The Cure for Dreaming Read online

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Winters, Cat.

  The cure for dreaming / by Cat Winters.

  pages cm

  Summary: In Portland, Oregon, in 1900, seventeen-year-old Olivia Mead, a suffragist, is hypnotized by the intriguing young Henri Reverie, who is paid by her father to make her more docile and womanly but who, instead, gives her the ability to see people’s true natures, while she secretly continues fighting for women’s rights. Includes timeline and historical photographs.

  Includes bibliographical references.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-1216-6 (hardback)

  [1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Suffragists—Fiction. 3. Hypnotism—Fiction. 4. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 5. Portland (Or.)—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W76673Cur 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014012019

  Text copyright © 2014 Catherine Karp

  Book design by Maria T. Middleton

  Image credits: Bettmann/CORBIS: this page; Library of Congress,

  Prints & Photographs Division: this page, this page, this page, this page, this page, this page, this page, this page, this page

  Courtesy U.S. National Library of Medicine: this page, this page, this page.

  The quotation from Mark Twain on this page appears by permission of the Mark Twain Foundation.

  Published in 2014 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks. com or the address below.

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  For Carrie,

  MY SISTER AND LIFELONG BEST FRIEND.

  KEEP SHINING.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE: A CHARMED INDIVIDUAL

  CHAPTER TWO: WOMANHOOD PERFECTED

  CHAPTER THREE: UNLADYLIKE DREAMS

  CHAPTER FOUR: THE CURE

  CHAPTER FIVE: THE WORLD THE WAY IT TRULY IS

  CHAPTER SIX: THE SILENCER

  CHAPTER SEVEN: ROTTEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT: MR. RHODES

  CHAPTER NINE: DEAR, DARLING DAUGHTER

  CHAPTER TEN: “EYES UNCLEAN AND FULL OF HELL-FIRE”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: DELICIOUS

  CHAPTER TWELVE: YELLOW-RIBBON GIRLS

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: PERCY’S TEETH

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: A RESPONSIBLE WOMAN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: ALL IS NOT WELL

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE WHITEHEAD GAG

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: VILE SUFFRAGE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: TRANSGRESSIONS

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: A PLAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY: DES PARTENAIRES QUI S’EMBRASSENT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: INNER WORKINGS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE LOWEST FLAME

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: ELECTION DAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: A REMEDY FOR REVERIES

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: SILENCE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: A QUIET VIGIL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: AWAKE UNTO ME

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WHEN AND WHERE U.S. WOMEN GAINED FULL SUFFRAGE

  RECOMMENDED READING

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PORTLAND, OREGON—OCTOBER 31, 1900

  he Metropolitan Theater simmered with the heat of more than a thousand bodies packed together in red velvet chairs. My nose itched from the lingering scent of cigarette smoke wafting off the gentlemen’s coats—a burning odor that added to the sensation that we were all seated inside a beautiful oven, waiting to be broiled. Even the cloud of warring perfumes hanging over the audience smelled overcooked, like toast gone crisp and black.

  Up in a box seat to my left sat Judge Acklen’s son, Percy, in an ebony suit and a three-inch collar that made him look far older than his seventeen years. The electric lamplight shining down on his head coaxed a rich redness to the surface of his auburn hair, which made me think of Father’s favorite saying about my mother’s strawberry curls: Red hair is a symptom of dangerous, fiery passions.

  Percy shifted toward the orchestra seats, and I could have sworn, even from that distance high above me, he glanced at me and smiled.

  A sharp elbow jabbed me in the arm.

  “Stop gawking at him, Livie,” said Frannie—my dearest friend, despite the jabbing. “That boy is a vampire.”

  “A vampire?” I snickered and rubbed my walloped bicep. “Here I thought I was the one who’d read Dracula too many times.”

  “Percy Acklen would do nothing but make you feel small and meaningless.”

  “You never even talk to him.”

