“Young man, there were murders nightly,” Miss Lillian said. “You’d need to be more specific.”
“I don’t have a name, unfortunately. It’s a woman I’ve seen in my dreams,” he said, looking hopefully to Miss Adelaide, who stared into her cup. “She wears an old-fashioned dress and a veil.” Henry was losing steam and hope. “She might’ve had a little music box that plays an old tune. ‘Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me…’” he sang.
“Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.…” Miss Addie sang in a whispery rasp. Her head snapped up. “The one who cries. I’ve heard her in my dreams, too.”
“Now, Addie, you mustn’t become agitated. You remember what the doctor said, don’t you?” Miss Lillian scolded. “Mr. DuBois, my sister has a weak heart. You mustn’t upset her.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Henry said. He didn’t want to exhaust Miss Adelaide, but he needed more information. “I only wondered if the woman in my dreams has a name?”
“The music box! That’s it. Yes. Yes, I remember. She came to us at the mission. Only for a few days. Don’t you recall, Lillian?”
“No. And I don’t wish to. Now, Addie—” Miss Lillian started, but Adelaide would not be stopped.
“I’d been trying to remember. It was there, but I couldn’t quite…” Miss Addie made a motion as if she were trying to grab something and bring it close. “She didn’t speak much English.”
“We had a lot of immigrants—they were easily preyed upon,” Miss Lillian said.
“She loved music so. Singing as if she were on the stage. Such a sweet voice,” Miss Addie said. “Yes, music. And that was how that terrible man reeled her back in.”
“What man?” Henry pressed, hoping Miss Lillian wouldn’t throw him out for it.
“That Irishman who ran the brothel,” Miss Lillian snapped. “I remember it now. He came for her one morning, talking sweetly. He gave her a little music box as a gift. He promised her a husband if she’d agree to go back.” Miss Lillian sighed. “That was that. She went away with him. I saw her only once after that. She was sick with opium and riddled with pox all along her pretty face. Syphilis,” Miss Lillian hissed. “It had rotted her nose right off, so she wore the veil to hide it. She still had the music box.”
“That’s it! It’s her,” Miss Addie said, agitated. “Oh, we are not safe.”
“Now, Addie, it was a long time ago,” Miss Lillian soothed. “That time is past.”
“The past is never past. You know that, Lillian,” Miss Addie whispered.
“We are safe. Everything put away in the box,” Miss Lillian said calmly, and Henry didn’t know what she meant.
“What happened to her?” he asked.
“I haven’t any idea.” Miss Lillian sighed and brought an orange tabby up onto her lap, scratching him lovingly behind the ears. “But I imagine it was a bad end.”
“She’s connected to him,” Miss Addie muttered. “They all are. I know it.”
“Now, Addie…”
“Connected to whom, ma’am?” Henry asked.
Addie looked at Henry with wide eyes. “The man in the hat. The King of Crows.”
“Addie, you’re entirely too riled. I’m afraid we must say good-bye to you, Mr. DuBois.”
Miss Lillian rose, signaling the end of the visit. Henry thanked the Proctor sisters for their time and the tea. Miss Addie reached for his china cup, frowning at the contents. “I don’t like the pattern of those leaves, Mr. DuBois. Some terrible day of truth is at hand. For you or someone you love. Careful,” she whispered. “Careful.”
Henry was still thinking about the Proctor sisters’ odd tale as he raced into rehearsal. It was the sort of story he’d usually share with Theta—“You won’t believe what the Jolly Vampire Sisters just told me!”—if they weren’t on the outs. To top it all off, he was twenty minutes late, thanks to an all-too-brief nap he’d fallen into, unable to fend off sleep. In the dream, Louis had waved to him from the Elysian as it churned up the Mississippi. Henry tried desperately to reach the boat, but the morning glories were so thick they blocked his path. And then the vines climbed up his body, wrapping around his neck until he woke, feeling choked.
At the loud bang of the theater doors, Wally’s head turned on his thick neck. “Well, well, well,” he said, glancing up the aisle. “If it isn’t Henry. DuBois. The Fourth. All hail.”
