Born of Illusion

by Teri Brown

  I wrinkle my nose. “The séances are the worst. The people who come to us are so heartbroken. It’s hard . . .” I look down at my hands.

  “To offer them hope when there is none?”

  My heart beats faster, but I say nothing. Some things cannot be shared.

  After an awkward silence he continues. “Grief is a really intense emotion. It might be harder to control. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

  I think about it. “That makes sense.”

  Cole shakes his head, sympathy lighting his eyes. “Maybe you need to start by practicing on people whose feelings are less intense, then move on to people who have really strong emotions? This is all guesswork right now.”

  I lean back in my seat. Maybe I can learn more about the Society for Psychical Research. How much of what Dr. Bennett said is true? Cole already confirmed some of it, but how bad is it really? I’d like to ask him if he knows Dr. Bennett but don’t want to tip my hand, especially if Dr. Bennett parted with the Society on poor terms. “Tell me more about the Society for Psychical Research.”

  He knits his hands together in front of him as if giving a lecture. “The Ghost Club, as it was originally called, was started in 1862. Past members include Charles Dickens and Sir William Barrett. It disappeared in the 1870s, and then in the 1880s it merged with the Society for Psychical Research. That’s the part people know about.”

  “And the other part?” I ask.

  Cole hesitates. “It’s rumored that the Society for Psychical Research disappeared because the researchers discovered that Sensitives actually existed and they went underground because they didn’t want to alarm the public with the fact that people who have special abilities live among them. Later they merged with the more scientifically based SPR and became public again, without any public announcement about the Sensitives. They keep the existence of Sensitives quiet for their own safety. There have been people who wish to use the Sensitives for their own gain. Secrecy helps protect them from that. For the most part.”

  I want to ask him what he means by that, but just then Cole places his hand over mine. Our fingers twine together and my breath catches at the warmth in his eyes.

  “Honestly, I wish I could tell you everything, but there is so much going on right now. And when I’m with you, everything over there feels so remote. Like it doesn’t matter at all.”

  My skin heats and my heart turns into a swirl of sweet, melting chocolate. Everything I was going to say or wanted to say goes right out of my head.

  I know exactly how he feels.

  But will he feel that way after I give him the letter?

  I pull my hand away and put it in my pocket, feeling the crisp edge of the envelope.

  Give him the letter.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull it out and place it on the table between us.

  “What’s that?”

  The noise around us dims and my mouth feels cotton stuffed. “A letter.”

  “I know it’s a letter, Anna.” He smiles a small half smile and picks it up. His brows knit together, puzzled. “How did you get this?”

  I swallow. “I took it. From your pocket.” At the look on his face I rush on. “It happened last week. I don’t know why I did it; I was confused. I’m so sorry.”

  “You picked my pocket because you were confused?” Cole’s voice is tight and I wince. “Do you have any idea how important this might be?” He rips open the envelope.

  I open my mouth, but he holds up one finger and I fall silent. After scanning the letter, he looks up, his lips compressed.

  I try again. “You have to know I wouldn’t normally . . .” My voice trails off. There is no way to tell him how it felt, so close to him on the train that day. How I needed to make contact with him. “I mean, that’s not the kind of girl I am,” I finish lamely.

  I look down at the table, unable to meet Cole’s eyes, but I can feel the anger and hurt coming off him in waves.

  “Anna, I don’t know what kind of girl you are.”

  Shame burns through me. “You don’t mean that. You know more about me in some ways than anyone ever has.”

  “Right now all I know is you swindle people for money and pick pockets when you’re confused. Who knows? Maybe you rob banks in your spare time?

  “I thought I knew you, but I was mistaken.” He tosses the letter on the table. “There. You wanted to read it so badly. Read it.”

  And this time, he walks out on me.

  Twenty-two

  I should have at least received some credit for not reading the letter, I think miserably a couple of days later. Then I wonder if it even matters. To my surprise, Cole had been waiting outside the restaurant when I finally emerged. I’d hoped that meant he’d relented enough to at least give me a chance to explain, but he didn’t want to talk. “I can’t leave you to walk home alone” was all he’d said.

