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Ling shot him an annoyed look. “I can go by myself tonight.”
“No, ma’am. We’re a team. More fun that way,” Henry said, and Ling fought her smile.
“Around one thirty, then?” Henry said, sliding back into the taxi.
“One thirty,” Ling agreed.
Twenty minutes later, Henry raced into the Shubert Theatre on Forty-fourth Street, nearly toppling an easel boasting a hand-lettered sign for THE GREENWICH FOLLIES REVUE! ALL NEW! In a corner by the coat check, Henry’s writing partner, David Cohn, paced, checking his watch.
“I’m here, I’m here,” Henry announced.
“Cutting it a bit close,” David said, helping Henry out of his coat. The audience was already piling into their seats. The trills of performers vocalizing scales wafted out from backstage.
“Sorry. Couldn’t be helped.” Henry smiled. “Spiffy suit, old boy.”
“Got it for my nephew’s bar mitzvah. Where were you?”
“A meeting at the Creepy Crawly.”
“Anything I should know?” David asked.
“The world is ending and evil is loose in the world?”
“Sounds like Friday night.”
Henry grinned, trying to put aside his misgivings. He’d told David about his and Ling’s dream walking, but the scary rest of it he’d kept to himself. He kept a lot to himself. It was called survival.
“You sure clean up nice,” Henry drawled, giving David an appreciative once-over. He was tall and slender, with a strong profile like a New Yorker cartoon, and soulful brown eyes that sometimes took Henry’s breath away. David nodded to the coatroom and Henry followed. There, in the deep recesses of mink, raccoon, and camel hair, David pulled Henry to him and kissed him, slipping his tongue between Henry’s lips.
“Missed you,” David whispered, smiling. He reached up to take off Henry’s boater hat.
Henry held fast to it with both hands. “You know I never play a show without this. It’s my lucky charm.”
David’s smile vanished. “When are you gonna let Louis go and give us a chance?”
“Aww, now, cher—”
“You only call me cher when you want to sweet-talk your way out of something—”
“Honey,” Henry said, batting his peepers. “Sugar? Sweet Man o’ Mine?”
David sighed and hung up Henry’s coat.
Henry tried to ignore the feeling in his gut that said he was being disloyal to the memory of his first love, Louis. It had only been a few weeks since Henry had spent his nights with Louis inside the dreamscape only to discover the tragic truth: Louis was dead and had been for some time. Maybe it wasn’t fair for Henry to let David love him when his heart wasn’t fully healed.
“We’ve got a great new song to play tonight, darlin’. Everybody loves it,” Henry said, a peace offering. “Between my music and your lyrics, we’ll be the next Rodgers and Hart.”
David shook his head and pecked Henry on the cheek. “It’s my heart I’m worried about. Come on. Curtain up.”
Inside the theater, Henry took his seat at the piano in the orchestra pit. The house lights dimmed. There was a storm coming. Henry and his friends had to meet it head-on. And he was still a little in love with a ghost named Louis.
David smiled at Henry from the wings, where the actors milled about, ready for their cues. The conductor raised his baton. The show had to go on.
Adelaide Proctor waited for her teakettle to come to a boil. The steam heat whistled through the radiator of her parlor in the Bennington Apartments, but she could not feel warm. One of her many cats, an orange tabby, threaded through her legs, and she bent to pick him up. “Come, Archibald, you old cuss. Give us a cuddle.” But the cat wouldn’t be contained. He leaped from her arms as if he knew. The dead were coming stronger now. The proof was everywhere. And with them came the man in the hat.
With management watching her, she would have to be very clever about her rituals. She’d tried to explain to the stupid men about the salt and herbs. About the necessary protections. They’d smiled as if she were a wayward child. Addie was not a child. She was a witch, had been for most of her eighty-one years. And she knew a great evil loomed.
While she waited for her tea, Addie reached for one of her spell books from the back of her bookshelf. The book was quite old, handwritten by the good cunning folk of Salem. It had been preserved and passed down through the Proctor family line over the generations, coming to rest with Addie and her sister. The pages crackled as she turned them.
