Chapter Four. Medium Trouble

C HAPTER F OUR

Medium Trouble

I lingered in the garden debating the existence of ghosts until I began to lose feeling in my toes. Six weeks before, I’d refused to countenance anything that reason and science could not explain away—but now I couldn’t help but question my own perceptions. Tonight I saw a woman possessed. There was no other explanation for what had occurred at Manhurst.

Ghosts were the reasonable explanation. Somehow whatever spirit the old medium summoned filled her body like an empty vessel. But for what purpose? I thought back, retracing every second of the séance, my thoughts lingering upon the way the medium’s body seemed to be seeking someone. Something. Her words rattled around in my head until they became nonsense. Meaning little more than a drumbeat of sounds and syllables.

There is nowhere on earth you can hide from the dead…

And why did the spirit seem to speak directly to me? I shrugged the thought away, hugging the borrowed jacket tighter around my body as I hurried back to the castle. This was a problem for another day—and preferably by then we’d be gone and the vengeful ghosts could sort out their own problems—without me.

It was well past ten when I returned to Manhurst through the rear doors. Word of the terrifying séance must have spread quickly, as I didn’t encounter another soul on my way up the stairs to where Mr. Owen’s and my rooms were situated. Just as I reached the landing, I heard angry voices coming from ahead, followed by the slamming of a door. The dreadful man from the séance turned the corner and scowled at me, looking even more venomous than when he’d accused Mr. Owen of murder hours earlier. Malachi. That was what Mr. Owen had called him.

I straightened my spine, not about to be cowed by such an unpleasant person. But before I could say a word, he pointed a gnarled finger at my chest. “If you know what’s good for you, lass, you’ll leave this place before you end up like her .”

Her? What on earth was he going on about? I opened my mouth to ask but he didn’t slow his pace, slamming into my shoulder with his own and continuing down the stairs, causing me to grab on to the banister to keep my balance.

Good God, what had gotten into everyone?

I gaped after Malachi’s retreating form, debating whether to succumb to my temper and give him a piece of my mind, or go check on Mr. Owen. I settled upon the latter, as I was too damned tired to quarrel with strangers.

As I neared Mr. Owen’s door I heard more voices coming from inside.

He wasn’t alone.

I paused, pressing my ear against the wood, struggling to make out the voices within, but they remained hushed. Perhaps it was Andrew Lennox? That would make sense as he’d followed Mr. Owen back to the house earlier. I waited for several minutes there—cheek pressed to the wood like a child at Christmas—but there were no shouts. No angry words.

As things seemed to be settled with Mr. Owen for the night, it would be the sensible thing to go to my room, draw a bath, and get some sleep. I could deal with whatever ramifications came from the séance tomorrow with a clear head. However, there was a raw energy in my body—a dare-I-say excitement—that I hadn’t felt since leaving Cornwall.

I had a puzzle here at Manhurst Castle, one that could only be solved by speaking with the Three Fates.

M Y SEARCH FOR Lucy Campbell, the oldest medium, led me to the old family wing of the castle. A far cry from the garishly redesigned modern area where the guest rooms were situated. The walls here were simple stone rather than plaster, and hung with thick tapestries faded from years of use. The narrow corridor smelled vaguely damp, mildew pricking at my nose. Lucy’s room was supposed to be ahead. The third door on the right—or so my well-paid informant said.

I wet my lips and paused before knocking, counting the seconds. One. Two. Three.

No answer.

I knocked again.

Lucy had last been seen heading back to her room for the night a half hour past, but evidently she was no longer here. I glanced down the empty corridor before trying the handle.

It was unlocked.

I nudged the door open with my toe. “Hello?” Not that I expected anyone to answer, but it would give me the thinnest veneer of an excuse should anyone be inside.

The medium’s room was far smaller than the guest rooms on the floors below, with spartan furnishings of good quality from the last century: a sturdy bed and a rosewood dresser with a matching wardrobe. A pitcher of fresh water and a bowl sat on the dressing table awaiting her return.

The room was perfectly ordered and perfectly empty with the faintest trace of verbena in the air.

Verbena—of course!

That was the scent I’d noticed in Mr. Owen’s room earlier this evening. With everything going on at the time the name escaped me—but in the quiet of Lucy’s bedchamber I could place it. He must have been meeting with this medium in there. But why would he have kept that a secret when he’d already told me that she’d sent for him?

An oversize carpetbag sat on the dresser, stuffed to burst with all of her earthly possessions. Miss Lucy Campbell was preparing to leave. This did not bode well for Captain Lennox’s supposition that the séance had been a sham—for why would one flee after pulling off such a spectacular ruse?

