Page 4 of Beneath the Poet's House

The pale-faced, black-haired woman leans forward and takes something off the table. To Saoirse’s surprise, the woman stands and, ascalmly as she’d addressed her, approaches Saoirse. She reaches down, takes Saoirse’s hand, and places the object in it.

Saoirse recoils. Then, seeing it’s just a photograph, or rather, a daguerreotype, stares at the image within the oxidized gold frame. A white-garbed woman, spiral curls framed by a sheer ruched bonnet, stares back.

“This isn’t your house,” the woman repeats. Her voice is not unkind, but it is also not uncryptic.

“Then whose is it?” Saoirse asks. She’s annoyed that her anger is tempered by the strangers’ refusal to act as if they’re doing something wrong.

The answer comes from the brown-haired woman behind the cauldron, words thick, as if the smoke has hardened her vocal cords into something akin to the wide pillar candles at her elbows: “It’s Sarah Helen Whitman’s, the poet, essayist, transcendentalist, and spiritualist.” The corners of the woman’s mouth turn down slightly. “And I suppose I’d be remiss not to include ‘onetime romantic interest of Edgar Allan Poe.’” She forces Saoirse to meet her gaze. “We’re bringing her back from the dead.”

Chapter 2

Saoirse narrows her eyes at the strange brown-haired woman, a frisson of fear creeping up her back like a clutter of spiders. Just as quickly, she shakes the fear away and holds the photograph out to the first woman. “Cut the crap,” she says, in what Jonathan used to call her take-no-prisoners voice. “You have five seconds to tell me what the hell is going on, or I’m calling the police.”

The man pushes back from the head of the table and approaches her as if the séance worked and Saoirse is, in fact, a ghost. “Did you really sign the lease to this place?”

“Yes,” Saoirse says in exasperation. She looks from one baffled expression to the next. “What am I not understanding here?”

The man reaches out and takes the photograph Saoirse is still extending. He peers down at it, then back at Saoirse. “No one’s lived here for the last five years.”

“So?”

“So, this is the former house of the poet Sarah Helen Whitman, like Mia said. We—Lucretia, Mia, and I—have a little arrangement with Diane’s ex.”

“Diane Hartnett?” Saoirse asks. Her head is spinning. She wishes she’d gone for that espresso when she had the chance, doctor’s orders be damned. But at the mention of her landlord’s name, something passes between the three trespassers, an uneasy acknowledgment that she might actually be 88 Benefit Street’s new tenant, like she says.

“Yes, Diane Hartnett,” the man says. “She’s owned this property—along with two dozen others—for years, but has only been divorced from Larry the last five. Larry’s the one who managed Benefit Street when they were together.”

“And what?” Saoirse asks. “Diane never thought to get the key from him over the last half decade?”

The three exchange another round of looks. “Like I said,” the man explains, his voice apologetic, “he took care of the place. If you know 88 Benefit,reallyknow it, there are other ways to get in besides the front door.”

Saoirse throws her arms out angrily. She should have finished unloading her car by now, taken a shower, and be climbing into bed. Instead, she’s standing here with a bunch of nutjobs, listening to how her new house is not bound by the regular rules of leases and locked doors. Before she can say anything, however, the pale-faced, black-haired woman—Lucretia, the man called her—reaches out and takes her by the hand.

“What’s your name?” Lucretia asks.

“Saoirse,” she surprises herself by replying.

“Ser-shah,” she repeats, drawing out the syllables. “Pretty. Listen, Saoirse, we’re not a bad lot, I promise. And we can explain everything, why we’re here. You’ve just arrived, I imagine. Where from? Do you need help unloading your car?”

Saoirse lets out a huff at Lucretia’s presumptuousness, at the idea that Saoirse would want them to do anything other than get the hell out. But Lucretia continues before she can retort. “Roberto can help get the rest of your stuff inside. Mia will make you a cup of tea. After that, we’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“And then we’ll leave you in peace,” the man adds quickly.

Something inside Saoirse lets go. She is beyond exhausted. Haunted. Hurting. Drained of every ounce of motivation. Though it’s insane, she is less dismayed by the idea of having tea with a trio of occultist interlopers than by the prospect of climbing the stairs and claiming one ofthe empty bedrooms, of trying to fall asleep while, all across the city, museums and parks and libraries thrum with the echoes of Jonathan’s memory. And by the prospect that Aidan Vesper might still discover the details of her new address going forward.

Saoirse sighs. If either Roberto or Mia had looked even slightly put off by Lucretia’s suggestion, Saoirse would have returned to her original plan of kicking them out. But nothing about the strangers standing timidly on the dirt floor of her basement suggests they mean her harm, or that they won’t leave at the culmination of the impromptu tea party.

“Sure, okay,” Saoirse says, forcing more annoyance into the words than she feels. “But blow those damn candles out. I’m not going to be blamed for the house burning down the first night I’m in it.”

The smile that suffuses Lucretia’s face is wide and guileless. Likely, she’s just relieved to have convinced Saoirse not to call the cops. Lucretia bounds toward the black-draped table, closes her eyes, and bows her head. Her lips move in some sort of closing prayer, an official end to the séance. A moment later, she blows out the candles. Mia unearths a black drawstring bag from under the table and slips the Ouija board inside it. The trio packs up everything with speed and precision.

“I’ll come back down for the candles after tea,” Roberto says to Saoirse. “By then, the wax will have dried.”

“Whatever,” Saoirse says, and starts for the stairs.

They climb to the first floor in silence and go to the kitchen, where Mia retrieves tea and honey from a cupboard with a quickness born of familiarity. Roberto rubs his hands together. “Okay then,” he says. “Show me where you parked.”

Ten minutes later, Roberto, Mia, and Lucretia are seated once again around a circular table. This time, Saoirse sits with them, a cup of steaming rooibos (she declined Earl Grey, wanting to get the bergamot smell of the séance out of her nostrils) before her. “All right,” she says, using the take-no-prisoners tone again. “Start explaining.”

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