Page 12 of A Devil in Silk
The sudden glow of candlelight in the basement pulled her back from her waking nightmare. It flickered across the small stage of The Arcane Emporium, where a beautiful woman sat motionless in the heavy oak chair. Her hands rested lightly on the solid wooden arms, and she tilted her head as if listening for the distant whispers of the dead.
No one in the room made a sound.
No one moved.
Everyone stared at the vision of loveliness with skin as pale as bone and lips as red as freshly drawn blood. Ink-black hair framed an oval face, one far too young and innocent for someone in such an obscure profession.
Clara glanced at the viscount, who seemed more captivated by her than the medium on stage. Concern marred his otherwise perfect features, though whether for her or the strange proceedings, she couldn’t tell. His subtle nod was a silent question. She responded with the smallest of smiles, then forced her attention back to the stage before it lingered too long.
Long seconds passed as Miss Nightshade whispered to people unseen. Then her slight frame jerked, and she blinked as though waking from a stupor.
Mr Scarth lit the candles in the standing candelabras, and they flared to life as Miss Nightshade slowly scanned the audience with inquisitive eyes. A smile curled her lips. “We have quite a gathering of souls tonight,” she said softly.
A wave of excitement rippled through the strangely atmospheric room. One woman clutched her own hand as though it belonged to someone dear.
“I ask you all to think of a question,” Miss Nightshade said before pausing to gaze at the low ceiling. “Something you wish to ask those who’ve departed. Be specific, and let the thought sit quietly in your mind.”
Clara emptied her mind. The last thing she wanted was a message from her father. The blackguard could atone for his sins in the dredges of hell.
Miss Nightshade took a beautiful tulip-shaped glass from Mr Scarth’s tray and placed it on the trestle table beside her. She stared at the burgundy liquid, falling into an odd trance before her expression changed abruptly. Her frown became a smile, which shifted and curled, as if she were a vessel collecting a lifetime of vivid stories.
The tension in the air tightened when Miss Nightshade pointed to a young red-haired man sitting directly opposite Clara. “You are not to blame for the accident, sir. The water was much deeper than expected, the current wild and dangerous beneath the surface.”
The man covered his mouth with a shaky hand, his eyes widening like the horror of that day played out before him.
“Bethany wants you to know that it’s impossible to predict when tragedy will strike.” Miss Nightshade paused to whisper to an invisible companion, thanking them for their patience. “It’s time to let go. You have spent enough time grieving.”
Lord Rutland stiffened, muttering something about grief under his breath. Clara recalled her brother saying the viscount was the only one of his siblings to survive infancy, and sorrow stirred deep within her for the weight he carried alone.
Miss Nightshade seemed to wrestle with her thoughts, her face contorting before she addressed the woman perched at the end of Clara’s sofa.
“What you seek can be found beneath the floorboards. The lady here tonight”—the medium waved her hands as though ushering someone closer—“she says you must move your grandmother’s escritoire to reach them, but what you believe in your heart is true.”
The vague information appeased the woman but left the audience dissatisfied. What was she hoping to discover? And what did she believe in her heart?
Minutes passed, during which Miss Nightshade relayed messages, only a few specific enough to claim. “Does anyone know a gentleman who hailed from Guernsey? I’m being shown a mangled foot.”
Heads shook.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Lord Tarrington, still holding his Egyptian mask, stepped forward. “I believe the previous owner of this house had family in the Channel Islands. If I’m not mistaken, his son used to walk with a crutch.”
Miss Nightshade smiled serenely. “Then just give me a moment to help them on their way. They are both quite insistent and determined to offer a warning.”
The medium began reciting a blessing, her voice steady until it faltered midway. Her lips trembled. The next words came in Latin, the syllables sharp, her jaw locked tight. Her fingers curled around the arms of the chair, as though something unseen tugged at her from beyond.
At last, she exhaled deeply. “Fear not. They are gone.”
A collective breath followed, though the tension still gripped the room.
Clara’s heart galloped, each beat echoing like thunder in her ears. She placed her palm flat to her chest and had to ask, “What was the warning? Is there something we should know?”
Miss Nightshade shivered as if a biting chill had pierced her bones. Her gaze snapped to Clara, then swept the room before she answered. “Someone here has dark intentions. The spirits, they sense wickedness cloaked in curiosity.”
A hush fell over the gathering.
The candle flames stuttered, though there was no breeze.
