by Tamara Berry
I open my eyes and wait until Nicholas nods before continuing. That’s another great thing about him—he makes it a point to gather as much information in as unobtrusive a way as possible. In the brief time he’s been here, he’ll have amassed almost as much information as I have.
“What I don’t know, however, is whether or not Birdie is real. My gut reaction is no, but she has more information about this place and its people than she’s letting on.”
“Yes, I gathered as much from your first message,” Nicholas says. “By the by, I’d appreciate it if you hold me excused from having purposefully sent her on the train with you. I’d never heard of the woman until you mentioned her name.”
“Well, she’s heard of you, so watch what you say around her. Why did you send me by train, anyway? She claims responsibility for it all—says she magically waved her wand to take you away on business and arrange the seating on the train to her satisfaction.”
“Unless she can personally control the Minister of Education, I don’t see how that’s possible.” He pauses, as though conversations revolving around high-ranking government officials is an everyday occurrence. Which, in his world, it is. “And I didn’t think sending you on the train would be such an issue. Sid assured me it’s a very comfortable ride.”
I seriously doubt that Sid has ever lowered herself to travel in anything but first class, but I don’t mention it.
“If I’d have known . . .” Nicholas’s voice trails off, his brows knitted in worry. “I thought you could use the extra time to your advantage.”
“I did use it to my advantage,” I reply with a shake of my head. “Just not as well as Birdie. She’s good, Nicholas—really good. Better than me, and you know I don’t suffer from low self-esteem.”
He grins, the deep lines of his face lightening momentarily. “Don’t you? I never would have guessed.”
I bump him with my hip, feeling much easier now that I’ve had my say. One thing, however, is niggling at me.
“And what do you mean by my first message?” I ask. As far as I can remember, I only sent him the one. I’ve been trying to eke out my phone’s battery life as much as possible, since I have no way of recharging it. “I didn’t send you a second one after you failed to acknowledge the first. I know better than to level at the moon.”
He stares at me for a moment before reaching into his pocket. Extracting his cell phone, he pushes a few buttons before holding it out to me. My image pops up on one side of the screen, a candid photo of me squishing a reluctant Beast up to my face, accompanied by a text I have no recollection of sending.
I need you, Nicholas. Bring the cats. XOXO
“Um.” I lift the phone out of his hand and study it more carefully, as though I might be able to peer through the screen to the computer code below. “I didn’t send that.”
“So I’m beginning to gather.”
“I would never send you hugs and kisses via text.”
“That should have been my first clue.”
“And using someone’s full name like that is weird.”
“Agreed.”
“But the cats were a good idea.” I pause and give Freddie a pat. “I missed them.”
“A sentiment that does you justice. It’s only a pity my presence doesn’t affect you so strongly.”
I realize my mistake at once. Nicholas obviously hightailed it here on the mistaken belief that I couldn’t live another day without him—and then arrived to find me unconscious. He’d never let on that he feels anything more than the mildest alarm for my safety, but there’s no denying that being in any way tied to me is a trial.
“My poor darling,” I say, reaching for him. “Did you dash all this way to come to my rescue?”
“I did rescue you,” he points out. He also takes the hand I’m holding out, twining his fingers through mine. “As I also requested you come up here in the first place and then abandoned you, I imagine that makes us equal. I’m sorry, Eleanor. I had no idea it was going to be like this. When Sid said she needed a medium to communicate with the ghost of her father, I thought it would be fun for you. Not . . .”
I squeeze his fingers. “I know. Murder wasn’t my first guess, either.”
“Are you certain that’s what it was?”
As certain as a person can be without a medical report or a firsthand examination of the body, yes. “I can’t prove it, obviously, but it’s not looking good. There’s too much going on around here that doesn’t make sense. Even this text is suspicious—who sent it? How did they access my phone without me knowing about it? And why did they want you here?”
“That settles it.” He drops my hand and turns to face me, his shoulders square and a look of determination rendering his expression even more attractive than usual. “What do you need me to do?”
