by Quenby Olson
"Shall I open a window?" I offer, though I doubt I’ve the strength to walk to the other side of the room and beat at the casement.
"And let in the stench from all outdoors? Good God, no!" She snatches up another handkerchief, tugging it free from the pile with enough force to tear the thin fabric to shreds. "And what is it that's gone and brought you here at such an ungodly hour? If it wasn’t a stay at Ryall’s that has you looking like they’ve dragged you out of the Thames, then you’ll have to pardon me for feeling a bit suspicious of your motives."
Through all of this, I've not moved more than a few paces from the door, the towers of clutter threatening to fall in on me from all sides. "I simply wanted to speak to you." Another cursory glance around the room, at the half-filled cases, the feeble attempts at packing. "Are you going someplace, Marta?"
"Oh-ho! You haven't heard?" Her cheeks swell upwards as her smile broadens. "It seems that a certain Lord and Lady Buxton have heard about the goings-on at a certain sitting conducted by none other than my little Franny." She winks in my direction, indicates my part in the proceedings with a regal wave of her hand. "They want to play host to a whole week's worth of sittings and demonstrations, and all of it coming out of their pockets." Her shoulders push back, and her chin rises, buoyed by her fledgling pride. "Well, it's more Lady Buxton's idea. Silly thing, went and lost her son a few years back and thinks that he's been up to haunting a cupboard, or some other such nonsense. But she's had a run of mediums through there, and not one's been able to leave an impression, so now it's Franny's turn to make her mark. To be truly honest, I think it might be too soon in her career to be performing in front of the... well, the higher-born, I'll say. But when an opportunity presents itself, who am I to turn my back on it?"
She laughs at this, almost a charming laugh, but when I cannot bring myself to join in, the handkerchief droops from her fingers while her gaze finds its way to my face. "Oh, Dorothea. What's in your head this morning?"
I reach down and pick up a glove, turned inside out, and fiddle with the fingers to quell my own nervousness. "Too much."
Marta chuckles softly, but I can hear the strain behind it. "Still haven't been sleeping lately?"
"Not well, no." I'm in no mood to lie this morning.
"I thought not. Lord, you look to have aged about ten years in the last week." She shakes her head, clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "And what about eating? Red meat and wine, you know. Does wonders for a system that needs brightening up."
"I am fine, Marta. No need to concern yourself over me. I am not a little girl anymore."
I wait a few minutes, and she clears her throat. At that moment, a grey shroud passes over my sight as a high, clear cry sounds inside my head.
"Thea," she pronounces in a rough whisper. "What's wrong?"
Reluctantly, I close my eyes and pick out the strongest voice in my head, prodding it until it's louder than all the rest. A frightening, solitary note, more plaintive than I've heard in some time, whispering into my left ear.
"It's nothing." My teeth clench as my gaze seeks out the floor, ready for the fall I think must be about to come. Already, I'm dealing with the punishment for my mistake. Allow one voice to be heard, and the rest of them begin an unholy clamour for attention, cackling between sibilant whispers, hissing vulgarities that pull at the knotted muscles between my shoulder blades. "I'll be fine. Really." I shake my head, as if disagreeing with my own words. "Not enough sleep, but I'll be fine. I'll be..."
In a moment, she's on her feet, clearing a path through the piles of junk to grab my wrist, squeezing until I'm afraid she'll feel the scars I took such care to hide beneath my sleeve. In a harsh voice that feels moist against my ear, she says:
"You've still got it!"
"No." I pull away from her, a small movement, while my eyes dart from side to side, careful not to trip over anything that might find its way underfoot.
"Some people want the spectacle," Marta continues. "That's what they pay for, but you bring 'em something else. You know, I felt chills just now, wondering what was going on inside your head. I mean it, the hair jumped right to attention on the back of my neck, and all without you hardly lifting a finger. That's the power you have."
"I don't want—" But before I can even decide what I want, she cuts me off.
