Chapter Nine

Dinner concluded with an enormous strawberry sponge cake, dotted all around with tiny wild berries. As she sipped her wine, Violet snuck a look at her palm. Could it be true, what Mrs. Voldore had seen there? Imagination, sensitivity. But relative to what? She felt the need for something to measure herself against, some kind of yard stick. Was Sadie’s palm the same? Was Mother’s?

Flora had been pleased to serve them Aviation cocktails that evening. “They’re all the rage,” she’d said as the staff brought out cocktail glasses with maraschino cherries in the bottoms. “I had them last month in Manhattan. Divine! Now, lads and lasses, what’s on for tonight? Hide-and-go-seek?”

“Not that,” Sadie was saying as she finished her cake. “That’s too dull. Sardines!”

This was met with a chorus of approval from the table. Violet caught her sister looking at her, imploring her to join in the fun. Well, all right. She could manage a game of sardines. So long as everyone played. Her gaze followed her thoughts to the far end of the table where Charlie sat, cake untouched, a possessive hold on his glass.

Now, as everyone moved to the dining room doors, Charlie remained seated. Violet hovered at the doorway. “Aren’t we all going to play?” she asked Earl, the person who was closest.

“Oh, let him alone,” Earl said, glancing back. “How could he play anyway?”

Just ahead of them, Sadie noticed Violet’s hesitation. She glanced at Charlie. “Of course, he can play. He just needs to go first.” She sauntered into the dining room, her skirt swinging around her calves. “Say, Charlie, come and play sardines? You hide first, then we’ll come on the hunt for you.” She bent down and whispered something in his ear that made him release his hold on his glass. “May I?” she asked, offering her arm as he stood.

They looked a bit too snug, Violet thought, as they made their way to the door. She waited for them to pass, then followed.

“I reckon you know this place better than anyone,” she heard her sister whisper. “Where should I have us wait?”

Charlie hesitated a moment. “Billiards room. But run around first and close all the curtains. This house as a million little nooks and alcoves tucked behind the drapes.”

Curtains were duly closed. In the billiards room, several moments later, Sadie sent Charlie off and turned to the group. “We’ll give him ten full minutes. Play will be on this floor and the second floor, but no opening closed bedroom or bathroom doors. When you find him, try not to make any noise.” She looked hard at Blanche Worth, who tended to giggle. “Just join him silently and wait.”

At last, the minute hand noted the time, and Sadie released them. Heels clattered across the great hall as the group spread out in search. Violet was surprised by how rapidly her heart was beating. Was it just the fun of the game? Or knowing it was Charlie she sought? She had an absurd desire to reach him first. But he wasn’t in the kitchen, the breakfast room, or the entrance hall. He wasn’t in the lower loggia. She’d looked behind six curtains. At least everyone seemed to still be hunting, so no one had found him yet. She stood in the great hall and eyed the two sets of stairs, debating.

The back stairs. His room was near the top of them; he knew them well. She scampered up the steps and paused at the wood-paneled landing. A rich red, damask curtain hung across the window alcove, a space about two feet deep. On the balls of her feet, she crossed the wood floor of the landing and peeked behind the curtain.

There he stood, his dark hair draping across his temple, arms crossed in a pose of waiting. The men were in evening dress that night—Charlie wore his with a black vest, black tuxedo jacket, white front, and black tie. He somehow looked just as comfortable in that as he did in his tweeds.

He looked up as she slipped behind the curtain.

“It’s Violet,” she whispered, delighted to see his face brighten. She moved to his side. “Swell hiding spot.”

Their arms were touching. He angled his head toward hers. “We haven’t had a chance to compare notes since seeing Mrs. Voldore. What do you think of her now that you know she reads Walt Whitman?” His voice was barely audible.

Violet laughed silently. “I trust her more than I wanted to. She seems to believe in her own gift, doesn’t she?”

He nodded. A few strands of hair fluttered over his eye.

“She does,” he whispered, “though she isn’t making any allies with her palmistry. She said Pearl Wainwright’s palm has a Via Lascivia. Apparently, that means she’s liable to become a dope fiend or an alcoholic. Incessant gambler. A lewd woman.” He paused. “Someone’s coming.”

They both stood at attention, utterly still. A moment later, Floyd’s jubilant face appeared behind the curtain. He joined them. Then Cora and Blanche Worth. Sadie came next. Now the space was crowded. Floyd edged Violet to one side so that she had no choice but to press into Charlie.

The sides of their hands touched. Just for an instant, but it happened. Violet’s breathing turned quick. Her skin held the memory long after she pulled her hand away.

Then George Wainwright arrived, and Jack Hollister, and they were all pushed so close she stumbled a little. Charlie’s hands were there, steadying her. One hand at her waist, one on her elbow.

“Sorry,” she whispered. He dropped the hand at her waist, but the hand on her elbow stayed. She glanced at his face, but it was still—he was listening. An instant later the last searchers arrived, and the game was over.

“All right, you fishies, swim on outta that can,” Flora cried when she found them all. “You’re awfully well dressed to be crammed in so tight.”

“Will we play it again, boss?” Floyd asked Sadie.

“Let’s!”

“Just one more game,” Flora said. “Reggie’s mad for cards again tonight, and I hate to disappoint him.”

“One more game then,” Sadie agreed. “We’ll scoot back to the billiards room if you’ll hide again, Charlie.”

He nodded, and the troupe moved out of the alcove and down the stairs.

