“Yes.”

  Henry didn’t owe the medium anything. He could simply say it was none of Vincent’s business and tell him to be off.

  But Vincent, for all his impertinence and lack of shame, had shown genuine kindness last night when he’d come in response to Henry’s fearful cry. He’d comforted Jo after her encounter this morning.

  He’d called Henry clever, praised the way he thought. The words had warmed Henry even more than the kiss they’d shared a few moments later. Who would have imagined the first person to appreciate his ingenuity would be a medium?

  “My family was never wealthy, but we had more money than most.” Henry finally got the wire into place. “Nothing like Mr. Gladfield, of course. My father was the president of a bank and did quite well for himself...at least until he died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Henry pulled himself back inside. For once, Vincent let go and stepped away instead of pursuing anything more. Henry hurriedly closed the window as much as he could given the wire running outside. His fingers were like ice, and he jammed them beneath his armpits in an attempt to warm them.

  “As am I, but he...he came back. To reassure me, I think. I was fifteen, and only just fully realized I was...different...from other lads.” He looked up to see if Vincent took his meaning. A small nod assured him that the medium did. “I was confused and afraid, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t just as well my father had died. If he’d ever found out, surely it would have broken his heart. One night, I woke up and discovered him standing at the foot of my bed.”

  Vincent cocked his head to one side. “Were you frightened?”

  Henry laughed ruefully. “I should have been, shouldn’t I? But all I felt was a sense of warmth and love. As if he’d come to tell me everything would be all right. Then he was gone, but I heard something hit the floor. I jumped out of bed, and what did I find but an emerald stickpin?” Henry began to pace, trying to work some warmth back into his limbs after the chill of the outside. “He’d been buried with the pin—I knew he had, I’d seen it myself as they shut the coffin. There was no explanation for how it arrived on my floor, except as an apport from a spirit. From him.”

  “It makes sense.” Vincent perched on the edge of a school desk, watching Henry pace. “Young people like you were—like Miss Strauss is now—generate a great deal of energy. Given your emotional distress, it was probably even higher than usual. Concentrated as it was around a single spirit, it gave your father enough energy to cross the veil and apport the pin. To say goodbye.”

  Henry came to a halt, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him. Faint marks revealed the old vandalism left behind by some child, not quite removed by subsequent scrubbing. “Yes.”

  Vincent folded his arms over his chest. “But it doesn’t explain why you’re determined to replace me with a machine.”

  Henry wanted to protest that he didn’t. Not Vincent. But that would be the effect of winning the contest, whether he wished it or not. “When Father died, Mother was utterly devastated,” Henry said. “I told her about my vision and showed her the stickpin. It got her hopes up, I suppose. She longed to see him again, too. So she hired a medium. Isaac Woodsend, or at least that was the name he went by.”

  “Oh dear.” Vincent winced. “A fraud?”

  “In every possible way. Only we didn’t know it.” Henry laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “He took us in completely. Within a week, Mother was convinced not only that she could talk to Father again, but that she might do so any time she wanted. Almost as if he wasn’t dead, but just on a long journey. Isaac moved in with us—the house was quite large, and there was plenty of room. Before long, he said Father wanted us to do things—little things to begin with, like give Isaac his diamond cufflinks. Over time the gifts became more extravagant: money, clothes.” He lowered his voice. “Me.”

  “Shit,” Vincent said, with a sort of soft viciousness. His eyes blazed with dark fire.

  “He didn’t say as much in front of Mother, of course,” Henry said hurriedly. “But privately...and since I knew Father still loved me, it seemed reasonable. Not least because I wanted it, too. Isaac was handsome and charming. I was fifteen and stupid.”

  “The man was a scheming bastard who took advantage.” Vincent’s cold anger seemed an impossibly sharp contrast to the languid amusement he generally displayed. “I hope this story contains a bad ending for Mr. Woodsend.”

