“Welcome! Welcome, seekers of spectral and occult wis– oh, it’s you.” Madame Vivienne breaks off her rather theatrical greeting as her gaze narrows. “Come to destroy more of my birthright?”
“Birthright,” Dusty snorts. “Viv, you offer fake readings to fleece unsuspecting strangers of their hard-earned cash.”
“Everyone’s got to earn an honest living.” She folds her arms across her chest, the rows and rows of silvery bangles lining her wrists chiming merrily.
“Honest being the operative word,” Dusty claps back. “There’s really nothing honest about what you do.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t have bills to pay. What good is being able to see the ghosts when I can’t control which ones I see? Every time I try to do a reading for a customer, I can’t seem to tune into their relatives. I just keep getting random spirits showing up.”
“As much as I sympathise, Vivienne”—I glance down at my watch, knowing I need to leave enough time to get back to Hackney for my date with Danny—“I really need to speak with Evangeline. Is she here?”
“Oh… her.” Vivienne’s mouth puckers like she’s sucked something sour. “She’s the worst of all of them.”
“She’s your relative, Viv,” I remind her.
“She’s so judgey. All she does is criticise how I run my own shop, and she keeps hiding the gin!” she exclaims. “I found it in the washing machine last time.”
“Um… well… sorry to hear that,” I say diplomatically. “But I really do need to speak to her.”
“Fine. I’m going to watch Eastenders, they’re streaming all the classic episodes on BritBox and Den’s about to serve Angie with divorce papers. Call me if there are any real customers.” She huffs as she sweeps through the beaded curtain to the back, leaving the strands swinging and clattering together in her wake.
“Got a liver like a jar of pickled eggs, that one,” a quiet voice tuts.
“Hello, Evangeline.” I glance over at the little old lady who’s appeared on the sofa, her knitting needles clicking softly in the quiet of the room.
She looks up and the needles slow. “Hello, Tristan, Dusty,” she greets us, then she notices the little old lady clutching Dusty’s hand. “And who do we have here?”
“This is Delores Abernathy,” I say as she lets go of Dusty’s hand and shuffles across the room toward the sofa.
Evangeline smiles and her demeanour softens. “Hello, Delores. Would you like to sit, dear?” Mrs Abernathy obediently slides in beside her and eyes the pale pink knitting in Evangeline’s bony hands.
She offers the needles to Mrs Abernathy, who hooks her handbag over one wrist in order to hold them properly as she looks at Evangeline.
“There you go, dear.” Evangeline pats her wrist kindly. “You just finish that one up.”
Delores starts looping the pale yarn over the needles, although not quite as fluidly as Evangeline, who settles herself back into the cushions and begins knitting again with a second set of needles and a blue ball of yarn that have appeared from somewhere.
“Um… so I was hoping I could ask you something,” I begin awkwardly as I hover next to them.
“Take a seat, Tristan.” Evangeline is once again all business as a chair slides across the wooden floor with a loud scraping sound. “I may be dead, but it doesn’t mean I want to crane my neck to look at you.”
“Sorry.” I drop onto the chair as I fumble in my messenger bag, pull out Crawshanks Guide, and open it to the page marked with a neon pink post-it note. “Um, I was wondering if you knew anything about this?”
I lift the book to show her the illustration of the shadowy creature Cornelius Crawshanks referred to as an angel of death.
“I know enough to stay away from them. Why do you ask?” She sets her knitting in her lap and folds her hands neatly as she gives me her full attention, and it’s slightly unnerving being under that direct gaze.
“Because I’ve seen it, twice now.”
“I saw it too,” Dusty adds as she leans against one of the bookcases. “Creepy as hell, looked just like one of the bloody dementors from Harry Potter.”
“I’m sure it was, dear, but I have no idea what these dementors are that you’re referring to.” Evangeline turns her serious gaze back to me. “You saw them? The reapers, I mean.”
“Them?” I blink slowly.
She nods, lips pursed. “There are many of them.” She stares at me, contemplatively. “I’m not surprised Dusty saw one but you, Tristan? The living aren’t supposed to be able to.”
“What are they?” I whisper.
