“Ambassador,” her father began, turning toward Bishop, continuing with clipped words. “How does this involve you?”
“Anything that threatens my friends and family threatens me.” Bishop put a hand to his heart, over a burgundy pocket square. “I was teaching the precinct here how better to shield from psychic influence, projection, and manipulation.”
“And we’ll shield too.” Her father’s voice suddenly sounded not his own but some harrowed stranger. “We’ll have to get back in that old habit, I suppose.” Eve’s heart sunk, looking at him. There was a haunted expression on his face that she’d rarely seen, but when she did, it filled her with overwhelming sadness.
“Go talk to your mother, please,” he whispered, plaintive.
“All right…” Eve stepped into the hallway to find where she’d run to.
Gran strode after her, grabbing Eve before she could ascend the stairs, turning her around to speak softly. “Do you have any sense of what your mother went through in your early years?”
“No, because none of you will ever talk about it,” Eve replied through clenched teeth. “At this point, silence is doing more damage.”
Gran held up her hands in acquiescence. “It’s not my story to tell and I’m a guilty party, but the distance between you two won’t help you fight. Vulnerabilities will work their way in. Perhaps if you know how she suffered you’ll be a better psychic warrior, for her sake if nothing else. Prenze doesn’t have the strong foundation we have. Strengthen yours and we’ll open wider his cracks.”
Eve nodded. “Take care of everyone else a moment?”
“I shall.” Gran exited back to the company as Eve ascended the stairs.
Her mother sat before her vanity in her boudoir, still as a statue, eyes wide and glassy. One lock of auburn hair fell from its pins. Eve had always thought her mother poised, stubborn, often quiet, but forever disapproving of Eve’s Sensitivities as hardly ladylike, not fit for proper society. But in this moment, Eve saw the truth: her abject terror.
Eve came close and placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders. They trembled below her fingertips.
She gingerly took the fallen lock of hair and pinned it again into the mass of curls atop her mother’s head. A few grey strands were coming in around her otherwise auburn temples.
“This isn’t just about the shadow of that man, is it?” Eve asked quietly. Her mother shook her head. “Gran said it’s not her story to tell, though she has massive guilt about her part in it. What happened when I was a child?”
In a sudden, startling move, her mother jumped up, darting away. She began to pace before the window and wouldn’t look at her daughter. Instead, she began signing in a flurry Eve had trouble at first keeping up with.
My old condition came back to me, then, when you were nearly two.
I couldn’t speak.
Just like I’m having trouble now.
Are terrible things just going to keep repeating?
Eve knew that when her mother was a little girl, she’d wandered out into oncoming traffic as a horse and carriage wheeled around a bend. In a split second, Helen Stewart, the grandmother Eve never knew, ran. She pushed her toddler daughter out of the way and was trampled to death before Natalie’s eyes. She stopped speaking. It was only after meeting Jonathon Whitby that her voice began to return slowly and painfully.
Natalie now fought for words, and they came out quietly, stutteringly as she pressed her hands together and paced the room filled with white lace, etched glass, and lilac embroidery, delicate defiance against the darkness she’d lived through.
“You can imagine that…” Natalie began and had to stop, her breath coming in short spurts. She tried again after a long, shaking breath, struggling for control over herself.
“In 1882, you were nearly two, and your father…and your Gran…left…left us for England…to again fight demons. Jonathon…in danger…brought it all back. Old habits. Panic. Words fled. Terrified I’d lose him…after all. I thought we’d won. But evil returned. Prowling his old family estate. I didn’t know if Jonathon would come back to us…or if the demons—” Her voice cracked at the word. “Literal demons, Eve!” She cried. “Not metaphorical.” She pounded her fist against her hand. “Actual, dread, lightless shadows that snuffed out all light and hope. They’d…take everything I loved. The idea of raising you alone…terrified me. You can understand...why I…relapsed, then.… So, seeing a shadow, threatening, now…”
“I see,” Eve said gently. “I don’t remember you not speaking then. I don’t remember you being absent. You didn’t abandon me.”