  The sentiment warmed Henry even as he shook his head ruefully. “Quite the opposite. Isaac drained our bank accounts and took everything—even the emerald stickpin.” Somehow, that hurt the most, even now. “But I determined I wouldn’t let anyone else fall prey to such an unscrupulous ruse ever again. The Electro-Séance is important, not just to me, but to everyone who has been taken in by a fraud. If I can keep one other person from going through what my family did, it will all have been worth it.”

  A small, sad smile played on Vincent’s mouth. “I won’t deny your devices may have some use. But if you could replace every doctor with an automaton, would you? For no better reason than that there are quacks as well as trained professionals?”

  Oddly enough, Henry still remembered the smell of Dr. Jones’s tobacco when he’d attended Father during his last hours. The kindly old man’s soothing voice telling Mother it was over and Father hadn’t suffered at the end. The weight of his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “You’re the man of the house now, lad. But don’t worry. Your father and I were old friends, and he was always proud of you. He still is.”

  “It isn’t the same,” Henry said.

  “Isn’t it?” The smile grew even sadder, more wistful. “Maybe you’re right, Henry. Maybe machines can replace us all. Maybe if they did, Dunne would still be alive.”

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Vincent turned back to the closed doors of the schoolroom. “If you’ve made your preparations, let’s see what this device of yours can do.”

  ~ * ~

  Vincent leaned against the balcony railing, watching while Henry finished setting up what he referred to as his ghost grounder. Listening to the man’s story hadn’t been easy. The thought of someone taking advantage of people—of Henry—in such a way, while real mediums like Dunne died trying to make the world a better place, made his chest hot with anger.

  No wonder Henry had turned to machines. They would never break his heart.

  “Are you ready, Jo?” Henry asked. His cheeks were still flushed from the cold, but his eyes sparkled with anticipation. As did Jo’s—despite the differences in the color of their skins, in many ways the cousins were more alike than not.

  Henry had connected his wire, now trailing from beneath the schoolroom doors, to a thick copper rod. The rod he handled with a heavy rubber glove. They’d gathered at the cold spot on the balcony, set up a thermometer, and noted the temperature. The faint taste of lavender spiced Vincent’s tongue—this cold spot belonged to the ghost who had tried to warn them. It was a connection to this world where she could draw energy from the ambient air. Given the dark stains on the floor, he thought it likely she’d died here.

  Of course he didn’t say as much to Henry. They were still competitors after all, and he doubted Henry would care, given his tart remarks about “provenance” earlier.

  Vincent held up his hand. “One moment, if you please. What exactly do you mean to do here?”

  Henry, of course, jumped on the opportunity for a lecture. “Ghosts—or their manifestations on this side of the veil—are electromagnetic in nature. They interact with our fields of energy, and with those naturally present all around us. Cold spots form when spirits drain the ambient energy out of the air.”

  “And your ghost grounder?”

  Henry beamed. “We use the ghost’s connection with a certain place in our world against it. The copper rod will ground any sort of energy in the area—it doesn’t distinguish between that generated by a static charge or a spirit. By introducing it into the cold spot, it will make contact, if you will, with the energy of the spirit and begin to drain it. When the ghost loses sufficient energy to keep up contact with this side, the cold spot should return to normal temperature.”

  There was a certain amount of genius to Henry’s ideas. “And the spirit?” Vincent asked. “How will she feel? Will it hurt her?”

  “No more than when a séance’s circle is broken and the energy no longer available to the summoned spirit,” Henry said.

  “I see.” Vincent arched a brow at him as Miss Strauss turned away to check one of their instruments. Lowering his voice so only Henry could hear, he said, “Then by all means, give us a demonstration of your thrusting rod.”

  Henry’s cheeks reddened again, with something other than the cold now. “Ready, Jo?” he asked, turning his back deliberately on Vincent.

  “Cold spot is at twenty-seven degrees,” she reported, her pencil hovering over the notebook, ready to spring into action.

  “Then let us begin.”

  Henry carefully aimed the tip of the copper rod into the center of the cold spot. There came the tiny flash of a spark and a soft crack, like touching a door latch after shuffling over carpet.

