Seances Are for Suckers

by Tamara Berry

  What he doesn’t realize, however, is that my baser needs also derive from my personal experience. He might exude power and control with each movement of his lips over mine, but I’m driven by darker forces. Lust, mostly. Pride, gluttony, greed—you name it, I’ve tried it. If anything, I’ve learned to appreciate those rare moments of carnal simplicity more than most.

  As soon as I begin to return his affections, however, which I do by winding my arms around his neck and deepening the kiss into something truly remarkable, he rears back as if bitten.

  Actually, it would be more accurate to say he rears back because he’s been bitten. Not hard, mind you, and not enough to draw blood, but if he thinks he can intimidate me with a kiss, he’s far off the mark. I will kiss him back—and I’ll do it better, too. Madame Eleanor doesn’t leave much up to chance.

  “You devil,” he says, laughing as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth. “I should have known better.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “You should have.”

  “Please accept my apologies for taking you by surprise like that. I . . .” He trails off, looking doubtful. His uncertainty is such a new experience—for the both of us, I suspect—that it takes him a moment to recover. “You’re wrong about me, that’s all. I don’t look down on you.”

  I glance at him, still standing over the table, literally looking down, and lift a brow. “Is this where you tell me you aren’t used to having things your own way either? Because I gotta be honest—you aren’t making a very convincing case right now.”

  He laughs again and pushes himself up from the table. I feel the loss of his looming presence almost at once, but I’m not sure what shape that loss takes. Do I miss the warm solidity of his body pressing into mine? Or is this merely relief at having a potential threat back away?

  “I’m not as old as you think I am, Eleanor,” he says. “Nor am I as cold-blooded. I wouldn’t have asked you to stay if that were the case.”

  I’m not sure what to make of that confession. Young, hotheaded men don’t have any more need of fake mediums than old, cold ones. At least, not in my experience.

  “I promised you I’d see this job through to the end, and I meant it,” I say.

  He looks pained again, but he doesn’t reply. Nor does he make another move to kiss me. Whatever force compelled him to act in the first place has been fully quashed. He’s a man who exercises power over his own demons.

  As do I.

  Nicholas Hartford III isn’t the only person in this room who can push aside those squishy, human needs for the sake of something more. With no more than a fleeting regret that one nibble is all I’ll get, I draw a deep breath and return to the task at hand. “Speaking of, does Thomas have any family in the area? Anyone who might know how to reach him, or who he might feel comfortable staying with for a few days?”

  Nicholas’s pained look doesn’t lift, but he answers me levelly enough. “Not to my knowledge, no. His father died when he was young, his mother a few years after he reached adulthood. No siblings or, as far as I know, any kind of girlfriend or romantic attachment.”

  “So he’s all alone?”

  “He’s not alone. He has us.”

  I bite back a sharp laugh. Somehow, I doubt a wealthy landowning employer can replace actual family. I don’t care how long Thomas’s people have served the Hartfords or how many hills they used to scamper over together as kids.

  “And his cat,” I say.

  “Thomas has a cat?”

  “Yes. You didn’t know? I found it when I stopped by his cottage earlier this evening to take a look around.”

  He swivels his head to stare at me. “You did what?”

  “It seemed prudent since no one else seems concerned that both a murdered man and your childhood friend have gone missing at the same time. I thought I might find him there. Or, at the very least, some sign of struggle or rapid flight.” I pause. “I didn’t, in case you’re worried about him.”

  Nicholas’s frown etches so deep it’s a wonder he doesn’t turn to stone. “Don’t do that again.”

  At first, I’m not sure which act he’s referring to—breaking into Thomas’s home or trying to find him—but he soon clarifies it for me.

  “You’re already under suspicion for the bones under the stairs,” he says. “We don’t want Inspector Piper to start questioning the rest of your clandestine activities around here. Your presence is difficult enough to explain as it is.”

  In other words, Nicholas is less concerned about his childhood friend and more concerned about covering his own tracks.

