Dreamquake: Book Two of the Dreamhunter Duet (35 page)

Looking back on his memory of The Gate, with much more life behind him, Chorley could see now that the dream wasn’t a lie—or not exactly. It didn’t matter whether you believed in an afterlife (and Chorley didn’t), or even whether the
dream
believed in one, because The Gate wasn’t a true vision. For a start it was different from every other dream. All the Place’s other dreams were based on natural laws, and possible facts. No one flew in a dream, or breathed underwater, or met a minotaur. The Gate, however, was mystical, transcendent, and unreal. It promised an afterlife.

“But it isn’t either true or false,” Chorley thought. “Because what it is, is a wish. And wishes aren’t either true or false.”

“I’m looking forward to this dream,” Laura said. “I remember the feelings it gave me when I had it when I was little. It’ll help Da.” She rested her head on Sandy Mason’s broad shoulder. “Besides, I want to fall asleep with Sandy. It’s perverse to keep resisting it.”

Chorley knew she meant that it was hard to keep herself awake and reading a book while Sandy dreamed Convalescent One, but, when he glanced at Sandy, Chorley could see the young man feeling the effects of her unintended double meaning. Sandy flushed, clenched his jaw, and crossed his legs. Laura had picked up his hand and was playing with the soft flesh between his thumb and finger—childish and intimate. Sandy was having trouble with this, and Chorley saw, at last, that the young man was in love with Laura, not just drawn and possessive. Sandy was trying to control his desire, and having difficulty doing so. Chorley could see that the young man too thought Laura wasn’t ready for things to go any further between them. She was in danger of getting in
too deep too young, not because Sandy was older and infatuated with her but because of her own behavior. Something—Chorley could not imagine what—seemed to have stripped away all the normal caution she should have about just touching another person, any other person. The attention she was lavishing on Sandy’s hand was playful but intense. She stroked and pressed his hand as if in search of a secret mechanism that would make it open up, or turn into something other than a hand.

Chorley said, “If you don’t mind, Sandy, I’d like a word in private with my niece.”

Sandy retrieved his hand, nodded curtly, and got up. “I’ll be in that bookshop on the corner,” he said, and took off.

Laura dropped her hands into her lap and assumed a blank, wooden look.

Chorley cleared his throat. “Judging by your expression, I think perhaps you know what I’m about to say. You must be careful with that boy.”

“I’ll try not to
lose
him, Uncle Chorley, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know that isn’t what I mean. He must be several years your senior.”

“Three years. Which is nothing,” Laura said. She sounded dry—not exactly impatient.

“At your age, that’s a big difference.”

Laura laughed.

“What?”

“I see difference differently,” she said. Then she sighed, a sigh like a yawn, as if she was sleepy. “Sandy suits me.”

It seemed a strange, cold thing for a girl to say, and Chorley shivered to hear it.

“I like to be with him,” she added. “I’m safe with him.”

“Yes, I think you probably are. And he does seem to sincerely
care for you. But even if no one is mistaken in their feelings, feelings get hurt. And there are physical dangers of intimacy.”

“Uncle Chorley, you’re talking to someone who nearly died trying to see what was at the end of a rail line. Intimacy—as you put it—is safer than half of the things I’ve had to do.”

“Did
you nearly die?” Chorley knew she’d been sick—“depleted” Tziga had said—but Tziga had understated his own injuries too.

“We’ll have some film soon of the Depot,” Laura said.

“What?”

“Da and I arranged for someone to go In at The Pinnacles with one of your movie cameras, to film those buildings and people. We need documentary evidence.”

Chorley supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Laura and Tziga were communicating independently with the Grand Patriarch, and calling on his help. Of course the Grand Patriarch must have had dreamhunters who would act as his agents.

“We’ll show the film to the Commission of Inquiry,” Laura said. “That’s probably the quickest way to get questions asked, and to cut Cas Doran off at the knees.”

Chorley reached across the table and waited for her to take his hand. She did—hers dry and callused, a smaller version of his wife’s and Tziga’s. “Dreamhunter,” Chorley said, wonderingly, and squeezed her hand. “You changed the subject,” he said. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Yes, I did. But, back on that subject, Aunt Grace was only Sandy’s age when you met her.”

“Your Aunt Grace was a powerful woman.”

“Uncle Chorley,
I’m
a powerful woman,” Laura said.

“Or girl,” Chorley said.

“Don’t worry. Sandy is loyal and kind, and I think maybe I do love him.”

Chorley sighed; he got up and helped her up too. He opened his wallet and dropped bills onto the table. “All right then, honey.” He took her arm. “I’ll deliver you to your destiny.”

They set off toward the bookshop on the corner. As they went, Laura said quietly and fervently, “Oh—I wish he was.”

