Page 35 of The Trick of It

He grinned to himself, feeling the mist separate around his knuckles as he moved their lantern forward. The mist settled on their shoulders, in their hair, on their eyelashes. It changed from floating, ethereal white to beaded crystal if one had the audacity to engage it.

He liked that.

The cold and moisture of the encompassing air had batted away his tipple without stealing the warmth the cider still provided inside his chest and belly. And now, mercifully, there was a fire ahead.

They drew closer, stepping over toppled stones from an eon ago, picking over the piles of dead leaves that had amassed between the path stones, fallen from the trees above in a rainbow of gem-like colors that all looked gray and black here in the deep night. Once they had passed the low, stone gate, he started to see the shapes of people. People who were not huddled together against the cold, but instead spread out like sentries around a large bonfire lit in what had once been the sanctuary of this place.

Against the old, stone walls, smaller, ember-thick fires glowed in the old, iron braziers.

They had both been right, he realized.

He glanced down at Seph to see if she had realized it too, only to find her face open and awestruck the closer they got. The wind pulled her hood away from her face, sending all the loose golden strands of her hair up in a wild flail about her cheeks.

She did not move to put it back in place.

There was a table next to the bonfire, arranged with food and drink, all of it glowing eerily in the queasy flux of the firelight and fog. Some of their fellow guests were holding glasses or nibbling at the fare, but none of them spoke as Rhys and Seph joined their company, sparing only quiet, sidelong glances and polite movement to allow them to approach the table.

“Good evening,” Seph said to a plump woman wrapped in fur that looked to be purple. “I’m Persephone Boswell.”

Rhys wondered what sort of creature was covered in purple fur.

He hoped it was a bear.

“I am Madame Ivanova,” the woman said, pursing her lips and offering her fingers. “Charmed.”

Rhys pricked up at that, stepping closer as Seph gave an awkward shake of just the woman’s index and middle fingers in what, at any other time, would have been utterly deserving of comedic commentary.

“The medium?” he asked, accepting the swivel of her offered fingers and kissing them, as was clearly expected. “I’ve seen you perform!”

“‘Perform’ is such an ugly word,” the lady replied with a sniff. “Where did you encounter me, young man?”

“London,” he replied, squinting at her. “Many years ago.”

She certainly had gotten older. Had she always had that bizarre accent?

“Certainly not that many,” Madame Ivanova responded with a flutter of her lashes and a lift of her chin. “I am still only just entering my prime. And I often visit Londres.”

Seph watched this exchange impatiently. “Do you know why we’re here?” she cut in, her voice flat and sharp. “Do you know who invited us?”

“Mais non,” the woman replied with a heavy sigh. “We are all waiting.”

Rhys reached for his waistcoat, pulling out the dented brass timepiece he wore when he did not have the silver one. “We still have four minutes,” he told the ladies. “Until midnight.”

Madame Ivanova frowned, examining both of them a little closer. “You are also of the second sight?” she asked, as though she could not imagine they were. “You see the dead?”

“I try to avoid it,” Rhys replied jovially. “We are illusionists.”

“Ah,” she said with a little frown and recoil. “I see.”

Seph rolled her eyes and stomped off toward the table, leaving Rhys alone while she went about sloshing and slamming drinks into place.

He grinned at the lady. “I’ve seen a ghost, though.”

“Have you?” she answered, looking a little mollified. “Many people say so. I do not see ghosts. I only speak to them.”

“I saw one,” he said again, firmly. “Foot of my bed when I was twelve. It was my uncle. But it also wasn’t.”

She tilted her head to the side, toying with the long strands of amethyst fur at her collar. “Indeed?”