“Most people don’t believe in a thing unless they see it for themselves,” Dad had explained on our way back to the hotel. “And if they see it, they’ll believe it, even if it isn’t real.”
“Who knows what’s real?” Mom had said, swinging an arm around my shoulder. “But anything is possible.”
“Please join hands,” instructs Mr. Blanc once we’re all seated.
Well, all of us except Jacob, who’s busy circling the room, walking the narrow path between the backs of the chairs and the velvet-curtained walls. He looks behind one of them and confirms there are air grates back there, causing the cold draft, the gently swaying velvet.
“How does a séance work?” asks Mom, with an enthusiasm reserved for the strange and the morbid.
Mr. Blanc strokes his goatee. “That depends. To reach out to someone specific, someone you’ve lost, I need a possession, something of theirs to call them forth. Or, if you like, I can simply reach out to the spirit realm and see who answers.” He considers us. “I am only a humble conduit, but I believe that, for some such as you, the spirits would have much to say.”
“I certainly do,” says Jacob, who’s stroking his chin in a near-perfect imitation of Mr. Blanc.
Don’t do anything, I think pointedly.
Jacob sighs. “You’re no fun.” He gestures at the room. “This place is like a spectral playground!” he says, right before his arm passes through one of the candles. The flame shudders and goes out.
Mr. Blanc raises a brow. “The spirits, it seems, are eager to begin.”
I scowl at Jacob, who flashes me a bashful grin. Sorry, he mouths.
“Do you wish to call on a specific spirit,” asks Mr. Blanc, “or shall I open the gates and see what comes through?”
I tense a little, but remind myself of what Lara said. Séances aren’t real. And unless Mr. Blanc is an in-betweener, which I seriously doubt, there’s no risk of him letting anything through.
“Ohh,” says Mom. “Let’s let the ghosts decide.”
“Very well.” The lights dim around us, and Dad, ever the skeptic, raises a brow. Mom kicks him lightly under the table. Jenna squirms excitedly in her seat. Lucas looks straight ahead, his face carefully blank.
Mr. Blanc clears his throat, and I realize I’m the only one who hasn’t joined hands.
“Don’t worry,” says Mr. Blanc. “The spirits cannot hurt you.”
Well, that’s a straight-up lie, I think, remembering all the ghosts I’ve met in the Veil who’ve tried to kill me.
But this is just a game. A bit of fun, as Lara would say.
So I take the hands on either side of me, completing the circle.
I can still feel the Veil, but it’s no stronger here than it was out in the street. If anything, it’s softer, the tap of ghosts reduced to a gentle press. I stare at my own warped reflection in the black stone centerpiece.
“Close your eyes,” says Mr. Blanc. “And quiet your minds. We must create a clear channel.”
If Lara were here, she would scoff, and say that isn’t how it works. That we’re on one side and they’re on the other, and unless someone died really close to this spot, there’s probably no one to talk to.
But Lara’s not here, so everyone, including the Spiritist, closes their eyes.
Everyone except for me.
Which is why I see the strings, the seams, the tricks that make it easy to believe.
I see the pale smoke spilling between a break in the velvet curtains. I see Mr. Blanc shift something between his teeth. I see his shoe move under the table, just before we hear a knock.
Everyone opens their eyes, blinking in surprise at the fog, the subtle changes in the room.
“Is anyone there?” asks Mr. Blanc.
Jacob holds his breath, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s resisting the urge to cause a scene, or if he genuinely thinks he might be summoned and forced to answer.
But when Mr. Blanc speaks again, his voice is higher, stranger, a little muffled, as if there’s something in his mouth, which I know there is.
“My name is Marietta,” he says. “Marietta Greene.”
It’s like watching a ventriloquist, except Mr. Blanc is both the master and the doll. His lips are always moving.
“I don’t know where I am,” he continues in that strange, squeaky voice. “It is so dark, I think they must have boarded the windows and locked the doors …”
It sounds like a speech; the words trip out too easily.
I feel the cold draft, and slight tremor of the table, all the things I know are tricks, part of the performance. But I don’t feel anything ghostly.
And then I do.
The air in the room changes. The draft drops away, and the mist holds still, and the bell at Mr. Blanc’s elbow begins to ring, even though he never touched it.
Mr. Blanc stares down at the bell, and for a second, he looks totally surprised.
But then his head lolls forward, like a puppet without any strings. His hands drop from Jenna’s and Mom’s, landing on the table with the dull smack of dead weight.
For a moment, he’s as still as a statue, as still as a corpse, and Jacob slips behind my chair, as if he plans to use me as a shield.
Nice, I think, right before Mr. Blanc’s mouth hinges opens and a voice spills out. A voice that isn’t really a voice at all, but wind against old windows, a draft beneath a door. A rasping whisper, a rumble in the dark. The same voice I heard at the Place d’Armes.
And this time, it’s speaking to me.
We have seen you, little thief.”
The words slip between Mr. Blanc’s teeth, hissing like steam from a kettle.
“Light burning in your chest.”
The words roll over me like a chill, carrying that hollow fear, that strange emptiness. The same cold terror I felt on the platform in Paris.
“Once you stole from us. And once you fled.”
The words keep spilling out of Mr. Blanc’s mouth, but they don’t belong to him. There is no projection now, no drama, no flair. If anything, his delivery is eerily flat, his voice empty of emotion.
“But now you cannot hide.”
As the Spiritist speaks, something moves inside the black stone centerpiece. I watch as it rises to the surface. At first, it’s nothing but a pale white streak. But soon, I can see its hinged jaw and its empty black eyes, and I know it’s a skull.
And I can’t look away.
“We have seen you.”
I can’t move.
“And we will find you.”
I’m back on the train platform as the skeleton in the black suit reaches up to pull away its face.
In the séance room, Mr. Blanc’s head drifts up, his eyes open and empty. Like something else has climbed inside, like something else is looking out.
“We are coming for you, little thief.”
The Spiritist leans forward, unseeing, and my hand goes to the mirror at my throat. An anchor in the storm.
“We will find you, and balance the scales.”
Mr. Blanc’s fingers dig into the silk tablecloth as the voice that is not a voice gets stronger in his throat.
“We will find you and return you to the dark.”
I drag in a shuddering breath. The skull in the black stone and the Spiritist at the table both swivel suddenly toward me, those empty eyes narrowing, and for a moment I’m certain that the thing inside Mr. Blanc can see me, and I jerk backward as—