  “Ah, yes,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “We wouldn’t want anyone to find out you hired a fake psychic to con your own mother, would we? Forget Thomas. That would be something to really worry about.”

  The smile my words bring to Nicholas’s face is his least authentic one yet. Cold and cruel, it twists his face into something almost unrecognizable.

  It also unearths something almost unrecognizable within me: fear.

  It’s a strange sensation, and one I didn’t think I was capable of anymore. Fear, like hope, is something I thought I dispensed with a long time ago. After all, the worst has already happened; I’m living my nightmare every day. No imaginable threat can touch the dark hole that cushions my heart.

  But at the sight of that quick flash of Nicholas’s malice, I feel the full weight of this situation settle on my shoulders. At least two people have died inside this house. At least one was left long enough to rot. And for reasons only I—and maybe Winnie—can understand, the key to it all rests in my hands.

  When Nicholas finally speaks, however, his voice is as urbane as ever.

  “Thomas is a grown man, fully capable of looking after himself,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll walk through the door tomorrow evening with a brace of trout in hand, and your concerns will have been revealed to be for nothing.”

  “You’re sure of it?” I ask, unable to help myself. “In my line of work, I never make a promise like that unless I know I can back it up.”

  His mouth sets in a hard line as he turns to leave, all thoughts of kisses erased from sight. “Yes, Madame Eleanor. I’m sure.”

  Chapter 17

  “What do you mean, you lost the key? I didn’t even know there was a key.” I stand in the hallway outside the yellow bedchamber, staring at the sealed wooden portal that stands between me and all my earthly belongings.

  “I can’t think how I came to do it.” Vivian makes a show of searching her person. As this evening’s outfit is a pair of purple athletic leggings and a black tunic top I’m ninety-nine percent sure is mine, it’s a fruitless search. Unless the key is hidden in her shoe, there’s no way she has it. There’s nary a pocket to be seen. “I locked it after you went to gather herbs for your spell, of course, but I can’t remember where I put the dratted key after that.”

  “Why of course?”

  She drops all pretense of searching and blinks at me. “What’s that?”

  “You said of course you locked the door after I went herb gathering, but I don’t understand. I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Oh, the request didn’t come from you, dear. I thought it was odd, but I make it a habit not to argue with Xavier. He’s usually right about these things.”

  Xavier. He’s back. It seems the police didn’t scare him away, after all. And this time, the mischief he’s caused is more than playful. I need access to that room.

  “Where were you when Xavier made this request?” I ask.

  “How can one tell these things?” she asks and then immediately contradicts herself by stating, “The foyer. That’s where he usually comes to me when—”

  She halts and looks conscious-stricken.

  “Yes?” I urge. “That’s where he comes to you when . . . ?”

  Her conscious-stricken look transforms to one of bland innocence. “When he particularly wants my attention,” she says in a way that’s satisfactory to neither of us. �
��I expect he was feeling anxious about the yellow bedchamber, poor chap. I don’t believe he likes it above half that you’ve taken it over. But don’t worry. You can stay with Rachel for tonight.”

  “That’s not—” I begin.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble, love. She won’t mind. And I’m sure I’ll remember where I put that key in the morning. With all the excitement these past few days, it’s a wonder I remembered to put on a bra.”

  And with that, she saunters away, admiring the long, wispy sleeves of her—my—top as she goes. Watching her retreating form, I can’t decide if I’m more angry or amused. What might, a few days ago, have been a mild annoyance is now a dangerous intervention. I’d been counting on the cover of night to perform another thorough check of that bedchamber, have been drinking coffee since dinner in hopes of staving off sleep in case my midnight marauder decides to stop by.

  “It’s no use getting upset with her,” Rachel says from behind me. I whirl to find her leaning on the wall outside her room, a laugh lighting her eyes. “Uncle Nicholas is always trying to make her realize that she doesn’t have to do everything Xavier says, just because he says it, but Grandmother prefers to go her own way. She’s eccentric.”

