"Wearing? To what?"
She sighed and tossed that hat across the room as well. "To the reading. While you were out, Madame Nephthys sent word that we may attend her afternoon reading. Ah!" She snatched up another hat and tenderly lowered it onto her head. It didn't look much different than the other two. "Perfect."
"Don't you want to know about the murder?"
"Told you," she said as she fanned out a half dozen tiny hand purses. "You can inform me on the way. Now get dressed."
"What should I wear?"
"I don't care. Just not that."
Looking in the mirror, I knew she was right. I looked like a newsboy with my suspenders and cap. I rushed to my room and threw on a sweater she'd bought me and spit shined my shoes. Spit shined my hair, too, which almost took care of my cow-lick. Seph still grabbed me on the way out and messed with my hair herself, a grimace on her face all the while. She took good care of me, don't get me wrong, but she had a strong distaste for anything that made her feel at all motherly.
On the walk through town, I filled her in on everything I'd learned. She didn't ask any questions, simply nodded and pursed her lips, her brain sorting and processing the information. When I told her the victim was a seventeen-year-old girl, she exhaled slowly as though she were relieved. I didn't know why, but was about to find out.
"The Salon of Madame Nephthys, Oracle of the Spirits" was one of the larger homes in town though, unlike the others, this one did not also have a "Room For Rent" sign. She did more than enough business with readings and séances to not need an additional income. I wondered what the other psychics in town thought of that.
Inside the parlor, two dozen people sat quietly in folding chairs, a single empty chair in the front facing them. A vacant seat in the back had a sheet of paper hanging on it. "Miss Gale," it read.
"Where am I supposed to sit?" I whispered.
Everyone in the room turned to glare at us.
"Sorry," I said. "Didn't realize we was in a library."
"Stand in back," Persephone said as she took her seat. "And be observant."
She said that as though I often wasn't. Irritated, I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms.
After a few minutes, a door on the opposite side of the room opened and an older woman stepped through. Dressed all in black as though she were in mourning, she walked over in front of everyone and crossed her hands on her abdomen. Here we go, I thought. Madame Nephthys is on.
The woman scanned the room and something about her seemed familiar. Her piercing eyes and button nose struck me. Even surrounded by crow's feet and fat starting to sag on her cheeks and neck, she had a ferocious beauty. Where had I seen that before?
Holy shit. It hit me just as her eyes found Persephone. She trembled slightly and took a long breath. I looked to Seph and she sat on the edge of her seat, her back to me but the tension in her shoulders obvious.
Was that Persephone's Mom?
"Good afternoon," the woman said. "We welcome all of you to the Salon of Madame Nephthys, Oracle of the Spirits and Intercessor with the Dead. She will be opening herself up soon to the spirits and so we ask that you do not interrupt her or ask any questions of her. The spirits will provide her with information that she will pass on to you. Madame Nephthys cannot control what information they provide in these readings. You may not understand what is said to you here, but if you do not rest assured it will make sense in the coming days. Thank you."
The woman looked to Persephone again before lighting candles placed around the room. Then she closed the door next to me, shooting an irritated glance my way for standing. Persephone often shot me that same look. She then stepped over to the window and closed the curtains. Black flooded the room, the only light the flickering glow of the candles.
A door creaked open and another candle passed into the parlor. Held at arm’s length, it almost looked like it hovered through the room. The door closed and the candle floated over to the seat. Only when she sat did the bottom half of Madame Nephthys's veiled face come into view. Small and slight, her features delicate against the black cloth, I did not expect such a powerful voice when she spoke.
"Hear me, O spirits," she said, her words filling the room. "We gather here today to offer voice to you. Your loved ones have come, some from great distances, so that you may once again speak to them. We open ourselves to your presence and I offer myself as a conduit for you to be heard once more."
Silence. Nephthys cocked her head to one side as though someone whispered to her. She nodded.
"There is someone trying to speak to me," she said. "Someone who died after a long life. I... I have a horrible... this tightness in my chest. Like something squeezing my... They want me to mention the apron."
Someone in the audience gasped. There was always a gasp.
"It's an M name. Mary or Marty or..."
"Marian," an old man said.
"Yes," Nephthys answered. "She says that’s right. It's Marian."
"She died of a heart attack," he said.
"That explains the chest pains. What is the significance of the apron?"
"I bought her an apron for her birthday. She wore it every day when she cooked. When I think of her, it's always in that apron."
"She wants you to know she loves you," Nephthys said and the man burst into tears. "She's gone. But now I'm getting someone else. A child. Someone with an R name... Ralph or Robert or... No, wait. It's not R. It's P." She traced the letter in the air with one finger, reminding us all how similar it looked to an R. "Patrick or Paul or..."
"Peter," a woman said.
"Yes, Peter."
And on she went. She spoke to fifteen ghosts that afternoon, each with a family member in the audience relieved to talk to them one last time.
The technique, known as "cold reading," was a staple of most carny acts. If this was her big trick, Sir Doyle disappointed me in his sleuthing skills. Though I had to admit, Madame Nephthys was far better at it than most of the hucksters I'd seen. She even threw me for a loop about halfway through the whole act.
