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At the en
d of the night, the Tea House emptied; the CLOSED sign was hung. Ling’s mother counted up the day’s receipts while humming a song from her native Ireland. From the kitchen came the clanging of dishes, laughter, and Cantonese as her father worked alongside the cooks. After the last pot had been washed and put away, Ling and her family returned to their apartment. Ling removed her leg braces, letting the air cool the chafed skin above and below her knees.
“How was your science club meeting?” Mrs. Chan asked, placing Ling’s crutches within reach for the morning.
“Good,” Ling said, feeling a little guilty for the lie.
“And how was our dear Henry?”
“Also good.” Ling was pretty sure her mother had already married them off in her mind.
“Good night, my girl,” her mother said, kissing her forehead. “Sweet dreams.”
Ling lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Just before one thirty, she took Henry’s watch in her hands, letting its steady tick lull her into a trance, her green eyes growing heavier, until she fell deeply asleep. She woke inside a dream, aware of everything around her. A large house loomed in the distance like a many-roomed castle of the sort she’d seen in library books about English manors.
“You jake?” Henry said, making her jump.
“I’ve told you not to sneak up on me,” she said.
“Just keeping you on your toes. Wouldn’t want our dream walks to become boring.”
The laughter of happy children echoed through the dreamscape.
“Do you hear that?” Ling asked.
Henry nodded.
“Come on,” Ling said, running over the pine-needle carpet beneath their feet. Here in the dream world, she could run and walk and jump, and for the first few minutes, she reveled in the ease of movement. Ever since she and Henry had begun to dream walk together, the dreamscapes had become much more vivid. At first, Ling had chalked it up to the enchantment wrought by the supernatural sleeping sickness that had terrorized New York only a few weeks earlier. But it seemed that the new power Ling and Henry had sparked during that time hadn’t completely waned. Even now, she could smell the spicy pine and feel the suggestion of a cool breeze coming from the forest to their right.
“We’re inside Evie’s dream,” Henry said. “I’ve been here before.”
“Me, too. Once,” Ling said.
“James? Where are you?” Evie called, moving through the trees, her hands out in front of her as if she were feeling her way through fog.
“That’s her brother she’s calling for?” Ling asked.
Henry nodded. “She’s never really gotten over his death during the war. They were very close. She dreams about him a lot.”
“James!” Evie called again, and it sounded as if her heart would break. She disappeared into the forest. The trees fell away like a painted sheet tugged quickly from a line. Henry and Ling stood on the lawn of the great house now. The joyful laughter of children echoed across dream time, and then, one by one, the children winked into existence on the lawn, where they hunted for brightly colored eggs, dropping them into their baskets as they went.
“Easter?” Henry said with a smile. “I love Easter! Actually, I love ham, and since ham is the food of Easter, by definition, I love Easter.”
“You should come for Easter at my house, then,” Ling said. “It’s all pig. Chinese pork and Irish ham. You’ll be trapped watching my cousins, Seamus and Liam, eat, though. They’re barbarians. You can actually hear them chewing. It sounds like a gravel truck filled with spit.”
“You’re really selling me on Easter at your house,” Henry deadpanned, but Ling was frowning.
“Henry, look at the children.”
They were lined up on the lawn, their heads cocked toward the sky as if they were waiting for a message. But around the edges, they shimmered.
“Are they…?” Henry started.
Ling nodded. “They’re all dead.”
The Easter eggs cracked open. Snakes slithered out into the browning, curling grass.
“They never should have done it,” the children said.