"Lady Francesca is nothing, do you hear me? Nothing. You say the word, and I'll make you my first concern. Get you back up in a decent house, decent clothes that actually fit you, latest styles and all."
No, no, no. That's not what I want. Not at all. I never wanted the fame, the fortune. Pretty dresses made from pretty fabrics and adorned with pretty scraps of ribbon and lace, my hair pinned and curled, scented creams for my hands, perfumes for my skin. But there's no use in telling this to Marta, not again. And yet it's always the same things she has to offer, because I'm sure she never really hears what I have to say.
"You tell me what you want," she says. "Anything, and it's yours."
Oh, to be teased and tempted in such a way! Anything, she says, and yet my mind can fix on only one request, one that has been gaining clarity and definition ever since it entered my head a few hours before.
"I want you to tell me how you came to make Ryall’s acquaintance."
She rears back, shocked I think, and—in a rare instance, how I shall have to treasure it—quite speechless. A perfect opportunity for me to continue uninhibited.
"Well, I’m sure I’ve already told you—" She’s interrupted by the stack of photographs, landing with a muffled thump on the end of her bed.
I give her a moment to lean forward, to peruse the first few pictures at the top of the pile. She doesn’t go so far as to touch a single one of them, and when she glances at me again, her face looks older, more tired, I think.
"Did he give these to you?"
I shake my head.
"You took them?"
"From his bedroom."
A brief widening of her eyes, but she must decide there are more important matters to discuss than how I came to acquire some of his more personal belongings. "I’ve known him for quite some time."
"Before you met me?"
There is a slight tightening at the corners of her mouth. I think she may be about to lie, but instead she nods, an almost imperceptible movement, and I sense there must be some internal dialogue within her own head apart from the conversation she is carrying on with me. "Yes. Well, I was not always interested in this larking about with spirits, as you may or may not already know."
I did not know. I suspected that Marta’s background might not have always been as reputable as the front she currently puts forward to the public, but considering the tragedy marring my own past, I was not going to make her feel uncomfortable for her own youthful missteps.
"I had a house, and I kept a very select group of girls. Lovely birds, intelligent. Not one of them would have been out of place in the poshest of drawing rooms. They knew how to speak, how to act. And Ryall… Well, he was one of my best customers. He always preferred my youngest ones, but it was nothing unseemly, mind you."
"Of course," I say. The only thing I can say if I want to avoid offending her, which would no doubt put a swift end to her narrative.
"I remember there was one girl, Emily, a very pretty thing. Ryall took a strong liking to her. It wasn’t until after a few months of him paying her more than the usual amount of attention that I guessed something unusual was going on between them." She tugs at the collar of her dressing gown, but I notice the straightening of her shoulders beneath the thin fabric. "My girls were good, some of the best, but they certainly weren’t any of them skilled enough to have a toff like Ryall sniffing around for longer than a season."
She clears her throat, dabs at a fresh layer of perspiration shimmering on her temples, and allows my mind the freedom to move forward towards the next point in the conversation.
"She was a Spiritualist."
Marta nods. "Of course, I’m not
one to pass judgement on what others choose to do with themselves when they happen upon a few spare hours, but he was paying my girl for a particular service, and if that service wasn’t being performed…" Her head tips from left to right, a fair recreation of the argument she must have held with herself all those years ago. "Well, it all squared itself away, in the end. And I’m not ashamed to admit that it felt good to step into something of a more respectable line of business."
"Respectable, yes."
She must hear something in my tone, because her eyebrows push upwards as she regards me from her place on the bed. "Scoff all you like, but it kept you warm and fed through many a season. You may be keen to disparage your former livelihood to all and sundry, but traipsing around as you are, looking like Death is nipping at your heels isn’t doing much to support your arguments."
"The writing on the back," I say, eager to drive our conversation forward while my strength still holds. "Do you recognise it?"
