In the Shadow of Blackbirds(83)

“We thought you were dead from the flu.” I grabbed hold of Mr. Darning’s arm for support. “You weren’t answering the door. We got worried.”

Julius took four more labored steps and spoke as if we were idiots. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

I steadied my breathing. “I’m here to put your brother to rest. I’ll sit for that photograph you want.”

Julius’s eyes—so bloodshot they must have burned—blinked as if I’d just woken him from a long sleep. He stood up straight and made his voice deeper. “Why are you with her, Darning?”

“I’m curious about her abilities. I agreed to accompany her to ensure you’ll be sending a legitimate photograph of your brother’s spirit to that contest.” Mr. Darning lifted his brown case. “As usual, I’ve brought my own plates, marked with my initials, to prevent you from switching to your own doctored versions.”

Julius scrutinized Mr. Darning through uneasy eyes. “You sure you’re not plotting to get me arrested?”

Mr. Darning lowered his case. “I swear I’m only here for the sake of psychical research. I believe this girl is genuinely capable of luring your brother into a photograph. If we can get him to come, there would be no need for you to be arrested, would there?”

I lifted my chin and tried not to let my fear get the best of me. “Please let me help your brother, Julius. I know he’ll come to me. You know he’ll come to me.”

Julius leaned his hand against the wall for support, right next to the picture of the white-draped phantom and me. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “You look terrible, Mary Shelley. Are you sick or something?”

“No—just tired and anxious to contact your brother. Will you let me?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and hesitated some more. My eyes and throat stung as if a cloud of cyanide hovered overhead, and Julius looked equally sickened by the toxic atmosphere.

To speed things along, I spoke to his way of thinking. “Are we ready to win this prize, Julius? Should we help both you and Stephen get out of this house for good?”

“How much is the prize?” asked Mr. Darning.

I kept my eyes on Julius. “Two thousand dollars for solid proof of the existence of spirits. Isn’t that right, Julius?”

Julius stirred back to life once again. He pushed himself off the wall. “Bring Stephen quickly … and then send him far away from here. I don’t want him anywhere near me, so don’t—”

I hurried out to the house’s main entryway.

“Hey! Where are you going, Mary Shelley?”

Julius and Mr. Darning followed me out to the hall, their footsteps amplified in the deep, hollow space, which still reminded me of the belly of a ship with its dangling brass lantern and knotty wood walls.

“Why are you out here?” asked Julius. “The studio’s back—”

“Shh.” I lifted my finger, for I thought I had heard a whisper down the way.

The grandfather clock continued to preside over the far end of the hall, but the second hand ticked louder than I remembered. A shadow hiding the round white moon face seemed to lengthen across the wall to the clock’s left and stretch toward the staircase. I remembered what the stairs looked like—the shine of the dark wood, the green runner trailing up the steps behind Stephen. An electrical hum rose in their direction, drowning out the ticking of the clock.

I kept an eye on that back portion of the house. “We have to photograph him in his bedroom to catch him with your camera.”

Julius shook his head. “No! Absolutely not. You are not going into his room.”

“Isn’t that where you hear him?” I asked.

“I don’t want you in there.”

“Then there’s no point in trying. That’s where he is. I bet if I called to him right now, he’d make a sound up there …”

“No.” Julius ran over and grabbed my shoulder to stop me from going to the staircase. “Don’t call him.”

“I’d listen to her, Embers,” said Mr. Darning. “She seems to know how to find him. He was already coming to her in my car outside your house.”

Julius turned even paler. “He was?”

Mr. Darning nodded. “I heard him. This is going to be a spectacular photograph. I can feel it.”

Julius gulped like he might throw up. Then he said, “All right. I’ll take the photograph upstairs. But I have conditions, too.”

I tensed. “What are they?”

“You have to take off that mask. No more photographs of you in goggles or gauze or other bizarre accessories. This has to be a professional sitting. You’re here only to pose for the picture and to send him away. No dramatics. No snooping.”

I looked to Mr. Darning, who gave me a comforting nod and said in that gentle tone of his, “You know it’s probably already too late for gauze masks. The judges would appreciate seeing your face. You don’t want to look like you’re hiding anything.”

I nodded. “I’ll take the mask off, then. May I use your washroom to cool my face before the sitting?”

“I—all right.” Julius rubbed his eyes and swayed for a moment. “Go make yourself presentable. I’ll fetch my equipment and start setting up.” He pointed at Mr. Darning. “You wait right here, Darning. I don’t want you sniffing around his room before I’m up there.” He stumbled back inside his studio, and I half wondered if he’d collapse and pass out.