by Teri Brown
Turning my head, I track the stately progress of an elderly woman dressed head to toe in black. The rustle of her old-fashioned taffeta heralds her progress as does the tappity-tap of her gold-handled cane. Her hair is piled on her head in a mass of silver curls and a choker of pearls gleams around her neck.
“Now, Mother,” Muriel clucks as the dowager takes the seat next to her.
I’m struck dumb as her sharp blue eyes appraise me. My knees feel suddenly painfully bare even though they’re covered by silk stockings, and I resist the urge to yank down my skirt.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Cole,” the old woman says. “I don’t see you nearly enough, but I understand. The young do gad about so. Now sit up, dear. There’s a boy.”
I feel Cole straighten next to me. He clears his throat. “You’re looking well, Grandmother. May I present Miss Anna Van Housen?”
My lips curve in a tentative smile.
His grandmother sniffs. “If you must.”
The smile slips off my face, but Cole continues as if his grandmother hadn’t spoken. “Anna, this is my grandmother. And please don’t fret. Her bark is far worse than her bite.”
The woman leans forward onto the cane. “My bite is precisely as bad as my bark.”
I believe it.
An ancient butler, who I assume is Robert, comes in with a tinkling tea cart. It’s loaded with enough tiny little finger foods to satiate an entire army of Lilliputians. He carefully lifts a silver tray from the cart and places it on the table in front of us.
“Perhaps our guest would like to pour the tea?” Cole’s grandmother interjects, a gleam in her pale blue eyes.
I swallow hard. Then, to let her know I’m not that easily intimidated, I curl my lips up ever so slightly at the corners. “Oh, you don’t want me pouring. I would hate to spill it.” I don’t add, all over you but I don’t have to, my meaning is clear.
Shades of my mother.
“I’ll pour,” Muriel says hastily.
A heavy silence descends as Cole’s mother pours the tea and little plates of food are passed. A slight buzzing starts in my ears and I shake my head, wondering if I’m getting sick.
Cole’s grandmother clears her throat. “So as an entertainer, do you perform onstage with men?”
I almost choke on a crumpet. I lift my eyes to meet hers. She stares back at me, malice written in the creases and lines of her face. I know in an instant that this is no grumpy old woman who can be won over. To her I will never be more than gutter trash her grandson picked up—and American gutter trash to boot.
“Grandmother,” Cole exclaims, but I lay a hand on his arm to let him know that it’s all right.
“I usually performed with my mother, but occasionally I performed with a sword swallower named Swineguard. He was like a father to me, actually.” I pick up a clean butter knife and twirl it. It flashes in and out of my fingers before I calmly dip it into the butter to spread on my crumpet.
There’s a long silence before Cole says cheerfully, “Did I forget to tell you? Anna worked in a circus too!”
Cole’s grandmother’s mouth purses. “How curious.”
In spite of my bravado, my face flushes. I hate being judged for things I had no control over. The buzzing in my ears increases and I give everyone a vague smile. What is that?
I turn to his mother, who is glancing from me to her mother-in-law with the horrified look of someone who’s found herself in a drama not of her making. I take pity.
“What a lovely tea, Muriel,” I tell her even though my head feels so fuzzy, I can barely swallow a bite.
“Thank you, dear. Cole tells me you’re going on tour soon?”
“Merciful heavens,” his grandmother murmurs.
Everyone ignores her. The buzzing in my ears is like a symphony of honeybees getting ready to take flight, and everything tastes like paper. Desperately, I take a swallow of tea, only to burn my tongue. I shake my head to clear it and Cole gives me an odd look. “Yes, we’ll be gone for three weeks and giving ten performances. This is a minirun to work the kinks out of the show.”
“Where are you going?” Muriel asks.
His grandmother snorts to let us know exactly where she thinks I’m going.