  An eccentric matriarch, a delicate teenager, an autocratic son—this family loves to latch on to their labels, using them as an excuse to do exactly as they please.

  “But I need to get in there,” I protest. “Why would Xavier tell her to lock me out?”

  Rachel shrugs, using the movement to push off from the wall. “Maybe he’s mad at you. Maybe he feels like you’re intruding on his space.”

  Yes, or maybe he wanted time to ransack my room at his own leisure. He could be inside there even now, pawing through my belongings, smashing everything of value I have left. He better not be touching my wine.

  “You can have my bed,” Rachel offers. “I’ll sleep on the floor. I don’t mind.”

  I smile and thank her. I doubt the ancient wooden slats will provide much in the way of comfort, but her manners are, as always, impeccable. “I wonder if your uncle knows about this,” I muse aloud.

  She shrugs again. “Probably. There’s not much that goes on around here that Uncle Nicholas doesn’t know about.”

  Given the circumstances, that statement strikes me as rather generous. “Except what Xavier wants,” I say. “Or where all the dead bodies are coming from.”

  Rachel is forced into a laugh. “I suppose that’s true. Did you get the dandelions you needed today?”

  It takes me a moment to realize what she’s talking about, but I recover before she has a chance to get suspicious. I pat the apothecary satchel hanging at my hip and nod. “Yes, thanks. Would you like to help me brew the summoning draught?”

  “Can I really?” Rachel’s eyes grow wide, pleasure filling them just as much as when Nicholas told her she could go on her art exchange. I don’t know what Fern was thinking, keeping this poor child tied to this place, but it’s obvious she hasn’t had nearly as much fun in her lifetime as she deserves. The prospect of boiling weeds with a woman ten years her senior shouldn’t bring that much joy to anyone.

  “Of course,” I reply. “Ideally, we’d have three women working together to strengthen the summons, but two should do the trick. We’ll need to head down to the kitchen so we can use the stove, though—unless the fireplace in your room works?”

  “None of the fireplaces on the second floor work except for Grandmother’s,” she says. “But I do have a hot plate, if that helps.”

  “A hot plate is just the thing,” I reply before a thought occurs to me. I halt. “Wait a minute—were you the one cooking bacon the other morning?”

  Rachel tries to hold her laughter back by pressing her hands to her mouth, but it’s too late. At least one mystery around here has just been solved.

  “You little wretch,” I say as I sling an arm around her shoulders and direct her toward her room. “The next time you feel compelled to add to the intrigue around here, you can at least offer me a bite.”

  * * *

  My recipe for summoning the dead requires a simmering time of at least two hours.

  From a technical standpoint, I believe you’re supposed to make the dandelion roots into a tonic, dry the mallow leaves and burn them, and wear the rowan twigs and berries like jewelry. If I had more time and a bigger audience, I might do all those things, but there’s no real point now. I’ve convinced Rachel that tossing everything into a pot of water and letting it boil will bring the spirits to us, and that’s good enough for me.

  Besides, my coffee infusion is starting to wear off. I’m not emotionally prepared to chant and dance around with pieces of bark dangling around my neck until I get at least eight hours of sleep.

  “So now we wait?” Rachel looks at the saucepan of bobbing red berries with her nose wrinkled. The smell isn’t quite as pleasant as I’d hoped it would be. “And he just . . . shows up?”

  “We wait,” I agree. “And he just shows up.”

  Which is how I find myself wearing a nightshirt of Rachel’s, sitting cross-legged on her bed and braiding her hair while we wait for the spirit world to come to us. Or at least for the entire house to fall asleep so I can try to pry open my bedroom door without anyone noticing.

  “Do that cute loopy thing you wore the first day,” she commands as she leans her head against my knee. “Where’d you learn to do those fancy braids?”

  YouTube tutorials doesn’t have a very authentic ring to it, so I tell her the only other thing I can think of that also happens to be the truth.

