Page 1
Chapter One
Monday, July 28, 1879; Russell Square, London
Storm clouds had blown in at midday, ushering in an unseasonable chill and an early darkness that hung over London like a shroud. Now, at nearly half past two, wind-whipped rain lashed the windowpanes, throwing up an occasional leaf or petal from the window boxes of Cordelia Redmayne’s Russell Square townhouse.
Electra Poole wondered how long the storm would rage. She hoped the downpour would stop before a planned dinner with her longtime friend, Detective Inspector Gideon Pierce, to celebrate his birthday. It had taken weeks of convincing for him to agree to any celebration at all.
“No sign of your visitor yet, Miss Poole,” Mrs. Hurst said from the drawing room threshold.
“Thank you,” Electra told her. “I’ll keep an eye out at the front window in case she’s decided to brave the storm.”
The Redmaynes’ housekeeper had already turned up the gaslights and laid a fire in the grate. She’d brought a tea tray in too, as Electra had been expecting her visitor to arrive for their arranged appointment at two.
Electra had been residing with her friend, Cordelia, for months, and she was adamant that Electra should feel free to conduct psychical consultations in the drawing room whenever the need arose.
But it seemed likely Mrs. Jane Wilson had either been delayed by the inclement weather or dissuaded from venturing out into it entirely. Electra would give it until three and then prepare a letter to send to Mrs. Wilson, assuming the lady would wish to reschedule.
Mrs. Wilson had come to her like most inquiries of late—via letter, with mention of a previous inquirer who had recommended Electra for the insights her psychic gifts might offer. Mrs. Wilson had written vaguely of a matter she needed help with, and that was how Electra wished to use her abilities—helping others, if she could.
Her psychic gifts did not always answer when she called upon them, but she’d felt a sense of urgency when she held Mrs. Wilson’s letter with her bare hands. So much so that she was surprised that she had not arrived at her appointed time, despite the weather.
As she watched out the window, a hansom cab rolled to a stop out front, and a lady stepped down and dashed toward the front door.
“I think she might be here,” Electra called, uncertain whether Mrs. Hurst was still keeping watch in the entry hall.
Someone rapped on the front door as Electra crossed the drawing room.
“Yes, Miss Poole,” Mrs. Hurst said as she passed the drawing room doorway on her way to admit their visitor.
The rain was coming down with such ferocity, Electra heard the rush of it as soon as Mrs. Hurst opened the door.
“Mrs. Wilson, I take it,” she heard the housekeeper say. “Goodness, quite a gale.”
“I fear I was unprepared,” Mrs. Wilson replied, her voice a low, rich contralto. “Is Miss Poole still able to see me?”
“I am,” Electra said as she stepped from the drawing room onto the marble floor of the foyer.
Mrs. Wilson looked up and their eyes met. Hers were a piercing green in the gaslight and, though her hair was askew and her day dress half-drenched with rain, the lady’s beauty was almost as distracting as the air of unease she carried with her.
“Forgive my tardiness, Miss Poole.” Her voice quavered as if she was chilled through, and rain dripped from her chin and stray strands of hair.
“It is understandable, given the weather.” Electra glanced at the housekeeper. “Might we find some towels for Mrs. Wilson?”
“Of course, miss.” Mrs. Hurst went to a closet tucked underneath the stairs, pulled out a few dry cloths, and brought them back to Mrs. Wilson.
She’d taken a handkerchief from the reticule hanging from her wrist and was patting it against her face.
“Might you have a lavatory where I could—” She gestured to her disheveled coiffure.
“Certainly.” Electra gestured down the hall. “The last door on the left at the end of the hall.”
Electra returned to the drawing room and pressed her gloved fingers against the teapot, checking that it was still sufficiently warm.
“A fresh pot, Miss Poole?” Mrs. Hurst asked as she crossed the fireplace and stroked embers into flame again.
“I think this one will be fine.”
The housekeeper departed, and Electra went to the table where she intended to conduct the reading. She stripped off the black gloves she wore out of habit to dim her abilities, allowing her to choose when to use her gifts. Taking up the moonstone she kept with her during sittings, she clasped it in her palm. She paced, trying to tame her thoughts and focus her mind.
