I took the lacy cloth and dabbed at my eyes. “Perhaps. Or more likely he was experimenting—”
“Non,” she interrupted. “He loves you, Eleanor. Je sais. I saw ’ow he looked at you on the street, ’ow he listened to you. And now, there is this.” She waved to the green box. “He loves you. The question is, Do you love him in return?”
I stayed silent, avoiding her eyes.
“Perhaps,” she said at last, “it would be best if I leave you alone for a bit.”
“Y-yes.” I gulped. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not be. I will explore the ’otel for now, and when I am finished, if you are—’ow do you say? — recovered, we will go out for lunch. Unless you are attending this ball tonight at the palais? The one in all the papers?”
“Ball,” I repeated numbly. I had forgotten all about that—and it was quite possibly the last thing I wished to deal with right then.
“If you are too busy preparing for the party,” Laure said, “then perhaps we can meet for breakfast tomorrow. Before I return to Marseille.”
“Or perhaps we can do both.” I gave her a small smile. “Lunch and breakfast. Thank you, Laure.” I offered her the handkerchief, but she shook her head once.
“You keep it. You ’ave more need of it than I.” Then, flashing me her own tiny grin, she waved good-bye and glided from the lab.
I instantly crumpled onto a stool and began to cry. “Why didn’t he just tell me?” I mumbled to myself, wiping at my tears. I knew I could not blame Daniel for my own mistakes. I had bound myself to Oliver; I had chosen a phantom limb; and I had covered my tracks with lie after lie.
I would ask the Spirit-Hunters to forgive me—for hiding the truth and for betraying their trust.
But I would not be ashamed of the magic inside me. This was who I was now, and I would have to show Joseph and Daniel that there was nothing to be afraid of.
And, by God, I would find Jie.
With a final sniffle, I pushed away all the sadness and locked it up, far out of reach in the back of my mind. As I pushed to my feet, my eyes caught on the crystal clamp. A séance. It was something I could do.
I snatched up the clamp’s box, grabbed Joseph’s book on spirits, and marched from the room.
Once I was safely stowed in my bedroom, I assembled the crystal in the device and plopped down, cross-legged, onto my bed. Opening the spirit book, I flipped to the proper page.
My pulse thrummed as I scanned the text. It told me I needed to focus all my power, fix my target firmly in my mind, and then find the curtain.
I lowered my eyelids. “Step one: focus my power.” With a deep breath, I began to draw in my magic. Immediately it tingled through me, up from my toes and in from my fingers. The same delicious buzz as always, warm and intoxicating. And as always, my worries evaporated one by one.
Daniel and demons and corpses—they all felt meaningless compared to this feeling. To this power.
But I didn’t let Joseph’s warnings go completely. I knew this was an addictive warmth, and I made myself cling—if only by a thread—to the reality beyond. Soon, the last drop of soul had poured into my chest, and I could feel the well pulsing in time with my heart.
“Now think of Elijah.” I imagined his auburn hair. His glasses—the way they constantly slid down his nose. I thought of his smile. His sea-green eyes. His goofy, braying laugh . . . Then I slowly squeezed the crystal clamp.
Electricity—a sharp zap—slid up my arm and into my chest.
The well grew bigger, and my heart raced faster.
I sent my senses out, groping for the golden, glowing curtain. It was always there, always present . . . and then I found it.
I opened my eyes. The curtain shimmered before me as clearly as my bedroom had only moments before.
I grinned, proud. I could use this power without letting it taint me.
All right, now I simply say his name.
“Elijah Fitt,” I whispered. “Elijah Henry Fitt, your sister, Eleanor, wants to speak with you.
Answer my call.”
Nothing happened. I tried again. “Elijah Henry Fitt, your sister, Eleanor, wants to speak with you.”
Still nothing happened, and now my chest was starting to ache. “Elijah,” I called, a sharpness creeping into my voice. “Answer me!”
Maybe he was busy . . . or . . . or blocked! I could try someone else.
“Clarence Wilcox,” I rasped, quickly running out of breath. “Clarence Wilcox, come to my call!”
Still nothing. Was I doing something wrong?
And why was electricity still zapping up my arm?
I looked down in horror at my right hand—it was still squeezing the crystal! I tried to pry the clamp from my fingers, but I couldn’t let go. My muscles would not release, and the well continued to grow. Blindingly bright, it pushed every last drop of air from my lungs. As my heart beat faster, I knew with terrifying certainty that this would kill me.