A Dreadful Splendor

Chapter One

London, November 1852

It's good you've finally summoned me," I said. "There's no doubt a spirit torments this house."

Each grief- stricken face turned my way. I stood in the parlor doorway, gripping the handle of my case. Despite the blaze of the fireplace and the richly upholstered furnishings, there was no sense of comfort. Th e heavy drapes were closed, shrouding the room in darkness. Th e funeral bouquets had begun to wilt, but their scent remained strong, saturating the air with a tired misery.

The matriarch, Mrs. Hartford, sat beside the ornate fi replace.

The flames fl ickered, casting shadows that stretched up the walls

like gossamer spirits. A sheer black veil obscured her face, leaving only her chin exposed. Even from across the room I could see a few whips of white hairs. Just like Billy Goat Gruff , Miss Crane would say.

On the other side of the room, a younger woman was perched on the edge of a settee, her silk skirt reaching the floor. Her finger was wound around the end of a long string of pearls, and as she looked me over, she gave the necklace a twist. It was a careless gesture, but she likely had more than one set of pearls at her disposal.

The two gentlemen stood as I entered. So silent was the room, I heard someone's knees crack. Th e taller man had a robust stomach and a thick grey moustache. The younger was thin and fair, clothed in an elegant jacket that hung shapelessly off his slight frame. I guessed that our ages might be close. When I nodded to him, he dropped his gaze to stare at the floor.

Good.

The servant offered my card on a small silver tray to Mrs. Hartford. She plucked it up with her spindly fingers and held it close to her eyes. Her jeweled ring and matching bracelet glinted in the fire's light.

My knuckles tightened around the handle of the case. This would be the last one, I promised myself. In my mind, I conjured the picture of a room: a bed with a thick quilt, a hot pot of tea waiting on the table, a door with a lock for which only I had the key.

One more and I'll never have to do this again.

"Esmerelda Houghton," Mrs. Hartford read, the veil fluttering with her breath. "Spiritualist and communicator of the dead."

I gave a quick curtsy. She returned my card to the tray, her eyes shifting up to the portrait hanging above the fi replace's mantle. As if on cue, the rest of the family followed her gaze.

Mr. Hartford, I presumed. The painting portrayed a serious man with grey hair and a strong posture. However, his eyes were focused not on the artist, but off to the side, giving the impression that he was looking over your shoulder. I was almost tempted to turn around, as if the object of his attention would be standing there.

"Shall we get started?" the older gentleman prompted. He looked at his pocket watch and smacked his lips.

You can learn much about the dead from how their loved ones mourn them. I had been called to this noble home for one reason, and I suspected that it wasn't for one last tearful goodbye. No matter, the greedy as well as the grieving still pay for a séance.

I made my way to the round table in the middle of the room. Slipping off my gloves, I opened my case and began to remove my supplies, setting them up as I had done countless times before. As I prepared, the whispers started behind me. I caught a few snippets.

"Will this work?"

"Is this safe?"

"Can we trust her?"

Standing taller, I took in a long breath through my nose, then I held out my hand. "Water," I said, careful to keep the bulge inside my left cheek tucked away. A small crystal glass was placed in my grasp. Such elegance for an object of ordinary use, and such a waste. It could likely fetch enough to afford a full month's rent at Miss Crane's, and enough left over to replace my weathered boots with a new pair, ones with polished leather and thick heels that kept out the rain. I carefully placed the glass on the table, marking my spot. "Come," I said, inviting the others.