  She patted my hand. “Neither do you, my friend.”

  I shut my mouth, for she was right. Percy and I had never exchanged as much as a simple Good morning or an Excuse me for stepping on your toe.

  “Forget him,” said Frannie, “and enjoy your birthday treat. You’re worth a thousand Percys.”

  Our friend Kate, a dimpled blonde whose married older sister was supposed to be our chaperone for the evening, plopped down beside Frannie after chatting with other girls at the back of the theater.

  “Why is Livie blushing?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “I’m not blushing.” I fanned myself with my program. “I’m just flushed from the heat.”

  Frannie frowned up at Percy and twisted the end of her waist-length braid, but she was a good-enough friend not to betray my silly infatuation.

  I folded the upper-right corner of the program’s front page until the tip of the cream-colored paper met the boldfaced words at the center:

  “Maybe as a birthday present to yourself, Livie,” said Kate, flapping open her own program, “you should volunteer to join this Mr. Reverie on the stage. Maybe he’ll teach you how to hypnotize your father into being less of a grouch.”

  “Maybe.” I gave a small sniff of a laugh, but I greatly doubted anything could fix Dr. Walter W. Mead.

  The lights dimmed, submerging us all in the dark, save for five small candles that flickered inside a row of jack-o’-lanterns in front of the closed red curtain. A hush fell over the audience. Electric footlights rose to life in a fog of white and orange.

  A full-whiskered man in a green checkered suit plodded across the apron of the stage, which set off a hearty round of applause from a thousand pairs of gloved hands. The gentleman waved his arms to quiet us down and offered a grin that turned his eyes into tiny crescents.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a booming voice that rumbled up from the barrel of his round belly. “And a Happy Halloween to all of you. I am William Gillingham, your stage manager, and I’m ecstatic to announce that we have a bewitching show for you tonight. Young Monsieur Henri Reverie, barely eighteen years old, has traveled all the way from Montreal, Canada, to exhibit his enthralling hypnotism skills.”

  Additional exuberant applause echoed across the theater, and again Mr. Gillingham settled us down with a wave of his hands.

  “Thank you, thank you—I�
��m overjoyed by your enthusiastic response. Some of you sitting out there in the audience will be invited onto the stage to fall under Monsieur Reverie’s spell. The rest of you will bear witness to his remarkable powers over the human mind. I assure you, this talented young man will cause your jaws to drop and your eyes to open wide in astonishment. For musical accompaniment, he’s brought along his sister, the highly talented Mademoiselle Genevieve. So . . . without further ado, I present to you”—Mr. Gillingham turned with an upward sweep of his right hand—“the Reveries.”

  The curtain ascended and revealed two mahogany chairs, facing each other at the center of the stage, and a canvas backdrop painted to look like a star-kissed nighttime sky. On the left, a young woman with long golden ringlets sat in front of a monstrous pipe organ made of dark wood and gleaming copper. The stage lights brightened to their full brilliance, and the girl’s peacock-blue evening gown gave off an otherworldly glow that made her appear more spirit than mortal.

  She reached toward the instrument’s keys and pressed a single D note twelve times in a row—the sound of a church bell chiming midnight. Chills shuddered down my spine. The pumpkins’ toothy leers seemed to burn brighter.

  Silence swallowed up the theater again, but before we could all lean back into the comfort of the calm, Genevieve Reverie lunged toward the keys and played a series of eerie notes that swelled into a passionate rendition of Camille Saint-Saëns’s “Danse Macabre.” She hunched her shoulders and plowed her feet into the instrument’s pedals, as if she were racing through the streets of the underworld on a tandem bicycle, on which we were all unwitting passengers. I clutched the armrests. My head seemed to spin around and around and around, but I smiled and straightened my posture, for I adored a good Halloween fright.

