The Spiritglass Charade (8 page)

Although it was common for mediums and spirit-speakers to be young women of our age, my assumption was this elderly woman was, in fact, Mrs. Yingling. This was confirmed when our hostess greeted her. Introductions ensued, followed by more introductions when two other young women arrived. One of them turned out to be the aforementioned Miss Amanda Norton, who had “discovered” our esteemed medium. The other was a wide-eyed young woman named Miss Rolstone.

I immediately observed several indications that Mrs. Yingling was a fraud, but declined to point them out until I could examine her in action. A quiver of disappointment shuttled through me as I realized our new assignment from Princess Alexandra might be reconciled as soon as this afternoon.

What a shame.

Mrs. Yingling pulled carefully to her feet. “Shall we commence to the prepared chamber?” Her voice was querulous, and I wondered how such a flimsy woman could have the strength to lift the s
é
ance table during the so-called session.

As the astute reader will have guessed, I was in no way a believer in the Spiritualism mania. I was also quite familiar with the tricks employed by mediums seeking to prove their veracity in order to fleece their clients of money—which was likely what was happening to Miss Ashton. Princess Alexandra was right to be concerned that the young woman was being taken advantage of, spending a lot of money in order to receive messages purporting to be from her mother.

There were many techniques a fraudulent medium might use to make her clients believe she was talking to their deceased loved ones. Rapping on tables, seemingly from some disembodied spirit. The sudden gust of breeze that would send a candle flame guttering into darkness. The shifting or levitating table around which the s
é
ance participants would sit.

“Are you coming, Mina?” Evaline poked me in the ribs, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Rubbing my side, I followed the small cluster of females
out of the parlor and down a neat, clean corridor lined with paintings of pastoral scenes and flowers. I admired the fresh vase of gardenias, which smelled heavenly, and observed the wainscoting had recently been painted.

We came upon the cat as we rounded a corner. He was playing with a cricket, which I found quite curious. I noticed there was another of the same uncommon insect lying feet-up on the floor farther down the hall. I found that an anomaly in an otherwise perfectly neat and clean corridor and wondered from where the creatures had come.

Moments later, we entered the prepared chamber.

I'd hardly a chance to take in the room before Miss Norton squealed. “The oracle! It's here.”

This drew everyone's attention to the device sitting on the table. The object would just fit in my open hand. Its sides, made of hinged bronze and copper pieces, were unfolded to reveal a centerpiece that looked like a glass sphere with ribbons of colors swirling inside. Approximately the size of an orange, the opaque blue-green orb—presumably the oracle?—was nestled in an intricate setting of gears and cogworks. I wasn't close enough to determine whether the orb itself was ancient, but its nest appeared to be a pleasing combination of ancient art and modern gadgetry. When its sides were folded up into place, the item would resemble a slender pentagonal box.

“What does it do?” asked Aunt Geraldine, who had unexpectedly followed us. I noted with approval the skepticism in her tone and demeanor.

“Why, the oracle opens the door wide between our world and that of the Spirit World. Merely having such an object present during the s
é
ance will be invaluable in our efforts to contact your mother, Miss Ashton.”

“Truly?” Willa's whisper was heartbreaking in its desperation. “It will help me to communicate with her?”

“I'm certain of it.”

And I was certain Mrs. Yingling's fee would have to increase in order to cover the additional expertise needed to “read” the “oracle.”

The medium continued, “I shall have to do some more research and study in order to determine the best way to utilize the oracle—”

“That is an excellent idea,” I interrupted. “Particularly since your continued reference to that object as an
oracle
isn't quite accurate. It might be an oracle's
glass
, but it is not an oracle per se.”

Miss Stoker rolled her eyes while I continued my explanation with great patience. “An oracle is a
person
—or group of people who—supposedly—speak divinely; that is, through a deity, in order to answer questions or give guidance. Any type of device may
assist
the oracle in determining the answer to the query at hand—including a glass sphere such as this one, tea leaves, or small imprinted stones called runes. But the sphere itself
isn't
the oracle.” I looked around the chamber to make certain everyone understood the distinction. “In this case, I believe a more accurate term for this object would be ‘spiritglass.' ”

“Very well then,” said Mrs. Yingling in a vague manner. “Shall we begin?”

