Behind the Veil

by E. J. Dawson

  “For whom?”

  Mrs. Quinn fell silent.

  “I’m very sorry, but I cannot take this case,” Letitia said, surer with every passing moment that whatever plagued Mrs. Quinn’s daughter, Letitia couldn’t help her. Not at the risk of her own sanity. She’d clawed it back, one shred at a time, built walls, and protected herself after traversing through her own private hell.

  She could distance herself in the readings and use her gift without it spiraling out of control as it had before, endangering others. If Finola required the same help as Letitia needed at the time, then there was no way Letitia could risk her own mind to save the girl.

  Letitia made to rise when Mrs. Quinn’s arm snapped across the table. Rather than the tight clutching grasp Letitia expected, Mrs. Quinn’s fingers lightly touched the exposed skin between Letitia’s glove and dress.

  Letitia jerked her hand back, but it was too late.

  Over Mrs. Quinn’s shoulder was the figure, as it had been all along, watching Letitia with the quiet intensity she’d seen in her vision with Joseph. Too close, too much, too dark.

  The malice in its eyeless stare was so intense it seemed to strike at her as she stared wide-eyed, unable to look away.

  Not something from another realm, but something that had once been human.

  Letitia got to her feet and stumbled away.

  She ran into another table, spilling their cups and apologizing in her haste to get out the door. She dared not look behind her as she sought the sunlight. The cleansing rain. Overcast as it was outside when she burst into the street, the soft gray light was better than the gloom of the café.

  The drizzle from earlier had turned to a freezing downpour. Her forgotten umbrella lay inside. Letitia left it, taking quick steps at first and then near to running down the slick pavement, catching glances as she fled from the café. Dodging pedestrians, Letitia ignored a shout behind her, flinging an apology over her shoulder.

  The rain was what she focused on, drops on her face, streaking down her dress, the mud on her shoes as she ran back to her apartment. She gave no mind to the dirt as she rushed up the stairs, grateful her purse was still on her arm as she unlocked the door and slammed it shut behind her. She had forgotten everything else.

  Her umbrella, her case files.

  She would go back and retrieve them later.

  For now, as she leaned against the door, the terror that had goaded her on vanished like burning paper, filtering away to nothing as she collapsed to the floor. Dread threatened to overcome her and she could not let it, and with her hand on her heart, she tried to regain control of her breathing.

  “Push out whatever seeks to control you with your breath,” Old Mother Borrows’ voice came to her, “as though each exhale is the taint, anger, and fear. Regain composure with deep, even breaths.”

  Letitia lost time fighting the demons of memory, exhaustion eating at her consciousness, and she fell into a trance focused on her breath, but still, she was dragged into dreams of dark corridors and screaming. The endless screaming.

  

  Letitia awoke. Staring around her, she was confused as to why she lay on the floor of her session room. Memory filtered back, bringing on a fine trembling from the chill of the room, the wet cloth of her dress clinging to her skin. Her handbag lay on the floor, its contents spilled out where she’d dropped it. She plucked out the ladies’ pocket watch, cursing when she saw the time. Sweeping up the contents of her purse, she ducked into her room to slide the curtains shut and lit the fire, shivering in the cold, skin clammy from the damp dress.

  Turning about, she saw the mud she’d tracked across her own room, meaning it would still be in the session room and in the hall. Annoyed at her stupidity, Letitia swept up the drying mud, even going out onto the landing. It was still there, so Mrs. Finch hadn’t seen the mess she’d made, or at least she hadn’t removed it herself.

  After everything in the hall and session room was clean, Letitia went to her own room, still feeling the numbing sense of cold, exhaustion dragging her movements, escaping time pushing her on.

  Mr. Barkley would be here in another thirty minutes and she wasn’t ready.

  She stoked the fire in her bedroom and put the kettle on.

  Letitia didn’t like not having time to study the file before a potential patron turned up, but she had no other choice.

