A Great And Terrible Beauty (23 page)

“You have?” Pippa asks, wide-eyed.

“I have heard about her gifts from a cousin who is very close to a dear friend of the sister-in-law of Lady Dorchester,” Mademoiselle LeFarge asserts. “She is a truly remarkable medium.”

The gentleman smiles. His smile is kind and warm, like Mademoiselle LeFarge. It’s a pity she’s engaged, for I like this nice man and think he’d make a very lovely husband.

“I’m afraid, dear lady, dear
mademoiselle,
” he says, drawing out the word, “that you have been deceived. Spiritualism is no more a science than thievery. For that’s all this is—very skilled dodgers stealing money from the bereaved for a little glint of hope. People see what they want to see when they need to.”

My heart is squeezed tight in my chest. Is it possible that I see my mother, my visions, only because I want or need to? Could grief’s hold be that strong? And yet, the scrap of cloth. I can only hope I’ll know something for certain by night’s end.

Mademoiselle LeFarge’s mouth is a thin line. “You are mistaken, sir.”

“I’ve upset you. My apologies. Inspector Kent of Scotland Yard.” He hands her an embossed calling card, which she refuses to accept. Calmly, he places it back inside his breast pocket. “You’ve come, no doubt, to contact a loved one? A brother or dear departed cousin?” He’s fishing but Mademoiselle LeFarge can’t see that he’s interested in more than her preoccupation with the occult.

“I am simply here as an observer of the science, and as a chaperone to my charges. And now, if you’ll excuse us, it would seem the séance is about to begin.”

Men rush along the sides of the room, dimming the lights to a hazy gas glow. They wear high-collared black shirts and sashes of deep red around their waists. A handsome woman in long, flowing robes of forest green takes the stage. Her eyes are rimmed with the blackest kohl and she wears a turban with a single peacock feather. Madame Romanoff.

She closes her eyes and lifts a hand over the audience as if feeling us. When she reaches the left side of the grand room, she opens her eyes and focuses on a heavyset man in the second row.

“You, sir. The spirits wish to commune with you. Please, come and have a seat with me,” she says in a heavy Russian accent.

The man obliges and takes a seat at the table. Madame Romanoff gazes into the crystal ball and falls limp. In this state, she tells the man his fortune. “I have a message for you from the other side. . . .”

The man onstage, eager and sweaty, leans forward. “Yes! I’m listening. Is it from my sister? Please, is it you, Dora?”

Madame Romanoff’s voice comes out high and sweet as a girl’s. “Johnny, is that you?”

A cry of joy and agony escapes the man’s lips. “Yes, yes, it’s me, my dear, dear sister!”

“Johnny, you mustn’t weep. I’m very happy here, with all my toys to keep me company.”

We take this in, slack-jawed in wonder. Onstage, the man and his little sister are enjoying a heartfelt reunion, with tears and protestations of undying love. I can barely sit still. I want it to end so that I can take my place with the medium.

The inspector behind us leans over and says, “Brilliant performance. That man is an accomplice, of course.”

“How so?” Ann asks.

“They place him in the audience so that he appears to be an honest seeker, part of the crowd. But he’s in on the game.”

“Do you mind, sir?” Mademoiselle LeFarge fans herself with her program.

Inspector Kent bows his head and settles back in his chair. I can’t help liking him, with his wide hands and heavy mustache, and I wish Mademoiselle LeFarge would give him more of a chance. But she’s loyal to her Reginald, the mysterious fiancé, as she should be—even if we’ve never seen him call once.

After a glass of water, Madame Romanoff takes on several more people. With some she asks questions that seem very broad, but the grieving audience members always rush in to tell her their stories. It seems almost as if she leads them on, getting them to supply the answers without her help. But I’ve never seen a medium at work before and I can’t say for sure.

Felicity leans over and whispers in my ear. “Are you ready?”

My stomach is turning flips. “I think so.”

Mademoiselle LeFarge shushes us. Elizabeth and Cecily eye us suspiciously. Onstage, Madame Romanoff asks for one last candidate. Like a shot, Felicity is out of her seat, pulling me up by the arm.

“Oh, please, madame,” she says, sounding as if she’s on the verge of tears when she’s really fighting back waves of laughter. “My friend is far too modest to ask for your help. Could you please help a girl reach her dear, departed mother, Mrs. Sarah Rees-Toome?”

