Haunting Violet (9 page)

In fact, I couldn't see the grassy field at all.

Instead, I was standing on broken flagstones overgrown with white lilies that glowed blue in the strange twilight. There was grass all around and apple trees raining pale pink petals everywhere. There was a huge stone staircase, the kind that belonged to a crumbling castle, only this one just stopped, leading to nowhere in particular.

Rowena stood on the third step near a branch of candles. A light at the top of the stairs grew bright as the moon, bright as a thousand candles. I could feel the warmth even as far away as I was. Rowena was shivering in her wet dress, her lips faintly blue. I couldn't imagine why she didn't want to get closer.

“Please, sweetheart,” a woman begged from the top step. She was in silhouette against the light, but I caught glimpses of long blond hair and diamonds. “I've been waiting for you.”

I knew without any logical sense that this was Rowena's mother, who'd died years before. I felt it.

Rowena wouldn't go to her. She covered her eyes as if the light was too bright, as if it hurt her to look at it. She was crying and shaking her head violently.

“Tabitha.” I saw Rowena mouth her sister's name but couldn't hear her over the sudden rain that beat down around us, flattening the grass and tearing petals from the apple branches. The light dimmed. Rowena was still weeping, and I was too, though I couldn't have said why.

“Tabitha.”

The rain blurred my vision and between one blink and the next, I was back in the field. The
crack
of the croquet balls seemed too loud. There were tears on my cheeks. Rowena was gone.

But Tabitha stood in front of me, her smiled barbed. She trailed several young gentlemen in white cravats and windswept hair.

“What's the matter with her?” she asked Elizabeth disdainfully. I had no idea how long I'd been standing there, unresponsive. I shifted, embarrassed.

“Are you ill?” Elizabeth asked me.

I shook my head. “I felt faint is all. Too much sun.”

“Allow me.” One of Tabitha's beaus offered me his arm gallantly. Tabitha's eyes narrowed as I placed my hand on his wrist.

“Violet, weren't you wearing that same dress this morning?” She smiled at Xavier, who was talking to one of her gallants about cricket. “Mr. Trethewey, I do hope Miss Willoughby didn't ruin your coat with her clumsiness.”

“Not at all, I assure you.” He bowed in my direction. I smiled and tried not to flush red. He'd think I was embarrassed when really it was my temper boiling under my skin. I was in no position to vent it here. I swallowed hard; it was like I had one of Elizabeth's candied almonds stuck in my throat.

Tabitha smirked. She was an earl's daughter and knew exactly what she could get away with.

“Oh, Tabitha.” Elizabeth sighed. She also was an earl's daughter and therefore unimpressed. “Stop being such a flibbertigibbet.”

Tabitha sniffed. “Well, if you're going to be like that,” she said, “I'll take my new friends elsewhere.” They circled her, offering to fetch lemonade or clear a spot free of leaves under the branches so she might have some shade. The sun flashed off a cravat pin. I recognized the young man from the gardens who'd been spying on Caroline. And he'd been pacing the halls when Colin and I had hid in the ferns. He wasn't smiling and flirting with Tabitha like the others. In fact, he looked quite desperate. And I couldn't help but notice that his suit, though neatly pressed, was not nearly of the same quality as the others. He stood out against the lounging aristocrats, especially near Frederic, who was drinking from a silver flask he pulled out of his pocket, an emerald ring gleaming on his finger.

Elizabeth stood up straighter. “Hello, Frederic.”

He toasted her absently. Tabitha fluttered her eyelashes at Xavier, who blinked, ears red. “Mr. Trethewey, I should love to sketch those pink lady's slippers we saw growing near that little cave. Perhaps you might fetch some for me? I'd be ever so grateful.”

He glanced at me helplessly. He was no match for her. “Of course, Miss Wentworth.”

She flashed me a look of pure smug triumph and then flounced away, the gentlemen eagerly placing bets as to who would pick the most flowers for her. Elizabeth and I were left alone, watching miserably as Xavier and Frederic disappeared to do her bidding.

“She'll be unbearable for the rest of the week now,” Elizabeth said apologetically. “She never gets to flirt anymore, and each of those gentlemen are single and wealthy. Well, except for the one on the end. I'm not sure who he is.” She shook her head. “Her uncle won't like it one bit when he sees that lot. And she'll be staying overnight in one of Jasper's guest rooms as often as she can now.” She swung her arm through mine. “Come on, let's see if there's any pineapple left.”

There was a scratching at my door that night, followed by what sounded like a hedgehog choking.

When I swung the door open, Elizabeth stopped mid-cough. “Quickly, before someone sees me.” She darted inside, a shawl draped over her nightdress and something tucked under her arm. “My mother took forever to fall asleep. I couldn't risk creeping past her room when she was still awake. No matter how quiet I think I am, it's like she has some occult sense when it comes to the possibility of me having any fun.” She sailed past me and took up residence on the carpet in front of the open window where the crickets sang in the rose gardens. The flame of my candle flickered in the draft.

I joined her on the carpet, eyeing the lump under her arm suspiciously. “What have you got there?”

“I found it in Uncle Jasper's library. In the cabinet on the balcony.”

“The
locked
cabinet?”

“Naturally. There's nothing to picking a lock—anyone with a hairpin can manage. It's a spirit-board,” she explained before I could come up with a plausible reason why a Spiritualist medium's daughter wanted nothing to do with spirits. The moon afforded us just enough milky blue light that the white of our nightclothes glowed faintly and I could make out the figures on the board in front of us if I squinted. “Uncle Jasper has access to the best things. He says this will be all the rage as soon as they perfect it, but he doesn't approve of its parlor use just yet.”

