He had also come to love and respect his aunt for her own sake. Fiercer and more independent than her sister, Lillian was forceful and opinionated, and had become a strong guiding presence in Ian’s life. So when she suggested that he accompany her to one of her precious séances, he had found it impossible to deny her.
“There we are,” she said, placing two steaming bowls of soup on the table. “If you wouldn’t mind fetching the bread and cheese we’ll get started.”
“Of course,” Ian said as the aroma of leeks and barley filled the room, his stomach contracting with hunger. On the kitchen counter was a wooden tray containing a round loaf of brown bread, which Lillian preferred over the more expensive white bread, a large wedge of yellow cheese, and a slab of fresh butter. Ian recognized the tray as a present from his mother—he had helped her pick it out years ago. It was painted with a Highland scene of purple heather in full bloom and reminded him of his Inverness childhood.
“This meal was one of Alfie’s favorites,” Lillian said as they pulled their chairs up to the table in front of the fire, the crackling of the wood blending with the wind whistling through the eaves. “He had simple tastes—one of the many things I loved about him.”
“The breeze is picking up,” Ian said, avoiding the topic of her dead husband. Lillian believed that Madame Veselka communicated with dear Alfie, who had been dead for some years now. Ian had been very fond of Uncle Alfred, but did not believe in ghosts, the afterlife, or indeed anything supernatural. But he had resolved to keep his opinions to himself tonight and sit quietly while his aunt enjoyed herself.
“Madame Veselka has to go to Paris later this week, which is why she’s holding her meeting on a Monday instead of Friday,” Lillian remarked as Ian helped himself to a slice of cheese, sharp and tangy and creamy. “That’s what my friend Elizabeth Staley tells me, at any rate.”
“Elizabeth Staley?”
“You’ll meet her tonight. She’s a retired schoolteacher. We’ve become quite friendly over the past months.”
“This is a wonderful cheddar,” he said. “Where did you get it?”
“I know how you feel about Madame Veselka,” she said with a knowing smile. “All I ask is that you keep an open mind.”
“Consider your request granted. Now, how about some more of that Montrachet?” he said, pouring some into her glass as the wind heaved and sucked at the windowpanes. Ian shivered as the dry branches of the old yew tree outside rapped against the glass, as if beckoning them out into the night.
CHAPTER THREE
Madame Veselka’s flat occupied the ground floor of a crumbling tenement on Blackfriars Street. They were greeted by a fresh-faced blond girl of about twenty who smiled when she saw Lillian.
“Good to see you again, madame,” she said in a pronounced Prussian accent, curtsying. “I am Gretchen,” she told Ian. “Please to come in. The others are in the parlor.”
They were ushered into a plush, old-fashioned sitting room. Nearly every surface was draped in fabric, from the heavy burgundy drapes to the tasseled cloth covering the wide oval table in the center of the room. A fire burned in the grate, and the air was thick with sage incense. No gaslights were lit—other than the fire, a dozen candles provided the only source of illumination. A snowy Persian cat sat curled in one of the overstuffed armchairs, its blue eyes thin slits in a forest of white fur.
Besides Lillian’s friend, retired schoolteacher Elizabeth Staley, the attendees included a tiny, pinch-faced woman dressed all in black, clutching an enormous cloth handbag; an army major; and his son, a sullen young man with thick blond hair in need of a trim. After being served sherry by Gretchen, they conversed in hushed voices, casting nervous glances in the direction of a beaded curtain at the far end of the room.
After learning that the major was here to speak with his dead wife, and that the tiny woman, who bore the very Welsh name of Bronwyn Davies, was in search of communication with a dead sister, Ian was becoming restless.
“When is she likely to appear?” he whispered to Lillian as he accepted a second glass of sherry from the comely Gretchen.
“She likes to make an entrance,” his aunt replied. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
Her prediction was soon rewarded. The curtain at the other end of the room swayed, the beads clacking softly against each other as they parted to reveal a large woman elaborately dressed in layers of contrasting prints and colors. Her plump wrists were festooned with bracelets, each finger sporting a different ring. The paisley scarf wrapped around her head did not fully contain the mass of unruly black curls beneath it. Her skirts swayed and swished, and the odor of gardenias filled the room.
“Welcome to tonight’s séance,” she said in an accent that was clearly meant to evoke French origins, but Ian detected another flavor lurking within it. He wasn’t certain, but he thought she was unsuccessfully concealing Romany roots. He glanced at Lillian, but his aunt appeared enraptured by the medium’s presence.
“So good to see so many familiar faces,” Madame Veselka said, casting her eyes around the room until her gaze fixed on Ian. “What brings you here tonight, young man?”
“I came with my aunt,” Ian replied, a little curtly.
“You are most welcome,” she replied graciously, which made him regret his tone of voice.
“Please, let us begin,” she said, as Gretchen appeared with an empty tray to collect the sherry glasses. The guests followed the medium’s lead to sit around the oval table. Ian chose a seat next to Lillian, across from the retired major, who sat, back straight as a rod, his bushy white mustache perfectly symmetrical. “Let us all join hands,” said the madame, and Ian felt his aunt’s thin, cool fingers close over his.
The yellow candlelight cast a warm glow on the deep-plum wallpaper. Ian smelled candle wax mixed with Madame Veselka’s heavy gardenia perfume. How suitable she should choose the aroma of a flower associated with death, he thought, wondering if it was purposeful. He looked at the others, their shining faces expectant as children’s. As the medium let her head fall back, speaking in a low, thrilling voice, his aunt’s grip on his hand tightened.
“’Tis the dark of night, when phantoms stretch their ghostly limbs through the mists of time, their hoary heads draped in the veil of death. Come, O spirits! Come, departed ones! Give us your wisdom, show us your long-forgotten faces! Visit our world once more, you creatures of the shadows!”
“She’s damned poetic, I’ll give her that,” Ian whispered to Lillian. His remark was rewarded with a swift poke in the ribs. “Ow!” he muttered. “That hurt.”
“Shh!” Lillian hissed. “Unless ye want another.”
Ian fell silent. His aunt’s elbow was sharp, and he believed her threat.
Madame Veselka leaned forward in her chair. “Is there one here you wish to speak to?”
Silence. A yawn fought its way up Ian’s throat, and as he attempted to stifle it, the medium spoke again—in an entirely different voice, throaty and rich.
“Bear, is that you?”
Icicles speared Ian’s heart. Bear was his mother’s nickname for him. As a child, he owned a dog who once cornered a beaver. Having recently immersed himself in a fairy tale involving bears, he mistook the animal for a bear, which had been extinct in Scotland for centuries. After that incident, his mother dubbed him Bear.