That bit unnerved me, I have to be honest. It didn't fit the usual shotgun approach to cold reading statements. Persephone always told me that cold reading was like fishing. You dangle some bait out there, trying to keep things as broad and vague as possible, and then let the fish do all the work. But this was weirdly specific.
She looked into the back of the room, right where I was standing even though it was pitch black. She stared my way for a moment before saying, "She's sorry she gave you up, you know. She wishes she could have raised you herself but she's happy you're in good hands. You don't remember her, but she loved you very much."
And then she went right back to fishing again.
I never knew my mother. I've always wondered about her, who she was, why she left me at an orphanage in Brooklyn when I was two years old, what it was that was wrong with me that made her split. There's no way this woman could have known about any of that, even if she did know that Persephone had taken me in. And the statement was just too specific to work as part of a normal act. She didn't wait for a response, just went right on to the next one. I mean, the rubes validating whatever nonsense the medium spews is how the act works. But not for this one. Not for me.
It rattled me. Still does, truth be told. I try to tell myself that's exactly how cold reading works, that I'm the one who made the proper connections and put the emotional weight behind it, but that doesn't feel right. It never has. Especially with everything that came after.
When the hour was up, she stood and disappeared into the dark, her candle again floating over to the door and out of the room.
The woman opened the curtains and the door, standing beside me thanking everyone as they left. When they were gone, Persephone approached her.
A smile on her lips, tears filled the woman's eyes.
"I see you're still at it," Persephone said, her voice as cold as ever.
"It's good to see you. It's been so long."
/>
"Yes. Well. It wouldn't have been quite so long if you'd come to father's funeral."
The woman lowered her head and nodded. Then she looked to me. "And this is...?"
"Connie," I said and held out my hand. "Constantine. I'm her—”
"Assistant," Persephone interrupted. "I've been training him to catch fakes like this."
"She's no fake."
"Connie," Persephone went on as though the woman had said nothing. "What did you see here today?"
"Cold reading," I said. "Just like you do."
"Precisely. Oh, she was good at it, your new protégé. As good as you'd trained me to be. But it was still just a simple trick."
"She's not my protégé," the woman said.
"Oh? Then who is she?"
"She's your sister."
Persephone's jaw clenched tight. Tears filled her eyes and she inhaled sharply. Nodding, she turned and headed for the door.
"Persephone," the woman called after her. "Please, wait. Let me explain."
But she was gone.
The woman watched through the front window as Persephone walked down the street, head held high in defiance.
5
Persephone's mother made us tea and sat me at a breakfast table off the kitchen. I found myself in an awkward position. Seph wouldn't want me around until she had calmed and the last thing I wanted to do was stay here, yet here I was, unable to find a way to leave without saying, "Lady, I want none of whatever crazy you're peddling."
The reading had worked on me some too. Motherly love and guilt were on my mind. I suppose that was why I stayed as well.
Rose stood while I sipped my tea, wringing a dish towel in her hands.
"Good tea." I didn't know what else to say.
"How long have you worked for my daughter?"
"Little over a year." I almost let slip that she'd taken me in off the streets. Seph hadn't seemed to want her mother to know that so I kept my trap shut.
"Has she ever mentioned me?"
"No," I said. "All I know is that her father died chasing down some fugitive on the West Coast and her grandfather had been..." Footing the bills, I almost said but thought better of it. "Helping her with... work... and things."
I must have sounded like an idiot. I sure as hell felt like one.
"I was devastated to hear that Atticus had passed over."
Quiet. I waited for her to continue.
She placed the dish towel on a counter and stared out the window. "Today is the first time I've seen my daughter in fifteen years." She was on the verge of telling me more when a pounding sounded at the front door. "Excuse me," she said and went to answer it.
Slipping to the door, I peeked down the hallway, curious if Seph had come back. Instead it was an older couple, the man balding with a thick gray mustache, the woman's dark hair shot through with streaks of white. She wore a black dress, he a black arm band on the sleeve of his jacket. Their eyes were hollow and ringed in circles. I didn't need Sherlock Holmes to figure out who they were.
"Is she in?" the man asked.
"She's resting. She just performed a reading and—”
"When can we see her? We need to speak to Caitlin. We need to speak to our daughter."
Rose glanced back my way and I spun out of sight.
"Can we step outside for a moment?" she asked. I heard the door close and went back to my tea.
Feeling someone behind me, I turned to a see a girl around my age. She wore a white dress, her hair tied up in a ribbon. "Are they still here?"
"Who?"
"Don and Mary Ennis," she said, her voice small yet measured.
"Yeah. I think so."
"I wondered when they would come." She poured herself a cup of tea. "Poor folks."
"Yeah. I'm Connie, by the way."
She smiled. "I know."
Cup in hand, she left the room.
When Rose returned, she hurried me off, but not empty handed. There was to be a séance that evening, it turned out, one in which Madame Nephthys would summon the spirit of Caitlin Ennis herself. Persephone and I were offered front row seats.
Whatever Seph’s beef with her mother, I knew she couldn't turn that down.