“Can't you keep your mouth closed for once?” Miss Stoker hissed, jabbing me in the side as we took our seats. “If you're rude, we might be off this case before we even get started.”

Lifting my nose, I muttered, “I see no reason to allow a person to spout inaccuracies or misinformation, particularly to young, naive women. Recall, if you will, the danger that befell the foolish women involved in the Society of Sekhmet because they believed the ridiculous ravings of the individual known as the Ankh.”

Miss Stoker returned my stare but said nothing—for of course I was correct. And if there was anything I could do to keep another naive young woman from being conned by a nefarious villain, I would do it.

I
barely managed to keep from stomping on Mina's toes as she paraded past me to take her seat. Not that her knowledge and deductive abilities didn't come in handy. But couldn't she learn when to keep her thoughts to herself? I smoothed my skirt and petticoats as I took a chair next to her. At least if I was sitting beside Mina, I could elbow her into silence.

I'd never been to a s
é
ance before, but I knew what to expect. The six of us gathered around a small circular table in a stuffy room with closed and curtained windows. The only light was a group of three small candles in wide, squat holders at the center of the table. They surrounded the oracle—no,
spiritglass
. The surface was bare and there were no furnishings other than walls of bookshelves. Long shadows danced across the table and ceiling, and the corners of the room were
dark and gloomy. Could there be any more perfect place for a s
é
ance?

“
Hush
.” Mrs. Yingling's command halted Mina as she leaned toward me, obviously about to make some pithy observation. Maybe she'd noticed a loose hair on the table and was about to give an entire history of its owner.

“Everyone must remain silent or the spirits will not visit.” Mrs. Yingling looked pointedly at Mina, then me, and then around the table. I was surprised Aunt Geraldine had taken a seat as well. Maybe she thought it was best to see exactly what her niece was up to.

“Join hands, please, ladies. You must remove your gloves.” She pointed at Miss Rolstone. “It is imperative that we are flesh to flesh, for the energy will be that much more vibrant, and the connection with the spirits will be that much stronger. I can feel them gathering in preparation for our call.” She looked up as if to see the spirits hovering on the ceiling.

Mina shifted next to me. I wasn't surprised to feel the skepticism rolling off her. Naturally, as a vampire hunter I was more inclined to believe in Para-Natural occurrences than most people. When you come face to face with a red-eyed demonic creature with fangs, your skepticism vanishes pretty quickly.

And sometimes, so did your wits.

The single time I'd encountered an UnDead, I
couldn't remember what happened
. The violent scene had become blanked
from my memory. I don't know what I did after I took up the stake.

“Now,” Mrs. Yingling said. “We join hands not only to make a bond of energy, but also to create a welcoming circle for our spirit friends in hopes they will visit us.”

Despite the medium's warning, Mina muttered, “And to ensure everyone's hands remain in view.”

Mrs. Yingling had removed her glasses, placing them on the table. Her eyes were closed and her face lifted toward the ceiling. “Come, now, spirits of our loved ones! We are here, and we beg you to join us. We welcome you and ask you to give a sign of your presence.”

The chamber became quiet. I could hear Mina's soft, even breathing on one side of me, and on the other, the more labored breaths of Miss Ashton. She had a drowning-man grip on my hand as she gawked, looking about the chamber.

The candle flames burned straight and steady. Silence reigned. As the stillness went on, I felt a prickle of anticipation instead of my normal impatience.

Something was going to happen.

“There are nonbelievers here.” Mrs. Yingling broke the silence in her soft, quavery voice.

Mina shifted, her fingers tightening over mine. I listened to her lecture all the way over here about the mediums who'd been exposed as frauds. Even the celebrated Fox sisters from America confessed their entire career had been a sham, according to the know-it-all Miss Holmes.