  I sigh and try to powder away the dark circles under my eyes and the leftover bruises from my abduction. Cynthia Gaylord is coming to pick me up to take me out to dinner with Dr. Bennett. I wonder who set up this meeting, Dr. Bennett or Cynthia? Maybe I’ll get more info on the Society. I’m a little uneasy, though.

  Maybe I should just go ahead and talk to Cole about Dr. Bennett. They had to have at least heard of each other. Maybe he can give me some information on him. Or maybe I should talk to Dr. Bennett about Cole.

  I try not to think about the fact that Cole may never talk to me about anything ever again. My insides hollow at the thought.

  I hear a door shut, then a voice, and I know Cynthia must be here. Shaking my head, I snatch my coat off the bed, where I’d tossed it, and hurry down the hall.

  My mother is standing in the kitchen with Cynthia, sly curiosity evident in the lift of her brow and the hidden quirk of her lips. “Cynthia tells me you two are going to dinner with a doctor who researches spirit manifestations and spiritualism? How . . . intriguing.”

  My smile reflects nothing but innocent enthusiasm. “Yes, I think it will be a fascinating evening. Don’t you, Cynthia?”

  Cynthia nods excitedly, her head a pale flower against the enormous dark fur collar of her coat. I wait for her to invite my mother, but she doesn’t. Then I smile. Of course not. Cynthia wouldn’t want to compete with my mother for Dr. Bennett’s attention. We head down to the car, leaving my mother’s eyes filled with questions. In light of everything, it seems only fitting.

  The car turns onto Broadway and I stare in wonder at the giant signs advertising everything from Camel cigarettes to the Ziegfeld Follies. It’s pure magic to see the sun go down in the west, while all around you thousands of dazzling lights are blinking on. No matter how many times I see it, it still takes my breath away.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  Cynthia lights a cigarette and blows a smoke ring. “Have you ever been to Lindy’s?”

  I shake my head.

  “You’ll love it. Good food. Relaxing. Not fancy-pantsy at all. More my kind of place.”

  I open my mouth to find out what she means by that, but she doesn’t let me get a word in.

  “So tell me, which one of those two young sheiks are you stuck on?”

  I blink. “What?”

  Cynthia rolls her eyes. “The young men who were at the séance. Which one do you like? Because sure as I’m sitting here, they both like you. They couldn’t keep their eyes off you.”

  “Oh. Um . . .”

  Cynthia laughs. “Just string them both along till you figure out which one you like best. That’s what I did until my daddy decided for me. I’m so glad it was Jack. He had scads more money and is so handsome. The other man had a disgusting nose. I don’t know if I could have married that nose.”

  I can’t think of anything to say to that, but luckily, she doesn’t seem to need an answer. She tosses her cigarette out the window and digs a silver-and-green enamel compact out of her bag. She pats some powder on her nose and reapplies her lipstick. “If I were you,” she says, snapping her comp
act shut, “I would go for the tall, dark-haired one. Like Jack, he has scads more money.”

  The car slows and pulls over to the sidewalk. Cole? I laugh. “How do you know?” I ask.

  “Oh, I just know these things,” she answers, sliding out of the car. “The other one might be more fun, though. Depends on what you’re looking for.”

  What I’m looking for? My life would be far simpler if I knew the answer to that.

  “Uncle Arnie!” I hear Cynthia squeal, and turn to find her in the arms of an imposing man in a tailored black suit. He’s tall, with thin lips and the imperious nose of a hawk. His hairline may be receding, but the fit of his jacket shows a man in his prime. He looks vaguely familiar and I wonder where I’ve seen him.

  “How you doing, baby doll? How’s that swanky blue blood treating you?”

  “Like a queen, Uncle Arnie, like a queen.”

  “He’d better. Or I’ll have to break his legs.” He laughs, but the laughter doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Cynthia swats him. “You be nice. I brought a friend tonight.” She grabs my arm and pulls me next to her. “This is Anna Van Housen. She and her mother are famous mediums. They have their own show.”

  He holds out his hand. “Is that so? I never believed in that stuff myself. No offense, Miss Van Housen.”

  “None taken,” I assure him. The moment he touches my hand, a dark, ambivalent emotion snakes its way up my arm and I shiver. I don’t even know what to call it but I know for a fact I’ve never felt anything like it. The strange thing is that’s it’s not directed at me or Cynthia, or anyone in particular. It just is. He kisses my hand and releases it and I suppress a sigh of relief.

