Page 11 of A Devil in Silk
Bentley settled into the stiff sofa beside a scholarly-looking man in spectacles. He gave the fellow a curt nod but did not offer his name.
The man waited for Tarrington to approach the stage before leaning closer to Bentley and saying, “Keep your wits about you, sir. The eyes are easily tricked, but everything you see can be explained.”
“Ah, a fellow cynic.”
“Cynic, critic, call it what you will. I simply refuse to be fooled by flickering flames and rattling chains.”
Tarrington mounted the two steps and took centre stage. “Welcome to The Arcane Emporium, home of rarities gathered from far and wondrous places.”
A stout woman seated next to Miss Dalton clapped, her excitement palpable and filling her apple-shaped cheeks.
Tarrington responded by raising a handheld funeral mask to his face, hiding his overlong brows. The cold black eyes painted on the pottery tore a gasp from the select crowd.
“Soon you will meet the famed Miss Nightshade,” Tarrington intoned, sounding like a narrator in a theatrical play. “A renowned medium, whose performances are as rare and sought after as this pharaoh’s funerary mask.”
While some were in awe of their host, the fellow seated beside Bentley seemed more interested in studying every shadowy corner.
“Mr Scarth will bring refreshments.” Tarrington gestured to the stairs. “It’s important to relax if we’re to open the gates between this life and the next. I must urge you to clear your minds of negative thoughts.”
Bentley nearly laughed. To clear his mind of negative thoughts would be a greater feat than summoning spirits. His mind was a tangle of problems, regrets, and things left unsaid.
Scarth appeared carrying a silver tray with tulip-shaped glasses containing what appeared to be red wine.
Bentley met Miss Dalton’s gaze as she took the proffered glass and her fingers settled around the dainty stem. He could almost hear her heart racing. She was afraid and doing her best not to show it.
His own heart thumped wildly in response, a startling thing, after years of feeling dead inside and him walking around like a living corpse.
“Keep your hearts and minds open,” Tarrington urged again, encouraging them to drink. “And spare a thought for those who dwell upon the ethereal plane. They are nearer than you think.”
Bentley spared no thought for his three siblings or the father buried three years past. He focused on Miss Dalton, noting the way her fingers tightened on the seat and the sudden grimness of her expression.
Then a gong clanged from a room above them, the sound reverberating through the brick walls.
Tarrington inhaled deeply as if drawing in the essence of unseen spirits. “Miss Lavinia Nightshade,” he said, gesturing to the empty chair seconds before the room plunged into darkness.
Chapter Three
The darkness felt familiar, reminiscent of the night her father tried to strike Daniel with the riding crop, the night everything changed and Clara’s life took an unexpected turn.
From her bed she’d heard the shouting, vile curses filled with fury. Anger rose through the floorboards, seeping into her chamber like a malevolent spirit. The fear her father might murder the only person she loved sent her scurrying downstairs in a blind panic.
She remembered the dark hallway, the storm raging in time with her pulse. Thunder growled and shook the heavens. A beast stood over her brother—not their father, but a towering figure of rage.
“You insolent swine! You’ll sell that damned horse tomorrow. Do you hear me? You’re not the master of this house yet, boy.” Lightning flashed, catching the gleam of her father’s raised arm and turning his face monstrous.
“I’m no boy,” came her brother’s indignant reply. “Strike me, and it will be the last damn thing you do.”
“Are you threatening me,boy?” he goaded.
“Take it as a warning.”
“Why, you arrogant whelp. I should?—”
Desperate, Clara screamed for their father to stop, but he refused to listen. She was reaching for his arm, frantic to intervene, when it snapped backwards and struck her hard across the eye.
A white-hot burst of pain had her stumbling backwards.
The floor rushed up, dragging her down into a black abyss.
