let loose a nervous giggle. âYouâve read
Dracula
at least four times in the past year.â
âYes, I know that.â
âAnd now youâre telling me your father looks like a vampire?â
âYes.â
âDonât you think thatâs a little . . . peculiar?â
âYes, it is peculiar, but I was hypnotized, Frannie. You sawthe power Henri Reverie had over me last night. Heâs like a sorcerer who changed the world for my eyes alone, and I canât bear the thought of going out there and seeing my fatherâor any other manâwith fangs and bloodless skin andââ
âAll right.â She sprang off the bed. âI believe youâre truly seeing something troubling, but perhaps Mr. Reverie simply stirred up your imagination.â
âHeâs supposed to be
killing off
my imagination. Father hired him to cure me of my dreams.â
She winced. âBut if these arenât dreams or imaginings . . . what are they?â
âThey seem real. They seem true. How can I go home to Father when he looks like that?â
My nose itched as if it required either a cry or a good sneeze. I scratched the tip with the back of one hand.
Frannie walked over to me and coaxed my hand between her palms. âHave supper with us tonight.â
I shook my head. âFather will worry when he sees Iâm not home.â
âWeâll ask Carl to run over to his office and tell him weâve invited you to stay. And then Carl and I will take you home after supper so I can see for myself if anything looks different about your father. Iâll even give you a little sign if he appears to be normal.â
âWhat type of sign?â
âWell . . .â She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. âIâll say, âI still canât believe how many times youâve read
Dracula
,Livie. One too many times, thatâs for sure.â If you hear that, it means what youâre seeing is truly just in your mind, and so it must be the work of that malicious, selfish, conniving hypnotistâ Oh, wait.â She squeezed my hand and looked me straight in the eye. âYou didnât tell me how Henri Reverie appeared after the hypnosis.â
I groaned and hunched my shoulders.
âWhat?â She squeezed my hand again. âWas he even worse than your father?â
I shook my head. âThat would have made everything far less confusing.â
âWhat did he look like?â
I sighed. âHe looked like . . . I canât even bring myself to say it. It almost hurts to admit what he made me feel.â
âWhat?â Her face paled. âWhat did he make you feel?â
âHe looked . . .â I swallowed. âHe looked like someone I should trust utterly.â
t supper that evening, the noisy passel of Harrisons chatted and joked about school escapades and camping trips while they stuffed me full of stew and potatoes. Every now and again I caught Mr. and Mrs. Harrison glancing at me with worried expressions, as if they couldnât quite shake the memory of my emotional entrance earlier that afternoon.
After supper, I slid my arms into the thick sleeves of my coat, which, along with my book bag, had been fetched by Frannieâs fourteen-year-old brother, Carl, when he went to tell Father Iâd be home late. The woolen collar snuggled upto my neck and pervaded my nostrils with the dental officeâs distinctive odorâa sweet, antiseptic, and metallic potpourri that now flooded me with memories of Henriâs hands on my head.
I buttoned up for the outside chill. âHow did my father look when you saw him, Carl?â
Carl smiled. âBloody.â
âBloody?â I asked with a gasp.
âHe was leeching some woman, and he had her head locked into a metal contraption to keep her still.â Carl tilted his head back to demonstrate, his hands clamped around his
1802-1870 Alexandre Dumas