The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(29)
A wave of silent static traveled throughout the room, and then their host spoke. “Good evening, fellow spirit seekers!” Madame Fontaine lowered her arms and welcomed the circle of gaping admirers. She worked her way around the table to greet each person with a palm to their forehead, as though taking their psychic temperature. Those who’d attended before thanked her for her uncanny gift, to which she raised her open hand up to a vague source of energy overhead that she claimed gave her the power.
“My, my, my, you are searching for some specific answers, aren’t you?” Madame Fontaine said when she stood in front of Marion. “A dearly departed husband, is it?” Her eyes glittered in the lamplight as she awaited confirmation.
Marion nearly swooned from the touch of the medium’s hand placed against her brow. “Philippe, yes! Oh, I have so many things I wish to ask him.”
“And he has many things to tell you.” The medium’s gaze traveled over the cut of Marion’s dress, no doubt evaluating the expense of her hat and the likely weight of her pocketbook. “Yes, we may have to have a long conversation with your departed husband. Even now I feel his presence making itself known nearby.”
Marion exhaled in breathless awe.
“And who do we have here?” Madame Fontaine asked as she approached Elena and placed her hand on her forehead. “Such a young woman. Do you have someone you wish to contact this evening?”
To Elena’s surprise, her emotions overrode her intellect and she spoke before she could stop herself. “My mother, perhaps.”
Elena was under no illusion this woman could do any of the things she claimed, so why did she confess this barely acknowledged desire? Ever since she’d learned the truth about her mother and her crime, she’d borne a strange yearning to know the details. Arriving in the city and discovering how her mother’s shadow still held sway over her future had only embedded the curiosity deeper.
“There are unresolved issues with your mother, are there not? Hmm, we’ll need to call her gently, encourage her to speak with us. Shall we get started?”
The medium took her hand away, locked eyes with Elena as if accepting some unspoken challenge, then asked the men to take their seats.
“She really is special,” the comté said to Elena, leaning deliberately close to Marion. “You’ll see.”
Madame Fontaine sat in the high-backed chair and extended her hands across the table, palms up, to those seated beside her. The entire table completed the circle of handholding, then the medium asked the spirits for a sign that they were ready to communicate. The sconces on the wall dimmed further, as if by their own accord, though it was entirely likely that the dour assistant had access to some sort of remote knob by which to control the flow of gas. The chorus of “ahs” from Elena’s fellow attendees confirmed the effectiveness of the trick on the mortal imagination. Swallowing a smile, she couldn’t help wondering what kind of response she’d get if she offered to light the men’s cigars with a flame from the tips of her fingers.
As soon as she had the thought, the flame on the candle in the center of the table came to life, though in this case it was from an allumette produced from the assistant’s pocket. The light formed a yellow halo in the center of the circle so that the eye was drawn away from anything else but the flame.
“Madame, I feel an exceptional energy tonight,” one of the intoxicated husbands said, giggling. “I do hope my poor aunt Ophelia will make an appearance.”
“It is up to the spirits to decide who will join us. Let us begin.” Madame Fontaine closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, encouraging others to do the same. Elena felt a quick squeeze from Marion, as if the excitement was too much to bear. “Breathe and let the spirits know you’re here to welcome them in.”
The group inhaled in unison, sonorous and exuberant. The candlewick fluttered. The drapes shifted. The scent of orange blossoms filled the air.
“Spirits, if you’re here, give us a sign.”
On Elena’s left, Madame Chevalier began to sway from side to side. The others soon joined in until it felt as if the entire room might break into a hymn at any moment. And then they heard a knock. Followed by another. One came from under the table, the other from inside the wall. A door hinge squeaked, the curtains rustled, and a floorboard moaned as if someone had walked into the room.
“I feel your presence, spirit, and we welcome you,” Madame Fontaine announced. “Spirit, can you identify yourself?”
Elena had never witnessed a true necromancer at work, but she didn’t think one would be reckless enough to reach out into the otherworld and ask to speak to the first spirit to knock. She felt pity then for Marion and the others. To be taken in by such shenanigans. To have their hopes raised that they might communicate once again with those they loved and missed. She thought the merciful thing to do might be to put an end to the charade by turning the lights back on with a quick spell, but no sooner did she get the idea than the room chilled.
A second later the madame arched her back against her chair as if a seizure had overtaken her body. She twisted her neck from side to side, her mouth gaping in spasm, and then a voice not her own issued forth, seething with slippery, venomous praise.
“How lovely you’ve grown,” said the voice as the head lolled. Marion gasped, though the noise she’d made was muffled, as if it had come from another room. “Like the lacy hemlock, you’ve adapted well to your non-native soil, tending the vine and crushing the grape.” Then the madame’s eyes opened, flat and dark and staring straight at Elena. “But blood will tell, blood will remember, and your true calling will lead you home.”