Page 8 of Four Promises to Love

Owen felt a strange stirring inside him.

“May I ask what brings you to our village?” Mrs. Elmwood managed.

“I was summoned.”

“Summoned?” Mrs. Elmwood’s voice wavered. “B-by whom…or what?”

“That remains to be seen,” the medium said. “I am but a vessel, carried forth by spiritual currents. Those forces decide when and how they wish to reveal themselves, using me as their conduit.”

Mr. Khan’s brows climbed toward his cloud of hair. “You do speak to the dead, then?”

“Departed souls choose to speak through me,” she corrected. “Think of me like a bridge between the earthly and spiritual realms.”

“A bridge,” Gigi breathed. “Did a specific spirit summon you to our village, Madame? With a message perhaps⁠—”

“The unseen realm is riotous. A tumultuous and constant din. The noise, the sheer volume of messages”—Madame pressed a hand to her temple and gave an artful shudder—“can be quite overwhelming. The focus required to channel a message from one side of the veil to the other comes at a great personal cost. Indeed, I am still recovering from my last sitting, when I helped a mother speak to her son who had fallen in battle.”

Owen’s pulse hammered as an image blazed in his head. His fellow soldiers scattered like poppies against the snow. He heard the rat-tat of rifles firing from the cliffs and men crying for their mothers and the home they would never again see⁠—

“May I prevail upon you to exercise your talent, Madame?”

Mrs. Elmwood’s desperate question pulled Owen from the past.

“I would be happy to provide compensation⁠—”

“A talent such as mine is not for sale,” Madame Seraphina declared.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Elmwood said hastily. “I did not mean to imply⁠—”

“However, if I am able to facilitate communication, a donation to the cause of spiritualism would be acceptable.”

“Then you will try?” Mrs. Elmwood said eagerly.

“Who do you wish to contact on the other side?”

“My husband, Gerald.” The matron’s gaze glistened. “He passed away two winters ago.”

“My condolences. Do you have an object of his?”

“Yes.” She removed a handkerchief from her reticule. “This was Gerald’s favorite.”

“Tansy, fetch the spirit bowl,” Madame Seraphina said.

The girl obeyed, returning with a wide basin made of glass. She placed the vessel carefully in front of the medium. Owen saw that it was filled with water.

“Now I will prepare the handkerchief,” the medium said.

She took her time folding the linen into a neat square. Holding it in her left hand, she drew it through the air like a falconer summoning a bird to her glove. She was mesmerizing, and even Owen—who knew a fraud when he saw one—found himself holding his breath. Her entire body began to rock along with her arm, and the air thickened with incense and anticipation.

Owen felt a whisper of air overhead. He looked up as gasps rose around the table. The chandelier had begun to sway. Gently, back and forth, the lights flickering in the amber shades. Then it stilled.

“They are here.” Madame Seraphina’s voice had an uncanny new resonance. “The spirits honor us with their presence today. Ask what you wish—speak now.”

“Gerald?” Mrs. Elmwood’s bottom lip quivered. “Are…are you there?”

“I will employ the spirit bowl to invite his presence.”

Madame waved the handkerchief over the bowl three times. Owen’s skin prickled when wisps of smoke began rising from the water’s surface. Everyone leaned forward to get a better look—then shrank back when the medium spoke in a voice as deep as a man’s.