Page 7 of Four Promises to Love

“Wait here.” Caleb’s tone was eerily flat; the circle of candlelight illuminated only his head, making it appear severed from the rest of him. “I will return for you when Madame Seraphina is ready.”

He shut them in the room, taking the candle with him. The only light came from gaps in the heavy drapes. Owen made out looming cabinets along the wall—and twitched when he saw glinting eyes and spread wings. He took a breath, reminding himself where he was. Squinting, he saw that the wings had not moved. The stuffed raven was but one of the poor creatures in the room forced to spend eternity as decorative objects.

Owen turned his attention to the familiar faces of the group. There was Mrs. Elmwood, a stout matron with hooded eyes and improbable ebony ringlets. Standing beside her was Mr. Khan, who operated Hatcherds, the village bookshop. The bespectacled fellow was peering into the cabinets, his cloud of white hair glinting in the dimness. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, who ran the Briarbush Inn, chattered nervously with the butcher and his wife. The dashing blond draper, Mr. Duffield, who was a friend of Gigi’s, completed the group, along with the brawny blacksmith, Mr. Keane, who sported an eye patch.

“Isn’t this thrilling?” Mr. Duffield, known as Duffy, whispered.

“It feels like we are in a gothic novel!” Gigi said giddily.

“Without a doubt, this feels like a work of fiction,” Owen said.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” his sister scolded. “Madame Seraphina could be the genuine article. If she can put us in touch with Rose⁠—”

A shriek made everyone jump.

“Did you feel that?” Mrs. Elmwood gasped, clutching her cheek.

“Feel what, ma’am?” Mr. Khan asked.

“A c-cold hand. I felt it touch my face.”

“Now, now,” Mr. Khan soothed. “It was likely just a draft.”

“It was a hand,” Mrs. Elmwood insisted. “A spirit must have passed through and touched me.”

On that unsettling assertion, the door opened to reveal a young girl. Like Caleb, she wore plain and somber garb. She looked no more than ten, with guinea-bright curls framing her angelic face. She regarded them with guileless blue eyes.

“I am Tansy.” Her voice had a sweet lilt. “Madame Seraphina will receive you.”

She led the group through another narrow corridor. This one had maze-like turns and was filled with a thick haze of incense. By the time they entered a room, Owen was all abroad and had to blink to orient himself. They were in a parlor at the back of the house, he guessed, though the space had been dramatically transformed.

Velvet smothered the windows, shutting out the world beyond. The fire in the hearth and scattering of candles flickered, throwing up shadows on the walls. A cabinet and screen occupied one corner; a chandelier with glowing amber shades hung overhead. Below it was a table draped in black cloth, ringed by rosewood chairs. One chair stood out from the rest: upholstered in black velvet, it faced the door, its back to the fire.

Standing behind that chair, Caleb gestured at the other seats.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said.

Everyone took a seat. Owen positioned himself directly across from Caleb and next to his kin. As they waited in hushed silence, the scent of incense grew stronger, almost intoxicating. The light dimmed so slowly that Owen wondered if his eyes were playing tricks. His heart thumped, and he had no idea how much time passed.

“Madame Seraphina arrives,” Caleb announced.

Several guests jerked in their chairs as the medium separated from the shadows. She had the lithe build of a ballerina, and her every movement commanded attention. Her charcoal gown clung to her slender form, the wide skirts eerily noiseless as she glided over. A tiny hat was perched at a rakish angle upon her chestnut hair, and a short veil of black lace reached the tip of her nose.

When she arrived at the table, Owen rose out of habit. He saw a flicker behind the veil, and her lips, full and pink, parted slightly. Behind her, the flames in the hearth gave a sudden leap, limning her silhouette with a fiery glow. Several people sucked in their breaths.

The medium spoke, her voice sultry and confident.

“Welcome. I am Madame Seraphina. Please, there is no need to stand on ceremony.”

With a graceful sweep of her gloved hand, she indicated that Owen should sit. He did so, leaning back in his chair and studying her. He noted the discreet patch on the sleeve of her gown and the neatly mended seam of her black lace glove. Despite Madame Seraphina’s grand manner, she wasn’t above taking economies.

Caleb held out the chair, and she sat like a queen upon her throne. Her serenity had the opposite effect on her visitors, who squirmed in their seats and exchanged anxious looks.

Mrs. Elmwood broke the silence. “Welcome to Chuddums, Madame. I am⁠—”

“Eleanor Elmwood, yes. You were expected.”

When Mrs. Elmwood’s eyes widened, the clairvoyant’s lips took on a knowing curve.