There is a frustrating reluctance in her movements as she reaches for the top photograph, flicks it over with a single finger and glares down her nose at the name scrawled there. "Looks to be a woman’s hand." Her mouth curls at the corner as her nose wrinkles. A slight turn of her head as her eyes close, and I know she wants nothing more to do with it.
"But have you seen it before?" I press.
"Perhaps," she says, always ambiguous. It’s part of her trade, to be so frustratingly enigmatic, to keep people teetering on the edge and so always willing and wanting to come back for the next act. "Perhaps not. I’m no good for remembering that sort of thing. Details and such. There are better heads for poring over such nonsense."
I leave my post near the door, my balance wavering once as I move towards the side of the bed and sweep up the scattered photographs, careful to count through them and return each one to the stack tucked beneath my arm. Her disinterest in them may be feigned. Should I leave one behind, she could snatch it up as if it were a piece of unearthed treasure.
"A shame," I tell her, my voice calm, my eyes focused on arranging the pictures and letters to my liking. "Any little clue would have been welcome, but if you are truly unable to remember anything…"
I glance up long enough to see her mouth chewing over something, as if she were capable of masticating her unruly thoughts into something more straightforward. "You want something." It is not spoken as an accusation. I must give her that.
"Many things, but I doubt more than two or three would meet with your agreement." I'm breathing more heavily now, and I press my legs forward onto the edge of the bed, the better to support them and give me a reprieve from their incessant trembling. "First, I would ask you to leave England." Now that I’ve given the words life, I cannot pause for longer than it takes for me to draw in a breath. "If you promise to leave before the end of the week, perhaps? That would be four days, right? If you leave, I promise to take on whatever task you ask of me once I've deemed it safe enough for your return."
The offer sounds paltry even to my own ears, but there's no denying the spark of interest in Marta's eye. She considers it, for a moment, but her expression hardens, her unpainted mouth drawing into a tight line. "Here now, what exactly are you going on about? And what's this about you deeming it safe? Safe for what?" Her arms cross over her chest. "Don't you be telling me you've gone off your head again. I had enough of that the first time."
"There are other places besides London," I tell her, going on as if she hadn't spoken a word. "What about Paris? Or Cadiz? Or anywhere, really. And you can take your Lady Francesca with you. Go on a tour, if you like. But stay away from here. For a while, at least."
She returns to pondering. For something to do, she begins snatching scraps of clothing from the end of bed, gathers them into her arms and carries them over to an open trunk, dumping them in without ceremony. I watch her as she makes a show of tidying and straightening some of the mess, tossing a pair of slippers into a suitcase, sorting through a pile of gold and silver bracelets.
"Lord Buxton has offered me a great deal of money," she explains as she slams down the lid of a large trunk, her fingers fumbling with the latches that adorn its front. "And I'm supposed to toss all that out the window? Because you want me to up and run away with my tail between my legs? This could be Franny's big break, you know. I'll not risk this chance at real prosperity, at rubbing elbows with royalty and all that, simply because you've gone and picked up a bad feeling."
"A moment ago, you said I gave you chills."
"Yes, well." She stands up, out of breath now, and I notice the dark stains of perspiration beginning to form beneath her arms. "A rank bit of mutton will give me chills on the right day." A brief chuckle follows these words, her attempt at assuring me that she is in no way comparing me to a hunk of spoiled meat. "Now, you tell me exactly why you think I should be leaving London, why I should be all ready to throw away such golden opportunities, and then..." She raises one hand, palm forward. "Then we'll see about working out a little bargain of sorts."
The images are there in a moment. Indeed, I very much doubt they ever left. "I don't believe that London is safe, anymore."
"Oh, and this is such a change from how it used to be?"
I pull in a breath as a bead of perspiration slides down the back of my neck. "Ryall is dead."
