz.

I’ve noticed
, Mabel thought, and stirred her tea for the twentieth time.

“Fine. What sort of power would
you
have?” Jericho asked.

“Oh. Anything would do, I suppose. It would just be nice not to be so hideously ordinary.” Mabel laughed and waited for Jericho to disagree with her:
Why, don’t be silly, Mabel—you’re anything but ordinary. Why, you’re extraordinary all on your own!

“There’s no such thing as hideously ordinary. If something is hideous, it’s automatically extraordinary. In a hideous way.”

“Never mind. Let’s change the subject,” Mabel grumbled.

“I told you I wasn’t good at this game,” Jericho said. “Besides, the more I read about Diviners, the more I think it’s a curse as well as a gift.”

“What do you mean?”

“Diviners are truth-tellers. But people rarely want the truth. We say that we want it when, really, we like being lied to. We prefer the ether of hope.”

“But hope is necessary! You have to give people hope,” Mabel insisted.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Jericho folded his arms across his chest. “In an amoral, violent world, isn’t it unconscionable to keep offering hope? It’s like advertising for soap that never gets you clean.”

“Now you’re just being cynical.”

“Am I? What about war? We keep grappling for power, killing for it. Enslaving. Oppressing. We create ourselves. We destroy ourselves. Over and over. Forever. If the cycle repeats, why bother with hope?”

“But we also overcome. I’ve seen people fight against that sort of oppression and win. What you’re talking about is nihilism. And frankly,” Mabel said, taking a steadying breath, “frankly, that bores me.” Nothing emboldened her quite as much as someone claiming the good fight couldn’t be won.

“How is it nihilism to embrace the cycle and let go—of attachments and morality and, yes, the opiate futility of hope?” Jericho fired back. Mabel’s naiveté annoyed him. She might think she’d seen the world, but, really, she saw only a particular slice of the world, neatly bordered by hedgerows trimmed daily by her parents’ idealism. “All right,” he pressed. “If you believe in hope, what about true evil? Do you believe there is such a thing?”

Mabel felt as if the question were a test, one she might easily fail. “I believe real evil is brought about by a system that is unjust or by people acting selfishly. By greed.” She’d never really articulated her thoughts on the matter before, and it satisfied her to say them aloud.

“That’s the do-gooder answer.”

Mabel bristled. “I don’t go for the bogeyman. There’s plenty of evil to fight in life without having to make up devils and demons and ghosts. If you believe that there is Evil in the world, capital
E
, doesn’t that take away your belief in free will? I still maintain that people have choices. To do right. To have hope. To
give
hope,” Mabel said pointedly.

Jericho was very quiet, and Mabel feared she’d insulted him. But then he looked her in the eyes in a way that was unnerving.

“Have you ever had a moment that forced you to question what you believe?” he asked. “Something that forced you to reexamine your ideas of morality, of good and evil?”

“I…” Mabel stopped. “I suppose not. Have you?”

“Once.” Jericho was very still. “I helped a friend end his life. Does that shock you?”

Mabel was stunned into silence for a moment. She wasn’t sure she liked knowing this about Jericho. “Yes. A little.”

“He was very sick and suffering, and he asked me to do it. I had to weigh that choice: Was it murder, or was it mercy? Was it immoral or was it, given the circumstances, the moral choice? I’d thought I’d made my peace with it. But now I’m not so sure.”

Mabel didn’t know what to say. She had constructed an entire idea of Jericho as smart and good and noble, and this sudden confession did not fit neatly into that architecture. Her own life had been built upon a foundation of “doing good.” She’d not had much opportunity to challenge what that meant.

“I’m sorry,” she said. It seemed the flimsiest of comforts, but it was all she could offer.

Jericho pushed his plate away. “No. I’m sorry. That probably wasn’t the sort of thing you say on a date. This evening isn’t going very well, is it?”

“Well, it isn’t as bad as the time I accidentally stepped into a latrine at a labor camp, but I’d wager you’re correct.”

Jericho gave a small
Ha!
and Mabel had her first genuine smile of the night. “Why, Jericho. You just laughed. Will Nietzsche be mad at you?”

Jericho felt like a heel. He’d picked a fight for no reason at all. Mabel’s only sin was not being Evie. She at least deserved a fair shake as herself. If nothing sparked after that, well, so be it. At the very least, he should try to salvage the evening and end the date on a happier note.

He folded his napkin and stood with his hand out. “Mabel, would you like to dance?”

“Well, I certainly don’t want any more tea,” she said, joining him.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said apologetically. “And by that I mean that I don’t dance at all.”

“That’s all right. I’m not much of a dancer, either. But we’re the only people under the age of seventy in here, so I suppose that’s something, isn’t it?”

Jericho winced. “It’s pretty dreadful, isn’t it?”

Mabel wrinkled her nose in agreement. “But the blintzes are good.”

Jericho escorted Mabel to the dance floor, where they stood facing each other, awkward and uncertain. The orchestra struck up a tune whose notes were laced with old-country drama—blood feuds and doomed romance, survival and reinvention.

“May I?” Jericho asked nervously.

Mabel nodded. Jericho placed his hand at the small of her back and she jumped just slightly.

“Sorry. Did I…?”

“No! It’s… it’s fine. I’m just… it’s good.” Her cheeks were bright red.

Jericho rested his hand on her back once more, and this time Mabel put her left hand on his shoulder and raised her right hand to meet his, trying to ignore the heat suffusing her cheeks. Slowly, they moved around the dance floor—one, two-three, one, two-three—the older folks looking on approvingly, shouting encouragement in Russian and English. They managed several passes around the floor without incident. At the end, the old folks applauded, and Mabel was both proud and embarrassed.

“We should quit while we’re ahead, I think,” Jericho whispered.

“Agreed.”

On the walk home, the conversation was all about the Diviners exhibit and the brilliance of Charlie Chaplin. By the time they returned to the Bennington, fifteen minutes ahead of Mabel’s curfew, they’d made plans to go to the Strand to see a Buster Keaton picture.

“There might be people younger than sixty there,” Jericho said, and Mabel laughed.

Mabel strangled the strap of her pocketbook as her stomach fluttered. “Well, good night, Jericho.”

“Good night, Mabel,” Jericho said. He wasn’t precisely sure about the protocol of ending a mostly-but-not-entirely-disastrous first date. A handshake seemed too formal. Kissing a girl’s hand seemed like something only swashbuckler matinee idols could get away with and not feel like a complete fool. And so, rather impulsively, Jericho kissed Mabel sweetly and briefly on the lips and then took the stairs up to his own flat.

Mabel slumped back against the wall feeling summer-light. And even the sight of Miss Addie roaming the halls, trailing salt from her dressing-gown pockets and mumbling about the dead coming through the breach, couldn’t dampen her spirits.

The moment Mabel went inside, she bolted for the telephone, ignoring her mother’s pleas for information. She grinned as Evie’s voice came over the line.

“Sweetheart Seer residence. How may I direct your call?”

“Evie, it’s me.”

“Mabesie! How do you like my secretary voice? Do you think it gives me an air of mystery?”

“I knew it was you.”

“Oh. How disappointing. But you sound out of breath! Are you running from wolves? Do tell.”

“You won’t believe it. I don’t believe it!”

“What is it?”

“I… I’m still pinching myself.”

“Mabel Rose! If you don’t stop torturing me and tell me this instant, I’ll… I’ll… well, I’ll do whatever clever threat I can’t think of just now.”

“Are you sitting down?”