chapter 4
Even though Colin and I had searched every inch of it, the parlor was still intimidating with its velvet cushions and gold candlesticks. Lord Jasper was already sitting at the round table in the corner, his cane with its handle shaped like the head of a silver swan propped beside him. His hair was a shock of white, barely tamed into a queue with a matching white beard, closely trimmed. As he was our host, the etiquette books I’d studied said I should greet him first. Instead, I plopped down into the nearest chair. It was more awkward than I would have thought, because my left knee didn’t bend properly alongside the bellows. I fixed one of those awful, excruciatingly polite smiles on my face. Elizabeth joined me, drinking from a glass of lemonade.
“What took you so long?” she whispered. “My mother’s been trying to get me to flirt with Xavier even though I told her he was courting you.”
“Oh.” I didn’t have any experience with this sort of thing. I liked him, of course. There was nothing to dislike. He was perfectly amiable. Elizabeth and I both looked in his direction. He was standing with Frederic, his blond hair neatly swept back. He looked at ease, perfectly comfortable with his surroundings and his place in them. I rather envied him for that. He caught us staring at him and smiled, offering us a small bow from across the room. I blushed.
Elizabeth held back a laugh but only barely. “Have you met his parents yet?”
I shook my head. “No, have they arrived?”
“That’s his mother by the fern terrarium.”
I glanced over and nearly groaned. She was dressed to the very pinnacle of fashion in blue silk with a lace-trimmed apron striped in a paler blue. Sapphires glittered on every possible expanse of skin and in her piled and scented hair. She was elegant and sophisticated.
“She’s going to hate me,” I muttered. “Even before I spill something on her.”
“Oh, pish. They’ll love you. Anyway, they’re in trade. It’s not like they can look down their nose at you because you aren’t an earl’s daughter,” she said, even though her own mother looked down at me that way, knowing full well we didn’t have the background to be associating with Lord Jasper and his ilk. The fact that he would invite families in trade was tolerated because of their combined wealth, but his inviting a medium and her daughter to a house party with the peerage was considered quite eccentric and worthy of prolonged gossip. He was very modern by all accounts. And since we were invited for scientific inquiry and entertainment, certain allowances were made.
Elizabeth’s smile was wicked. “Mrs. Trethewey cares about two things and two things only: fame and fortune. Right now, your mother is providing a fantastic amount of fame, so you have nothing to worry about.”
If only that were true.
Still, Elizabeth was always so jolly, she nearly made me forget why we were sitting there in the first place, until Lord Jasper rose and cleared his throat. The conversations died and everyone turned toward him.
“Shall we begin?” he asked. “Mrs. Willoughby?”
Mother was already seated at the cherrywood table. She smiled as if he were a king offering her a crown. She treated most wealthy men to that smile, but Lord Jasper especially. He was the reason behind most of the expensive cameos she wore and the silver candlesticks on our table at home. More important, he eagerly believed in her gifts and considered himself her most devoted patron and protector.
As the guests seated themselves, Colin busied himself with turning down all of the gaslights. It needed no explanations that a medium worked best in near darkness; where would any of us be without the suitable atmosphere? One of the candles was lit and placed on the mantel. A very small fire burned in the grate, reduced mostly to smoking embers. I took advantage of the shadows to hide my ungainly walk to the table.
Besides Lord Jasper there was Mrs. Aberworthy and her daughter. Miss Elaine Aberworthy wore a dress in a most unfortunate shade of lime green, edged with pink ribbons. My eyes watered just to look at her. She giggled into her gloved hand. Elaine never stopped giggling. There was another gentleman, Mr. Hughes, and his wife, who had the pale cheeks of the recently devastated. I had seen them all last week at one of the lectures Mother dragged us to. On her other side sat a girl, about my age, with reddish blond curls. Her dress seemed very white in the gloom. The coals sparked behind her, like fireflies.
“Violet, there you are,” Mother said pointedly. “Sit down. It doesn’t do to keep the spirits waiting.” She motioned to the chair in which the girl sat. There were no other empty spots at the table.
I halted, confused.
“Violet, do sit down.” Mother’s tone went sharp at my hesitation.
“I’ll need a chair,” I murmured, hoping Colin would bring one for me. I would never hear the end of it if I attempted to drag one across the faded carpet myself, even though I was perfectly capable. “I can’t very well sit there. We won’t both fit.”
The girl’s eyes widened when I nodded toward her. That was when I noticed the bruises around her throat and her wrists and the way she was dripping onto the carpet. Water ran from her long hair and her wet bodice, which clung to her, and there were dusky blue smudges under her eyes. She was as pale as jasmine petals. I could smell mud and fish and the thick, cloying perfume of lilies.
