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“Luther Clayton,” Evie said.
“Oh, yes. I heard they’ve put him in the asylum. Poor thing.”
“That poor thing tried to kill me,” Evie reminded her.
“Jesus asks us to forgive our trespassers. Anyway, I’m terribly sorry about your broken engagement,” Sarah said again in case anyone in the hallway missed it the first time. “You must be devastated by the loss.”
Evie’s lips stretched into a smile as phony as Sarah’s sympathy. “Yes, I’ve put teacups all around my room to catch the overflow of my tears. Somehow I muddle through without Sam. Though I do have to go out if I want tea.”
Sarah appraised Evie for an uncomfortably long time. “You’re not really as jaded as you make yourself out to be, Miss O’Neill.”
“Says you.”
“Well, I will keep you in my prayers, Miss O’Neill,” Sarah said, and walked away.
“Why’d she have to go and say something human,” Evie muttered as she closed herself off in one of WGI’s telephone booths to sulk. She watched the enthusiastic secretary pool gather around Sarah, eager for her attention. Months before, it was Evie they’d been gathering around. The picture of her toppling into the hotel’s giant potted plant blared up from the newspaper. “At least my gams look good,” Evie said. She leafed through the pages, stopping when she came to a small mention of some grisly murders out at the Manhattan State Hospital for the Insane, the very place where they were holding Luther Clayton. Quickly, Evie grabbed the telephone, asking the operator for the number of the Daily News.
T. S. Woodhouse’s oily voice slithered over the line. “Well, if it isn’t the Sweetheart Seer herself! To what do I owe this honor?”
“Listen, Woody, I’ve got a hot tip for you: The Sweetheart Seer is going out to the asylum at Ward’s Island to meet with Luther Clayton.”
“The fella who tried to shoot you?”
“Yes. I’m… I’m going to forgive him! Poor… fellow,” she said, making it up as she went along. “I thought you might like to write a story about it.”
There was a pause, followed by a laugh. “This is about Sarah Snow, isn’t it?”
Evie poked her head out the telephone booth’s glass door. At the end of the long hall, Sarah posed with Mr. Phillips as Harriet Henderson looked on and a photographer captured it all. Evie felt the jealousy down to her toenails. “I don’t have the foggiest notion what you mean, Mr. Woodhouse.”
“Don’t you? I got news for you, Sheba: You will never be able to best Miss Pure-as-Snow at the good-girl game.”
Evie snapped the door shut again. “Come on, Woody. Help a girl out.”
“All right. I want to sniff around about the murders out there anyway, but, understandably, they don’t want any press. You get me in, and I promise to write up your Luther Clayton story in a way that makes your halo shine brighter than ten Sarah Snows.”
Evie grinned in relief. “It’s a deal.”
As she hung up, the photographer’s blinding flash went off, and Evie blinked against Sarah’s refracted glory.
TESTED
Ling arrived at the museum at precisely five o’clock. It had taken her two buses, a trolley, and a full hour to get there. Her hands burned from the constant pressure of her crutches, and even though it was brisk outside, under her wool coat, she was covered in a sheen of sweat. She removed her damp coat and dropped into a chair, flexing her aching fingers. “I can’t stay long. I told my mother I was attending an evening Mass with Henry and Evie at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”
Henry put a hand to his chest in faux shock. “You used the Lord to lie to them? I’ll just stand over here in case you’re struck by lightning.”
“We’ll need to figure out a better way to get me here if you want me to continue,” Ling said. “It took a long time. And I can’t keep lying to my parents. I feel too guilty.”
“Fair enough. Dr. Fitzgerald and I will come up with a solution, Ling,” Sister Walker promised.
“Thank you,” Ling said. The others were there, scattered around the library’s first floor looking like the aftermath of a party no one had wanted to attend. “So what do we do now?”
“Let’s begin with a few questions,” Sister Walker said, settling herself beside a credenza hosting an array of strange-looking instruments. “Tell me what you know about your powers thus far—when did they start
? What happens while you are engaged? Are there any aftereffects that you’ve noticed, illness or dizziness, anything like that? What are your limits or weaknesses?”
“Henry and I can dream walk,” Ling said. “And during the sleeping sickness, we discovered that we can dream walk together. I can also speak to the dead inside dreams if I have an object that belonged to the deceased.”
“I can sometimes influence a person inside a dream,” Henry added. “For instance, if someone were having a nightmare, I might say, ‘Why don’t you dream about clowns instead?’”
