“Who is M?” I venture. “Who . . . who wrote that on the slate?”
She stands up and smoothes her wool soutache jacket with her palms, then slowly walks to the mahogany sideboard, where alcoholic spirits are displayed in heavy crystal decanters. A glass chimes as she takes one down from the cabinet. The pungent scent of anisette and fennel fills the room. I love the smell of absinthe. It reminds me of black licorice at Christmastime with Father, but since his death, I believe Mother drinks the “Green Faerie” a little too often.
She turns around, her eyes suddenly a little less far away. “We must travel to London,” she says. “There is someone there who can give us answers.”
“London?” I ask. I was born there and remained until the age of five, when Mother made our home here in Deal.
“Pack your things, dear,” she tells me. “We must leave in the morning.” She swallows the last of her drink.
For a moment, her shoulders slump, as if a great weight is bearing down upon her.
My shoes clack on the cobblestones, sending rats scurrying.
Someone is after me.
Who it is, I do not know. All I know is that I need to keep running.
My legs burn with fatigue and my breath comes in bursts. I need to rest. Just for a moment. Rest. That’s what I need.
There—?up ahead.
The mouth of a narrow alley beckons. I dash the few short steps and take shelter, reaching out to the wall to steady myself. I feel something wet, rain perhaps. But as I raise my hand to my face, drifting night clouds reveal the moon, which illuminates what it truly is.
Blood.
My hand is covered in blood.
I look to the wall.
There, gleaming wet and bright, I see it:
M
I wake with a start, my breath caught in my throat. Early-morning sun leaks through the thin curtains. I’m safe—?in my own room, at home. We will be traveling to London today.
The dream haunts my steps as I take the empty pitcher on my bedside table and head into the parlor. The room is cold and dark, and the greasy smell of tallow candles hangs in the air. I kneel before the fireplace and use a poker to stir up the coals. They are mostly cinders now, but a few are still in good condition, with just a corner of white ash, so I arrange them evenly and then add a few sticks of tinder. I light the wood with a match and watch as the small flame erupts and spreads quickly. Once the fire is going, I pour water into a pot that hangs suspended from a bar above the hearth. I have to do this every morning, and it is a laborious process.
At one time we had a maid-of-all-work, but since Father’s death, that is a luxury we can no longer afford. The same goes for my schooling, which, I must admit, was not my favorite pastime anyway. Like many girls of my social class, I was taught at home by a governess. Mrs. Gillacuddy was her name, and she was absolutely dreadful. I once thought I saw her smile, but cannot be certain. It may have been indigestion.
I pour the hot water into a basin and carry it upstairs. I wash quickly—?Cleanliness is next to godliness, the vicar often says—?and then open the door to my wardrobe. A tremor of excitement runs through my veins. It is fleeting, however, as I soon remember our reason for traveling:
Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!
What could it possibly mean?
I shake the thought away and ruffle through my clothing. I decide on an ivory-colored dress with lace and pearl buttons and an olive touring hat—?one of my favorites, though I hardly ever have the chance to wear it. I finish the ensemble with a pair of brown button boots and a fur-collared cloak, which might come in handy, for the weather has become quite cool.
I turn to and fro before the standing mirror—?the perfect image of a middle-class young lady. At least that’s what Mother would say. We must keep up appearances, she often tells me, and does everything in her power to make that so.
Mother.
When I think of her, my heart blooms with love, even though we have certainly had our disagreements. What she has been through is a testament to her strength. Father died of consumption when I was five years old. He left us a small inheritance, but after a few years the money dwindled, and Mother said she was sure we were headed for the workhouse. That was when, with a very keen sense of timing, she decided to put out a shingle and take up our trade in the practice of spiritualism, a movement made all the more popular by the Russian immigrant Madame Blavatsky, who has become a guest and confidante to some of the most distinguished names of the day. We hold séances and read fortunes, ruminate over tea leaves, perform acts of levitation—?which is really nothing but a parlor trick—?and we even once contacted the spirit of a tabby cat called Finikin. Allegedly.