Freddie responds for me with a plaintive mewl and a butt of her head against my hand. She blinks expectantly up at me, as though she’s sure I have all the answers. Now that I think about it, Nicholas is looking at me a bit like that, too. And Sid. And Ashley. And the twins. Even Birdie seems to think I know much more about this curse than I’m letting on.
Birdie. Of course.
“Let me see your phone again.” I hold out my hand and study the text anew. It’s short and to the point, designed to get results with the least amount of communication possible. Anyone with quick, light hands and an ulterior motive could have lifted my phone from my person and sent it—especially if that anyone gave me an odd, awkwardly long hug in the library last night. The time and date of the incoming text confirm it. “Blast that woman. I should have known better. This is just like her.”
“That woman?” Nicholas echoes.
“Bridget Wimpole-White. My nemesis. The Wicked Witch to my Glinda. The Voldemort to my Harry Potter. The—”
His lips twitch. “The one with the eyebrows.”
“Exactly. I don’t know what she wants with a couple of cats, but she’s not getting her hands on my babies.” I ignore the way that babies makes his lips twitch even more. “Okay, here’s what I need from you: you’re going to become Birdie’s biggest fan.”
“Oh, dear. Why do I get the feeling I’m going to regret this?”
“You believe every word out of her mouth, got it? Every nonsensical vision she sees, every piece of your aura she reads—I don’t care how demeaning it is. You think my brand of mysticism is garbage, but you buy wholesale into the garbage she sells and can only wait with bated breath to hear more.”
He sighs, his breath not the least bit bated. “Are you sure I can’t just buy you a new chest of gold that we can pass off as the real deal? There’s still enough time for us to scrap this whole ghost thing and go to Malta.”
I point a warning finger at him. “I mean it, Nicholas. It’s the least you can do after everything you’ve put me through. I need you to get close to her. Watch her every movement. See if she does anything suspicious. And if she gets anywhere near these cats, protect them with your life.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” he says with a salute that would do Ferguson and Jaime proud.
At the thought of Ferguson and Jaime, another idea occurs to me. This one makes me even more upset than all the rest.
“Lucifer’s touch!” I cry.
Nicholas’s brow raises.
“Can you believe the gall of that woman? She texted you and tricked you into bringing my cats, but it didn’t even occur to her that I might want clean clothes, too.”
* * *
“This line reveals your love life,” Birdie says. She’s sitting across a chessboard from Nicholas, his large palm held upward in hers. Her fingers trace one of the many lines that cover the hands of every human being in the world—none of them linked to premonitions of the past, present, or future. “See how it’s broken in the middle? You’ll suffer a romantic loss, but not for long.”
Nicholas’s eyes meet mine across the gilded salon. Now that we’re sitting in this room lit only by candles, I realize the true va
lue of all that gold plating. It’s almost bright enough for us to converse like human beings.
“That doesn’t sound good,” he murmurs. “I hope she’s not carried off by a head injury.”
Birdie tsks and yanks Nicholas’s hand closer to her face. “Yes, and see this one that intersects the love line? That’s your friendship line. Your second romantic interlude will be someone you know, someone who’s already dear to you.”
It’s not the most subtle palm reading I’ve ever witnessed—or, indeed, performed—but I have to give the woman credit where it’s due. She obviously read the relationships in this room and is doing her best to leverage them to her advantage. If I’m not mistaken, her goal is to inspire me with jealousy for my hostess, to create a gnashing envy that distracts me from her own villainous deeds.
Well, too bad. I can read relationships, too. Sid is like a beautiful orchid—fragile and exotic, but useless unless she has someone stronger to attach herself to. I was that person until Nicholas arrived; now he can take his turn, and welcome to it. It’ll free me up to focus on more important things.
In this instance, I mean Otis. I don’t know what pressure Sid brought to bear on him to put him in a conciliatory mood, but he’s seated next to me, sipping his after-dinner coffee and casually petting Freddie. The kitten, unable to distinguish between friend and foe, took to him immediately.