  A cloud of white smoke crept across the floorboards from both sides of the stage. Genevieve’s playing intensified, and the mist grew and billowed into a wall of burning orange that blurred the girl from view. The air tasted like my parlor whenever Father lit the fire in the hearth but forgot to open the flue. Those in the first few rows coughed into their gloves. The rising music warned that something was about to happen—something horrifying. The stage was about to erupt in flames. We’d all burn up on Halloween night!

  “Are you all right?” whispered Frannie.

  “Yes.” I nodded with a laugh. “It’s just better than I imagined.”

  The song reached its climax, racing, rising, climbing, higher and higher.

  Smoke stung my nose.

  I braced myself for fire.

  But, no—instead, a young man stepped out of the clouds onto the apron, and the audience drew a collective gasp. A woman in the front row actually screamed. I gripped the armrests with all my might, for the boy looked like the devil—I swear, he resembled Lucifer himself with his black suit and crimson vest and his face shining red in the pumpkins’ lights.

  “Good evening, mesdames et messieurs,” said the boy in an accent that sounded French and dangerous and deliciously sophisticated. “I am Monsieur Reverie.” He gave a deep bow with his hand pressed flat against his stomach.

  Silence greeted him. Our brains took several moments to absorb the fact that this was our entertainer for the night—Henri Reverie—not the ruler of hell. Weak applause trickled across the theater, but it gained speed and volume as everyone roused from their stupors. Relieved laughter boomed through the crowd. I settled back in my seat, eased my viselike grip upon the armrests, and clapped along with everyone else.

  “Merci. Thank you.” The young man turned toward the reemerging pipe organ and stretched his arm toward the girl at the bench. “Isn’t my sister astounding? Please, won’t you give a warm round of applause for Mademoiselle Genevieve Reverie.”

  We all applauded Genevieve’s performance, which far surpassed the uninspiring efforts of an amateur organist like myself. Genevieve panted as if she might collapse, and her golden ringlets uncoiled and wilted across her shoulders like limp strands of seaweed. Oh, how I envied her passion.

  The applause dissipated, as well as the smoke, and the theater collectively exhaled a calming breath. The stage settled back to normal. Henri Reverie’s skin faded to a less-diabolical shade without the orange smoke rising around him, and his short hair, a bit mussed on top and parted on the right, revealed itself as dark blond, a tad lighter than the hue of fresh honey. He was attractive, I suppose, with red lips and a rosy blush of health in his cheeks.

  He stepped closer to us and spoke again. “Merci. Thank you for coming here today. My name is Henri”—he pronounced his name On-ree —“Reverie, and I have been studying the arts of mesmerism and hypnotism with my uncle ever since I was twelve. I use a combination of techniques from the great masters, including animal magnetism, deep relaxation, and the remarkable power of suggestion.”

  Genevieve played a hushed rendition of “Beautiful Dreamer.”

  “In a moment”—Henri strolled across the stage, his hard soles clicking against floorboards—“I am going to invite my first volunteer to come onto the stage with me.” He placed his hands behind his back, which pulled his coat farther open, allowing the crimson silk of his vest to wink at us in the footlights. “There is no need to be afraid of what you will encounter with me. I am going to temporarily take you away from your worries. You will submerge yourself in a depth of relaxation such as you have never experienced before, and you will awake feeling better than you have felt in your entire life. All your troubles will dissolve into nothingness the moment you let me guide you into the beautiful world of hypnosis.”

  Despite my previous fear that Henri Reverie was the devil, his words melted in my ears like spun sugar. I needed a temporary escape from life. Yet I wasn’t brave enough to say so.

  “Is there a young lady in the audience who would like to be my first volunteer?”

  A dozen hands flew into the air. And then at least two dozen more. Silhouettes squirmed and arms flailed throughout the darkened audience.

  “Let me see—how should I choose?” Henri grinned and scratched his smooth chin. “Tell me, is anyone here tonight for a special occasion? A birthday, perhaps?”