Her mother took a few deep breaths leaning against the doorframe and continued with more measured speech. “Your grandfather stepped in. I don’t know how he’d done it with me when Mother, your grandmother Helen, died, but then again, there was always a strain with us too.…” Natalie chuckled sadly, as if she hadn’t thought of that parallel before. “But your grandfather took days away from work, your aunt Lavinia and uncle Nat doted on you when they were in town. All while I…”—she clenched her fists, muscling the words—“tried to calm myself enough to say…just a few…even one word to you. I wanted to say everything and I could say nothing.” She blinked back angry tears, stunning Eve with this hidden inner battle. Ambassador Bishop was right; trauma did dramatic things to a body.
“I managed a few whispers,” Natalie continued. “But it was terrible. Rachel helped whenever she could, too. Between she and I, you understood that quiet. You didn’t seem to be upset, even if at times you must have wondered.” She stared at her daughter plaintively, opening shaking hands toward her. “I might not have been able to talk to you, but I was always able to hold you!”
Tears rolled down her mother’s cheeks, and Eve, nearly bowled over by the emotional weight, rushed to embrace her tightly. There hadn’t been many physical demonstrations of affection for some time now, since she began her career, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t still a daughter, and she resolved to be better about fondness.
“I never thought, for a moment, that I wasn’t loved,” Eve told her, speaking into her mother’s lilac-scented hair. “I only thought that you didn’t approve. Of my gifts.”
“It’s because…” Natalie wiped her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief plucked from her sleeve.
“I understand now,” Eve reassured her.
“You might. In part. I know you think me cruel for having difficulty seeing Maggie, your dearest friend. But did she ever tell you how she died?”
Eve shook her head. “Not in any detail, no.”
“She bled to death. In my arms. Gruesome and terrible.”
“My God, I’m sorry,” Eve gasped.
“Bet she doesn’t want to think about it. But every time, her ghost reminds me of her last moments. I have every reason to be scared. To worry. Every nightmare too easy to recall.” She tapped her head.
The silence. It had never been anger, nor anything Eve was doing wrong. Sometimes her mother just couldn’t manage the words, she was the traumatized little girl who had watched her mother die, on account of her.… And that was only the beginning. To Natalie, the paranormal had been a deadly curse, never a gift.
Eve liked to think empathy was one of her strong suits, but here she’d entirely misread trauma as disapproval and she vowed never to make that mistake again.
“That man you saw today,” Eve said. “It’s a projection, one that’s gone now. He’s just a man, an angry man—”
“He reminds me of everything I prayed to leave behind,” her mother exclaimed. “All your work comes so close…” She trailed off, and if there was a word she struggled with, she chose not to say it.
“There has been a distance between us, and there might always have to be a distance between us to protect you,” Eve said, “but I am at better peace with it now.”
“I don’t want a
distance, Eve.” She shook her head, rueful. “I just don’t know how to be close to…everything you do…without it…stealing my words again.…”
A creak at the open door let Eve know her father was there listening. Then came his lovely, haunted face again. It made Eve’s heart ache. When she spoke, it was to them both.
“I’m so sorry; I never thought this would spill over onto you when we were trying to contain it. Prenze is a bully. He wouldn’t do this if he weren’t scared of all of us, collectively. He should be scared, as we outnumber and outwit him.” She spoke with confidence, but it was mostly bravado, trying to convince herself. She glanced out the window toward the street. Nothing. His form remained banished. Although, if he were listening, somehow, she’d want him to hear that.
Natalie shook her head. “I’ll try to understand. Just…have patience with me.”
She grasped her mother’s hands in hers. “If you’ll allow the same of me?”
Her mother offered a hard-earned smile. “Indeed. I am…very proud of you, I hope you know.”