There is a chorus of murmurs and gasps. Every bit of breath has been knocked from me. “That was unnecessary,” I hiss.

“You want it to be believable, don’t you? Besides, you might get something in the bargain up there.”

“Girls, sit down at once!” Mademoiselle LeFarge pulls hard on my skirt, trying to anchor me to my seat. But it’s no use. Felicity’s plea has struck a chord with Madame Romanoff. Two of her men are at my side, showing me down the aisle. I don’t know whether to kill Felicity or thank her. Perhaps there is a way to contact my mother as well. My palms go sweaty with the thought that in just a few moments, I may speak with my mother again—even if I have to do it through a medium and the spirit of Sarah Rees-Toome.

As I mount the small stage, I can hear the rustle of programs, the insect buzzing of whispers mixing with the sighs of the disappointed whose chance to contact the dead is gone, usurped by a red-haired girl whose green eyes are wild with hope.

Madame Romanoff bids me sit. There is an open pocket watch on the table showing the time to be 9:48. She reaches across the table to cradle my hand in both of hers. “Dear child, you have suffered greatly, I fear. We must all help this young lady find her beloved mother. Let us all close our eyes and concentrate for the aid of this young girl. Now, what is the name of the dearly departed?”

Virginia Doyle. Virginia Doyle.
My throat is parched and tight as I say, “Sarah Rees-Toome.”

Madame Romanoff swirls her fingers over the glass ball and drops her voice into a lower register. “I call now on the spirit of Sarah Rees-Toome, beloved mother. There is one who wishes to contact you. One who needs your presence here.”

For a moment, I half expect to hear Sarah tell me to shove off, leave her alone, stop pretending I know her. But mostly, I’m hoping that it will be my mother’s voice I hear next, laughing at my duplicity, forgiving me for everything, even this bit of trickery.

Across the table, Madame Romanoff’s deep growl grows sweet as prayer song. “Darling, is that you? Oh, how I’ve missed you so.”

It’s only now that I realize how I’ve been holding my breath, hoping for a chance, waiting for a miracle. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, and I can’t help calling out to her.

“Mother? Is that you?”

“Yes, darling, it’s me, your loving mother.” There are a few sniffles from the audience. My mother would never say something so coddling. I throw out a lie to see if it comes back to me.

“Mother, do you miss our home in Surrey terribly much? The rosebushes out back by the little cupid?”

I’m begging for her to say, “Gemma, have you gone a bit simple, dear?” Something. Anything. But not this.

“Oh, I can see it even now, my darling. The green of Surrey. The roses in our wonderful garden. But do not miss me too much, my child. I shall see you again one day.”

The crowd sniffles and sighs in sentimental approval even as the lie turns sour in my gut. Madame Romanoff is nothing more than an actress. She’s pretending to be my mother, someone named Sarah Rees-Toome who lives in a cottage with a cupid out back, when my own mother was Virginia Doyle, a woman who never once set foot in Surrey. I’d like to show Madame Romanoff a taste of what it’s really like on that other side, where spirits are not happy to see you. I don’t realize that I’m holding Madame Romanoff’s hand with all my strength, because there’s a sudden flare of light, like the world opening up, and I’m falling into that tunnel again, my rage pulling me down fast.

But this time, I’m not alone.

Somehow, I’ve managed to bring Madame Romanoff along, as I almost did with Pippa. I haven’t the vaguest idea how it’s happened, but here she is, bold as day, screaming her head off.

“Bloody ’ell! Where am I?” Madame Romanoff is Russian all right, by way of Bow’s bells. “Wot kind of devil are you?”

I can’t answer her. I’m struck dumb. We’re in a dark, misty forest—one I recognize from my dreams. It has to be the same misty woods Mary Dowd wrote about. I’ve done it. I’m in the realms. And they are as real as the screaming little thief next to me.

“Wot’s that, eh?” She grabs tight to my sleeve.

There’s movement in the trees. The mist is crawling. They start to come out, one by one, till there are twenty or more. The dead. Hollow-eyed. Pale-lipped. Skin stretched shiny-tight over bone. A woman in rags carries a baby at her breast. She’s dripping wet and strings of slick, green vegetation hang twisted in her hair. Two men stagger forward, arms outstretched. I can see the rounded knob of bone where their hands have been chopped clean off. They keep coming, their mouths all making the same hideous murmur.

“Come to us. You’ve come to us.”