This, I see, clamps her mouth shut. But my victory is short-lived, as her jaw works over the argument she is no doubt about to throw, like a gauntlet, at my feet. "No shock there, really. I'm more surprised that the man lived for as long as he did."
"Marta." I wipe the moisture from my forehead, the back of my hand sliding across my face. "I don't know what I am supposed to say to make you believe, to convince you." I shut my eyes, hold my breath until I feel a pressure on my chest. "I think you may die, too," I blurt out, my voice low. "By the same hand that killed Ryall. And my family."
She studies me for a few moments, and takes to smoothing down the front of her dressing gown, picking at invisible pieces of lint. It's not like her to be so fastidious, and so her current behaviour acts as a bit of preparation for whatever uncharacteristic thing she may be about to say.
"All right." Her lips press together, forming a pout in the perfect shape of a rosebud. "But I want your word I'll be seeing you back on stage within a month's time, and that you’ll continue doing absolutely everything in your power to make my Franny look good. If from here on out, every séance turns out to be nothing but twelve dumb ducks sitting around a table, waiting for a ghost to come dragging its chains across the floor—"
"I promise, Marta. When you return, everything in my power."
Her eyes sharpen. I fear she can smell the evidence of the lie, seeping from my pores.
"And you don’t believe I should be looking to make this a permanent change of address?"
"No," I admit. "But I am quite certain that at this moment, it's not safe for you here. For any of us, really."
If she has any doubts, she keeps them to herself. And then her face softens, not with relief, but with the promise of new business ventures, of all the cities that must lie before her, crowds of people, and all of them stumbling under the weight of the spare coinage that fills their pockets.
"And you're sure this is for the best?" she asks, and now I know, I know that she's already judging how long it will take for her to finish packing up her things, now for a voyage beyond the limits of London, of all England, rather than a mere trip to the other side of the river. "What if nothing happens while we're gone? What if our absconding, as it were, turns out to be nothing more than a waste of my time and money?" All business, she is.
"Then I'll be sure to drop onto my knees and praise God for sparing us all any additional grief."
A small smile from that, but it's short-lived. "And what about taking Franny out of the city so soon? You know that you've always been my favourite and all, but if this ends up making her look like some kind of fool, like a fraud, running away after a single unexplained incident..."
"Don't worry," I say, the lie so bold, so blatant that I wonder how she can put her faith in a single syllable. "I promise that your Lady Francesca will have her career, one that will shine with an incandescence far brighter than what you ever imagined for my own."
I fear I’ve pushed too far, as Marta’s head draws back, eyes narrowed as if to better survey the untruth that drifts through the air before her. But if I'm afraid that she’ll change her mind and deny my request, I'm allowed to release my breath as she relaxes her own shoulders and dismisses me with a shake of stockings in my direction.
"Go and get yourself some rest," she says. "If you’re set to make a return to the stage, I’ll not have you dying before the first curtain rises."
Again, I breathe. The air in the bedroom seems to have reached such a thickness that I suspect I'm drawing in more moisture than air with every inhalation. I turn away from her, my gaze fixed on the door, the letters and photographs wedged firmly against my side. As my fingers reach for the doorknob, I stop and turn back, my grip tightening as I see a brief wave of black spots in front of my vision.
"One more thing," I say. My voice is weak, but if Marta is in a mood to be generous, I have no wish to squander it. "Why did you take an interest in me? I was only a child, an orphan by the time we met. Was it a mere whim of yours? The scandal associated with me, or…?"
I leave the question open, inviting her to respond with as much information as she is willing to provide. The wait is almost unbearable. It is not until I begin to think she will not speak, that she will not give me anything that I see her gaze drift towards a point beyond me, her focus on a period of time years before.
"It was Sissy."
A wave of pain threatens to rise up and engulf my thoughts, but I stamp it down quickly, my breathing becoming more laboured with the strain.
"She directed me to you," Marta continues. "Said that you had quite the talent, especially considering what a young thing you were at the time."