  “Thirty-one degrees!” Jo said.

  The taste of lavender began to fade.

  Jo recited changes in temperature at regular intervals. Henry’s eyes all but glowed in triumph, but his hand remained steady, keeping the copper rod in place until at last Jo declared their two thermometers read the same, both in the former cold spot and a few feet away.

  Vincent swirled his tongue around his mouth. No lavender, just the lingering flavor of cinnamon cachous.

  She was gone. Or rather, her connection to this place was gone.

  “Well done,” Vincent said softly.

  Henry looked uncertain, as if he thought Vincent might be mocking him. “Thank you.”

  Vincent gave him a small bow before leaving Henry and his cousin to clear away their things. But as he laid down lines of salt across his bedroom door and window, and checked inside the wardrobe one last time, he couldn’t help but think back to that terrible night last summer. If Dunne had something like the ghost grounder, might things have gone differently? Might he still be alive?

  By competing against Henry, were Lizzie and he potentially dooming future mediums to the same death?

  Chapter 11

  “All right, Mr. Gladfield,” Miss Devereaux said as Bamforth cleared away the breakfast plates the next morning, “it’s time to keep your promise. Tell us the history of Reyhome Castle.”

  Henry leaned forward in his chair. Even though, as he’d said yesterday, the house’s history made no difference to his experiments, he couldn’t help but find himself curious.

  Gladfield settled back in his chair, seeming to enjoy prolonging their suspense. “Very well. You’ve all been remarkably patient,” he said. “The history of Reyhome Castle began in 1846. Francis Reyer had made his fortune in timber, and once he felt the hand of age upon him, he decided to marry. As fate would have it, he settled upon a much younger woman for his bride, a Miss Martha Hargrave. For the first year of their marriage, the couple lived in New York while Reyhome Castle was built. The house was intended as a summer home only, except things began to go wrong.”

  “What happened?” Jo asked eagerly.

  “Nothing terrible at first.” Gladfield sipped his coffee. “Reyer had always been somewhat paranoid, but never to an extreme—just enough to keep him sharp in business. But with such a young, pretty wife, he began to display jealousy toward any other man who met her socially. He seldom allowed her to leave their New York home, and never without his company. She couldn’t even see her cousins without his presence as chaperone. And as soon as Reyhome Castle was finished, they moved here on a permanent basis.”

  “I suppose this far out in the country, he believed there would be fewer temptations for his wife,” Henry suggested.

  Gladfield nodded. “No doubt. In due time, the family was joined by two more souls: a boy and girl who were the delight of Mrs. Reyer. Alas, their arrival marked the beginning of Francis Reyer’s descent into madness.”

  Miss Devereaux’s flowing skirts rustled as she shifted in her chair. “Madness?”

  “Indeed.” Gladfield watched them over the edge of his cup. “Reyer became completely unhinged. He barred even the few visitors they had and fired every man on staff, including his own valet. Supposedly, he became convinced the children weren’t really his and flung the most horrid accusations at his wife. His paranoia became so extreme, he withdrew a small fortune from the bank to have the money on hand. That way, he wouldn’t have to leave the house even for a few hours.”

  Miss Prandle shivered. “His poor wife. And children.”

  “Trapped in a house far from anyone else, with a lunatic in complete control of their fates,” Gladfield agreed. “Inevitably, things ended badly. One day Reyer lost what little grip he retained on sanity, took up a knife, and swore he’d kill the children, as he was certain they weren’t his. His wife died on the second-floor balcony, in front of the schoolroom, trying to save them.”

  So Vincent was right—the stain on the floor had been blood. Henry suppressed a shiver.

  “Once he was done with her,” Gladfield went on, “Reyer went into the schoolroom. The tutor was badly wounded in the defense of her charges, but to no avail. He murdered his little son and daughter.”

  “How terrible,” Henry said, but it came out a horrified whisper. This was far worse than anything he’d imagined. Perhaps it would have been better not to know after all.

