Born of Illusion (16 page)

I smile. “As I said, I am interested in the supernatural. I’m afraid I’ve missed your previous lectures. Could you tell me a little more about the Society for Psychical Research?”

“Of course. The Society for Psychical Research is comprised of researchers, writers, and others who are interested in the supernatural. At first we only studied spirit manifestations and appearances, but then we made some remarkable discoveries with regard to other psychical powers.”

I take a casual sip of my coffee. “And what other psychical powers would you be speaking of?”

He smiles. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that in a public setting, but I wouldn’t mind going over some of this privately. You are a fellow aficionado, after all. Perhaps you and your acquaintance—it is Cynthia, isn’t it?—would like to meet with me sometime.”

Cynthia appears beside me and I can practically see dollar signs in his eyes.

I stiffen.
Please don’t let her tell this man what my mother and I do,
I think. The first rule in getting information from someone is to not give them too much information about yourself in return.

She links her arm in mine. “Thank you for the invitation. Anna is quite young, you know. I do think it would be better if I attended this meeting with her. I’m sure it would ease her mother’s mind.”

Truthfully, I’m happy to have her tag along. Dr. Bennett may be a psychical researcher, but he may also be a swindler. I can’t judge him, but I
can
be careful. And maybe I’ll be able to encourage Cynthia to keep a tighter grip on her purse strings.

“That would be a delight. Just let me check my schedule. You can get in touch with me through the church later this week.” He gives Cynthia a patronizing pat on her arm and moves away.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Cynthia asks, watching Dr. Bennett conversing with Mr. Huber. “Not as handsome as Jack, of course, but still distinguished.”

Cynthia and I walk toward the door, my mind spinning with possibilities. After years with no information about my abilities, could I really be close to getting some answers? It’s too bad I didn’t get a chance to touch his hand. I would like to have known how he was feeling. Before walking out the door, I glance back through the crowded room one more time, only to find Dr. Bennett staring back at me.

Fourteen

A
s I set up for a séance the next evening, I realize I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been for a performance. Between my heightened fear of being caught by a skeptic and adding Mr. Darby’s ODD device to our repertoire, I’m as edgy as a tightrope walker.
Just a few more,
I promise myself.
Just a few more, then we can quit.

Earlier, a messenger boy had delivered a note that read
:

I would risk ghoulies and ghosties, and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night to spend more time with you . . . see you tonight.

I have it tucked away in my pocket. The note makes me smile, just like Owen. Sure he’s a bit theatrical, but with a mother like mine, who am I to judge? Everyone in my life is a bit overblown and theatrical.

Except for Cole
, a little voice whispers. No, Cole isn’t either of those things. Next to Owen, Cole seems a bit stern, except for those rare times when he lets down his guard. Then he seems almost like a different person.

I shake my head, embarrassed by my thoughts. Why am I standing around daydreaming when I have a séance to prepare for?

After Mother left for the afternoon, Mr. Darby and I spent our day setting up the Object Displacement Device, making sure it worked from downstairs. He was no doubt below me right now, fiddling with it.

“Are you sure about this?” I’d asked him.

He’d rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I just wish I could see the looks on their faces.”

He, at least, has no moral reservations about what we’re doing. He looks at it as a giant practical joke.

The trick, of course, lies in not letting our guests see the small buttons that control the device and making sure no one hears me tapping my foot on the floor three times, which is our signal. We put one button in the light above our table and hid the other inside a cheap clock I’ve bought especially for tonight. Even if the clock does break into smithereens during its flight across the room, I figure the guests will just think the button is part of the works.

We’ll only do it a few times,
I promise, trying to ease my conscience. Once word gets out that objects sometimes hurtle around our rooms, people will beg to attend one of our séances. We’ve already raised our rates, and tonight’s séance will bring in more than two hundred dollars. As we charge more money, I’ll be able to save enough to keep us from destitution. Then we can finally stop.

Mother waltzes out in a long, flowing Oriental silk dress with a high waist and caftan sleeves. In one sleeve, she has the key to the handcuffs that will be placed on her when she enters the cabinet. Also secreted away in her dress is the paper-and-flour spirit face she’ll use for the manifestation. It’s one of our most shocking tricks, as it appears ghostly and convincing in the candlelight.

Unless one of our guests has been to Harry Houdini’s latest lecture.

“So who is coming again?” I put the kettle on for tea.

“The Gaylords, a Hungarian couple that Jacques sent to us—I can’t remember their names—and a mother and daughter from Cleveland, Joanna and Lisette Lindsay. They’re all believers in spiritualism, so no skeptics this time.”

Mother’s eyes are ringed with kohl against a stark white face and she’s wearing a beaded Egyptian bandeau. She looks just like Theda Bara in
Cleopatra
—exotic, beautiful, and mysterious. I’m dressed more simply in a dark blue georgette silk with white piping. Mother thinks the contrast we make is simply delicious. Whatever that means. Personally, I think she’s just ensuring that all eyes are upon her tonight.

“Oh, and Owen called today while you were gone and practically invited himself.” She casts me a glance from the corner of her eye and I turn away.

I make myself a cup of tea and then set out a plate of tiny sandwiches for our guests. While my mother is busy pillaging the liquor cabinet, I check the light on the ceiling again to make sure the button isn’t visible.

“Oh, stop it,” Mother complains, sipping her sherry. “You’re making me nervous. Don’t fret. Jacques checked almost everyone out and gave me some juicy tidbits on the Gaylords.”

Almost everyone?

