“I think we did it,” Memphis said with both relief and awe.
“Let’s go back to the museum,” Theta said, teeth chattering. “I want to know if Henry’s all right.”
“Let me see those hands first,” Memphis said.
“Poet…”
“Theta.”
Reluctantly, Theta held out her raw palms. Memphis took them in his own hands.
Theta winced.
“Sorry,” Memphis said. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Memphis shut his eyes. The spark when it caught was gentle, like being sweetly cradled in the healing trance. He heard drums and the joyful noise of ancestor spirits singing, and up above was blue, blue sky forever. His body warmed. He heard Theta’s voice calling, “Memphis?”
Theta stood in front of him, grinning like somebody seeing happiness for the first time. “I can feel you,” she said without actually speaking aloud. “And I’m not afraid.”
Her head dipped back and her eyes closed. A rush came over Memphis; he felt made of light. The singing was everywhere, and for just a moment the two of them were joined, one body, one soul, as if they’d jumped a broom and landed on the other side in a place of sunshine.
Memphis’s eyes fluttered open. Theta’s eyes were wide, and she was crying.
“Did I hurt you?”
She laughed through tears. “You could never hurt me.”
Her hands lay in Memphis’s, the last of the burns fading to nothing.
In the rain-swollen tunnels, the wraiths vanished with a long sigh. The subways scattered the last of their essence as they rattled through, carrying sleepy passengers eager for bed, ready for sleep. Tonight, their dreams would be safe.
In the dreamscape, the shining lair had begun its final unwinding. Henry and Ling watched it go, its memories lost to whatever archive held such passions.
“Louis?” Ling asked after a moment. The lights were winking out, one by one.
Henry shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Henry.”
Henry looked up at the ceiling, where the herringbone pattern lost its glorious detail. “I think it’s time we woke up, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’m ready.”
“You know what to do?”
“Don’t worry,” Ling assured him.
“I’m not,” Henry said. “Ling, darlin’, it’s been a long night. You’ve done well. You can wake up now, anytime you like. Wake up, Ling Chan.”
Ling’s face went slack. Her eyelids fluttered. And then she was gone from the dream world, leaving only the vaguest sense she’d ever been there at all, just another shifting of atoms. And just before she woke, she thought she saw George, shimmering and golden, smiling at her from the bend in Doyers Street on a New Year’s Day, fireworks exploding with color high above his head, a moon cake in his hand, as if he had all the time in the world to enjoy it.
While Henry waited for Ling to wake him back in the real world, he sat one last time at the Chickering before it, too, was gone. He rested his fingers on the keys, and then he began to play. He was still playing when he heard the alarm begin to scream, and the last remnants of the dream station blurred into feathery whiteness and disappeared forever.
It was Theta’s mud-spattered, worried face Henry saw first through the narrow slits of his heavy eyes when he awoke back in the museum.