A heavy silence stretched between the sitters. Everyone watched me eagerly. I took a step backward before I could stop myself. Something wasn’t right.
“That chair is empty,” my mother said evenly.
I felt suddenly light-headed and foolish.
“But … the girl …” Surely a waterlogged girl with bracelets of bruises couldn’t be ignored like a wallflower. She stood out. And not just because of the smell.
I must be coming down with a touch of the ague.
Or suffering the effects of bad beef.
Surely that was it. I wasn’t sure which was preferable: hallucinations or illness or an actual psychical encounter.
I chose bad beef.
“A little girl?” Mrs. Hughes squeaked, interrupting my inner turmoil. She clutched at her damp handkerchief. “Oh, it’s my little Rose. Isn’t it, Mr. Hughes?” She turned pleadingly toward her husband.
In the time it took for me to glance at her and then back again, the chair was empty. Not even a water spot on the cushion remained. No one complained about the aroma of trout.
I didn’t know what to do. I had to resist the urge to look under the table linen to see if she was hiding there. It seemed like a fine plan, actually; perhaps she could make room for me. My corset stays began to feel too tight. Lord Jasper looked at me sharply. Elaine giggled. It was high-pitched, like a goose at market. Mrs. Trethewey stared at me.
“If Rose is here, we must begin straightaway,” Mother proclaimed. I sank into the chair, feeling a chill creep up the back of my neck.
Colin turned down the last light and we sat in shadows, the room quiet except for the ticking of the mantel clock and the wild runaway horse that was my heart. I clenched my fists and took a deep a breath. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if I fell into hysterics. I did consider a false swoon and a long recuperation in the privacy of my bedroom, but Mother would never allow me to disrupt the evening for the other sitters. And she was likely to tell them I was suffering from the traditional malady that heralded psychical gifts.
Thank you, but no.
I already felt suffocated by the attention. I didn’t know how Mother could love it the way she did. She sang the usual songs and I lowered my head to avoid the curious glances. Colin’s stare dug into my shoulders.
We joined hands. Mother’s palm was cool and firm. Mrs. Hughes, on my other side, had damp and trembling fingers. Mother began to sway slightly. I knew the exact choreography of the evening. The candle flickered once and extinguished, taking with it the last of the reliable lighting. No one remembered it had been down to the last of the melting wax or had seen Colin replace the long taper with the worn nub. The fire fell in on itself in a shower of sparks, accented with Borax powder, which we’d discovered burned with a very dramatic yellow-green. Elaine gave a small shriek, followed by another giggle.
Mother continued to sway. There was a sharp crack, followed by several more that were nearly drowned out in a flurry of whispers. No one saw Colin stretch his neck in the way that always caused a popping sound. I nudged the paper packet with the toe of my boot. Gravity did the rest.
The table moved once, twice.
There were gasps, excited murmurs.
“The spirits are indeed here,” Mother announced. “And they are eager to speak with us.”
I squeezed my knees together slowly.
“A cold wind, Mr. Hughes!” Mrs. Hughes exclaimed. “A cold wind around my ankles, do you feel it?”
There were murmurs of assent. Lord Jasper’s sister looked suspicious but intrigued. I tried not to ruffle up Mrs. Trethewey’s skirts.
“A greeting from Rose, Mrs. Hughes,” Mother explained. “Did you not take her to the seaside?” We’d overheard her say as much to a companion last week while we stopped for a pot of chocolate. We frequented all the popular spots to eavesdrop.
She sucked in a breath. “We did. She loved it.”
“And the wind off the water was cool, was it not?” As if the wind off the water was ever hot.
Mrs. Hughes nodded, too overcome to say anything else. Another squeeze and everyone’s ankles shivered. My leg muscles were beginning to ache. And I felt ridiculous.
“She would have me tell you that there is nothing to fear; she is quite happy where she is, and she has been eating sweets.”
“Licorice drops were her favorite.”
“Of course.”
“She had black curls, so sweet and always sticky with sugar when she ate licorice.”
I sniffed delicately. I could smell lilies again, sweet and thick, as if we were sitting by a sunlit pond. I was surprised when no one else mentioned it. It was quite strong; I could all but taste it. It was the sort of thing people generally reacted to immediately. I frowned.
Suddenly Elaine squealed, her hands twitching, as if by themselves. She stared at them, transfixed. “Mother!”
Mrs. Aberworthy looked delighted. “It’s the spirits!”