It almost makes me believe in his innocence. Freddie might not be as worldly-wise as Beast, but I don’t think she’d be purring that loud on the lap of a murderer. At least, I hope she wouldn’t. Discretion is a necessary attribute in our line of work—a thing that Beast, sitting queenly and alone near the fireplace, seems to have perfected.
“Is this the part where you ask me to give you my palm so you can take a turn?” Otis turns to me, his tone only slightly drawling. “I should warn you that Birdie already tried, and it didn’t end well.”
He shows me his palm. Even in the low lighting, I can see the raised, twisted contour of a scar bisecting his hand. It obscures any and all other lines that might have once provided insight into his soul.
“There are several on my legs, a rather large one on my side, and the one that took my eye, too, if it helps,” he says. “I’m a gnarled maze of the man I used to be.”
I refuse to allow him to lead me down that path. I have no doubt that’s exactly what he did with Birdie, resulting in their explosive argument. It’s a good tactic for those who are trying to hide something; by going on the offensive, Otis is able to ensure that he controls the flow of information.
“I don’t read palms,” I say flatly. It’s a lie, of course, but what the Stewarts don’t know won’t hurt them.
“You can’t read palms?” he echoes. “By your own admission, you also can’t read auras. Nor can you conjure up my uncle or, it seems, find where he hid his gold. Forgive me for asking, but what can you do? Other than breaking onto people’s boats and falling and hitting your head?”
I don’t dare look around the room, but I know everyone’s eyes are on me. The lull of conversation has all but stopped, the sound of Freddie’s contended purrs growing loud in its absence. I’m tempted to show off a little—the result, no doubt, of Nicholas sitting on the other side of the room and the challenge glittering in Otis’s eye—but I don’t.
“In some cases, nothing,” I admit. “I don’t always control my gift. There are times when I hear nothing but silence, and then there are times when—”
“—the ghost ‘is beating on the door,’” Ashley interrupts. “There’s no need to explain. I know.”
I smile my agreement. For once, Ashley’s quote is apt. And, bless him, brief.
“To be fair, we may see more activity now that my cats are here. They seem to strengthen my powers, but . . .” I trail off, my head whipping around to where Birdie and Nicholas are holding their palm reading. It had been my intention to point out that I don’t control my cats any more than I do my sister, but a sudden flash hits me—not a vision, but a memory.
Me, confessing to Birdie that having my familiars around me helps boost my abilities. Me, immediately regretting that confession for fear that she’d figure out how to use it against me. Except...
She glances up long enough to catch my eye. There’s nothing about her expression to give her away—not even a quirk of those frightful eyebrows—but I could almost swear that an understanding passes between us. Like a current, it jolts in my limbs and makes my fingertips twitch.
She did this. She did this on purpose. She did this on purpose to . . . help me?
There’s no time for me to explore this unprecedented idea further. Our cozy gathering is interrupted by a knock at the door and the soft footfall of Elspeth making her way into the room. She’s not, as I first suspect, bringing dessert to tempt our dainty appetites. On the contrary, the two figures she’s dragging aren’t the least bit sweet, though they do look contrite and recently scrubbed. Each one is being held by the scruff of the neck and presented like a pair of puppies recently caught rolling in the mud.
“Now, be gracious and say ‘good night’ to the company,” Elspeth says with a gentle shake of each one.
“Hullo,” says the one on the left.
“’Night,” says the one on the right.
Since the two boys are in matching blue pajamas and neither one shows the least inclination to smile, I’m unsure which is which. Even their hangdog expressions are identical.
“They wanted to come in to apologize for their role in this afternoon’s episode,” Elspeth says. “Making up that story about finding gold on Otis’s boat and luring Madame Eleanor out there to do a mischief. It’s not a nice way to treat a guest, and so they know it.”