“I know it is difficult for you, O Spirits, to visit when you must breach a wall of unbelief . . . but I implore you to be strong and to come to us. Make yourselves known. Make the nonbelievers into believers. Give us a sign of your presence.”

This time, Mrs. Yingling's voice had hardly died away when there was a sharp
rap
.

My tingle of anticipation became a full-fledged flutter as our medium responded, “Ah! You are here. Thank you for making yourselves known to us. Is there anything you wish to say?”

Rap, rap. Rap
.

Beside me, Miss Ashton was very still. On my other side, I felt Mina quivering with interest. She muttered something inaudible. No one's hands had moved from the table during the rapping. Nor had anyone shifted in their position in order to, say, kick at the table. And the rap sounded more like bare knuckles than a slippered foot, anyway.

Did ghosts even
have
bare knuckles? How
did
they make that noise—assuming they were real?

“The spirits wish to speak,” Mrs. Yingling announced. “They have messages for us.”

Miss Ashton shifted next to me, her grip on my fingers even tighter. “Mother? Are you there? Please speak to me, Mother.”

“You must remain silent,” Mrs. Yingling said swiftly. “Only I may talk, or the spirits will wither away, dissolving back to the Other Side.”

Mina gave a derisive snort, but before I could jab her in the ribs again, the table moved.

I mean,
it moved
.

The whole thing jolted, as if someone large had lumbered up and bumped into it in the middle of the night.

Someone gave a little shriek and I heard a mutter from next to me: “Trick wires.” The candles hadn't tipped because of their solid holders, but the flames danced wildly. Everything became quiet once more.

“Thus the spirits acknowledge the nonbelievers. And yet, they remain, for their messages are of utmost importance. I implore you to remain silent, and to allow me to commune with them.”

I swallowed, more than willing to allow the spirits to commune. There was no way the table had moved the way it did with any assistance on anyone's part. That much force would have required even myself, with my unusual strength, to move violently . . . and someone would have noticed it.

“Is Marta, mother of Willa, here? Marta, if you are here, make yourself known!”

Rap!

Miss Ashton jolted and her grip tightened even more. “Mother.”

“Marta, do you wish to speak to us?”

Rap-rap!

“Ask if she is . . . if she knows where Robby is,” Miss Ashton begged.

Perhaps realizing she was fighting a losing battle requesting silence, Mrs. Yingling didn't reprimand her. “Marta . . . do you know where your son is?”

R-r-rap
.

A little shiver ran up my spine. That was a weaker knock, and even I could tell it wasn't an optimistic response.

“Mother!” Miss Ashton released my fingers and rose, crying toward the nothingness of the ceiling. “I miss you so much, and I cannot believe Robby is gone—”

“Please! Miss Ashton, you are disturbing the spirits! Calm yourself, and take up your friends' hands once more,” Mrs. Yingling said.

Our hostess sat back down, and I could hear her shuddering as she tried to control sobs. I found her fingers and squeezed gently, trying to offer some comfort. Even Mina seemed affected, for she hadn't said a word.

“O, Spirits, please do not leave us,” said the medium. “We wish to communicate with you. Please do not leave us. Please give us a sign of your presence.”

Suddenly, I felt a change in the air. A vibration of sorts . . . or an energy. As if it sang or reverberated. The hair on my arms lifted. Something sharp prickled over my scalp. I turned to see Mrs. Yingling and was shocked that she was trembling violently. Her expression had gone blank and her eyes bulged even more than they had behind her magnifying lenses.

In the drassy illumination, the candle flames caused shadows to flicker eerily over the medium's face, making it
appear drawn and gaunt, even gray. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grotesque fashion.

“I am . . . here. . . .”

My body went cold and numb. The words were coming from the medium's mouth, but the voice was not hers. It was loud, deep, and stentorous. The air in the room cooled and the tip of my nose turned icy.