Born of Illusion (7 page)

A blast of frigid October air greets me as soon as I open the door. I clutch my coat tighter, wishing I were still wearing my warm woolen stockings instead of these new silk ones. Growing up isn’t all it’s reputed to be.

At the newsstand around the corner, I pick up the
Daily News
, the
Times
, and the
Sun
and tuck them into my basket. My mother will be eager to see if there are any reviews of last night’s show. Then I turn and head toward Broadway. I’d spotted the bookstore yesterday on our way to the theater, tucked in between a millinery shop and a café. In the brief glimpse I got, it looked to be just the type of shop I like most—old and musty and chock-f of books. The kind of books that one day may give me some answers about my abilities.

Books on spiritualism, psychic phenomena, and witchcraft are usually twaddle, but sometimes I find interesting tidbits of information that add to the tapestry of knowledge I’m trying to weave. And right now, with the visions I’ve been having, finding answers seems more urgent than ever.

I hurry down the busy sidewalk, clutching my coat tight against the chill of the wind. If I remember right, the bookstore should be just before Columbus Circle. It’s a lot farther by foot than I thought, and my toes are numb by the time I spot the sign for the milliner’s.

It’s a relief to step into the warmth of the bookshop, and I stand for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. Instead of being stacked in pretty rows across the shelves, the books are piled haphazardly on every available space. Of course, this means it will be harder to find anything useful, but the chaos pleases me.

An elderly woman behind the counter observes me sternly over the top of her glasses.

“If you’re looking for gossip magazines, you’re in the wrong place.”

I shake my head. “I’m not,” I assure her. “Do you have anything on . . .” I’m all set to say the occult, but something about her pursed mouth changes my mind. “Um, history?”

With a skeptical sniff, she leads me to a section toward the back of the store. I wait until she leaves before browsing the shelves. Maybe I can find something on my own. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday morning. Once, quite by accident, I discovered a fascinating book written more than fifty years ago by Robert Hare called
Experimental Investigation of the Spirit Manifestations, Demonstrating the Existence of Spirits and Their Communion with Mortals.
It was the first time I’ve ever come across a book where the science of spiritualism was being explored rather than just anecdotal evidence. Of course, until yesterday I was a lot more skeptical about communing with the dead.

Thinking of last night reminds me of my conversation with Cynthia Gaylord. What exactly is the Society for Psychical Research? An organization that studies psychic phenomena? I decide to ask her more about it next time I see her. I stare at the old history books in dismay. It’ll be impossible to find anything in this mess. Girding my loins, I march back to the clerk. She has a large book open on the counter and refuses to look up as I approach. Behind me, the bell over the door rings and still the clerk remains motionless.

“Excuse me,” I finally say. She places her finger at the end of a sentence and looks up with a frown.

“May I help you?”

“Yes. Do you have any books on the occult? Or on the Society for Psychical Research?”

Her frown deepens. “I’ve never heard of the Society for Psychical Research, but we do have a small section on the occult. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Do you have anything on Mrs. Emma Hardinge Britten or Nellie Brigham?” Both women were spiritualists during the late 1800s, and some of the supernatural activities that occurred during their séances had never been explained.

She sniffs. “You will have to look for yourself.” Her heels click impatiently across the wooden floor and I follow, wondering if she hates her job or if she’s just taken an irrational dislike to me. She indicates a shelf about two feet above our heads, then turns on her heel and stalks off. I spot a step stool at the end of the aisle and head down to grab it.

“Can I help you?” I hear her snap to the other customer.

So it isn’t just me.

I climb up on the stool and run my fingers along the titles. Some I’ve read; others don’t look helpful at all. I pause for a moment on
Spells and Incantations
but then move past it. My mother and I often used incantations during our séances to add authenticity, but I’m no longer interested in helping to make our séances better. It’s enough for me to keep us from getting caught.

“Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear you asking about mediums and the occult,” a rich English accent comes from behind me. “Have you read anything on D. D. Home?”

Startled, I grip the shelf and turn to find an older gentleman looking up at me.

“Excuse me?”

“My apologies for eavesdropping, but spiritualism is a hobby of mine.”

“Oh. No, I haven’t.”

“If you like Nellie Brigham, you might find him interesting.”

He looks past me and pulls out a book,
Unexplained Mysteries of
the Nineteenth Century
. “This one devotes a whole chapter to him.”

As he hands the book to me, our fingers brush and I receive a rush of emotional messages. Curiosity, amusement, and some other emotion I can’t identify. It makes me shiver a bit.

“Thank you.” I quickly turn back to the shelf and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping he’ll just move on. After a moment he does, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I wait until I hear the door open and close before hurrying to pay for my book. It’s getting late and I still need to do the day’s marketing.

The household upkeep is my job and has been since I was a little girl. My mother’s too spent from work to do much in whatever home we happen to be in. Usually I enjoy it, but this morning, the frigid weather and my anxiety over last night compels me to rush through my shopping as soon as I make it back to our neighborhood.

The hair on the back of my arms rises just as I enter Wu’s Tea Shop. The feeling isn’t overpowering, like the time my mother and I were attacked by a purse snatcher on our way home after a show. Then, the foreboding was so strong it almost drove me to my knees. This is just unsettling, like something around me is just a bit off.

Swallowing, I glance around the shop, but the only people inside are the clerk—an elderly Chinese man with a long braid and perfect English—and a round woman, who’s probably some family’s capable housekeeper.

So if the threat isn’t in here it must have come from outside. Am I being followed? And if so, why?