I blink. This is a new spin on events, and one that’s not wholly out of the realm of possibility. True, the boys had a real coin in their possession, but considering how many of those seem to be floating around hereabouts, there’s a good chance they came across it naturally. From there, it would have been easy for them to feed me that tale about Otis’s boat, to abandon me on the inside and even to knock me on the head from behind.
The boy on the left kicks at a fraying bit of carpet and looks up at me. They aren’t wearing their eyepatches, and there’s such a stricken sincerity in his eyes that I immediately recognize him as Jaime.
“What do you say, boys?” Elspeth prods.
Neither one of them answers her until she gives them another shake.
“Sorry,” they mutter in unison. Ferguson goes so far as to add that he knew from the start that all grown-ups are rotten, but Jaime doesn’t chime in. He’s still looking at me in that earnest, oddly expressive way. He gives a slight shake of his head and makes a move as if to speak, but their grandmother prevents it.
“I’m ever so sorry, Madame Eleanor,” she says. “They do have manners, and they have been raised to use them.”
“Of course they have,” Sid says warmly, her smile genuine. “I’ve known them since they were babies. Two more beautiful little boys, I’m sure I’ve never seen before—or since.”
“We are not beautiful,” announces Ferguson with a curl of his lip. It’s enough to showcase his gap tooth, thus confirming their identities. He nudges his brother.
“Beautiful is for girls,” agrees Jaime, though with reluctance. His mouth opens to reveal a similar gap, though his is marred by a dot of blacking on his lower lip and a slightly inexpert application of my favorite eyeliner to the tooth.
I struggle to suppress a smile. For all their resourcefulness, the boys haven’t yet surmounted the obstacle of the intact incisor.
“Who needs beautiful when you can be dastardly?” I agree. I keep my tone light and inconsequential so they know I mean no harm. Even if I did believe they set up that entire episode on the boat to mess with me, I’m not going to tell on them to their grandmother. I’m a lot of unpleasant things, but a snitch isn’t one of them.
Ferguson eyes me with misgiving. “What does dastardly mean?” he ask
s.
“Wicked and vile,” I say, smiling to show how much I enjoy those particular attributes. “Pirates are dastardly. So are witches. And mediums, come to think of it.”
Birdie coughs gently. “Mediums are the last true connection between the worlds, dear Ella, as I’m sure you know. Our work is of paramount importance.”
“Of course it is,” Sid agrees.
“Hear, hear,” murmurs Nicholas.
“Meow,” puts in Freddie.
I turn my head to smile at the kitten for her excellent timing, but my world suddenly grows black. I don’t think I’ve reinjured my head, but the darkness that falls is so absolute that not even a hint of light is allowed in.
I realize what’s happening the moment an image flashes across my darkened vision. It’s the slideshow picture again, the brief glance at something not of this world. As before, nothing I did seems to have brought it on—and nothing I do is able to stop it now that it’s arrived.
The vision is of a little boy, about eight years of age, his body held in a state of suspended animation. His skin is ghostly pale, his eyes shut, his limbs floating oddly in the air. It takes me a moment to recognize that strange buoyancy. It’s not air that holds him thus. It’s water. He’s surrounded by it, drowning in it. I mentally will the boy to wake up—or at least to smile so I know whether he’s Ferguson or Jaime—but the vision flashes off as suddenly as it turned on.
I open my eyes to find the entire room staring at me. It’s the ideal moment to be honest about what I’ve seen, to prove to this room that I’m not—like Birdie White—some sham of a medium trying to leverage their pain and suffering for my own personal gain.
But I can’t. The only sensation I have is one of deep, abiding fear.
It’s always the children who suffer the most.
“You have to get the boys off this island,” I say to Elspeth, doing my best to keep the hysteria out of my voice. Given the wide-eyed shock that results, I don’t think I do a very good job. “As soon as possible and through any means necessary. Nicholas will take them. They can stay in a hotel, or he can take them back to his home until it’s safe. They can’t stay here. They need to leave.”