These words hit Eve as a blinding flash of light illuminating a deep darkness. She hadn’t realized how much her parents’ hesitation at her work and calling had made her feel as though they couldn’t be proud of her. Eve’s heart suddenly soared. For the most part, she’d been an obedient child who always hoped for approval. Her father came over, and the three of them shared a gentle embrace.
“I was horrified at what my absence had done,” her father said, stepping back but keeping one hand on each of their shoulders. “I would never have wanted Natalie to have such a physical relapse. My guilt was crushing, but she didn’t blame me, and Eve, you were so fascinated by life, you didn’t seem to sense the sadness. I needed healing. And bless you, you both healed me. We’ve been so careful ever since, and neither of us knew how to talk about it.”
Eve nodded. It was like a weight had been lifted from them all.
“I’m going to have to learn how better to shield and protect. With new techniques,” Eve said. “Gran thinks a key to fighting this man, who long ago fell out with his mother, was in making sure I understood you. And regaining our strength. In thinking you never understood me, I never gave you any similar courtesy.”
“We…know better now,” her mother murmured.
“I must rejoin my team as we determine our next, and safest, steps.”
After another fond embrace, she allowed her father to descend with her toward the more haunted half of the properties.
“What happened with the device your detective took to Bellevue?” her father asked.
“I confess, I don’t know, I’ll have to follow up with my—” She paused. The fact her father had called Horowitz “hers” and the fact she was about to do so in turn startled her. “With Detective Horowitz. How best should I speak with doctors about the sixth sense? We believe the experiments on Gran and me sought to measure our powers. Should I use the terminology in the journals you shared with me?”
“Yes, did you read them?” He eyed her. She eyed him back, wondering what he was getting at. He smiled. “You’re notorious for getting fascinated by ideas and getting sidetracked away from doing any actual scholarship about them.” Even as he laughed, she stiffened. “I do understand the ghosts must be terribly distracting. I didn’t mean that as a slight—”
“I did read them, actually, and they’ll be of great use when speaking with the doctors.” She defended herself, when the reality was that she’d only skimmed them. She did admire her father greatly and wanted him to feel she took his work as seriously as she did her own but couldn’t quite convince him of it because he was right: the ghosts always had taken precedence. They were why she’d had to discontinue her studies at Barnard. Spirits had driven the wedge between her family she was determined not to let grow.
“Well, let me know if I can help.”
“Thank you,” she said. Her father had never wanted distance, ghosts or no, and he seemed to crave moments of common ground as much as she did. She embraced him again at the threshold between their homes and shut the door behind her, shifting her attention wholly to her housemates and guests.
Jacob lingered in the parlor, discussing the warrants and the items found with the rest of the girls. Eve was grateful he wanted to keep them informed and aware, and they each were strategizing who would follow up with what.
Ambassador Bishop was at the armoire by the door, readying his wife’s cloak and his own overcoat. As he did, Clara glanced at Gran who stood at the end of Eve’s stairs, statuesque and grand, her expression far away, lost in intense thought.
“I confess,” Clara said quietly to Eve, nodding toward Gran, the woman who had been Clara’s own mentor and friend. “I’ve…missed her. I’ve missed this: a team, working together. I used to have one. If the spirits didn’t give me such health troubles this would have probably been my place, my idea, my work.” She looked at Eve with a piercing, honest gaze and continued with gentleness. “Not that I’d want to take it from you. You’re incredibly smart and aware; you’re far more talented, and wiser, far earlier than I was. I daresay you’re the eldest soul among us. You’re powerful. Don’t neglect that in this. He’s trying to make a show against you. Don’t let him gain any ground. And remember, you can push back. Physically, psychically, mentally. It isn’t just one way. You can project back if you need to.”
This suggestion hadn’t occurred to Eve. Astral projection was a talent she’d never thought to develop. She would be willing to make a bet that Cora would be better at it than she would be. As if the thought of her summoned her, Cora stood in the open parlor threshold, bobbing her head at the Bishops.