  Next to Frannie, Kate shot her hand into the air and shouted, “My good friend over here is celebrating a birthday.”

  Henri Reverie pivoted our way. Fear stabbed at my heart.

  Kate stood and urged me to my feet by tugging on my hand. “She’s turning seventeen today.”

  Murmurs of disappointment over not being chosen rumbled through the crowd. Frannie took my other hand and said, “Do it, Olivia. Don’t be afraid. It might be fun.”

  Henri strutted closer to us. “You have a Halloween birthday, mademoiselle?” he called down to me.

  I cleared my throat and answered in an ugly, croaking voice, “Yes.”

  The hypnotist smiled with those red lips of his. “Then legend says you are a charmed individual. You can read dreams and possess lifelong protection against the spirits. Come up here with me, and let us see how you fare with hypnosis.”

  “Go on, Livie. Don’t be shy.” Kate steered me toward the aisle as if she were herding a lost sheep into a pen. She then clapped her hands together, which triggered yet another thundering round of applause.

  I tripped my way down the center aisle in the dark. Classmates from school called out my name in encouragement, and someone patted my arm as I struggled to figure out how to get onto the stage with the disorienting clapping ringing in my ears.

  “Over here, mademoiselle.” Henri waved me over to the left side, where I found a short flight of wooden steps. He reached out his gloved hand for me to take.

  I hesitated a moment, wondering what my father would think of me climbing onto a stage with a young man who had reminded me of the devil only minutes before. Yet I reminded myself of Henri’s promise of escape: You will submerge yourself in a depth of relaxation such as you have never experienced before.

  The hypnotist wrapped his fingers around mine and helped me climb to the floorbo
ards above. Our respective pairs of gloves separated our hands, but I felt the warmth of his skin beneath the smooth fabric. Hot white lights smoked by my feet and glared down at us from the ceiling like an army of small suns. I shielded my eyes while Henri led me to the center of the stage, continuing to hold my hand.

  “What is your name?” he asked in a voice for all to hear.

  “Olivia Mead,” I answered in a decibel only he would be able to detect.

  “Do you live here in Portland?”

  “Yes. I attend Portland High School.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the audience, “I present to you Mademoiselle Olivia Mead of Portland, Oregon, my first subject of the evening. Do any of you know Miss Mead?”

  “Ask her about her father,” called a husky male voice from the audience. “Mead the Mad.”

  I lowered my head and stiffened my shoulders, but Henri gave my hand a squeeze and pretended not to have heard the horrifying remark.

  “Is this raven-haired beauty known for her brute strength?” he asked, at which several people laughed, possibly because I was never typically referred to as a beauty. “Would you like to see this delicate young feather of a girl become as strong and rigid as a wooden plank?”

  The audience clapped and cheered, and Kate yelled out, “Go on, Livie. Have a bit of fun.”

  Henri turned to me and said in a quieter tone, “Come with me, Miss Mead. You have nothing to fear.”

  I drew a shaky breath and allowed him to lead me to the chairs in the middle of the stage. The echo of our footsteps ricocheted across the entire theater and sounded far too loud to my ears. Genevieve transitioned into Brahms’s “Lullaby.”

  “Please, sit down.” Henri held the back of the chair on the left.

  I seated myself on a springy burgundy cushion, my posture tense and rigid, my back a solid board of oak. I never laced my corset to a point where I couldn’t breathe, yet the steel stays dug against my ribs and kept oxygen from settling into my lungs. Every part of me ached and itched.

  Henri, still standing behind me, removed his white gloves. “Ladies, Miss Mead will need to remove her gloves and hold my hands directly. I am going to transfer my energy into her, which will enable her to fall into the desired state of relaxation and open her mind to me. I apologize if I offend anyone, but this has been the tradition ever since Franz Anton Mesmer popularized this astounding technique.” He stepped around me to the other chair and took a seat. “Miss Mead, please take off your gloves and hold my hands.”