He sighed, shifting in his chair, as if it hadn’t been he who’d come to waste my time this evening. “I suppose I’ll try again.”
He would fail. The brooch he’d asked about did not exist; I’d known as much as soon as I’d touched him. What I didn’t know—what his touch hadn’t told me—was what he actually wanted from me. And here I was, trapped at the little table in my sitting room, hungry, my cold supper waiting for me in the kitchen. If this man didn’t want to be honest, then he could suffer in one of my hard chairs a little bit longer.
I waited for a stretch of minutes, my eyes closed, as the clock ticked on the mantel. “It really isn’t coming very clearly,” I said at last.
Mr. Baker, who was no more Mr. Baker than I was, squirmed just a little. “Perhaps I should come again another time.”
“No, truly, I can find it. Sometimes it takes a little while, that’s all, and you must concentrate harder. Just a little longer . . .”
“It’s quite all right.” He squirmed again, and from under my lashes I saw the first evidence of a conscience. “I’m afraid I have another appointment.”
I shook my head in a show of frustration and lifted my hands from his. “But of course. We’ve run out of time, haven’t we? I’m sorry the brooch did not appear to me, Mr. Baker.”
“No, no. You mustn’t apologize. I insist.” Now he seemed almost annoyed. His gaze wandered off and clouded over with disappointment, as if he’d expected something else entirely from this evening and was already forgetting my existence. “Perhaps I’ll come and try again another time.”
I stood, pushing my chair back coolly. “You could, but that wouldn’t make an interesting story, would it?”
He frowned. “I beg pardon?”
“For your newspaper.” My peevishness was fleeing now, leaving only tiredness behind. “I assume you write for one. ‘Famous Psychic Debunked,’ perhaps? Or ‘Seer Bilks the Innocent of Money’ may also work. Though I can’t imagine why any newspaper would want yet another story about people like me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” His outrage was convincing. He pushed his chair back and stood as well, and though he was only slightly taller than I was, he somehow seemed much larger. “Do you honestly take me for a journalist?”
“Honestly? You don’t look like one. You dress too well, and your demeanor is wrong. Honestly, Mr. Baker, I don’t know what you are, but a journalist is the only kind of person who would go to elaborate lengths to get a referral, then come here and waste my time with a false story about a valuable brooch.”
He went very still.
I looked at his face. “Of course I knew it was false. Though if you like, you can publish in your newspaper that I have found the toy soldiers you lost when you were eight. That’s what you were really thinking about just now. Here it is: Your brother Tommy took them. He broke them in half and fed them to the dog while playing African Explorer.”
There was a long beat of silence. I hadn’t meant to say that, not exactly. It had just come so clearly to me—the crisp fall day, the little boy roaring as he pretended the dog was a man-eating tiger, eagerly snapping up Stanley and Livingstone. I wondered whether the dog had gotten indigestion from the enterprise. It seemed likely, though the vision didn’t specify. A shadow crossed the vision of the boy, something foreboding, but I pushed it away.
Mr. Baker was looking at me with the shocked expression people wore when they first realized I was telling the truth. “There’s no way you could know that,” he said softly. “No way at all.”
This was a telling moment. People came to me for answers, yet they were always knocked on their heels when I actually gave them. Some customers tittered nervously; others grew angry and defensive, accusing me of trickery or lying. Those were the dangerous ones. The truth, even one so small as the fate of a few wooden soldiers, affected everyone differently. You couldn’t predict it. It was why I kept my client list so select.
But the look on Mr. Baker’s face was one I hadn’t seen before. He stared at me with a sort of profundity, as if I’d answered a question he hadn’t even known he’d been asking. And yet the revelation seemed to strike him as a blow, and his look of desperate misery almost made me step back. It was the look of a man who has just seen proof of hell’s existence, an answer to one of life’s deepest questions, and not the answer he wanted to hear.
“Mr. Baker,” I said, keeping my voice level, “I’m asking you to leave the premises.”
He swallowed, and something indescribably sad crossed his features. “If only you’d let me explain.”
“There’s no need.” My voice rose almost to shrillness. I wanted no part of the sadness and desperation on his face, none at all. “I’m well acquainted with the local constable. If you don’t leave, I’ll have no choice but to send for him.”
It was a bluff—the local constable thought me a hussy, when he thought of me at all—but Mr. Baker only looked ashamed. He took an expensive handkerchief from his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said, dabbing his forehead and looking away. “Good night.”
And then he was gone, without another word to me, my front door shutting on the back of his well-cut suit. I still had no idea why he’d come, what he’d wanted, or even why he’d left so quickly. I told myself the most important point was that he had gone. You’re a woman alone in this job, my mother had taught me. You must never take chances.
I sighed into the lonely quiet of my sitting room. I looked around at the narrow chintz sofa, the heavy draperies over the front window, the plum velvet curtain hanging artfully over the door to the corridor. In the middle of the room was the session table, a simple square with a flowered tablecloth and wooden chairs on opposite sides. Every piece in the room had been picked out by my mother.