My mind is curiously blank and I look at Cole in near panic. I don’t want to get sick in front of his mother and grandmother. I suddenly feel his presence, comforting me, and the answer pops into my mind. “Budapest, Warsaw, and Prague are the big cities, and I think there are a couple of smaller venues, as well. We’ll be doing several shows at each, tweaking our performances until we get them just right. Then we’ll come back here for a couple of weeks before we go to France.”
“How exciting!” Muriel says.
It is exciting. Entertaining people with my magic—feeling their excitement, watching their amazement—is what I love doing best in the world. So why don’t I feel more excited? Perhaps because I’m sitting with people who believe that performers are one small step above Gypsies and thieves.
Even though the buzzing has abated, my head still feels as if I’m trying to think through a bowl of aspic. Cole senses that something is amiss and shifts the conversation to the university and what he’ll be studying.
“I don’t understand why you want to be a detective,” his grandmother sniffs. “Why waste a fine legal education on that when you can go into the civil service like your father? That’s what I would like to know. Being a detective is so common.”
Cole and his mother continue talking as if they hadn’t heard and the rest of the tea goes just like that. His grandmother throws in comments so spiteful that I want to blow up at her, while the other two both behave as if it’s normal. Perhaps it is, but by the time we finish our tea, my temples are throbbing and I’m more than ready to leave.
Cole’s mother is effusive in her good-byes, no doubt trying to make up for her mother-in-law’s poor behavior. His grandmother picks up a book and begins reading to avoid saying good-bye to me, so I leave it be and hurry out the door.
As we walk back to the motorcar Cole says, “They liked you.”
I stop, a surprised laugh escaping before I can choke it back. “Cole, that was awful!”
He smiles. “Oh come on. It wasn’t that bad. My grandmother can be a bit gruff, but . . .”
“You’re joking, right? She was absolutely nasty to me.”
He opens the door for me and then shuts it. Hard.
He can’t be serious.
“Were we even in the same room?” I wonder when he climbs in.
“I think you’re overreacting just a bit. She’s basically harmless . . .”
“She’s as harmless as a piranha. What about the things she was saying to you?”
“What things? Oh, you mean about being a detective? That’s just the way she is. She’s had a harder life than you would think. My grandfather died when my father was very young and she raised the children by herself. She was devastated when my father died in the war.”
I press my forehead against the cold window. Yes, it must have been so hard raising three children by herself in that rich house with all those servants.
He places his hand on my shoulder and I turn my head to look at him. “My grandmother will warm up to you, and my mother already loves you. I can tell.”
He gives me such a reassuring smile that I can’t help but smile back. He starts the car and pulls away from the curb and I study his strong profile in the waning light. His Homburg is tilted ever so slightly on his head and the sharp clever planes of his face are filled with character. But in reality he was raised by nannies and tutors and in boarding school and privilege. Yes, he lost his father and was stranded deep within enemy territory while at school during the Great War, but as horrible as that was, he has never gone without food or shelter. I’ve done without both. Right now, the chasm between us feels insurmountable.
The next morning, I pull out the slip of paper Calypso gave me the day of our outing and telephone her at her boa
rdinghouse. Luckily, she’s free and we arrange to meet after my rehearsal. I don’t want to spend the day alone, worrying about the stiffness that seems to have sprung up between Cole and me. I already spent a fitful night worrying about the strange episode I had at his house, which he neglected to ask me about. Then I lay in bed and worried why he hadn’t asked me about it. He knew something was wrong. Had I offended him, speaking that way about his grandmother? Then I worried about that, too. There seemed to be no end of the things to worry about, so I decided some lighthearted fun with a friend is just what I need.
Anything is better than moping about the hotel waiting for Cole to get in touch with me.
Calypso is in the lobby when I get back from the theater and greets me with a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you rang me up,” she says, her dark eyes pensive. “I’m worried about Pratik and don’t want to be by myself.”
“I didn’t want to be by myself today either, so I guess it was meant to be. Has anything else happened?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I just started thinking about his disappearance and then I couldn’t stop. I hardly slept at all.”