A knock on the door sounds and I let the first of our guests in: the mother-daughter pair from Cleveland. With their frizzy blond hair and prominent blue eyes, they look more like sisters than mother and child. I’ll never be able to keep them straight.

“Would you like something to eat?” I hold out the plate of sandwiches. Both shake their heads curtly. The daughter avoids all eye contact, while the mother stares at me boldly.

“I would like something to drink, though. Any spirits?” She gives a loud, barking laugh at her pun.

“Gin? Sherry?”

“Gin would be fine, thank you.”

“I’ll just take water,” the daughter says with a glance at her mother.

I get their drinks and hand the glasses to them, but the mother downs hers before I turn away to offer something to the Hungarian couple who’ve just arrived.

“Another, please.”

My eyes widen. “Of course.” I pretend not to notice as the daughter sends her mother another warning glance. On impulse, I reach out and gently touch the daughter’s arm. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a sandwich?” My mouth gets dry as her agitation transmits itself to me. Why is she so nervous?

The night is
not
starting off well.

After that, the Lindsays, in their Wards-catalog dresses, stand silently in the corner. This is unusual. Most of our guests love being invited to our exclusive “parties” and chummy up to us right away.

I have no time to worry about it, though, as within minutes, the rest of our guests arrive and I’m kept busy chatting and refilling glasses and cups. The Hungarian couple gobble up most of the sandwiches and seem too jolly to truly be into spiritualism. Mr. Gaylord looks bored, but I have a feeling that’s just the way he always looks. Cynthia is like the frisky puppy he couldn’t resist. Owen hasn’t arrived yet. I notice that the sandwich plate is empty and give my mother a signal that it’s time to begin.

She claps her hands together. “Well, now, I know you all didn’t come here for the food. Shall we start?”

Just then another knock sounds. Even though I’ve been expecting it, I still jump. Owen.

Taking a deep breath, I hurry down the hall and open the door.

Owen is leaning against the doorjamb, his head at a jaunty angle. “Did I miss the ghosties?”

I laugh in spite of my nerves.

“No, we’re just starting.”

Just then a door clicks shut downstairs and my heart plummets. What now?

Even before he appears, I know it’s Cole by the firm, measured steps on the stairs. He gives Owen a once-over and turns to me. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you?”

“Suit yourself, old chap. But it might be a bit crowded,” Owen says in a cheerfully fake English accent.

Cole acknowledges the dig with a raised brow.

“Please come in.” I move aside to let them both in.

“You look wonderful tonight,” Owen says as he walks past.

I give him a distracted smile and shut the door. “The rest of our guests have arrived, Mother,” I call down the hall. Owen joins the others, but Cole catches my elbow to hold me back in the hall.

“I’m glad we’re alone for a moment.” His voice is low, insistent. “It’s important I speak to you tonight about your abilities.”

I swallow, my heart racing like an old-fashioned pair of grays in a buggy race.

“Excuse me?”

His voice becomes more urgent. “You know what I mean, Anna. We need to talk.”

My mind spins. I can’t admit or deny anything, not when I don’t know who he is or what he wants. I take a deep breath. “I am a magician, Cole,” I say softly. “My mother is the medium. Now, we really should join the others.”

I turn toward the sitting room but before I can move, Cole leans in close behind me. “I’m going to need you to trust me on this, Anna. Please.”

I shiver as his breath whispers over my ear and across my neck. Swallowing hard, I walk away, not knowing what else to do. He follows me into the sitting room and my stomach twists itself into knots tighter than I’ve ever been tied with.

I take a seat next to Owen, and Cole sits across from me, next to the Lindsays. To the others he says, “I’m sorry I’m late. Thank you for inviting me, Madame Van Housen. I’m honored.”

I frown at my mother, who gives me a cat’s-got-the-cream smile and then closes her eyes. “Let’s all join hands as we welcome the spirit world to join us.”

I seethe as she asks everyone to close their eyes and leads them in the customary chant. Why couldn’t she just tell me she invited Cole? Why does everything have to be a game?

With effort, I bring my mind back to the séance. My mother uses her voice like an illusionist to cast a spell over the others. I glance around the table, gauging their reactions. Excitement lights up Cynthia’s pretty features, though her husband looks a bit nervous. I don’t blame him, considering what happened at the last séance they attended. The couple from Hungary is practically erupting with anticipation. Owen’s brows are knotted in concentration, while Cole’s face is still. Then I catch the mother and daughter exchanging glances. I close my eyes when they look my way and watch through my lashes as the daughter slowly leans over and peers under the table. The mother scans the room, her mouth set. My chest squeezes closed like an accordion. Something is very, very wrong.

Shifting in my seat, I stretch my leg across the table toward the mother. The moment my foot connects with her calf, I get an electrical shock of deep animosity. Not skepticism, exactly—something worse. Right behind the animosity is backbiting, stomach-twisting jealousy. Then it dawns on me.

She’s not a skeptic; she’s a rival.

I yank my foot back, but the pulsing grows, creeping across my skin like a slug, and suddenly it hits me so hard I gasp. This is the same feeling I had after Owen dropped me off.
She
is the one who watched me from the shadows that night.

My stomach clenches. I open my mouth to ask Mother if she wants a drink of water, but before I can form the words, she rises gracefully from her chair.

“The spirits demand I enter the cabinet.” 

Desperately, I ask, “Would you like a drink of water before you tax yourself so?”

Mother’s eyes fly open, but she shakes her head. “It’s too late,” she said, her voice hollow. “The spirits already have me.”

I nearly scream in frustration. Why is she ignoring me? Is she so intent on showing me who’s boss that she’s willing to risk everything?