“Perfect it how?”

She wrinkled her nose. “It's apparently not as safe as it could be.”

I looked dubiously at the painted wooden board on the carpet between us. “Looks safe enough to me. It's only a piece of oak.”

“Exactly! I knew you wouldn't come over all missish.”

It seemed a simple enough object, painted with the alphabet in black and roman numerals from one to nine. Y
ES
and
NO
were in each corner and
GOOD-BYE
on the bottom. A curious triangle piece with little legs stood off to the side. “How does this piece work?”

“I'm not sure exactly. It's called a planchette.”

“You don't know? How are we meant to make any use of it?”

“I am sure we can figure it out. I do know we're meant to use the planchette.” She lifted the triangle piece and set it on the board. “And from what I can gather, the spirits push it to letters in succession and spell out messages from the afterworld.” She shivered dramatically. “Perhaps we can convince Boadicea or Anne Boleyn to speak to us. Or Aphrodite might tell me if Frederic will fall in love with me?” I didn't think even the goddess of love herself would dare say no to Elizabeth. “Ooh, perhaps she'll tell you exactly when Xavier will propose. I do hope he bends on one knee and recites a sonnet to your beauty.”

I wondered if it said something unsavory about my character that the image of Xavier reciting love poems made me want to laugh. That was hardly romantic of me. I didn't mention it out loud; instead I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders and made myself more comfortable. “Let's get started, shall we? I'm all shivers.”

“I know, isn't it deliciously frightening? We might speak to Napoleon—or Catherine Bathory, who bathed in the blood of virgin girls.”

“I meant that I'm getting cold, you goose.”

“Oh.” She pushed her hair back off her shoulders and met my eyes. “Ready?”

I swallowed. It was silly to be nervous about a parlor game. But what I was really nervous about was being forced to admit, rather sooner than later, that there really were spirits and that, yes, they liked to talk to me.

One could deny the obvious for only so long.

A little longer might be nice though.

“Spirits,” Elizabeth whispered. “Speak to us through this talking board. We are listening.”

We waited expectantly. I stared so hard at the planchette, waiting for it to move, that my eyes burned.

Elizabeth's shoulders sagged. “Nothing's happening.”

I wiped my palms on my knees. “Perhaps we're doing it wrong. Are we meant to sing, like at a séance?”

“I don't know. I couldn't very well ask Uncle Jasper, now, could I? Perhaps it's broken?” She crouched down, her nose practically touching the planchette. “Hello?”

She looked so ridiculous, I couldn't suppress a giggle. It came out more like a snort and the sound startled Elizabeth so that she squeaked and leaped away, as if the planchette had turned into a spider. I laughed harder.

She glowered, thumping her chest as if her heart had stammered to a stop. “Don't
do
that!”

“Sorry!” I couldn't stop giggling. She tried to hold on to her glare, but after a moment she was chortling as well. She wiped her eyes.

“Perhaps we can ask your mother?” she asked, once she'd gotten her composure back. “Surely she has experience with such things?”

“No!” I answered, perhaps too quickly. Elizabeth blinked at my severity. I tried to smile, to soften my tone. “I happen to know she's never had any experience with spirit-boards.” I cast about for something else to say, to break the moment before she began to wonder at my discomfort.

I might have told her the truth then.

I didn't. Instead, I turned my attention back to the planchette.

“I saw a drawing once, in one of the Spiritualist papers,” I said, remembering the sketch of sitters around a table, hands resting on the wooden triangle. “Everyone was touching the planchette, the way sitters hold hands. Perhaps to join us together with the energies?”

“Brilliant!” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps you really are a medium, just like your mother.”

I couldn't explain to her why the notion depressed me so.

We leaned forward to try again. The crickets stopped singing the moment our fingertips rested on the planchette. I tried not to take it as an omen. Elizabeth smiled nervously.

“Ready?” she whispered. When I nodded, she raised her voice a touch higher. “Spirits, we are listening.”

The same silence stretched between us.

“We await your presence.” She sounded sharp, like a governess.

A tingle skittered across my brow, like a beetle. But there were no spirit voices or faces peering back at me.

“How rude.” Annoyed, Elizabeth huffed out a breath. “As I'm not the medium's daughter, they clearly won't speak to me. You try.”

I worked to relax my fingers so they wouldn't cramp. “Spirits.”

“You could ask to speak to your father,” Elizabeth whispered.

I shook my head. I knew there would be no answer; we would call out until our tongues turned blue.

“Spirits,” I repeated more forcefully, suddenly just wanting this to be over so I could crawl back under my blankets. If I hadn't had to keep my fingers so still, I would have scratched at my forehead. It felt tight, tingling as if my skin was burned with too much sun. At first I wasn't convinced anything was actually happening. The planchette moved infinitesimally, but it might have been the way we were hunched over the board.

“Is anything happening?” Elizabeth asked in hushed undertones.

“I'm not sure. Maybe?” I leaned slightly so that the moonlight fell past my shoulder onto the spirit-board. “Please, speak to us!”

“It moved!” She grabbed my arm, startling me. The planchette stuttered, as if it had slid from a waxed floor to a carpet.

“Put your hand back!”

She scratched me in her haste to grip the planchette again. I kept very still. It moved again, just a little.

“Did you see that?” Elizabeth breathed.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The triangle moved so slowly, sweat beaded under my arms as I strained not to shift my hands or influence it in any way. Across from me, Elizabeth was similarly flushed. It seemed to take an age for it to travel just a few inches, toward the first letter,
R
.

“
R
,” Elizabeth breathed. “For what? Rheumatism? Retinue? Richard the Third?”