Page 80 of Shadows in Bloom

“I’m serious.”

I narrow my eyes, considering her for a long moment. Candlelight flickers over her angular face, sharpening her features. Two low, perfectly woven French braids drape over her shoulders, the ends curling up just below her small breasts.

My throat thickens when I realize what I’m doing, and my gaze springs up to find Ophelia chewing her lip, dark eyes unreadable, almost nervous, as they peer back at me. I quickly glance away, and clear my throat, pasting on a grin as if nothing happened. “Okay then, fine, prove it. Let’s make this thing talk.”

“Give me your finger.”

I turn a frown on her. “Wha—What are you doing?” I whisper-shout, eyes widening when I find her pricking her finger with a safety pin. Where did that even come from?

“You gave me an idea last time, when you cut yourself. So I did some research,” she explains.

I watch as a bead of bright red blood forms on the tip of her middle finger.

“Ophie…”

She glances up at me, crooks a small grin. “It’s fine. Barely pinched. Your turn.” She reaches for my hand, but I quickly take it back, clutching it against my chest.

It hurting is not what I’m worried about.

Again, a surging sense of foreboding has me wanting to throw this thing out the window and forget it exists.

Ophelia rolls her eyes. “Whatever, suit yourself.” Dropping the pin on the mattress, she grabs the planchette, and rubs her blood over it, soaking it into the soft, polished wood.

Leaning around the board, I grab the safety pin, careful not to poke myself with it. When I pull back, I briefly debate doing the same as her, before shaking away the stupid idea and snapping the pin closed. Blindly setting it somewhere behind me.

It’s not going to work. She hurt herself for nothing, she’ll see.

“Ready?” she chirps.

I nod shortly.

Setting the planchette down on the board, she moves her fingers so they rest lightly on the edge. I follow suit, making sure I add no pressure whatsoever. Blowing rogue strands of hair from my eyes, before speaking.

“Hello. Is there anyone here right now, who’d like to say something?”

Seconds pass as we hold our breath, staring down at the board.

My finger twitches, but the thing doesn’t move.

“Let me try,” Ophelia says, before taking a deep breath. “Hello?” she says, her voice ringing out clear.

“Shh,” I say, glancing toward the locked bedroom door. Her parents’ room is down the hall. Her mom’s on a business trip this weekend—she’s one of the few who commute out of Hollow Hill for work. So it’s just her dad tonight, and he sleeps like a rock.

Still, the guy’s pretty cool and all, but I doubt he’d look too kindly on his daughter and her best friend playing what the church would call a Devil’s game.

Ignoring me, Ophelia goes on to say, “Is there anyone here who’d like to speak? The floor is yours. We’re listening.”

I bite back a smile, watching her. Her eyes are closed, her inky lashes fluttering over her cheeks.

Thunder rumbles quietly, and there’s a howl caught on the wind.

Ophelia’s mouth opens like she’s about to say something else, when I feel the faintest movement under my fingers.

Her eyes fly open in surprise, and drop down to the board.

“You did that,” I murmur.

She’s shaking her head. “Shush. Hello, is someone here? It’s okay, you don’t have to be?—”

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