  Ignoring her rumbling stomach, Letitia had a kitten wash in warm water from the kettle before putting on her things. The gray dress would need proper cleaning if she hadn’t ruined the wool, but she hung it close enough to the fire to glean its heat to dry but not shrink.

  Refreshed in dry clothes, Letitia forwent food for a quick cup of tea to steady her nerves before the punctual knock of Mr. Barkley.

  Letitia crossed to the session room and placed the veil over her face with practiced ease, pulling on black leather gloves before she opened the door.

  A gentleman stood there, by himself, with a bag in one hand. His blue eyes lit up when he saw her.

  “Ms. Hawking?”

  “Yes, Mr. Barkley,” she said, stepping back, “please come in and have a seat.”

  He did as bid, already holding out the things she’d asked for—a photograph and an item belonging to the girl.

  It was a worn book, pages musty brown and cover ragged, but the title struck a chord in Letitia’s heart. Pride and Prejudice.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears, a headache developing behind her eyes.

  Mr. Barkley turned about where she was still standing by the closed door.

  “Tea?” she asked, escaping through to the other room when he nodded.

  When she was alone, she reached for the wall to steady herself.

  Her head swam, apprehension drawing her shoulders tight.

  Reaching for the kettle, she followed the routine of serving tea. A jug of milk, the pot of English tea, sugar in a little ceramic jar. Placing it all on a tray, Letitia picked it up to carry it to the next room.

  She had cups there that she used for guests, so she didn’t have to use them day in and out herself. Made of paper-thin china, the cups gave clients the impression that she held high standards.

  Letitia poured tea, avoiding looking at the book or photo. She held out a cup and saucer for Mr. Barkley, who took it without a word.

  Having a moment to absorb his face, she saw he was a plain fellow, with mousy brown hair thin and fine under the hat he’d since placed on the table. She waited until he’d taken a sip of his tea, but his hands fidgeted with the cup, eyes darting about the room.

  “Now,” Letitia said, bringing his focus back to her, “I want you to understand how this will progress. I will examine the picture and the item to see if I can help you. If I cannot, that will be all, but if I can, I will need you to move onto the next step.”

  Mr. Barkley pulled his wallet out, and it was the twenty-dollar note.

  Letitia was ready, giving him ten back as she took the note.

  “Please.” He slid it back, but she placed a gloved hand over his, putting gentle pressure on him so he stilled.

  “I have rules, Mr. Barkley,” Letitia said, her voice quiet but firm. “I will not do you the disservice of over charging you when I’m not sure if she’s alive. If she has passed on, and it wasn’t with trauma, then I can try to reach her for you. There will be a fee based on what is involved. In some cases, this can be hundreds of dollars.”

  She let that sink in, drawing back her hand. After a moment he took the change and slipped it into his wallet.

  “I’d like to apologize, Ms. Hawking,” he said. “I am desperate to find out what happened to my Maisie.”

  “I will study the picture and book,” Letitia said, not about to let him fall into his grief and worry. “I’d like to ask that you don’t speak during this time. One of the things I’ll be able to offer i
f I see her is something only you would know about her. That you come by reference is flattering, but I find everyone has a measure of doubt. This session is to affirm in your mind I can do as I promise.”

  “What would that be?” Mr. Barkley asked.

  “That should Maisie have passed, and it wasn’t violent, I can share her final moments with you.” Letitia pitched her voice low and soft to lessen the distress her words may cause. Mr. Barkley grimaced and closed his eyes as she continued. “I will not tell you if someone murdered her, Mr. Barkley. I cannot do that. Often the victim is taken by surprise, and this can drag me into death with them. I will at least be able to give you some measure of closure, simply by reading what I can of Maisie’s things.”

  His eyes cracked open though the grim features didn’t change. “Thank you.”

  She took off her gloves and picked up the picture. It was the same one she’d seen in the newspapers. A girl of eleven, hair in pigtails, grinning at the camera.