I blew out a weary breath and walked around the room, taking silent inventory of every surface and windowsill in the vain hope a plausible alternative would spring from the ether. Some bells. Scarves. Anything at all that could explain away what I’d seen with my own eyes. Perhaps it had been one large group hallucination?

There were intoxicants that could do that… weren’t there? Goodness knew I’d sampled my share of the things. Perhaps there was some form of opiate in the incense? Now that was an idea.

I was grasping at straws and I knew it. Turning to leave, I noticed something curious carved on the back of the heavy wooden door. It was a flower of sorts—carved in a single unending line, creating six even petals. I ran my finger along the outline, then gave my head a good shake before leaving and closing the door.

“What are you doing here?”

The hair on the back of my neck rose as I turned to find the White Witch standing behind me. I didn’t even have to see her to know it was her, as I’d heard her voice in my ever-increasing nightmares. Dreams I scarcely recalled, save for the notion of blood and water. Better those dreams, I supposed, than the ones from my girlhood—the walking dreams that my mother feared the most. The ones where she’d find me staring into water, with no recollection of where I was or how I’d gotten there. As a little girl I’d wander sometimes a mile or more from home, though somehow she’d always known where to find me.

The White Witch wore the same simple mourning garb that she had worn in Cornwall. Her raven’s-wing hair lay in a thick braid over her shoulder.

“I could ask you the same thing. You’re a long way from Cornwall.” I didn’t know what to make of her presence here, but I certainly didn’t believe she was who, or what, she purported to be.

“You should heed the spirits and go home.”

I gritted my teeth. First the ghost, then Malachi, now the White Witch. Did everyone want me to leave?

“Mariah’s spirit was clear on the matter. You seek answers to dangerous questions.” She leaned closer to me, her breath cool against my ear. Her voice almost… concerned. “Listen to the spirits, child.”

“Then the séance was real…” I said more to myself than to her.

The White Witch nodded. “Yes, Morvoren. More real than you could know.”

There was that name again. Morvoren. She said it like a curse, the word bitter on her tongue. The air between us grew crisp, stinging my nose with that strange electric scent that seemed to surround Ruan as well. It was the scent of power. I straightened my spine, looking up at the witch. “I do not understand why you are here, nor do I understand what I have to do with any of this.”

“It is better you not understand—at least not yet. It is not safe here. You must go quickly. He will die if you do not leave this place.”

My throat tightened at the thought. “Mr. Owen?”

“No. I care not for your mortal bookseller. I care for him . I warned you both before, you will destroy him. I have seen it.”

The air left my lungs in a rush. Ruan. Of course it had to do with Ruan. She’d delivered the same warning at that crossroads weeks before. Nonsense. That’s all it was. I was not going to harm Ruan any more than I’d cut off my own hand. I slammed my palm into the doorframe beside her head with an audible thump. “In case you didn’t notice, he’s not even here .”

For half a second her expression softened as she looked into my eyes. “You care for him… that, I did not foresee.”

I shook my head angrily but she continued to look through me. Into me.

“Did he tell you, Morvoren, of what he is? Did he tell you what I saw?”

My eyes burnt from the growing scent of electricity in the room. I ought to be afraid of her, but for the briefest of moments I thought that perhaps it was me the White Witch feared. “He told me the story of the first Pellar.” I repeated the same tale he’d woven, how an old man stumbled across a mermaid stranded on the shore and returned her to the sea. How as reward she bestowed upon him three gifts. When Ruan told me the story weeks ago, I’d been charmed by it—and truthfully charmed by him.

The witch let out a bitter laugh. “Is that all? Did he not tell you the rest?”

The skin pricked on the back of my neck as I shook my head. I wasn’t sure I trusted her, nor was I certain I wanted to hear his tale from her lips.

“He died, Morvoren. Nine years after the first Pellar fell beneath the sea-bitch’s spell, the water claimed him. And thus every nine years another of his line will share that fate. It was her price for those gifts . One must never trust the sea-folk.”

My nostrils flared as I recalled what my housekeeper, Mrs. Penrose, told me of Ruan’s past. The seventh son, born from a family of charmers. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask the witch how long it had been since the last of his line died, but I sensed I already knew. “He is descended from the first Pellar…”

The White Witch nodded gently. “You understand then.”

Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed it down, tapping on the wall with my palm. “It’s a terrible story, but that’s all it is. I don’t see how I can harm him when he isn’t even here… Now what I need is for you to tell me what those two mediums want with Mr. Owen.”