When I got back to the inn, eager to share the news, Seph sat on the porch drinking lemonade with Mr. Mayor himself. Cheeks flush and a smile splitting her ear to ear, you'd think the drama of an hour ago never happened.
"Oh, Connie, I'm glad you're back," she said as though I’d gone out to play stick-ball. "Simon has invited me to dinner tonight. You'll be on your own, though I've arranged for you to sup with the proprietors of this fine establishment. I believe pot roast is the menu. Should help put some meat on your bones."
"Pot roast sounds good," Simon said. "Maybe I'll stand you up and eat here instead."
"And maybe I'll club you with a tree limb. You promised me civilization, and civilization I shall have."
"Seph," I said. "There was... I mean... Your... Well, the woman, Rose..."
She sighed. "Go on. Spit it out."
I told her about the séance and her eyes went wide.
"Oh. I see." She sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers. "That is intriguing."
"If you'd like," Simon said, "we can have an early dinner instead so you have time to go."
"Would you mind?"
"Of course not."
"You are a dear."
"Maybe I could even join you at the séance after. I must admit, I’m curious as to what the poor girl has to say."
That bugged me. This kind of thing was our thing, mine and Persephone's. I liked Simon, but I didn't want him there. "Rose didn't say anything about anyone else. Just me and Seph."
"Oh, Connie." She waved it off. "He's the mayor. I think my mother would be honored to have him in attendance."
He didn't bat an eye at that. He'd known Rose was Persephone's mother.
What was her history here?
When he'd left and we walked back up to our rooms, I asked her.
"Nosy little thing, aren't you? It's alright, I suppose. I dragged you into this and you're smart enough to have put two and two together. Guess I should let you in on some of our little family tragedies."
She closed her door and had me sit on the bed. While she went through her outfits trying to decide what would be appropriate attire for dinner and a séance, she told me the story.
6
I don't know if I ever told you any of this, Connie, but I was born in Virginia, the second child of Atticus and Rose Gale. My brother Francis died of pneumonia three months before my birth and my parents had quite the difficult time with that.
Daddy came from money, the only son of the infamous Old Man Gale. You've heard me complain about how ornery my grandfather is, but I'd wager Daddy got a far worse side of him. An ex-Confederate Officer and railroad baron, Marcus Tullius Gale had urged his son into a military career in an effort to push him toward politics. Daddy never had the temperament for that line of work and, after he spent a few years abroad, married Rose and began a career with the Pinkertons. He didn't have to work, Old Man Gale's money would have seen to that, but I think he needed to. He needed to carve his own way.
Like many daughters with their fathers, I became the light of his life and he doted on me with whatever trips and presents I wanted. He recognized my fiery streak early on and, even when I was a toddler, said I was smart as a whip. He'd tell me ghost stories at bedtime and, as young as four, I'd complain that ghosts weren't real and poke holes in the tale. He encouraged my mind more than Old Man Gale cared for (I was a girl, after all) and there was always some tutor or another around the house helping me through my studies.
The tutors were also babysitters, I suppose. Rose had continued to slip into grief over my brother. Where Daddy found comfort with a new child, all Rose seemed to think of was Francis. It did not take her long to convert to Spiritualism. She became more and more obsessed with communicating with the dead, gone all day and night sometimes at h
er readings.
Daddy worried about me. A young girl should have her mother involved in her life, he'd say. After a few arguments, Rose started carving out time for these motherly moments. That time, however, was more often than not spent dragging me to whatever séance she attended. I was eager to please my mother and ecstatic at the time we were spending together, so it wasn't long until I began speaking to the dead myself.
Of course, as bright of a child as I was, I'd picked up on most of the tricks I'd seen all her psychic friends do. Reproducing them was easy. The mistake I made was when I claimed to channel my brother Francis. After that, Rose obsessed over nurturing my supernatural talent.
When I was twelve, she decided to move the family to Gallow's Grove. She felt that the money being spent on tutors for Literature and Architecture would be better used on ones for Palmistry and Astrology. Daddy didn't care for the notion, but he was thrilled beyond belief that Rose took such an interest in me. I was just as thrilled and, wanting to make Rose happy, I asked Daddy if we could go. He gave in, of course. He always gave in to me.
We spent two years in Gallow's Grove, Rose coaching me as I learned every trick of the trade. I assumed she knew it was all chicanery and showmanship and never thought twice about it. I became the star du'jour and, by thirteen, I packed every performance. Even the occultist Aleister Crowley sought me out for a series of readings and left believing I had real power. Of course, he was likely high as a kite at the time.
That was also when I first met Simon. They lived down the street from us, one of their "summer homes," as his mother called it. His Daddy was some commissioner or other then, always away in Albany, but his mother's family was old money and they had houses all over the place. She'd gotten into Spiritualism as most rich folk do, simply as a way to combat the boredom of a life without work.
Simon and I were inseparable in those days. First boy I ever kissed, though don't you dare repeat that to him.
Daddy hadn't seen any of my performances. He'd been away for half the year on some case or another, and when he came back to find I'd been turned into some sort of sideshow act, that was the end of it.