Dreamquake: Book Two of the Dreamhunter Duet (53 page)

The train beside the local began to move, the annoyed faces slid out of sight, then the dining car with its
SPRING VALLEY
legend. Laura pushed Rose back into her seat. She said, “Don’t look,” and ducked down herself as one of her father and aunt’s escorts hurried along the hallway of the moving train, looking and looking, no doubt alerted by the people Laura had left behind on the platform.

Then the windows were empty, the train gone. Rose pulled down the window blind. A minute later their train jerked and began to move. It slid out of Central Station, jostling through switches in the rail yard before finding its way onto the north line.

Laura got up off the floor. She gathered the hatbox and its contents.

“I thought there was a fishy lack of ceremony in your leave-taking,” Rose said.

“The Grand Patriarch will have to make do with Plasir and his Secret Room,” said Laura. “He can pack everyone he really needs into a few rooms with Plasir, and they’ll be safe from Contentment.”

“He’ll have them all chewing Wakeful, Laura, before he ever shares one of Plasir’s sleazy dreams.”

Laura grinned at the thought. “Well, a sleazy dream might offend him, but so would The Gate. It’s blasphemous. It says that paradise is only time running backward. And someone’s mother guards the gate instead of St. Peter.”

Rose gave her cousin a careful look. “The woman in The Gate isn’t ‘someone’s mother,’ Laura—she’s you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And all those years ago, your da must have mistaken her for
your
mother. He’d have thought that the dream really was meant for Verity, to ease her dying.”

Laura nodded. “I thought it was Sandy’s doing that she looked like me. Then I caught it without Sandy, and she still looked like me.”

Rose put up the window blind again, in time to see the birch-lined playing fields of Founderston Girls’ Academy slide by. She said, “Do you think Uncle Tziga and your aunt Marta have a chance?”

“Not much of one, not if they’re followed.”

Rose plucked at her skirt, patted its lace-edged pockets. “I hope you have a plan then.”

“No.”

“You climbed between trains without a plan?”

Laura did know where she was going. And she knew that Nown would feel her leaving Founderston and would follow her, as fast as he was able. There was a place she would go, and he would join her there—then they would see. She said, “I have this much of a plan. You should go out and find a conductor and pay my fare. And you should tell him that we want to get off at the train stop in the Awa Inlet.”

“We’re visiting Mamie? That’s the plan?”

“You are.”

Rose nodded and got up to do as she was told.

It was dark at the train stop. The tide was out, and the only light came from the breakers, a mile away at the mouth of the Inlet. Gulls roosting on the sandbar made a warm clucking out in the dark. At intervals the lighthouse on So Long Spit blinked its warning at them.

Laura and Rose sat on the stony bank. They didn’t dare go on till there was more light. Rose had her bag and hatbox. Laura had Rose’s coat, and in its pockets a bottle of lemonade and some wafers from the train’s dining car.

“I can’t think what you’re planning,” Rose said to the patch of solid darkness that was her cousin.

“Neither can I. I don’t mean I don’t know—I mean I can’t think about it.”

“Don’t do anything self-sacrificing.”

“I think I have to, Rose. But it’s not that bad. I promise you’ll see me soon.”

“There’s only that rail line and the Depot over the border here. Do you mean to make your monster wreck the cable car?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It would be a pretty desperate measure. The people at the Depot might starve.”

“Yes. That’s a good argument against it.”

Rose scooted next to Laura and put her arm around her. She was seeing certain things very clearly now. She saw that there were decisions people had to make, alone, for other people. And that sometimes there was no substituting for whoever had to decide. There were torches that couldn’t be passed on. Laura’s light would go out in Rose’s hands. Rose saw it now—and it made her feel very old and lonely.

A band of light the shade of a ripening lemon outlined the eastern headland. The world came back, bit by bit, till the girls could see water glimmering in the channels of the reedbeds, and the white streak of crushed shell that was the path to the Doran summerhouse.