  Another man in a black suit approaches and jerks his head to the side. Arnie nods and turns back to us. “Got to run, girls. Business calls. You take care of yourself and let me know if you need anything, okay, baby doll?” Cynthia nods. “Nice to meet you, Miss Van Housen.”

  He turns to go and then turns back to me. “Van Housen? Say, you’re not that magician girl who’s Houdini’s daughter, are you?”

  My jaw drops and Uncle Arnie laughs. “I know everything that happens in New York, sweetheart. Even if they’re just rumors. I used to know your father before he got all famous. We get our handcuffs from the same feller. He’s a good man, Houdini.”

  He gives me another, friendlier nod and disappears with a group of men surrounding him.

  Cynthia links her arm in mine. “Come on. Let’s go get a table. Dr. Bennett should be here in a few minutes.”

  She bypasses the line and a waitress seats us right away. Lindy’s is a nice place, but not fancy or exciting like The Colony.

  “Wait till you try the cheesecake,” Cynthia says. “It’s to die for.”

  We take off our coats and open our menus.

  “Uncle Arnie is a sweetheart, isn’t he? It’s hard to believe he’s one of the most powerful men in the city. Everyone’s so intimidated by him, but he’s just a pussycat, really. Well, unless you cross him.”

  I freeze as I suddenly realize where I’ve seen him before. Arnold “the Brain” Rothstein is the head of a Jewish mob family and practically a permanent feature in the papers. He’s been indicted more times than I can count and was rumored to be involved in the 1919 World Series scandal.

  “Arnold Rothstein is your uncle?” I squeak.

  Cynthia’s shoulders slump. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re going to go all disapproving. This always happens! As soon as I make a friend, they find out about my family and bam, it’s all over. Jack’s family will hardly even talk to me.”

  Tears spring up in her eyes and I reach out to grab her hand. “No, of course not! I’m the last person to judge anyone. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

  She sniffles. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” I watch curiously as she dabs her eyes. “How old are you anyway?”

  “I just turned twenty last July.”

  That explains so much.

  She offers me a cigarette and I shake my head, so she lights it and exhales while giving me a sharp look. “So why does your face look like you’ve been in a boxing match with Jack Dempsey?”

  I touch my cheek self-consciously.

  “No, you did a good job of hiding it,” Cynthia assures me. “I’m just good at seeing that sort of thing.”

  I bet she is.

  The waitress interrupts and asks us if we would like to order or wait for our guest. Cynthia consults her watch. “Let’s go ahead and eat, shall we? I’m famished.”

  We order, and as soon as the waitress leaves I tell Cynthia what happened.

  Cynthia’s big blue eyes get even bigger. “I can’t believe you escaped! I’d have been so scared!”

  I shiver as I remember my nightmare run through the streets. “I was scared. Now I’m just angry.”

  Cynthia nods. “I would be, too. You want me to get Uncle Arnie to look into it? I know he would. He likes you.”

  “I just met him!”

  “He likes your father. That means a lot. And he wasn’t kidding when he said he knows everything that happens in New York. I bet he could find out who it was.”

  The waitress sets down our food as I consider her offer. On one hand, it would be really nice to know who is out to get me. On the other, what would “sweet” old Uncle Arnie do if he found them? Do I want to be responsible for that?

  “Ladies, deepest apologies for my tardiness.” Dr. Bennett’s effusive voice interrupts my thoughts. “I ran into a colleague of mine and I’ve persuaded her to join us. I do hope you don’t mind.”

  I look up with a smile, grateful for the distraction.

  Dr. Bennett removes his greatcoat and turns to draw his companion forward. Everything inside me freezes when I see who it is.

  The next few seconds play out in slow motion, my every sense heightened. Mrs. Lindsay’s smile is pasted on, but her cheek is twitching as she nods politely to Cynthia. As her eyes swivel toward me, I note that though she’s wearing a clean coat, it’s covering the same ragged dress she was wearing when she attacked me. I want to run when her eyes lock on to mine, but I’m frozen in my seat, even when her mouth opens in a perfectly shaped O.

