Far above them, Ling and Henry could hear muted hoofbeats and the clatter of omnibuses rumbling down unseen streets. But these sounds came and went, like postcards of sound sent long ago and only now arriving at their destination.
“Well, this is certainly interesting,” Henry said.
They’d come to an iron gate, the bars of which had been fashioned with steel roses. The faintest glow seeped through them, warm and golden.
“Do you see that?” Henry whispered. “I’ve never seen light like that in a dream walk before. It’s always…”
“Gray,” Ling finished.
“Yes,” Henry said and smiled. Being with Ling was like traveling in a foreign country and finding the one person who speaks your native language.
Ling tested the bars with her fingertips. “The gate. It’s… cold,” she said, more in astonishment than fear.
“Shall we go inside?” Henry asked.
At Ling’s nod, he lifted the latch and pushed open the gate.
Henry had seen many odd things in dreams before—noblemen with owl faces peeking above their ruffled shirts. Trees made entirely of fireflies. Steamer ships resting on mountaintops. But he’d never seen anything quite so realistic or beautiful as the lovely old train station where he and Ling found themselves now. This was nothing like the mundane subway, with its creaking wooden turnstiles and harried New Yorkers rushing and pushing. It was as if they were trespassing in some wealthy, eccentric aristocrat’s private underground lair. High above their heads, a herringbone pattern of cream-colored brick fanned out in an undulating plain of cathedral-worthy arches. White-hot gas flickered behind the frosted-glass globes of four brass chandeliers. The light spilled across the smooth surface of a fountain whose water seemed frozen in time. The waiting area boasted a velvet settee, three gooseneck lamps, a colorful Persian rug, and an assortment of fine leather chairs more suited to a library than a train platform. There was even a grand piano with a goldfish bowl resting on its broad back. The entire room had a warm amber glow to it—except for the subway tunnel, which was as dark as funeral bunting.
“Where are we?” Ling asked. She tapped the goldfish bowl and was rewarded with the tiniest quiver of orange.
“I don’t know. But it’s glorious!” Henry said, grinning. He sat at the piano. “Any requests?”