Page 13 of A Devil in Silk
Several members looked at Clara as though the black feathered eye patch marked her as the villain come to commit sinister deeds. She daren’t remove it, or they would think she carried the Mark of the Beast.
“The devil marks his own.”
“She bears his seal, clear as day.”
And they would be right.
A devil had left his imprint, destroying her sight and confidence in one fell swoop, ruining all chances of a bright future. She could don pretty dresses and daring disguises, but would always be damaged beneath.
The viscount spoke up, addressing the medium. “Perhaps the spirits sense that some of us doubt your ability to commune with the dead. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a non-believer.”
Despite the gasps from those gathered, Miss Nightshade nodded and smiled. “Yet you believe in Isaac Newton’s law of universal gravitation. You have faith in a force you cannot feel, touch, or see.”
The viscount nodded. “The concept is logical.”
“Just as a moving compass is proof of the Earth’s magnetic field?”
“Precisely.”
“I suppose you find it harder to believe that Marcus didn’t perish from a nasty bout of measles and still walks on the heavenly plane.”
His eyes widened, and he flinched. “Are you saying Marcus is here? Or have you been delving into my past as a form of trickery?”
The elderly gentleman next to him chuckled softly.
“Did you not hear me, sir? The spirits are always present.”
The viscount leaned forward, his hands resting on his strong, muscular thighs, the sort a lady ought not to notice. And yet Clara’s gaze lingered for a moment too long.
“Then prove it,” he said. His voice was calm, yet edged with challenge. “Tell me something you couldn’t possibly know.”
The woman who had been wringing her hands earlier scowled. “Sir, I find your disbelief rather distasteful. One must question why you even bothered to purchase a ticket.”
Lavinia Nightshade answered on his behalf. “Because it’s an escape from his current pressures. And he is yet to make sense of what is in his heart.”
While the viscount’s snort rang with mockery, Miss Nightshade addressed the woman. “Albert has been with you since you left home this evening. But I know you feel his presence daily.”
The woman sniffed back tears. “Yes, but one can never be sure. If you’ve truly loved someone, they always live within you.”
Miss Nightshade paused. “He tells me you planted a cherry tree in his memory because he loved pink blossoms.”
And so the night went on.
Miss Nightshade offered those present snippets of information to whet their appetites—names, locations, specific dates, anecdotes a few people could claim.
Excitement buzzed through the underground chamber until a sudden bang from above silenced the room. All heads turned.Then came a low, guttural moan from the stage. The medium’s head lolled, her eyes rolling back as though seized by something otherworldly.
An icy chill breezed over Clara’s neck.
When she shivered, so did the woman beside her.
Miss Nightshade writhed as though wrestling with irate voices in her head and suddenly blurted, “They’re forcing me to say—” she shifted uneasily—“that the spirits grow restless when the truth is buried. And there are many truths buried by those in this room.”
Everyone exchanged terrified glances. Some gasped as the flames of one candelabrum flared and then died, as if an invisible presence had snuffed them out.
Miss Nightshade gripped the wooden arms of her chair, fingers claw-like, her voice cracking as she cried, “I—I must speak, though the words are not mine! What was done in shadow cries for the light. The dead will not rest while secrets fester in the darkness.”
The young man with the red hair pointed a shaky hand to a gilt-framed mirror and cried, “Lord have mercy. I see Bethany rising from the water, wet and bedraggled. She’s pointing, pointing at people in the room.”