  “My sister.” I gently position her head so it’s tilted to one side and start weaving my fingers through her tawny strands. “Her hair is just as long and fine as mine, so I use her to practice on. She’s a very patient model.”

  Rachel ruins my progress by twisting to peer up at me. “You have a sister? Oh, how lucky! I’ve always wanted one.”

  “Yes,” I murmur as I set her head straight again. “I am lucky, especially since I have a brother, too. We’re triplets.”

  “No, really? How exciting. Is it true what they say, that you can feel their pain and know when something is wrong, even if you’re thousands of miles apart?”

  “Yes,” I say, and leave it at that. And not just because I’m getting to a tricky part of the first coil. It is the truth, even if I didn’t believe it before I arrived here. I know now that there’s a stronger connection between me and Winnie than I ever gave myself credit for. Maybe she’s been trying to talk to me this whole time, and I just wasn’t listening properly.

  Rachel pauses for a moment. Fearful that I’m tugging too hard on her head—a thing I constantly worry about when I braid Winnie’s hair, since she has no way to tell me whether I’m giving her a headache or not—I stop my progress.

  “Am I hurting you?” I ask.

  “It’s awfully lonely, growing up in a place like this without anyone for company,” she says by way of answer. “You have no idea how much.”

  “It does seem a rather harsh environment for a young girl,” I reply. “But you have your family. You have friends. That boy who works at the village museum had an awful lot of nice things to say about you.”

  “Oh, please. That’s just Benji. He doesn’t count.” She pauses. “Why? What did he say?”

  “Nothing much,” I reply in singsong. “Just that he lurrrves you.”

  Her head jerks upright. “He did not!”

  “Rachel and Benji, sitting in a tree . . .”

  “Madame Eleanor, stop! He never said any such thing!”

  “I wish you’d call me Ellie,” I say as I casually resume my braiding activities. The results are going to be lopsided, but I can hardly be blamed for my inexpert work. I’m not used to practicing on someone who moves and laughs, someone teeming with life. “So few people do anymore. It’s what my sister used to call me.”

  Rachel is bright enough to pick up on the shift in my tone—not to mention that slight slip into the pas
t tense. “Used to?”

  “We were in a car accident when we were around your age,” I say with commendable aplomb. “She’s been in a kind of coma ever since. She hasn’t called me anything in ten years.”

  Rachel’s entire body stills, and there’s a long pause before she speaks again. “I’m so sorry, Madame Elea—I mean, Ellie. That sounds terrible. Is that why . . . ? I mean, is that how . . . ?”

  I continue with my work, grateful for the distraction her hair provides. “Is that why I’m a medium? Is that how I can commune with the dead?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t . . .” She breaks off, confused.

  “Yes, to both questions.” I snap my fingers for her to hand up a rubber band. “But now it’s my turn to ask a few. Rachel, why aren’t you in school with normal kids? Don’t feed me that line about being delicate—no one who’s prone to illness could live in a place as cold as this one. Why does your mother keep you buried away out here?”

  “I’m not buried,” she says, her tone defensive.

  “Sorry, bad word choice. I should have said sequestered.”

  I’ve finished with Rachel’s hair, so I hand her a mirror and let her examine the results. Her quick smile indicates pleasure, but it’s soon replaced with a worried look that makes her appear much older than her years. Then again, that could just be the ornate braid crowning her head. It’s always worked wonders for me.

  “What is it?” I ask, my voice gentle. “You can tell me, sweetie.”

  She hands me back the mirror. “Mum is . . .” She sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t know how to explain it. She loves me, I think, but not the way other mothers love their children. She doesn’t like me to go places, never takes me to London when she stays there. I’m a burden to her.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” I protest, but not very convincingly. Fern isn’t exactly awash with maternal vibes. “And even if it was, you still have the rest of your family. Your mother might not be demonstrative, but your uncle certainly doesn’t treat you like a burden.”