Page 26 of When We Touch

“Never silly, dear lady.”

“Amy, please. Mrs. Walsing, if you must.”

“Come in, come in, both of you.”

They were already in. The entry extended into a very large hall with a broad stairway leading up to a second floor.

“I’m so anxious to meet Mr. Alexander,” Maggie said.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Walsing, you have met him.”

“You’re Adrian Alexander?”

“Yes, it pleases me greatly to say, since you are so eager for my acquaintance!”

She glanced at Mireau through the veil. He was keeping quiet, playing his part well, looking about with awe.

“The others have already arrived,” he said. They had reached the second floor. Adrian Alexander extended an arm, indicating that they should enter a room to the left. Maggie inclined her head and did so, followed by Mireau, and then their host.

An elderly woman was in the room, resplendent in black. Her mourning gown was of silk and satin, trimmed in the finest lace. She didn’t, however, wear a veil. A small black cap, studded with dark pearls, sat atop her graying hair.

“Her Grace, Lady Marian, Duchess of Chesney,” Alexander said.

“Please!” the Duchess said. “Not so formal here!” She was whispering. They’d read that she didn’t like to be properly formal at a séance. “Tonight, I am Marian.”

“And I am Amy,” Maggie said. Still, old ways died hard, and she took the other woman’s hand with an inclination of her head. “This is my brother, Ben.”

“How lovely that we shall all be on a first name basis this evening!” The Duchess applauded. “This gentleman . . .” She indicated a tall fellow standing before the fireplace, “. . . is Richard.”

The man was in black from head to toe, as well. Graying muttonchops were furry upon his cheeks. His beard and mustache were not well trimmed. Indeed, they seemed to swallow his face.

The man extended a gloved hand. “Richard Riley,” he said with a Dublin trill.

“Poor Richard lost his dear Nellie to a tragic drowning accident,” the Duchess explained.

“So sorry, old chap,” Mireau murmured.

“Indeed,” Maggie echoed.

“Well, now that we have gathered . . . Ah, here comes my dear niece, Jane, who will lead me to my spirit guide,” Alexander said, introducing them to an elegant, sleek-haired woman in a black tunic who came gliding into the room. She had an exotic look, as if her beauty was a derivative of a not-too-distant ancestor from the Near East.

“Good evening,” the woman said softly.

“And Oscar, my control,” Alexander continued.

An enormous man, bald as Alexander but with a pitch black mustache, entered. He nodded to them all, and took up a stance by the door, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Shall we gather, then?” Jane suggested softly.

“Would you have us any special way?” the Duchess asked anxiously.

“The spirits will come where they will!” Jane said, her voice ethereal.

Maggie glanced at Mireau. At least they weren’t arranged in any special order. Then again, that might just be to make the appearance of anything happening all the more real.

The table was arranged for six. Jane and Adrian Alexander sat opposite from one another. There was a plain black cloth on the table with a single candle in the center. “Wherever you will, friends,” he said.

Maggie sat next to Alexander. Mireau seemed pleased enough to sit next to the exotic Jane. So far, they hadn’t been seated in any particular order, and they hadn’t been offered anything to drink that might have been laced with an hallucinogenic. Adrian Alexander was good at appearing entirely legitimate.