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“You’re very good at this.”

She jolted and cleared her expression. “At what? Deceiving these poor, desolate souls?” She draped the back of her hand over her temple and heaved a mocking sob.

“At telling your stories. Factual enough to instill belief, but unverifiable. Brilliant.”

She dropped her hand and fixed him with a narrow glare. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

She was already strolling away and tossed her response over her shoulder. “It absolutely was.”

He followed blindly at her heels, as though he feared missing a single word, but Mrs. Bunton-Talmadge was quicker, elbowing past him as they continued down the hallway past the bedchambers.

“Will we have another opportunity for a reading today?” she asked.

Bridget nodded, giving the woman a kind smile. He wished—a ridiculous wish—that he could see that smile fixed on him. “After our tour, we’ll have a reading with a talking board.”

“Oh, lovely,” the woman replied. “You see, I would like to get some answers on my lettuce. My great-aunt Euphemia told me rabbits can be quite persistent, but she always kept them out. Perhaps we could speak to her…”

Phineas hesitated, allowing Mr. Bunton-Talmadge to come between him and the women. She’d given him a perfect opportunity to slip away and search the premises. There had to be something he could find in the manor to prove the medium’s duplicity, but their wager had made him doubt his conviction. A grifter wouldn’t challenge someone to unravel their scheme publicly, unless they were incredibly clever or foolishly confident. Nothing about Bridget said she was foolish, but he knew she was clever. He also knew he wanted more of her, hungry for every crumb of attention she allowed to fall at his feet.

He hurried to catch up with her.

As the tour continued, she shared more about the property’s history, peppering in paranormal stories as she went. But as the steward of a similarly aged property, Phineas noticed what she wasn’t saying, and his questioning became more practical and less pointed.

She’d just finished telling the tale of an angry spirit—later freed with her grandfather’s intervention—whose chains could be heard rattling nights with a full moon, when he motioned to the ceiling above him. “What’s happening with this wall?”

Her cheeks paled, and her mouth worked for a moment before she responded. “Normal wear for a property on the cliffs in Cornwall, my lord.”

He glanced out the window; the angry shards of rock were practically within reach. “Isn’t it a risk to be so close to the edge?”

“Even a medium can’t predict the whims of nature.” She quickened her pace.

But he’d seen the cracks in the masonry, windows rattling more violently than they should, walls bulging and support beams bowing. Ashveil Manor was dying, almost a ghost in itself.

What if her charade wasn’t about stealing from others, but keeping herself alive?

They stopped at the bottom of another set of stone stairs, ones that curved upwards and out of sight. “… and that is why the chambermaid’s ghost still roams the halls to this day with her candle lit,” Bridget was saying.

“Why do these spirits stay among the living?” He hadn’t intended to ask, and certainly not as fervently as he had.

She, too, seemed surprised, staring for a moment as though picking the question apart and searching for hidden weapons. “For many, they don’t have a choice. There is something unfinished about their life that prevents them from finding peace.”

“But that’s what Monsieur Moreau did.” Mrs. Bunton-Talmadge swatted her husband on the shoulder. “Don’t you remember? I read his book, Rest for the Wandering Spirit.” She said the last part with the reverence of someone referring to a religious text.

Something passed over Bridget’s features, a cloud spotting the sun, but it cleared just as quickly. “He earned his reputation. My grandfather was a master at coaxing spirits to the other side. He developed the rituals guiding restless souls to find eternal peace. This—‌” she motioned up the stairs, “—was my grandfather’s study, where he developed the ritual. My grandmother and I have continued it after his death.”

Or at least, they claimed to.

Mr. Bunton-Talmadge huffed. “I only read the sporting pages.”

A shiver ran down his spine, likely a byproduct of the wind mercilessly flaying the building, not Mr. Bunton-Talmadge’s level of literacy. The cracks in the plaster were more visible at the base of the turret, the transition clearly patched and repaired over the years. But the effort seemed futile. The turret appeared to be pulling away, as if the structure itself craved escape.

“Who manages the upkeep here?” he asked.

Bridget stilled; the Bunton-Talmadges had gone ahead, leaving them alone. “Mr. and Mrs. Keenan and I manage.”

“Isn’t it expensive?”