“Caleb? Darling?”
Caleb turned in his seat and belatedly realized that Rose had been speaking. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“Are you all right? I swear, it seems your mind has been miles away lately.”
“Has it? I suppose it’s just—” he gestured vaguely at the small carriage interior as if it contained everything that had happened over the past few days “—my father, the business. It’s taking its toll.”
“Of course,” Rose said swiftly, taking his hand and squeezing. “I’m so sorry. You must take all the time you need.”
Caleb gave her a weak smile, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty when his thoughts turned right back to where they had been fixated: on the strangest girl he had ever met, the one with flaming red hair and eyes the color of mountains shrouded in mist. There was something about Miss Cooke that challenged him, yet made him feel instantly comfortable, as if he had always known her. Or perhaps it was the cemetery itself, the way time and all his worldly worries melted away amongst the graves and the gently bobbing flowers. It had felt so damned good just to spill out his troubles to a sympathetic ear. Rose would have listened to him—she always did—but he didn’t want to burden her, didn’t want her to have to offer solutions and feel as if she had to resolve everything for him. Sometimes a man just wanted to talk.
“Caleb? We’re here.”
The carriage had stopped and Rose was looking at him expectantly. Outside the theater, traffic streamed alongside of them, a throng of men in tall opera hats and ladies clutching at umbrellas. Caleb had been excited for the new French melodrama when he’d booked the box last week, but now he wasn’t even sure he could sit still for three hours. He was also supposed to be in mourning, which meant no public engagements for at least a month, but Rose was still waiting for him, and she looked so fetching and hopeful that he had no choice but to shake free the fog from his head.
“Right,” he said, hopping out and offering his hand to Rose. “Shall we?”
* * *
Tabby waited until Eli was sleeping that night before she swung her legs out of bed. She was already fully dressed, so she only had to grab her cloak and put on her shoes. Tiptoeing through their rooms, she took care not to wake the landlady when she reached the main stairs. Once she was outside, she let out her breath, hurrying through the cool spring mist that hung over the hill.
The streets were empty and quiet save for the yowling of a stray dog and the occasional clip of a passing hack. When she reached the church, she settled herself on the damp steps, and closed her eyes.
She had made this same trip down the hill and to the church once a month for the past twelve years. What she was about to do could have been done from anywhere—including the comfort and privacy of her own bed—but the church was where she had last seen Alice, and if there was anyplace where some little essence of her sister still lingered in the city, it was there.
Alice had once said that their mother had taught her never to try to contact anyone you had known in life. Alice had passed on the warning, cautioning Tabby against ever contacting their parents; it was too terrible to see someone you loved on the other side.
Pushing aside her sister’s warning as she did every month, Tabby searched the cold, murky ether for the once-familiar face of her sister.
And just like every other month, no spirit came to her.
There was hope that Alice was alive yet.
Rising from the steps, Tabby turned back to the hill. There was still one more spirit with whom she must make contact that night. Tabby had never willingly exercised her ability in this way except in her search for Alice, and she wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for the person she was trying to help.
After she had seen Caleb Bishop that morning and he had confided in her about his plight, she knew that she would do anything she could to help him. She didn’t know why, but his story had touched her. He was a wealthy young man from a different world, and yet she had commiserated with his predicament. After all, she knew all too well what it was like to be funneled into a path that was anathema to one’s character. And that meant that she must speak with his father, learn what he had to say about Caleb’s business responsibilities.
At the cemetery gates, she lingered, loath to go inside even as she knew she must. They were open tonight, which was odd; Eli must have forgotten to lock them. Settling herself on a bench just inside the gates, she repeated the ritual she had just performed on the church steps not even half an hour earlier. This time it was Mr. Bishop who she invited to step through the veil. She did not know what he looked like, only his name; that would have to be enough.
She had learned that the dead did not like to speak of what became of their body after death. The disconnect was too great, the horror of seeing their mortal remains too much to bear.
Mr. Bishop. She spoke silently in her mind, her words echoing through the void. You don’t know me, but I am a friend of your son’s. I know you want rest, but I believe that speaking with me could benefit us both. If nothing else, surely the old man would not want to see his business flounder at the hands of his son.
It was a rare spirit that did not accept an invitation to speak with the living. There was always some message they wanted passed on, some last word added to the record. Tabby waited, bracing herself for the inevitable.
A stale wind whipped up through the void in her mind, and then the austere, wrinkled face of a man appeared. She sucked in her breath. No matter how much she anticipated the moment of contact, it always felt like an ambush, like the air was being stolen right from her lungs.
What do you want from me, girl? Don’t you know who I am? I don’t tolerate strangers meddling in my business.
So much for death being the great equalizer. Tabby forced herself to focus on the hard ground beneath her shoes, the faint scent of salt water from the harbor. She could not allow herself to get lost in the void. I come on behalf of your son, Caleb. He—
The spirit let out an impatient snort. Caleb? That boy is not fit to handle his own allowance, never mind the business my father built up from nothing.
Even though he was only in her mind, she could smell the rot on him, feel the cold air he brought wrap itself around her. More than anything, Tabby wanted to slam the door shut, build up her wall, and never have to see this awful man again. But she had come this far and Caleb needed her, so she pressed on.
You’re wrong not to have faith in your son, but if you really care so little for him, then perhaps you will at least think of the success of Bishop & Son Shipping and answer me what I ask.
This seemed to capture his attention. His colorless eyes regarded her skeptically and it was all she could do to force herself to return his gaze in equal measure, willing him not to break contact. Very well, he finally said. I will tell you what you need to know.