A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(60)

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.