She weighed her options, studying me before she responded. “I do not know why the old woman brought your bookseller here. I do not know why she brought any of you here. I do not traffic with the dead for the dead cannot be trusted—”

First sea-folk, now the dead. Did the White Witch trust anyone? I held up a hand, pausing her mid-sentence. “Do you mean to say this Lucy woman brought the others here as well?” A sickening worry clawed its way up my throat. What if this was a trap? Mr. Owen came here on the promise he could speak to his dead son. Had she done the same for the others… the duke… the dowager countess? Perhaps the Fates had promised the others things too. Mr. Owen’s brother… Andrew intimated that he’d not meant for his father to come. What if Lucy intended for each of them to be here for a reason?

“I believe so, though I do not know why.” Her expression shifted and she turned her head toward a sound I could not hear. “Someone comes. You should go now. I will find you if I learn more about the Fates and their purpose here.”

“Is it Lucy? I need to speak with her.”

The White Witch grew pale, shaking her head as her attention remained fixed on whatever she sensed coming down the corridor. “You must hurry. Back to your room.”

I followed her gaze but could neither see nor hear what had caught her attention. She had helped us, in a fashion, back in Cornwall, but I still did not trust her. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because the sooner you do what you’ve come to do, the sooner you will leave this place.”

I raised my brow in challenge. “Then we understand one another?”

The White Witch let out a strange sound that might have been a laugh. “Unfortunately, we do. Now go.”

W HILE I DIDN ’ T trust the White Witch and she did not trust me, alliances had been built upon shakier foundations. I was also fairly confident she didn’t mean me any lasting harm. My mind flickered back to when we’d met in Cornwall. Her presence in Scotland didn’t make sense at all, but there was no time to worry about the White Witch’s perplexing motives. She was here, and I needed to know what these mediums wanted with Mr. Owen. If the White Witch was willing to help on that score, then so be it.

I raced back to my room, opening my door with a frustrated grunt that sent it slamming into the wall behind. Through the closed door I heard a telltale snort informing me that Mr. Owen had fallen asleep in my absence. At least he was resting. I did not like seeing him troubled—and while I remained vaguely irritated at him for bringing me here under false pretenses, I could not entirely blame him for doing it.

Someone wanted him here and went to a great deal of effort to make sure he came.

I sank down onto the little dressing table stool and picked up what remained of the salve Ruan made for me in Cornwall, pulling out the cork stopper. I dipped two fingers in the very last of it and rubbed the greasy substance over the scar on my brow—much as I’d done every night—the crisp scent of lavender and mint flooding my senses.

When I opened my eyes again and looked in the mirror, I noticed a piece of paper sitting on the center of the bed behind me. Now that hadn’t been there before. I shrugged out of Andrew Lennox’s borrowed dinner jacket and moved to the bed, grabbing the envelope from the mattress and turned it over in my hand. The wax seal on the back was the color of overripe blackberries. I broke it with my thumb, unfolding the message and read the words written there.

Meet me at midnight on the bridge. Alone. There’s not much time. He knows I know.

I stared at the words on the page, struggling to make sense of them. Who is he and what did this cryptic letter writer know? I bit my lip, staring at the slip of paper, and ran my thumb over the black ink on the page. I lifted my thumb… a small shape in the form of an M branded itself on my skin. The ink was still wet. I sniffed at the paper which bore the same trace of verbena that I’d noted in the medium’s room moments before. It had to be from Lucy. Perhaps whatever danger the White Witch sensed worried Lucy as well.

I let out a hoarse laugh. This was preposterous—the product of my own overactive imagination and lack of sleep. I was putting far too much stock in the supernatural, when there had to be another explanation for the goings-on at Manhurst. There simply had to be.

I slipped the note beneath my jewelry box and unfastened my mother’s emerald earbobs and necklace, dropping them both into their leather traveling case. Meeting mediums on bridges at midnight was a terrible idea—but I needed to speak to the woman. I opened a small drawer and pulled out the locket I always wore and affixed it to my throat before taking my own woolen overcoat from the wardrobe, slipping it over my evening gown. There was no time to change into proper traipsing-around-the-wilderness attire. Not that I’d even packed such things in the first place.

I withdrew Mr. Owen’s old Webley service revolver from a drawer and unfastened it from its cumbersome leather shoulder holster before tucking it into the pocket of my jacket. One really couldn’t be too careful, though after all the improbable things I’d survived to this point it was a miracle I was still in one piece: a war, an angry mob of Cornishmen, attempted poisoning. I mean really, what was the worst that could happen on the bridge?