I tilt my head. Her normally lively spirit is considerably dimmer and dark circles lie heavy under her eyes. She looks as exhausted as I feel and I link my arm with hers. “You know what my best friend once said? That there is nothing that ails one that can’t be made considerably better by a piece of delectable chocolate cake. Do you know of a handy bakery?”
She gives me a smile. “I knew you would make me feel better. There’s one over by where I live that may have just what we’re looking for.”
Both of us are still dressed for the cold, in wool coats and dark hats, so we simply turn around and head back out. We take the tube to St. Charles stop and I’m amazed at how clean it seems to be compared with New York’s subway. When we emerge, the rain has picked up and we huddle under her large black umbrella watching the water cascade down its sides.
“We’ll have to get you your very own umbrella,” she says. “It’s practically a rite of passage, you know.”
“Yours is plenty big!” I tell her, marveling at its size.
“I have an extra one just like it in my room. We’ll go get it after our cake.” She leads me swiftly down a narrow street flanked by three- and four-story buildings, so close together they almost blot out the sky. These gracious old structures would be architectural wonders anywhere else in the world, but the people here live, fight, give birth, and die in them as if they aren’t anything unusual. I have no time for lollygagging, though, as the street is busy with motorists, and I’m delighted to see a double-decker bus splashing toward us. Calypso waits until it goes by and then once again we risk life and limb by darting across the thoroughfare, dodging traffic. She ignores the number of horns honking at us and steps up onto the sidewalk as if that’s a normal occurrence. Perhaps it is.
She takes me through a narrow door with panes of glass so old they look wavy, and I’m immediately assailed by the warm, yeasty scent of fresh bread. She shuts her umbrella and points me in the direction of one of the empty, chipped café tables in front of the shop. “Go sit and I will order us the best hot chocolate and chocolate cake you have ever tasted.”
I sit at one of the small tables in front of a large bay window that is so steamy from the heat of the ovens in the back that it’s impossible to see through. The bakery is warm and cozy and just perfect for a gray, drizzly afternoon. I slip my coat off my shoulders and take the cup Calypso offers. The chocolate is hot and comforting and I bless the person who made it.
By the time she returns with the cake, I am already feeling much better. She sets the slice between us and hands me a fork. Her hair is plaited loosely in the back with a ribbon, and dark waves frame her face. She still looks tired, but less worried.
I take a sip of my hot chocolate and close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the creaminess.
She laughs. “I told you it was good. Try the cake.”
I take a forkful of cake and then nod as a velvety sweetness spreads through my mouth. “You were right. It’s delicious.” We smile at one another and I feel a discernible lightening of the emotions between us.
I’m suddenly curious about this girl who is fast starting to fill the void created after saying good-bye to Cynthia. “I take it you don’t have family here?”
The drop in her mood is so sudden, I look up from the cake, startled.
Her mouth twists. “I do but we’re estranged. My mother is in the States.”
Her expression is closed, and I know I shouldn’t pry but am compelled to ask, “And your father?”
“My father is here in London, but we don’t speak.” Her smile is grim. “I take after him in many ways and he can’t accept the fact that I may be as talented or more talented than he is.”
My eyes widen. “Is he a Sensitive?”
She snorts. “No. He’s an insensitive.”
“Is that why you stay in a boardinghouse?” I’m curious about her life. She’s younger than I am but seems both childish and ageless at the same time.
She nods. “The Society rents rooms for us in a house not too far from their old office. It’s a nice place and it’s ever so much better than staying with my father in the mausoleum.”
She gives an exaggerated shudder.
I frown. “Do all the Sensitives live there? At the boardinghouse?”
She nods.
“Then why was Pratik staying with Mr. Gamel?”
She presses her lips together. “I’m not exactly sure. He didn’t make friends easily.”
She stands and puts on her coat. “Are you finished?”