That happened frequently as well. Colin hypothesized that people sat so tensely, with their hands held so tightly together, that the muscles were bound to twitch.
Mother’s head rolled back and she went still and rigid. She seemed to melt back into herself, standing up with the grace of smoke lifting and curving. When she opened her eyes again, they seemed different. Her hair slipped loose from its pins and she held the curls back, smiling seductively.
“Mrs. Willoughby has left us,” Lord Jasper said. “Who is it who joins us?”
She fluttered her lashes. “I am Tallulah, a temple dancer from the deserts of Egypt.” The shawl slipped off her shoulders, leaving them bare.
Everyone watched her circle the table, as sinuous as Cleopatra might have been. I hated this part. It might unravel so easily and we would be exposed, reviled. I couldn’t look at the others, especially Xavier. And his parents. Who would encourage the courtship of a girl whose mother pranced about as if she were from some ancient harem?
I hated Tallulah.
But as always, she captured their full attention. She offered them spirit apports, which were simply gifts—such as a scatter of roses, violets, and larkspur. This was her favorite secret: how she kept the flowers in her shawl and no one noticed them falling into her hands when she began to dance, slow as a sunset. There wasn’t a lily among them, for all that I still noticed their distinctive scent.
No one else noticed the girl, standing in the shadows by the grate, water pooling under her bare feet.
She met my eyes and it was as if winter blew through the parlor. When she opened her mouth, the sound was muffled and high-pitched, like nothing I had ever heard before. She walked toward me, suddenly close enough that the hem of my skirt grew damp and cold. I cringed back in my chair, looking around wildly. Everyone was staring at my mother, except for Colin, whose eyes were narrowed and trained on my every flinch and wince. I wanted to get up and run from the room. Only Mrs. Hughes’s tight grip on my hand kept me there. Sweat pooled under my arms.
All the while, Mother was still dancing gracefully, brushing against the shoulders of the men. She stopped near the fire, where the glow was most flattering. She let her breath tremble. It was Colin’s cue. He reached her side just as she swooned, crumpling softly. He caught her and laid her in her chair. It was the best way to end, we’d found, as it curtailed too many questions. Since it was understood that it was exhausting for a medium to give herself over to the spirits, we bundled Mother up and hurried her to her bedchamber.
I darted into my room and shut the door behind me before Colin could ask me any questions. I sank onto the chaise longue, not even bothering to loosen the bellows that were cutting off the circulation in my leg. My foot tingled but I barely noticed.
No one else had seen the screaming girl.
I wiped at my damp forehead. It must be a fever of some kind, I thought again. I did feel chilled and light-headed. There. That was a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Which didn’t explain why the carpet squelched wetly under my boots. There was a puddle under my chair and I could hear the sound of dripping, as if the gutters were overflowing. I crossed the damp carpet and went to the window.
It wasn’t raining.
Perhaps Lord Jasper had heated-water pipes installed and they were leaking. They were rare so far out of the city, but he was fantastically wealthy and could likely afford them. I turned back, intending to summon a footman or a housemaid to warn him before he lost all his best furniture to a flood.
That’s when the water began to run in sheets down the walls, trickling over the floor toward me. I hurried to the door. The water followed me.
I frowned, taking a step to the side.
The water changed course.
It was still pouring down the silk paper, but when it hit the ground it followed me. It was cold, seeping into the soles of my boots. I didn’t know what to do. I might not know very much about plumbing, but I was fairly certain it couldn’t explain this particular phenomenon. The water rose to my ankles. I shivered.
“This is daft,” I muttered.
And if I stood here too long, I might just drown.
That galvanized me into moving. My steps churned up the water, splashing droplets into the air.
They froze there, hovering.
Which was utterly impossible.
My breath was loud and raspy in my ears. The beads stayed suspended around me, glittering in the light of the oil lamps. I wasn’t suffering from some kind of influenza; I was going mad.
I was reflected in one of the drops—my frantic, pale face getting wider and more distorted as I got closer. I reached out a trembling fingertip. The very moment I touched the frozen drop, it fell like a marble. The splash sounded like ice cracking, and then all of the water on the ground arced up in violent waves around me.
“To hell with this.” I leaped for the door.
The brass knob seared my hand, jagged ice bristling out of it as if it had turned into a porcupine. Tiny spots of frostbite salted my palm, tingling painfully.
And the water stopped.
Just stopped.
The next breath had it falling back to the floor and then sucking back toward the wall and up the paper.
I took a hesitant step forward. Nothing happened.
Nothing was wet. Not the rugs, the silk wallpaper, or the ceiling. Not even my boots.
I slept on the settee in the adjoining parlor that night.