I feel like an absolute fraud, which is what I am, after all.
Mother shifts in her seat. “Balthazar,” she begins, “you do know that my daughter and I operate, shall we say, on suggestion and desire? We do not really work in the realm of spiritualism. In common parlance, it is all a sham.”
Balthazar raises an arched eyebrow. “How absolutely criminal.”
Mother’s lips tighten in embarrassment.
“What does it mean?” I ask. “The rhyme?”
“That, I do not know,” Balthazar replies, “for I have never heard such a refrain before.”
Wonderful. We came all this way, and he hasn’t any answers.
Balthazar unfolds himself and stands up. I am shocked again at how very tall he is. It seems almost unnatural. “I would like to try an experiment,” he suggests. “Please, gather round.”
Mother and I rise and follow him to the far corner of the room, where a small circular table sits surrounded by three bentwood chairs. Mother and I sit opposite each other. Balthazar, still standing, reaches down to the edge of the table and pulls the brass knob of a drawer, which slides open with a creak. I look on curiously.
He takes out several items and places them on the table: a sheet of cream-colored parchment, a quill and inkwell, and a leather case. After a lingering gaze at both of us—?for dramatic effect only, it seems—?he clicks open the hinges of the case and draws something out.
“A spirit board,” I whisper. Mother and I have used these before, but never one so fine. It seems to be made of rosewood. The sun and moon are at the top left and right, and the alphabet is stamped below in burnished gold.
“Indeed,” Balthazar confirms. “One that has many uses.” He withdraws another object from the case. It is a planchette, a heart-shaped piece of wood used with a spirit board to receive messages from the other side.
Mother eyes the table. “Balthazar,” she starts. “I told you we do not really—”
“Please,” he interrupts. “Indulge me, Cora. Just for a moment.” He smiles, showing perfect white teeth. It’s odd to hear a gentleman address Mother with such familiarity.
Mother lets out a small sigh, and Balthazar finally sits, facing the both of us. He nudges the planchette toward me with two fingers.
Why is he giving this to me?
He reaches for the quill and dips it into the inkwell. He then begins to write on the parchment, and his forehead wrinkles in concentration. Try as I might, I cannot read the words, for they are as small and as cramped as bird tracks. The only sound is the quill tip rasping on paper. After a moment he purses his lips and blows on the wet ink, then folds the parchment lengthwise and slides it toward Mother.
“Miss Jessamine,” he begins, turning to me, “if you would be so kind as to look at me and concentrate. Place your fingers on the planchette.”
I take a breath and place my fingertips lightly on the polished wood object. The room is growing a little too warm for my comfort, and I wish more than anything to relieve myself of petticoats.
“Now,” he says, “I want you to think of what I just wrote on that parchment. Let your thoughts drift and focus on mine.”
I exhale and hope that the dampness I feel on my face is not showing. Mother has always said it is unseemly for a lady to sweat.
I stare at Balthazar, feeling a little taken aback. I’ve done this before with our clients, but knowing it was all a ruse made it easier, something that helped me play the part. This is entirely different. Am I supposed to look into his mind?
I will myself not to look away—?although I am quite embarrassed, for we are sitting rather close to each other—?and continue to gaze into his eyes. I focus on his thoughts, just as he has asked. I don’t really know what I am doing, but I concentrate on his face. Suddenly my fingertips tingle, and the planchette seems to move of its own accord. To the left, now right, now left again. There is a pause in the tingling, but just as suddenly, I feel it again, running up and down my arms. I try to stay focused and, resisting the urge to look down, continue to stare at Balthazar. My heart races. My pulse quickens. My hands float around the board, accompanied by the scrape of the planchette. Mother’s breathing sounds as loud as a trumpeting elephant. Balthazar watches with an expression of fascination.
And then I see it.
Above Balthazar’s head, a thin stream of black smoke swirls in lazy circles. I gasp.
“What is it?” Mother whispers.
But I don’t answer. I only gaze at the wisp of smoke that is now growing longer and climbing toward the ceiling. Balthazar leans forward slightly, his face intense in the firelight. “Do you see it?” he asks. His voice is not as calm as before, but urgent, serious.