3

AURA WAS LATE FOR HER FINAL BALL GOWN FITTING. GRACE AND ROSE HAD BEEN THERE FOR HALF AN HOUR.
Rose had her dress on and was standing between two angled mirrors. Sunlight came in the high fitting-room windows, and there were electric lights on the walls, but Rose managed to look like candlelight and moonlight combined, like the central panel of some devotional altarpiece, haloed with radiance.

She had wanted a high-necked dress, and the design she’d chosen had a Chinese-style collar that circled her strong throat. The bodice was fitted, boned and tapered in at the waist, then followed the swelling curves of her hips. The fabric was heavy bone-white silk. The sleeves and bodice were sewn with a filigree of seed pearls. The dress had a train that Rose would have to fasten to one arm in order to dance. She was practicing this when her cousin came in.

“You’ll do very nicely,” Grace was saying. “And we must put your hair up.”

Rose arched her back and neck and threw off light.

Grace grinned at Laura. “I think there will be displays of dumb admiration and the falling over of feet.”

“It’s not too tight?” Rose said.

“No,” said everyone.

The dressmaker nodded to one of the seamstresses. “Please go and get Miss Hame’s dress.”

Laura had toyed with pale blues and greens, and Rose had nearly persuaded her to wear pink. But her aunt had insisted that, since Laura wasn’t a debutante and didn’t have to wear white, she should realize, for the purposes of fashion, she wasn’t a young girl and could choose a strong color, one that would set off her tan and her dark hair. Laura’s dress was also silk, of a vibrant coral red. It was sleeveless, with a low, square neck, fitted at the bust and flaring under it. It was a simple dress of a rich fabric, and Laura was going to wear it with long black gloves and her mother’s jet choker.

Laura put her dress on and shared the mirror with Rose while her hem was pinned. They stood looking solemnly at each other.

“Do debutantes wear white so that men can imagine the brides they’ll be?” Rose asked her mother.

“I’m not sure,” Grace said. “I didn’t have a coming out.”

“It’s for you to imagine the bride you’ll be,” said the dressmaker.

“I don’t look like a dreamhunter,” Laura said. She wished that Nown could see her in her ball gown—which was silly, since he couldn’t see color anyway.

Her tall cousin walked out of the mirror’s frame. “Can I take this off now?”

“Certainly. And we should look at your friend’s dress. She’s due in for a fitting tomorrow at three. Her mother has already given the dress provisional approval.” The dressmaker looked worried.

Rose had finally taken it on herself to design Mamie’s gown, after they had held every variation on white—icy, bone, cream, pearly peach, salmon, beige, fawn—up to Mamie’s face, and every shade, without fail, had made Mamie’s mauve,
mottled skin look corpselike. Grace and Rose had found a pattern Mamie liked, a dress that would let her bare shoulders and the tops of her breasts rise out of it. A dress with a belted waist and a skirt that had two generous pleats at the back and two at the front. Rose’s innovation was to make the shawl neck and sleeves of black silk—to add a black belt, and to make the recessed pleats black also. The silks were the same weight, the white brocaded, the black with a sheen rather than a gloss. The black made Mamie’s skin look better—a lilac-tinted pallor rather than fishy.

When the dress was produced, Rose, Laura, Grace, and all the seamstresses gave it their full attention.

“Mamie’s mother can’t mind if we come to her next fitting,” Rose said.

“I’m sure she won’t,” said the dressmaker.

“It’s a big responsibility—making this ball less of an ordeal for Mamie,” Laura said.

“She’ll enjoy it,” Rose said. “You wait and see. As for me,
I’m
going to have—a ball!”

4

ANDY STOPPED IN AT MRS. LILLEY’S ONLY TO SMUGGLE SOME BLANKETS OFF HIS BED AND STUFF THEM INTO HIS
pack. He hid the pack outside, then went back into the kitchen to get Laura, whom he’d told to keep Mrs. Lilley and her girls chatting.

The Lilley girls were scarcely responding to Laura’s polite patter. They were cool and monosyllabic. The elder shot Sandy a wounded look and spun back to scrubbing the stove top.

“Well, ladies—good day,” Sandy said. Then, “Come on, Laura.” He put an arm around her shoulders and ushered her out the door. He picked up his pack.

“We’re going In only for one night, so what’s all that?” Laura said, then, “Do those girls hate me just because they had to keep airing out my room?”

Sandy grunted. He listened to Laura’s patient silence. She put her hand in his. He felt that she was waiting for a confession. He said, “I took one of them to a dance held by the Wry Valley Young Farmers. The girls sat on one side of the room and the men on the other, like a school dance. And a good proportion of the men were out among the cars and carriages drinking whiskey.”