The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(28)
A pair of ladies in draping velvet and overly plumaged hats disembarked from a second cab, their semi-inebriated husbands right behind. While the couples arranged themselves on the sidewalk, Marion whispered in Elena’s ear that the woman with the enormous black feather in her hat was Madame Chevalier, the one she’d told her about who’d lost all the gold. She then made a locking motion over her lips as if to suggest no one ever spoke of the scandal in public.
Marion made introductions between the women, kissing each on the cheek and clucking her hellos. Each greeted Elena with the same cheek-to-cheek kiss, though their lips never reached her skin, and afterward their husbands shook her hand politely.
“But where is your son? Your fiancé, Jean-Paul?” the women asked of them.
Marion gave a small lift of her shoulders, making the fox head on her stole appear to grimace. “A born skeptic, that one. Science and facts are his one true religion.”
“He’s at home reading,” Elena added, knowing he preferred to search for a legal solution to her clerical blackmail rather than partake in an evening of obvious charlatanism. “But I have no doubt he would have found the evening just as entertaining as I expect it to be, had he come along.”
The women all nodded their agreement, assuring Elena she would be most impressed with Madame Fontaine as their husbands marched up the steps to the black door and banged the knocker three times. A dour woman in mourning lace up to her chin answered the door. After a modest bow of welcome, the assistant, for that’s how she introduced herself, showed the group into the main salon, explaining that they should take a seat. Madame Fontaine would arrive soon.
The salon was standard size with tall ceilings, a fireplace, and a six-panel paned window overlooking the street they’d come in from. Green damask wallpaper graced the walls in a fleur-de-lis pattern, though the paper had noticeably begun to split and peel along the seams. A pair of gaslit sconces, their globes tarnished with sooty streaks, glowed against the emerald green, fumigating the room with their oily scent. And near the window, framed by a set of cordoned drapes, Elena gazed upon a round table with eight chairs squeezed together. In the middle sat a fat candle in a brass holder. The largest chair, the one with the raised back, sat in front of the window. An eerie backlight from the street conveniently fogged the glass. But there was one encouraging sign, Elena noted: no crystal ball atop the table. Definitely not the sort of supernatural paraphernalia an amateur ought to play with in a room full of mortals.
“Oh, Elena, isn’t it exactly how you pictured?” Marion peeked out the window at the abandoned lane before letting her eyes roam over the room. “Can you feel the energy? I’m positively tingling all over with anticipation.”
“Yes, it certainly has met my expectations so far,” Elena said.
Marion peered out the window once more, only this time her face tightened noticeably. Elena moved closer to take a look as well. Below, a black coach had pulled into the lane, stopping in front of the door. A man in a top hat and cloak stepped out.
“It’s the comté,” Marion said. “A client of my late husband’s. I didn’t know he was on the guest list.”
“Comté?” The nobility had become as rare as passenger pigeons.
“Hmm, the Comté-du-Lac du Nord.” Marion snapped open her fan. “Single and reportedly quite wealthy. Come, let’s find our seats.”
Disobeying the assistant’s suggestion they sit across from each other to even out the energy, Marion had Elena sit on her left and held open the seat on her right, even when Madame Chevalier attempted to squeeze in. A moment later the door to the salon opened and the comté entered, removing his hat and gloves. The assistant took his belongings with a bow and friendly smile, gesturing for him to enter and sit where he liked. Marion paid him absolutely no attention whatsoever until he’d said hello to everyone in the room but she and Elena.
“Charmed,” he said to Elena when Marion introduced them at last. “And Madame Martel, I must say, the supernatural air suits you. You’re positively beaming with spiritual energy this evening.”
“Am I?” Blushing like a schoolgirl, Marion invited the comté to sit, which he did.
It was then Elena noticed the aural specter peeking out of the comté’s collar. For some reason he’d tried to dim his glow, though none of the guests, besides her, were witches. Perhaps he lived as a mortal. Despite the covenants and their rules concerning relations between mortals and witches—namely, that it was a crime to persecute anyone for their inherited powers—there were still occasional violations that sometimes resulted in violent encounters. Some witches simply found it easier to live in anonymous peace, especially if they were heavily invested in the world of mortals. And yet here he was at a séance.
Madame Chevalier removed a pamphlet from her purse, a conjurer’s magazine for magicians, and slid it in front of the comté for him to peruse. “Our first issue,” she said proudly.
His lip curled almost imperceptibly beneath his mustache as he opened the booklet. There could be nothing in there to impress a witch, and yet he licked his finger and turned each page as if he were fascinated. Finally, he congratulated the madame and tucked the pamphlet away in his jacket pocket, expressing his intention to subscribe at once, the least he could do.
The comté caught Elena staring at his collar and nodded curtly in recognition as his eyes sailed over her head to trace her aura. The awkward moment was remedied quickly when the lights dimmed and Madame Fontaine entered the room. The men stood and the women turned their heads, expectant, as if a stage show were about to begin. It was a wonder they didn’t applaud. The medium—every inch of her imbued with an air of the theatric—held her arms out so that her draping sleeves spread open like moth wings at her sides. Her head was covered in a matching band of black-and-gold silk. She was perhaps fifty, perhaps thirty—it was difficult to tell with the low lights—but there was no mistaking the determined look in her obsidian eyes rimmed in kohl. This one was eager to make her way up the psychic ladder, hungry to make a name for herself in the city. If the professional skeptics didn’t eat her alive first, of course.