  It’s when the screaming starts that I finally leap to my feet, knocking my chair backward. At first, there are no words, just an unearthly wailing that sounds as if it were ripping her soul apart. Her hands form claws and I snatch up my purse and leap back, running into the person dining at the table behind me. Everything in the restaurant screeches to a halt as the ghastly sound continues.

  Then a word rises from the cacophony. “Witch!” she screams. “Wiiiitch!”

  “My God, woman!” Dr. Bennett grabs onto Mrs. Lindsay’s arm just as she makes a lunge for me, which is a good thing as my knife is already out of my purse and hidden in the palm of my hand.

  Cynthia grabs our coats and pulls me out of the restaurant, leaving Dr. Bennett to cope with the still-howling Mrs. Lindsay. In seconds, she has me in the car with the doors shut and locked.

  “Hurry up and get us out of here, Al,” she tells the driver before turning to me. “What was all that about? I simply can’t be involved in any kind of scandal. Both my family and my husband’s family would kill me, though for different reasons. Wasn’t that woman at the last séance I went to?”

  I nod, my teeth chattering.

  Cynthia hands me my coat and waits till I put it on. “What’s wrong with her?”

  I shake my head. “I think she’s crazy,” I say, and tell her about Mrs. Lindsay attacking me in the park.

  “You mean you’ve been attacked twice in the last week? You should carry a gun.”

  In answer, I take out my knife, the blade flashing as the lights of Broadway reflect off it. “I’m more comfortable with this.”

  She stares for a moment, then laughs. “You carry a shiv?” She reaches into the pocket of her fur coat and pulls out a small pistol.

  We stare at each other silently as the
car winds its way through the traffic. Then we burst into laughter, the kind edged with both hysteria and relief.

  It looks as if I’ve finally found a friend.

  I sleep in the next morning, letting Mother fix her own breakfast. After the trouble last night, I’m not really hungry anyway. She and Jacques went out earlier, but are back now and talking quietly in the sitting room.

  Cynthia and I decided against telling anyone about Mrs. Lindsay’s breakdown in the restaurant.

  “My uncle is going to hear about it, regardless,” she’d said. “Lindy’s is practically his office, but I don’t want Jack or his family to get wind of it.”

  I agree. I don’t want my mother to hear about it either.

  I pace my bedroom after dressing for the day. Mrs. Lindsay is insane. Why do I keep running into her? Could she have been involved in my abduction?

  I have to find out more about that vision. I know it’s the key to everything.

  I shiver. Owen is taking me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art tomorrow, but last night’s fiasco has cast a pall over everything. Tomorrow will be fun because Owen is fun. He knows how to have a good time. I viciously jab a pin into my black cloche to hold it in place. Cole isn’t exactly a barrel of laughs; he’s more . . . I sigh. Wonderful. Cole is more wonderful.

  And my actions might have put him in danger.

  My eyes are inadvertently drawn to the drawer where I’d hidden the letter. Guilt and confusion kept me from reading it that day in the restaurant, but maybe there’s something in it I should know? I bite my lip and, glancing at the door, pull it out. I was right; the big, loopy handwriting definitely belongs to a girl.

  Dear C—

  Hope this missive finds you well and safe, with special emphasis on the safe. (More on that later.) First, I fear the Society is coming apart at the seams, or will once the vote occurs. Some of our kind will not stand for being barred from club policy any longer, not to mention forbidding women to sit on the board! Our supporters are many, but our enemies are numerous as well, even if their leader has gone missing. Which brings me to the point of this letter—our contacts were correct. We do believe he is in the States. We have discovered one of his former Sensitives in an asylum in Surrey. She has gone quite mad from all the experiments and I’m not sure if we can do anything to help her. We are told the poor girl was not always this unstable. It makes me so angry! Anyway, I’m sure our “friend” won’t try to contact you directly—not after the thrashing you gave him last time—but he is quite capable of hiring someone to persuade you to his way of thinking. Which brings up my next thought, How well do you know this girl you keep writing about? How strange that it is the daughter and not the medium who is like us! And how strange that a solemn young man like yourself would write so about a girl! But seriously, can you trust her? I would tell you to be careful, but you are always so.