  “The handful of remaining servants fled in terror,” Gladfield went on. “Within a few hours, a group of local men returned, determined to overpower Reyer and take him to face justice for his crimes. They were too late—Reyer hanged himself, either from remorse or as a final phase of his lunacy, who can say? Reports vary as to where his body was found. Some say in this very room, dangling from the chandelier above our heads.”

  Henry glanced up reflexively. The dark iron seemed suddenly, unspeakably sinister. Jo let out little gasp, but she seemed more fascinated than frightened. “Where else?” Henry asked.

  “The top of the tower is the other place Reyer might have done himself in. The fortune he’d supposedly kept on hand was never found. If it existed at all, the men who discovered the body probably took it.” Gladfield shrugged. “By the time of the deaths, the house had been occupied for less than ten years. After, it passed into the possession of Reyer’s sister, newly married to my father. As my parents already had a country home, they rented the property to friends for the summer. The friends remained for less than a month, reporting cold spots, figures glimpsed in mirrors, and other things which left them deeply uneasy. They finally departed when the head maid fell down the servants’ stair to her death. They were convinced a ghost had pushed her. The house has lain undisturbed since.”

  Silence lay over the room for a long moment. Then Miss Devereaux asked, “When?”

  “Pardon me?” Gladfield asked.

  Her eyes were like chips of green ice, and there was no mistaking the low urgency in her voice when she spoke. “When did the murders and suicide occur? The date, sir.”

  Gladfield smiled. “The twelfth of January. The anniversary is tomorrow night.”

  ~ * ~

  “We need to leave. Right now.” Vincent’s heart drummed in his chest, and waves of alternating hot and cold washed over him. Lizzie was saying something, but he couldn’t hear over the sound of screams and mad laughter. Breaking glass. He tasted rot and slime on his tongue. If he turned his head just a little, he’d see Dunne staring back at him with sightless eyes.

  “Vincent?” A hand landed on his arm. He jumped and found he’d risen to his feet without even realizing it. Henry stood beside him, blue eyes staring worriedly up. “Are you well?”

  Of course he wasn’t well. His knees trembled, threatening to give way. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to grab Henry and Lizzie, and run.

  But Henry didn’t understand—his puzzlement said as much. Bitter laughter welled in Vincent’s throat, but he choked it down. Instead, he turned to Gladfield. “You have no idea the sort of danger you’ve put us all in, do you?”

  Gladfield frowned severely. “I suggest you watch your tone, Mr. Night. Your savage blood does not excuse such behavior.”

  Henry drew in a harsh sip of breath as if he meant to protest.

  “Vincent, sit down,” Lizzie ordered before Henry could speak. “Forgive my colleague, Mr. Gladfield. He didn’t mean to speak sharply.”

  Vincent wanted to object. To tell Gladfield to go to hell and take the house with him. But doing so would only end with him being thrown out.

  And wouldn’t it be for the best? He’d have an excuse to walk away. One absolving him of all guilt when it came to the fate of those left behind.

  “Yes.” He sank back into his seat. “Forgive me.”

  “What Mr. Night meant to say,” Lizzie went on, “was, while most spirits are entirely harmless, save for giving the occasional fright to the unwary, such isn’t always the case. There are instances when spirits can become violent and do injury to people, mediums and ordinary souls alike. Given the death of the maid—”

  “Which may have been an accident,” Henry pointed out quickly.

  Lizzie arched a cool brow at him. “Given our circumstances, such an assumption is dangerous to make, Mr. Strauss. If the ghost of Reyer walks these halls, if it has killed once already, we are in peril.”

  “If,” Henry said. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms over his chest, radiating skepticism. Vincent clenched his fists and tried to resist the urge to grab the man and shake sense into him.

  “Do you think Reyer was the ‘he’ referred to in the spirit writing?” Miss Strauss asked.

  Lizzie nodded. “I think it likely. It seems to me his wife may have been trying to warn us, both through her writing and her appearance to Mr. Strauss.”

  Gladfield set his coffee aside. “What do you suggest?”

 

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