  Letitia focused on her eyes. The liveliness there was a dim and distant echo compared to actual life. She let her gaze soften, imagining what the girl would be like, letting her ability paint a picture of Maisie. This would be one of many photographs. She had laughed too much in the others. Letitia put it down and picked up the book.

  It didn’t belong to Maisie.

  The knowledge was as instinctual as breathing. Letitia embraced it, bending it to her will.

  “This isn’t her book,” Letitia said, setting it down and looking to Mr. Barkley. “It belonged to someone else, a much older woman…her mother?”

  “Died six years ago of tuberculosis,” he said, “and almost took Maisie, too.”

  Letitia nodded, turning the pages, feeling the love in the paper under her fingers, and opening to a white satin ribbon inside. As soon as Letitia touched it, darkness overwhelmed her.

  There was a fall, and she was tumbling down a long shaft, no light, only the reek of brine and rot.

  Letitia yanked her hand back as though stung by a bee. She shook it, the prickle on her fingers stinging into her hand. Rubbing away the pain, she looked to Mr. Barkley.

  “That belonged to Maisie,” she said. “It was her christening ribbon.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Barkley said, eyes now wide and eager. “You saw her?”

  “Not quite,” Letitia said, “but let me try again.”

  He fell silent and Letitia used the book to slide the ribbon onto the table in front of her without touching it. It was grubby in some places, fraying at one end, and it was these teased tassels Letitia reached for, this time ready for the images she received.

  Maisie was curled next to her mother on a big bed, playing with the ribbon as her mother read, content to lie next to her in the firelit room. Her father came over, picked her up, and took her to bed, but she took the ribbon with her.

  Years later, she still had it, held it tight in her hand, wrapped between her fingers, while she stood by her father’s side at the funeral of her mother. Her friend Tommy waved at her across the church, but Maisie didn’t wave back. Today was not a day to be happy.

  Maisie threaded the ribbon through her mother’s book and kept it by her bedside. Though she never read the pages, she sat up and flipped them like her mother had, eyes lost to memory, her fingers plucking at the thread of the ribbon.

  Letitia stretched her mind for what was beyond, but while she was sure the girl was dead, there was no sense of her beyond death. It didn’t take much to imagine why the little girl was taken and what might have happened to her. Letitia drew back before the lingering soul would become aware she sought it out.

  As much as Letitia wanted to tell him more, there was nothing else to see without scrying. Short of going into a trance, she wouldn’t be able to see anything but Maisie’s final hours, which wouldn’t help Maisie, her father, or Letitia.

  And Letitia had a grave fear the girl had not passed the veil. Maisie was on the wrong side of death.

  Her spirit was out there, somewhere, lingering on this plane. Whatever tragedy had befallen her was keeping her here. Meaning if Letitia went looking for her, Maisie might find Letitia.

  Under no circumstances was Letitia foolish enough to open herself to a restless soul. She’d seen firsthand what regret, anger, and frustration could do.

  “I’m so sorry,” Letitia said, and she didn’t get to finish as Mr. Barkley wept. His hands came over his face, and he bowed over the table, wracking sobs shaking him.

  Letitia waited, aware she could give no further comfort.

  “She’s gone?” he asked, after several minutes, wiping at his face with a handkerchief.

  “I’m afraid so,” Letitia said, putting her gloves back on, and sliding back the possessions. She made no move to stand, knowing Mr. Barkley would still have questions.

  “Did you see…?” his voice trailed off.

  “Please understand, Mr. Barkley,” Letitia said, “I talk to grieving clients to help them move on. I accepted seeing you to help bring you closure should the worst have happened. But I cannot tell you more than that. I know that Maisie carried that ribbon with her everywhere, including the funeral of her mother. Tommy waved to her, but she didn’t wave back. Instead, she went home and pretended her mother was there reading the pages of the book, and Maisie was curled up next to her, playing with the ribbon. I imagine you often found her like that, asleep with the book.”