Mamie woke when a maid knocked on her door, came in, opened the curtains, and started talking. “Miss,” she said, “your friend Rose Tiebold is here. She must have arrived on the five o’clock train. She was waiting on the terrace when the boy went out to get milk from the springhouse.”

Mamie got up and found her robe and slippers. She stumped downstairs scratching her scalp.

Rose was at the breakfast table. A maid and the butler were bustling around her as though she was in danger of dying in the next several minutes for lack of jam, honey, and hot rolls.

Mamie sat down too and waited for the servants to leave.
When they had gone, she said, “Did you have some kind of disagreement with someone, Rose?”

Rose hesitated, then looked amused. “Yes.”

“And you came here to me?”

“Yes.”

Mamie was pleased. She nearly told Rose she was honored, only that wasn’t quite right. She’d been so bored. Now she felt useful. Then she frowned. “I’m not any good at drying tears and so forth.”

“You won’t have to do that. We can sit on the terrace drinking cider, and playing cards, and reading books all day. That will fix me.”

Mamie pushed the plate of rolls toward her friend. “My perfect day,” she said. She missed seeing Rose’s pained expression.

For much of the day they did sit on the terrace, sipping cider cooled by luxurious ice. They read mostly, for Mamie hated cards and every other game of chance.

In the late afternoon, alertness pulled Mamie out of her book. She looked up.

Rose put her own book down and stood. She walked on the edge of the terrace and slowly, tentatively, raised her arm.

There was a man striding up the avenue of plane trees. When he passed through the bands of sunlight, Mamie saw that he was wrapped, head to toe, in an odd assortment of garments.

The man saw Rose, broke stride, and raised a hand to return her greeting. Then he strode on and vanished into the air.

Mamie said, “Do you know that dreamhunter?”

“No. I don’t know him at all,” Rose replied.

8

OWN WAS TWELVE HOURS BEHIND LAURA. HE TRAVELED BY DAYLIGHT AND NIGHT, AND MANY PEOPLE SAW
him—the motley, bundled man who ran as fast as a horse. He was a sign and a wonder to many, who were able to say thereafter: “Only the day before, I saw …”

Laura, waiting, was afraid of being seen. She was out in the open. She hid herself as best she could by lying down beside the low mound of earth. Her wait was long, and she fell asleep.

It was late in the epidemic, and the boy knew what to expect. He’d seen things at other houses along the country road on which they lived. He’d seen how the mailboxes at the breaks in poplar hedges would have white tea towels tied to them. That was what people were told to do if they needed help. The Boy Scouts would come by to deliver cooked meals and clean linen.

During the sickness, the boy’s mother had said that he was allowed to go out for exercise but shouldn’t go near anyone. He’d sometimes lie in wait in the culvert by the crossroads, and would emerge when the Boy Scouts went by. He’d follow them, fishing for news. From them he heard of the houses—two neighboring
—where only silence greeted the visitor’s knock and everyone inside was discovered dead. “With their faces and fingers turned black,” one Scout said.

When his mother became ill and banned him from her sight, the boy would sit outside her bedroom door and listen to her cough. And at night he’d wake up in his own bed and listen for silence—the silence he imagined coming, as eloquent as speech, from a blackened face. Then he’d hear her cough again.

The third night he woke up because the cough was dragging itself along the hall. The boy lay straight in his bed, like a body in a coffin. He was cold because he didn’t have enough blankets on his bed. He was cold because he was feeding himself and had let the stove go out. And he was cold within himself, all the way through, as though he were an orphan already and had to think first what he could do for himself.

He got out of bed and followed his mother into the kitchen. She had carried her writing box from her bedroom to the table. It was open, and the boy saw her many packets of letters, bundled with ribbons that had faded over the years and grown brittle.

His mother’s face was white. Her hair was plastered to her neck by sweat. She knelt on the floor pushing handfuls of wood chips through the stove door. Then she got a match and lit the stove. Tendrils of smoke came out the door, then were sucked back into the stove as the fire began to draw.

The boy was practical. Since there was a fire, he filled the kettle and put it on the stove. He reached over his mother to set it down, and she pushed him back, her hand hot on his leg.