I nod reluctantly. The thought of going out into the rain doesn’t hold much appeal, but impatience is shooting off her in little sparks. So I crawl into my coat before heading back out into the drizzle.
I follow her through a maze of narrow streets, and traffic becomes scarce. Black umbrellas bob along the sidewalks like a funereal march of mushrooms. The rain has lessened, but one can hear the dripping as if the world is so saturated that it will never dry out. Foreboding runs down my spine, as if someone just walked over my grave.
“Here we are!”
She pulls me up a short walk to a gray stone Georgian building that rises four stories from the street. Black wrought iron decorative bars cover the lower windows, giving it the look of a prison. The black paint on the front door is chipped and the stone steps are pitted. The house itself is flanked by two other row homes done in the same style, but better cared for, giving this one the look of a poor and bitter relation.
Suddenly a feeling of apprehension rushes over me and I stop at the threshold, my limbs sluggish and heavy.
Calypso turns to me. “What’s wrong?”
My tension eases at the sound of her voice. Silly. I’m being silly.
I follow her into the house, chiding myself. I just need to get used to the ancient atmosphere of London, I tell myself. Of course, it seems creepy considering how old everything is. And the fog and the wet aren’t helping.
The foyer leads to a wide hallway, with arched doors on either side. “There’s the dining room in there, but most of us don’t eat here much.” She lowers her voice. “The cook is horrible. That’s the lounge.”
Calypso pauses and I poke my head in. Deep leather couches, rows of bookcases, and a large fireplace give the room a cozy feel except for the chill that permeates the entire house. “It would be nice with a fire,” I tell her, and she nods.
“The landlady refuses to pay for either a good cook or any heat that she doesn’t have to. Jared once left a glass of water on the window ledge as an experiment and it was frozen solid the next morning.”
I shiver. It’s hard to imagine what her father’s house is like if this place is better.
“My room is upstairs but let’s go get the umbrella first before I forget it. It’s down in the cellar . . .”
Just then a faint scream comes from deeper within the hous
e. Both Calypso and I freeze.
“Did you hear that?” she asks.
My stomach churns and my legs twitch as if they are going to run me out of the house on their own. Before I can answer, another scream sounds and this time it doesn’t stop.
Calypso whirls around and runs toward the source of the sound, and in spite of legs that want to collapse underneath me, I follow. At the end of the hall she turns in to the kitchen, where an older woman in a long apron stares transfixed at an open door across the room. When she sees Calypso, she points at the door.
We approach cautiously. The screams take on an eerie, keening quality, and my whole body trembles at the sound. It takes every bit of self-control I have to follow Calypso down those rickety steps. As we descend, the dank smell of an ancient basement assaults my nostrils. Fear and a strange sense of suppressed excitement ripple through the air, though I can’t tell if the emotions belong to Calypso or the terrified woman we find still screaming at the bottom. It’s a young woman with dark blond hair. Her face is dead white and her blue eyes are wide with horror. An upturned basket of laundry lies at her feet. I follow her terrified gaze and my stomach lurches at the sight that greets me.
Pratik.
Calypso skids to a stop and her hand goes over her mouth. The woman jumps when she sees us and then, as if released, turns and races up the stairs. I stand frozen, staring.
Pratik is sitting up against an old-fashioned washing machine with his hands lying in his lap, palms upward. Something round and dark like a beetle gleams against one palm, but I can’t tell what it is. His vacant eyes are staring at something horrifying that only he can see and his dark skin is sallow and sunken, as if his essence has been drained. Even from a distance I can tell that his clothes are mussed, as if they had been thrown on hastily. His white turban is nowhere in evidence.
“Is he dead?” Calypso whispers.
I try to speak but no sound comes out. I swallow hard and try again. “Yes.” I know he’s dead without even taking a closer look.
She turns to me then, her eyes glowing coals in a face so white I can see the tracings of veins under her skin. “Can you feel him?” she asks suddenly. “Is his ghost here?”