  Mr. Barkley’s face paled, but he uttered not a word.

  “I did not want to tell you this,” Letitia said, hearing the emotion in her voice, and she cleared her throat. “My patrons know that their loved ones are gone. As unpleasant as this is, I’m hoping at least the part of your concern whether she is alive will pass.”

  “How did you know about the ribbon?” he asked, ignoring her speech.

  “I saw it,” Letitia answered, “the same way you see pictures in your head when you read a book or listen to a story. The only difference is I’m reading from the veil between life and death.”

  “But that’s witch―” he broke off, horrified at his own words as his hand came to his mouth, wiping it before glancing at her.

  “Forgive me,” he said, a blush creeping up his cheeks, giving them some color back. “I was told what it was you did and that your gifts were precise, and you’ve proved it beyond a shadow of doubt. I just…it’s one thing to see and another to know. And I’ve tried everything to find my little girl.” The tears came again, and Letitia’s heart wanted to weep with him, but she could not allow herself to fall into his sorrows or to be convinced of seeing more of Maisie’s death. It was a fast path to retribution of which she would take no part.

  “Does it matter how such a thing was done, as long as you know she’s no longer in any torment?” Letitia asked.

  Reminded of his grief, Mr. Barkley shook his head.

  “I won’t ask that you book another session, Mr. Barkley,” Letitia said, “as I will not reach further into her death.” Letitia didn’t elaborate that this was because the spirit was still here, somewhere in the mortal realm.

  For souls that passed beyond the veil, there were traces of them on its fabric, a weave to its cloth that with the right items Letitia could find and read in her own way. She was able to slip herself into those final moments before their death.

  When a soul didn’t move on, there was nothing on the veil.

  Maisie was not there, but she was most certainly dead.

  Chapter 6

  Smoke curled through Stephen’s lungs as he inhaled it from the cigarette. The winter’s chill caused him to cough against the phlegm building in his throat.

  “If I get bloody sick again, the boss won’t be pleased,” he muttered to himself, scanning the waiting luggage. Fancy trunks sat on a wide trolley. He’d wheel it up to the ship at the stroke of midnight. Passengers had until then to submit their luggage to the liner
leaving at dawn.

  The transport of the luggage left him shivering in the cold. He’d told the other porters to go home. It was already after eleven, and he could close the gates on his own.

  Instead of waiting outside, he went to the little house by the gangway. It kept out the worst of the wind. The room was small at six by six but room enough to have a potbellied stove and desk. There was also an old armchair with springs sticking out of the folds of cloth. Putting his lamp on the desk, he sat down to warm his hands, loading more coal into the belly of the little black stove. The kettle had long since been washed out by one of the younger lads before he left.

  “What’s his name?” Stephen thought aloud, mumbling around the cigarette. “Mark? Matthew?”

  He shrugged, since it wouldn’t matter he’d forgotten. The boy had been there a week, and many of them didn’t last that long. The work was too hard. Being a stevedore wasn’t a career choice—at least not for lads just finding their feet. But Stephen was the assistant dock master and had his eyes on that last step. But one thing stood in his way.

  Making sure there was no one about, Stephen pulled a book from under the desk, which lay hidden away in a little cubby hole.

  He mumbled through another chapter of Alice in Wonderland. The words became harder, and with frustration and a furtive glance to be sure he was alone, he tried saying them out loud.

  “They were indeed a…queer-looking party that ass-assembled on the b-bank—the bird with drag-draggle…damnit!” He put the book down with a thump on the armchair, and it tumbled to the floor. Glaring at the book as though it had offended him, he clutched the arms of the chair, shame hot on his ears.

  It didn’t matter, for he could read the paperwork that came across his desk—numbers, passengers, and ship names—and as far as he knew that’s what the dock master needed. Unbidden, Stephen remembered the scene from last week when he’d been invited to Mr. Carrick’s office to talk about Stephen’s recent ill health. Mr. Carrick had been having lunch and reading a book by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.