The Writing Retreat(40)

“Flo.” Behind Florence, Abigail shot Daphne an amused look. “That’s nonsense and you know it. Just because you’ve run one or two of these before…”

“One or two! Darling, I’ll have you know that when I was living in London, I took part in twelve seances—”

“And we are so lucky to have your expertise.” Daphne knew how to soothe the fractious older woman even though she hadn’t known her very long. To her relief, Florence did seem to calm herself, especially once she spotted the tray of cordials.

An hour later, they were ready to begin. They sat at a low table in front of the fire, settling on pillows on the floor, which all felt very Bohemian. They clasped hands. Daphne noticed that Abigail’s hand was very warm, while Florence’s was cold, despite the summer air drifting in from the windows. The table was covered with a white lace shawl that Florence had brought, along with several candles. A pad of paper and a pencil waited in front of Florence.

“Okay, girls.” Florence’s pale eyelids fluttered. “Now close your eyes.”

Abigail squeezed Daphne’s hand, and she squeezed back.

“O great spirits,” Florence intoned. “We ask you to bless us with your presence tonight.”

She went silent and Daphne’s mind wandered. Despite the atmosphere from the candles, it didn’t feel particularly different here than at other times of the day. She stifled a yawn. With all the preparations, she was now somewhat exhausted.

“We implore you to visit us, spirits.” Florence cleared her throat. “Are there any who would like to speak with us tonight?”

“Yes.”

It took a moment for Daphne to realize that she’d just spoken aloud. Her eyelids flipped open. Abigail was looking at her, but she quickly closed her eyes. Florence’s eyes were still closed, but a slight smile played on her thin lips.

“Welcome,” Florence said. “What is your name?”

“Dennis.” Daphne felt cold uncertainty wash over her. She’d seen spirits before, but they’d never spoken through her like this.

“Dennis, we welcome you to our table,” Florence went on. “What would you like to tell us?”

Daphne waited. No words came. Maybe he was gone? Maybe—

Suddenly, Daphne’s hands whipped away from Abigail and Florence’s, clawing at the table. Abigail quickly moved the pad and pencil in front of her. Daphne clutched it and scribbled.

Panic bubbled up in her chest. Her arms and hands were no longer connected to her body but were acting of their own accord. She finished one page and flipped to the next. She tried to stop—she couldn’t.

Jaw clenched, she looked up at the other two, pleading with them to help her. Abigail’s hands covered her lips. Florence’s mouth hung open.

Daphne flipped another page.

“Daphne, are you—” Abigail began to rise.

“Stop!” Florence bellowed. “Don’t break the circle. Let her finish.”

“But is she—”

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Daphne’s hands were once again her own. She clasped them in her lap, as if forcing them to behave. Her heart still pounded, but there was something else too. Now that it was over—and she knew that at least for the night, it was—the panic was beginning to shift into pure exhilaration.

She laughed aloud. “My goodness!”

Florence pulled the papers to her. She read one or two lines, and her eyes returned to Daphne. They held something Daphne wouldn’t have expected: fear.

“Well, my darling.” Florence set the papers down again. “I’ve never seen anyone contacted so quickly.” Now there was admiration in her expression. She beamed at Daphne. “It looks like you’re a natural.”





Chapter 15




The parlor had been transformed for cocktail hour. A fire roared in the stone fireplace and taper candles flickered on the central coffee table. A makeshift bar had been set up by the window. Yana stood next to it in a tight mint-colored jumpsuit, glowering at no one in particular.

I could feel Wren’s presence on the far side of the room. It was like having a crush, when you could track them at all times without looking at them. I glanced over. Near the window, she and Poppy leaned towards each other, tittering like teenagers.

“Hi.” I approached Yana at the bar. Her ponytail was so tight, it pulled back her forehead, but she still managed to lower her drawn-on brows in a glare. “Um, could I have some red wine, please?”

Without answering, she picked up a glass and poured.

“Thanks,” I said, but she was already back to ignoring me. Her commitment to inhospitality made me smile as I made my way to Taylor and Keira, who were sitting on the leather couch. They were discussing someone with great intensity. It took me a few minutes to realize it was a character from Keira’s book.

Roza arrived fashionably late, despite her stern warning about being on time. She’d changed into a long, dramatic maroon dress and she trilled hellos as she swept into the room.

“The writing’s going well?” Taylor asked, straightening.

“Very well, my dears.” Roza received a glass from Yana and plopped into a velvet chair. Poppy and Wren came over and we listened to Roza hold court. She was in a fantastic mood. For once, I didn’t feel like I needed to impress her, or anyone. I knew she liked what I was working on, and that was all that mattered.