“Shall we go down together?” Violet asked Charlie. He proffered his arm, and she slid hers around it. Her dress was a dark shift with a sheer overlay, and she could feel the fabric of his jacket through the tulle of her sleeves.

Violet walked them to the top of the stairs and stopped. “Here are the steps,” she murmured. She didn’t speak as they descended, knowing he was counting. At the bottom, he hesitated.

“Have the others gone?” he asked.

“Yes.” Pearl Wainwright, the last of the group, was just disappearing through the billiards room door.

“Then one quick word before you go.” He leaned toward her, his face approaching her cheek. Violet held her breath.

“Library,” he whispered near her ear. He released her arm, tipped his head, and waited while she moved away toward the billiards room.

Oh, how the deliciousness of that word swirled through her as she rejoined the others. The secret purred in her chest, warm as a kitten. He hadn’t told anyone else. Only her. I must be glowing, she thought as she stepped into the room. Glowing like the moon.

–

Charlie kept his mind on his steps, counting carefully until he reached the library. There, he felt for the wall, then worked his way to the wooden screen he’d discovered when he first explored this space. Making mental maps was an exercise he enjoyed. Hell, it was something to do with his time. And here it was paying off. He propped the screen out farther from the wall so more people could fit behind it, then positioned himself behind it.

There. He was alone. At last he could replay the touch of her hand on his when they’d jostled together upstairs. The moment she’d stumbled against him. How eager his hands had been to catch her and how hard it had been to let her go. He put his palms to his face, hoping that her lilac soap smell would still be on them.

Now, having touched her, he had more facts to add to his list of Things He Knew About Violet. She was wearing lace. She was shorter than he was, perhaps by six inches. When she took his arm, he felt less that she was guiding him and more that they were two sides of one ship, easing through the water.

Should he be quashing this obsession with her? Probably. What business did a blind man have hoping that a girl would enjoy brushing hands as much as he did? No business at all. Yet his mind went back, again and again, to the question of the moment. He’d told her where he would hide. Would she come directly here? Or would she wander around with the others, peering behind curtains, and let someone else find him first?

If she doesn’t come straight here, I’ll quit mooning over her, he lectured himself. I can go back to thinking about…what? What else did he have to think about?
Drinking. Concentrate on drinking and leave the poor girl alone.

If she doesn’t come straight here. If.

The library door creaked open. Men’s shoes or women’s? Women’s. He tensed the muscles along his back, ready for disappointment. The owner of the shoes did not pause to peek behind curtains or under tables. They reached the screen and stopped.

“Hello again.”

A grin jumped onto his face. He uncurled his fingers and relaxed his hands.
“Hello,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“What, and waste a chance to win at sardines? Does this game even have a winner?”

He chuckled. Was it wrong of him to look forward to when the others joined, and they’d be crushed together? She sounded like she was right next to him, and he turned in that direction. “How are you feeling about tomorrow?”

“About the séance? Nervous. In a lot of ways, it was easier when I thought Mrs. Voldore was a fraud.”

“Maybe she still is.”

“Maybe. But it seemed pretty clear that she believes the other side is speaking to her. And that’s unsettling. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“I’ll be there.” Did that matter to her? Or was she being polite? “Just keep in mind that, even if she believes in it, it might still be fakery. Milk-and-water ‘insights’ that feel personal but aren’t really. Keep your armor up, and it’ll be fine.” He hesitated.

She was quiet. What he would give to see her face!

She continued to say nothing, but her lilac scent hung in the air. He changed the subject. “Tell me. What color is this room? Or wait, maybe I don’t want to know.”

“Why? Do you have it fixed as a color in your mind already?”

“Yes. It’s part of how I remember the steps for each room. I gave each room a color—probably a mile off from reality.”

“Like what? Tell me one.”

She was quite near him—her voice was right at his shoulder, and he sensed that she was turned toward him. Her face, her body, her interest, all aimed in his direction. It was headier than a whiskey sour.

“All right,” he said. “The breakfast room is egg-yolk yellow. It’s ten steps from the door to the table, so I picture a fork lying alongside an egg, like the number ten. Then I can add on to it from there. The breakfast room table seats twenty, so I picture a table under the egg and fork with nine seats on each side. None of that saves me from accidentally trying to take a seat that someone else is already sitting in, but it’s a start.”

“It’s genius! What color is the library?”

“Not my most original. It smells like wood and leather, so it’s brown.”

“Well done—it is rather brown, with a lot of gold accents. How many—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone’s coming!”

They held still. A bubble rose in Charlie’s chest the way it used to when he was small, playing hide-and-seek with his brother. Only the bubble sagged as he thought of his brother, now slated to take on the family business—working with their father, traveling together to the office, lunching in the city. Immersing himself in work while Charlie spent his days assigning colors to rooms so he wouldn’t walk into the walls.

Why did he not have a drink in his hand?

“Aha—found you.” Flora’s footsteps moved behind the screen. They stood silently as more feet approached and more people crowded in. Violet shuffled closer. Then closer again. Charlie waved his fingers softly, hoping he might breeze across her hand.

Sadie entered with a laugh of victory, and Violet was pushed against him. He caught her fingers to steady her. If only, he thought, they were living two hundred years ago, when it was polite to greet a lady by kissing her hand. Or if they were French—faire la bise on the cheek. Almost anything seemed better than being stolid Americans.

The sides of their hands brushed, then parted. All too soon, the game was over. Sadie whispered something to Violet, and she was drawn away, into the other room, into the crowd.

And Charlie went, at his snail’s pace, in search of a drink.