Chapter Two, part four

When Violet hauled Sadie into the breakfast room at two o’clock, the rude and handsome young man was already seated at the table, back to the door, his eyes locked on the window across from him. Violet guided her sister to the far side of the table, opposite him, and still he didn’t acknowledge their presence—just continued to face the window.

Others trickled in. Pearl Wainwright, dramatic in all black, sat herself next to Rude and Handsome. Floyd MacAlister bounded in, pleased to sit on Sadie’s other side. Two of the Worth siblings completed their side of the table. Then came Alva, with a massive brooch on her shirtwaist, and Earl with Helena Voldore on his arm.

He escorted her to the head of the table, seated Alva at her right, and came down the table to sit at the foot between Violet and Rude and Handsome. Once seated, he gave Violet a nod and leaned in to speak sotto voce with Rude and Handsome.

Violet pressed her lips together and tried to concentrate on her posture. The memory of Mother pushing her off the bed was so sharp, she felt the pressure of feet on the small of her back. Twisting her fingers in her lap, she imagined an invisible cord connecting, like a rope of smoke, with her sister. But Sadie had her attention on Floyd and didn’t seem to notice.

At the end of the table, Helena Voldore was arranging the voluminous sleeves of her peach-colored, velvet robe. The upper part of her hair was pinned back with a ribbon, but the rest was loose, cascading around her shoulders in a way that seemed very young for her age. She motioned to the staff to draw the curtains, bringing the room into near total darkness.

Violet pushed her feet into the floor. From the head of the table, Alva gave her a wink.

“Welcome,” Helena Voldore said in a voice that carried to the room’s far corners. “We have gathered here for a solemn undertaking. And a joyful one. A quest for truth.” Her long face was barely visible in the darkness. “There is no world of the living. And no world of the dead. There are spirits on this side and spirits on that side. I am a vessel through which my contact can pass messages to you, the living, from your dear departed dead.”

A sick feeling wafted into Violet’s head. Thank goodness Sadie was seated next to her. She reached for her hand—how was it so warm? Sadie leaned closer. “It’s all for play, funny. Like ghost stories.”

Like ghost stories, Violet repeated silently. Only she had no interest in discussing anything with a ghost, and particularly not her parents.

“My contact,” Mrs. Voldore went on, “is Fanny, a young British girl in the realm of spirits. I believe Fanny’s extra-sensory abilities allow her to reach out to me, just as I reach out to her. Fanny’s messages will be uttered by me in my own voice but bear in mind that I, myself, shall not be conscious so long as our connection is strong. I am a vessel, nothing more.” She paused and there was a rustle of fabric from her end of the table. “I ask that you assist me now. Reaching out to Fanny requires great energy. Great strength. We shall all clasp hands. Then I ask that you each bring to mind a person or persons who have passed on and from whom you would like to receive a message.”

Violet’s brain began to smolder. Which parent? Or could she choose someone else? She didn’t want to hear a message from either Mother or Papa. What might they say? They wouldn’t tell her details about their deaths, would they? She couldn’t bear it.

Like ghost stories, she thought.

“Lift your hands onto the tabletop,” Mrs. Voldore instructed. Violet looked across the table at Earl; she could just make out the glint of his eye. Beside him, Rude and Handsome’s hair had fallen across his brow again. Earl’s hand rested on the tabletop between them, waiting. She set hers in it, grateful for the warmth of his solid fingers. He and Sadie, on either side of her, seemed blessedly rooted to the ground.

Mrs. Voldore began to exhale loudly, as if through a pipe. Someone’s bracelet clinked on the table. A throat was cleared. Mrs. Voldore’s breathing grew louder still, to an almost half-moan. Earl adjusted his hand so his thumb rested on her wrist, the pressure sitting like a foreign coin in her pocket. Violet breathed, in and out, the air from her lungs spinning to the empty middle of the table.

Mrs. Voldore sat straighter.

“I have a message,” she said abruptly.

Alva gasped. “Is this Fanny?”

“This is Fanny.”

“For whom is your message, Fanny?”

“For Miss Van Waters.”

Heat rushed to Violet’s face. Beside her, Sadie tittered.

“Which Miss Van Waters?” asked Alva.

But Violet knew what the answer would be. She knew from the moment Mrs. Voldore had asked them to think of their beloved dead that a message would come for her.

“For Violet,” the medium answered slowly, her voice resting on every syllable. “Is Miss Violet Van Waters here?”

She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. “Yes,” she managed.

Across the table, Rude and Handsome sat up straighter. She flushed more deeply and grasped Earl and Sadie’s hands like a lifeline. A lifeline for a drowning woman. In icy waters. No, not that! She gave her head a fierce shake and squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for whatever was to come.

“The message is from Violet’s mother. Imogen. Will you hear the message?”

Was it possible to answer no? Not with Alva at the head of the table. Not with everyone listening. A dutiful daughter would never say no.

“Yes,” she managed again.

“Imogen bids me tell you that she loves you and your sister, both, very much. That she’s looking down on you with love. And not to worry, that she and your father are in a good place. A peaceful place.” There was a long pause. Violet’s throat grew tight and painful. It was hard to picture her mercurial mother enjoying peace.

“Have you anything you would like to ask?”

None of the questions that troubled her at night seemed appropriate to ask now. Not with people listening. Were you and Papa together? Did you think of us? Were you very drunk?

Was the water terribly cold?

Violet shook her head, then realized she needed to speak out loud. “No,” she said, hearing the wetness in her own voice. “No questions.”

Earl squeezed her hand.

“Imogen has one last message,” Mrs. Voldore said, and Violet’s shoulders sagged. “She says to tell you that she forgives you. For your quarrel.”

Even with her eyes closed, Violet’s world flashed hot and bright—the inside of a lightbulb. Mrs. Voldore moved on to someone else, to the Worths and their perished grandparent, but she heard nothing. She was caught in the brittle searchlight of memory.