In the Shadow of Blackbirds(10)

“That’s a silly thing to assume. The only way my aunt would let me come over here was if I sat for a photograph. She’s madly in love with your brother’s work.”

Stephen closed his book—Jules Verne’s The Mysterious Island. “Julius is a fraud, Shell. He’ll scam you out of your money faster than that goggles salesman. Did you let him take your picture?”

“I think he’s working on developing it right now.”

“Then you’re hooked.” He glanced over his shoulder, through the balusters of the stair rail, and then returned his attention to me. “Why’d you let him do that? I thought you of all people wouldn’t be gullible.”

“I didn’t say I believed in his photos.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“What makes you so certain he’s a fraud?”

He sat up straighter. “My father told me how Julius is creating his ghosts—doctoring the plates, creating double exposures, damaging his brain with too much opium until he convinces himself the mistakes he makes while developing the plates are spirit images.”

“Julius is an opium fiend?”

“Are you really that surprised?”

“Well …” I had heard tales of artists and depraved gentlemen who frequented dark opium dens, smoking the drug from long pipes until they hallucinated and passed out. But never in my life had I known anyone who tried it. I closed my gaping mouth. “I suppose your brother would enjoy something like that.”

Stephen stretched out his other leg. “He also runs a fan over ice blocks in between sittings to cool the air in there. He tries to make everyone feel like phantoms are hovering around the studio.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I’ve caught him doing it. And he leaves the windows open all night to capture the chill from the sea. He locks the doors to the studio to keep me from getting in, but I’ve crawled through the windows and closed the panes to save the equipment. He’s contemplating installing bars to keep me out.”

A lump of disappointment settled in my stomach, even though I had started off so skeptical about the spirit images. “My poor aunt. She’s convinced Julius will find my mother and grandmother for her.”

“Tell her the truth. I hate seeing people so desperate for proof of the afterlife they’ll sacrifice just about anything to communicate with the dead.” Stephen pursed his lips and rubbed his thumb across The Mysterious Island’s leather cover. “I hear them crying when they receive their finished photographs. It’s heartbreaking. They react to Julius’s photos like rummies chasing bottles.”

I thought I heard a moan in a floorboard down the hall. My eyes darted toward the sunbeam-hazy front entrance to make sure no one was listening.

Aunt Eva and Mrs. Embers tittered over some shared anecdote in the dining room.

Nothing else stirred.

I turned back to Stephen and asked in a lowered voice, “Why is Julius doing this to people? I didn’t think he ever wanted to have anything to do with photography.”

“He didn’t, but an odd, ghostly image appeared in one of Dad’s photographs last Christmas, and Julius showed it around the hangouts of rich tourists. He claimed he was saving Dad’s business by finally bringing some solid money to it. Dad hated having his studio turned into a theatrical exhibit. It could be one of the reasons his heart failed.”

“I’m so sorry.” I wrapped my arm around the slick newel post at the end of the stair rail, so close to Stephen that the citrus and spices of his bay rum aftershave filled my nose. “I know you were close to your dad.”

He turned his head so I could see only the side of his face. His eyelashes fluttered like mad, and I could tell he was fighting off tears. “You always told me …” His voice cracked with emotion. “You always said you feel like a piece of you is permanently missing.”

I bit my lip and nodded. I’d often told him part of me was missing because my mother died the day I was born. “Yes.”

“Now I know what that feels like.” He cleared his throat and regained control of his breathing. “It’s agonizing.”

“It’ll get better over time. You’ll always feel that missing piece, but it will get easier.”

His eyes, now bloodshot, traveled back to mine. He took hold of the baluster closest to my hand. “It’s really good seeing you again, Shell. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” A lump caught in my throat. “You know, you’re still the only boy who hasn’t ever made fun of my science experiments and machinery obsessions.”

“I’m sure that’s changed, now that you’re looking”—a grin awakened in the corners of his mouth—“older.”

I shook my head and felt my cheeks warm. “It’s only gotten worse. They still call me names, like Monster Brain and Frankenstein, but now they also make obscene jokes about me and some lecherous old professor who lives near the high school. The girls can be terrible, too.”

“I’m sure everyone’s just intimidated by you. They’re probably afraid of sounding stupid when they talk to you.”

“That never stopped you from talking to me.”

“What?” His mouth fell open. “Hey!” He chuckled, a new, deep laugh I didn’t recognize, and nudged my arm.