“Thank you for the illuminating lesson,” Cora said. “I don’t take it lightly. I’ll share this with my family, give them your best, and keep learning.”
“You’re welcome, and good,” the ambassador said. “Stay sharp, girls.”
Once the Bishops had gone, Jacob came into the entrance hall. Cora exited, giving the two of them leave.
“I’d best be getting home,” he said to Eve. She saw him to the door, and he lingered there a moment, hand on the doorknob.
“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate what I’ve learned, but again, tactile evidence,” the detective said. “There are merits to what the Bishops taught, and I saw the presence at the window just as you did. I saw what our collective force could do in establishing boundaries and protections, forcing him out. But if we’re going to get anywhere, we need to know what he’s planning next in this plane of existence.”
“Please know I never lose sight of what will ensure a conviction in this plane.” Eve smiled. “No matter how esoteric an evening gets. Tomorrow at my offices the girls and I will begin with a séance of Dr. Font to follow up with his clues. You’ve a surveillance location to secure and accounts to inquire about. Meet you after lunch at your office?”
“Agreed. Until then.” Jacob smiled. “You always keep things interesting, Eve; I’ll give you that.”
Chapter Seven
It was a bright day for the next set of dark dealings. Dressed in the stately police matron’s uniform redone in black in honor of the dead, with a few alterations for style and preference, Eve descended to the small first-floor kitchen reserved for preparing lighter meals, put on a kettle for coffee and tea, pulled boiled eggs from the icebox, and brought bread and butter to the small dining room breakfast table, drawing the lace curtain to let a warm autumn light offset the creeping chill.
She liked to think she was attuned to her team, and as they each took a seat at the lace-curtained window, she took a good stock of each of them. The steady determination on Cora’s face, Antonia’s poised serenity, and Jenny’s knit brow, focused as if listening to something important Eve could not hear—all this bolstered her. Her best leadership came when she trusted in the gifts of others, refocusing on talents other than her own.
It wasn’t a directive that they wear uniforms to work; any modest, full skirt and well-kept shirtwaist would do, but today, the rest of the team had chosen to dress, an unspoken solidarity of closing rank against the rising threat, refusing to be silenced or shut down.
Eve had let them make choices about their uniforms, giving each the option of dressing in black as she did, to honor the dead, or in the dark police blue as matrons had done for nearly twenty years, or any somber, professional tone. As if echoing the greyscale of the spirits they served, they each had chosen a different charcoal wool in the plain matron dress pattern, darker to lighter from Jenny to Cora.
“Of our many orders of business,” Eve said, pouring a round of coffee into china cups, “is reconnecting with Dr. Font.” Eve looked at Jenny for permission to choose this as the next matter of course. Font’s mysterious, suspect death in an empty apartment of the Dakota building had been one of the first ties between Detective Horowitz’s case and what was unfolding for Eve and her team.
“Is this all right, my dear, as you’ve the strongest connection to him?” Eve asked the child. She nodded.
He may have once had a part in something bad, Jenny signed. But his soul means us no harm. He was frightened by Albert revealing himself to us. I hope he won’t be scared now.
Eve shared Jenny’s thoughts with Cora and Antonia, as learning sign was a process.
“Let’s shield and get to work,” Eve commanded, breathing deeply to extend her radius of protection. The girls did the same: a deep breath, and an expanded guard. Rising to gather her things, she tried not to think too much about the alarming fact that even ghosts were scared of the man waging a psychic war against them.
The Ghost Precinct offices were on an upper landing of an unmarked police building used for records and storage on Mercer, north of the Fifteenth Ward station house. Their title had been taken off the door and their work relegated to entire obscurity, under the guise of protection. The unfortunate truth of it was that their department was withdrawn to make the uncomfortable less aggressive; riding out those who derided their existence as “unholy.”
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