I walk through the store slowly, feigning preoccupation with the staggering assortment of teas and the odd Oriental knickknacks. The bell over the door rings and I startle, but it’s only the housekeeper on her way out.

“Can I help you, miss?” the clerk asks.

I nod. “Yes, I’ll take this one.” On impulse, I pick up another packet of tea for Mr. Darby. “And this, as well.”

The storekeeper places my tea in a paper bag and rings up the purchase. I linger at the counter as long as possible chatting with the clerk, who turns out to be Mr. Wu himself.

When I can’t possibly procrastinate any longer, I take my leave and pause just outside the door. The neighborhood is busier now, the streets packed with harried mothers doing their shopping, children playing raucous games to keep warm, and elderly men and women exchanging neighborhood gossip.

I take a deep breath and open myself up. Over the years, I’ve realized that my clairvoyance has separate facets—emotions that come to me when I touch other people, uncontrollable visions that pop up out of nowhere, and those rare occasions when I get the eerie sense that something bad is about to happen.

For survival’s sake, I’ve had to hone my observation skills to a razor-sharp point because the truth is that what people
say
isn’t always how they
feel
.

Though I don’t see or sense anything out of the ordinary, I still hurry through the rest of my shopping, not even lingering to visit with the shopkeepers as I usually do. Thanks to my time with the circus I’m pretty good at defending myself, but I don’t want to risk it. Plus, I want to get back home to make sure my mother is all right.

As always, the thought of the circus brings to mind all the wonderful people I knew there. “Circus” was actually an optimistic term for a ragtag collection of freaks who couldn’t get employment with the bigger, more successful shows, but I’d only been nine years old when we joined and, after spending two years with them, those freaks became my family. Swineguard, the knife thrower, taught me how to use a blade and to hold so still that even my heartbeat slowed. Hairy Harold played checkers with me every night after the show, and Komatchu, the Last of the Zulu Princesses (actually a former maid from Atlanta), loaned me books from the trunkful she hauled with her everywhere she went. I loved it there. Mother hated it. She felt the whole thing, especially the people, were beneath her. She’s a terrible snob for someone who swindles people for a living. The only reason we stayed so long was a contract she couldn’t get out of. As soon as the contract was up, she left without a backward glance.

I was heartbroken. Traveling with no one but my mother for company can be incredibly lonely.

I turn the corner onto our block and slow as I see someone come out of our building. I know it’s Cole not only by his height and broad shoulders but also by his distinctive walk. I hold my breath but instead of coming in my direction, he crosses the street and turns at the next corner. I hesitate, but only for a moment. Something about Cole makes me uneasy, and my cranky neighbor may have the answers. Considering the visions I’ve been having, I can’t afford to leave any stone unturned. It’s time Mr. Darby and I had a little chat about his mysterious houseguest.

Seven

O
nce back in my building, I do a quick check on my mother to make sure she’s still happily sleeping before heading back downstairs. I waver before knocking on Mr. Darby’s door. But then I take a deep breath and knock softly. He answers within seconds.

“That’s the problem with neighbors,” he says in greeting. “You’re nice to them once and you never get rid of them.”

I hide a smile, refusing to let him intimidate me. I’ve always wanted to live in a place long enough to have neighbors, and a crotchety neighbor is better than none at all. Besides, Mr. Darby’s grumpiness is nothing compared to some of the stage managers I’ve worked with. I put one hand on my hip and raise an eyebrow. “Just when were you ever nice to me? And you should be nice. I brought you some of that tea you said you wanted.”

He eyes my basket. “I see that. And croissants, too?” He opens the door wider. “Well, come on in, girl. It’s cold out here in the hall.”

Hesitating only a moment, I follow him into his apartment, not bothering to correct his mistake. If my mother can give my tea to Jacques, I can give her croissant to Mr. Darby.

I glance around as I follow Mr. Darby into the kitchen. The rooms are neater than I’d expected for a bachelor apartment, and I wonder which of its residents is the tidy one.

I slow as I pass a desk with an envelope on it. It is addressed to Cole in a flowery, feminine script. The return address says London.

“Well, come along.” Mr. Darby waves his hand at me and I blush, hoping he doesn’t think I’m snooping. Even if I am.

“You might as well sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

I sit at a small table and watch as he puts the water on the stove and adds more coal to the fire. Like the sitting room, the kitchen is clean and comfortable. The furniture looks worn and less expensive than our brand-new set but far more homey. As if someone actually lives here. Sometimes I wish our apartment looked a little more lived in. Of course, lived in isn’t really good for business. Not now that we’re trying to attract a ritzier clientele.

Mr. Darby places a cup and saucer in front of me and then adds a plate. “You’ll probably want to be served, too.” He furrows his forehead in disapproval.

“Well, I did bring the tea and the croissants,” I say, sarcasm seeping through my smile.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he sets the tea down in front of me. “You don’t fool me, missy. You’re just hoping to run into Cole.”

My head jerks up. “I am not!”

He snorts and takes the seat across from me. “Anyway, you’re out of luck. He’s gone already.”

I shift in my seat, my face flaming. If Mr. Darby thinks I’m interested in Cole, maybe he’ll be a bit more forthcoming with information. All I have to do is swallow my pride.

“When did Cole move in with you? I didn’t see him when we first came here.” I widen my eyes, trying for fake innocence.

He flashes me a knowing glance. “So that’s why I got the croissant! No, don’t try to deny it.” He holds up a hand to stop my protest. “I knew a young miss wouldn’t go to all this trouble for an old man like myself. He moved in just before you did, but he pretty much keeps to himself and is gone for a good deal of the day.”