Madame Romanoff is shrieking and practically climbing up my side. “Wot the ’ell’s goin’ on ’ere? Sweet Jesus, get me out of ’ere. Please! I’ll never con nobody no more, on me mother’s grave I won’t.”

“Stop,” I say, holding out my hand. Surprisingly, it works. “Which one of you is Sarah Rees-Toome?”

None of the spirits come forward.

“Is there one among you by that name?”

Nothing.

“Tell them to go away,” Madame Romanoff says. She grabs a tree limb from the ground and swings it wildly in front of her, warding them off and grunting in fear. Through the trees, I see her. The blue silk of her dress. I hear the warm amber of her laugh.

Find me if you can, love.

I grab Madame Romanoff by the shoulders. “What’s your name? Your real name.”

“Sally,” she says, hoarse with fear. “Sally Carny.”

“Sally, listen carefully to me. I’ve got to leave you for a moment, but I’ll be right back. You’ll be all right.”

“No! Don’t you leave me ’ere wif them, you li’l slut, or I’ll carve your creepy green eyes out when we get back! You see if I don’t, now!”

She’s screaming, but I’m already running through the trees, the hope of blue just ahead of me, always out of reach, and then I’m in the ruin of a temple. A Buddha sits cross-legged on an altar surrounded by candles. It’s peaceful here. There’s no sound save for the cooing of birds. No fear. I let my fingertips flutter against the orange-blue flame of the candles but I feel no heat or pain. A soft scent of lilies floats through the open door. I wish I could see those flowers of my childhood, of my mother and India, and then suddenly, they’re everywhere. The room is filled with blooming white flowers.
I made it happen with just my thoughts.
It’s so beautiful, I could stay here forever.

“Mother?” My voice comes out small and hopeful.

The room grows brighter. I can’t see her, but I can hear her. “Gemma . . .”

“Mother, where are you?”

“I cannot show myself here or stay for long. These woods may not be safe. There are spies everywhere.”

I don’t know what she means. I still cannot grasp that I am here. That she is here.

“Mother, what’s happening to me?”

“Gemma, you have great powers, my love.”

Her voice reverberates in the temple.
My love, love, love . . .

My throat tightens. “I don’t understand it. I can’t control any of it.”

“You will, in time. But you must use your power, work with it, else it will wither on the vine, die, and then there’s no getting it back. You have a great destiny, Gemma, if you choose it.”

The organ-grinder’s monkey appears. He sits on the Buddha’s rounded shoulder, turning his head this way and that, watching me.

“There are people who don’t want me to use what I have. I’ve been warned.”

Mother’s voice is calm, knowing. “The Rakshana. They’re afraid of you. They are afraid of what could happen if you fail, and more afraid of the power you’ll have should you succeed.”

“Succeed in what?”

“Bringing back the magic of the realms. You are the link to the Order. Their magic lives in you, my love. You are the sign they’ve been waiting for all these years. But there is also danger. She wants your power too, and she won’t stop looking till she finds you.”

“Who?”

“Circe.”
Circe. Circe. Circe
.

“Who is she? Where can I find her?”

“All in good time, Gemma. She is too powerful for you to face yet.”

“But . . .” Tears stop me. “She murdered you.”

“Do not lose yourself to revenge, Gemma. Circe has chosen her path. You must choose yours.”

“How do you know all of this?”

The edges of the lilies start to turn. They brown and curl under, leaves dropping to the stone floor.

“Our time is up. It’s no longer safe for you to stay. Go back now.”

“No, not yet!”

“You must concentrate on the place you’ve left behind. The door of light will appear. Then step through.”

“But when can I talk to you again?”

“You can find me in the garden. It is safe there.”

“But how—”

“Choose it and the door will take you there. I must move on.”

“Wait—don’t go!”

But her voice fades into an icy sheet of whispers that melts into ether.

Move on. Move on. Move on.

The light goes so bright, it blinds me. I have to cover my eyes with my arm. When I open them again, the temple is a barren ruin, the dirt floor littered with shriveled flowers. She is gone.

The mist is thick in the trees as I make my way back to where I left Sally Carny. I can barely see, but it’s not the fog. It’s the tears. More than anything, I want to stay behind in that lily-scented room with my mother. A dark figure looms on the path ahead, and for a moment, I forget everything except the terror in my veins, my mother’s warning that I am being hunted.