Oliver was about to probe a little deeper when the door clattered open and Morris Holbrook strode inside. The moment those around the table registered who arrived, their conversations were rapidly replaced with nods and a chorus ofhellos. Oliver watched the people around him straighten and gaze up at the man as if he were a teacher they wished to please. He had seen Mr. Holbrook around the Paranormal Society often enough, though they had never spoken as they moved in decidedly different circles. Oliver was fairly certain Holbrook had a career outside the society at a college or museum or something like that. He certainly looked and acted as if he was a touring lecturer or an up-and-coming politician. Morris Holbrook was attractive in a middling sense. He was white but the kind that, unlike Oliver, looked as if he would tan with dark blonde hair and stylish yet unpretentious clothes. While his features were regular and easily forgotten, he had the vigor of a man who enjoyed the outdoors or sports and the disposition of someone who spent time schmoozing at dinner parties. If Oliver squinted a little, Morris Holbrook could have been any number of men from advertisements selling socks or shirtwaists. Oliver could imagine him as a sought-after dinner guest or someone who visited old friends from college regularly.
Flashing everyone a disarming smile, Holbrook plunked his briefcase down and stood at the head of the table as if it were a lectern. “Thank you all so much for coming to the first meeting of the Paranormal Society’s Mutual Aid Committee. Everyone here for that? Yes? Good. Let’s not waste any time then. Who knows what mutual aid means?”
A few hands shot up, but Oliver didn’t move despite having read several of Mr. Kropotkin’s essays on the subject. When Gwen had suggested they both join the new committee, he had done research into it to make sure it was actually something he supported. Oliver hadn’t realized there was a name and extensive philosophy for a concept that had been baked into his upbringing. His nana had always stressed to him that if someone needed something, then you shared what you had. If people needed blankets or clothes, she made them. If therewas someone in need of food or a little money to pay their rent after a rough time, they gave what they could. There was no overt expectation of reciprocity or repayment in the Quaker community he had been raised in. Giving, sharing, and community support were self-evident parts of life; it was just what one did. They hadn’t needed to dress it up in science and philosophy like Mr. Kropotkin did in his essays, though Oliver understood why it was necessary.
He half listened as someone mentioned Andrew Carnegie’s many donations and Mr. Holbrook launched into a discussion of survival of the fittest. Oliver had heard far too much recently about survival of the fittest from people who had either not read Darwin’s work in full or didn’t understand evolution.Or they are betting on the fact that you don’t, Oliver thought in a voice that sounded far too much like Felipe. Humans didn’t evolve like pea plants or birds, but people like Andrew Carnegie eagerly threw around survival of the fittest to substantiate their place at the top of the social ladder. It was no longer acceptable to claim divine right, so people like Carnegie had to give it an enlightened, pseudoscientific flavor. It was a convenient way to shirk responsibility when they harmed their workers or those they deemed beneath them. Oliver stared down at his blank notepad and hoped the bitterness didn’t show on his face. Of course, one of the richest men in America would defend infinite wealth and extol the virtues of exclusivity and innate inequity. How else could he substantiate his existence?
Oliver had read Darwin’sOn the Origin of Species. Ironically, a neighbor had kindly lent it to him as a boy when he realized Oliver was interested in science. Darwin had made it clear that survival of the fittest didn’t apply to humans in the way it did to animals. Sympathy and cooperation, not ruthlessness, were what caused humans to survive and flourish. Even before that, the fixation on wealth and hierarchy never made sense toOliver. People were people no matter where they came from or how much money they had, and constantly amassing for no other reason but to have it ran counter to everything he believed. Despite never being a full-fledged Quaker Friend, he still found what society deigned to be the “fittest” as a repugnant way to think and live. It never— At Mr. Holbrook’s sudden clap, Oliver snapped to attention.
“Now that we’ve got that sorted, I would like to go around the table and have everyone introduce themselves. I know many of you already know each other, but I see some fresh faces. How about we say our names and how our powers might be beneficial to our mission. I know it isn’t always the done thing, but I think it’s important to know what skills we have at our disposal.”
Oliver’s pulse ticked loudly in his ears. Holbrook was right. It wasn’t the done thing. People didn’t just ask what others’ powers were. It was like asking what they liked in bed or the color of their underthings. It could open a Pandora’s box of scrutiny—it certainly would for Oliver—but neither Mr. Holbrook nor anyone around the table seemed to care.
“I’ll go first. My name is Morris Holbrook. I am a history professor at Columbia University. And my power is energy manipulation.” The sconces around the room dimmed one by one as he added with a smile, “I can’t make electricity, but I can play with it. Miss Patel, why don’t you go first.”
As the far side of the table rattled off their commonplace, mostly elemental powers, Oliver could barely hear them over the beat of his panicked heart. Sure, there were shifters, sybils, and mediums at the table who might be seen as odd or slightly frightful at first glance, but they weren’t like him. As far as Oliver knew, he was theonlynecromancer at the society. He didn’t know if that was due to rarity or because they simply self-censored when it came to their powers, but if he told them about his abilities, there might not be any necromancers at thesociety any longer. Oliver watched in horror as the parade of introductions grew closer. He didn’t know what he could say. Even if the others didn’t know he had been keeping Felipe alive since he was murdered back in January, they would never look at him the same way once they knew he was a necromancer. To know he was a necromancer meant that he had used his powers at least once in order to find out, and they all knew he was the medical examiner who worked with dead bodies daily. Oliver eyed the door over his shoulder. He needed to get out. He could excuse himself and never come back. Being seen as antisocial was far better than being outed as a necromancer in front of so many people.
“And you?” Mr. Holbrook said with the expectant air of a teacher who caught a pupil daydreaming.
Oliver’s mouth went dry as he stammered, “I— I’m Oliver Barlow, the medical examiner for the Paranormal Society. I—”I can what? Raise the dead?He couldn’t say it. His place in the society felt tenuous at the best of times; if he told them he was a necromancer, there would be no coming back from it. There was only one thing he could do that wouldn’t cause a scene. Oliver kept his eyes low and said in his most flat tone, “I don’t think my powers are anyone’s business since they aren’t applicable to the task at hand.”
A tense silence hung over the meeting room for a beat too long. Oliver caught Bennett Reynard’s wince from the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t sure if it was his tone or his words that made everyone else bristle. Holbrook stared down at him uncomprehendingly before clearing his throat and quickly moving on to the man at Oliver’s elbow. As the man beside him launched into all the things he could do with his powers, Oliver looked up and found Miss Patel rolling her eyes at him. He averted his gaze to his notepad and replayed what he had said as if he could belatedly puzzle out an answer that wouldn’t havegotten everyone’s hackles up. Not that it mattered now. Being seen as an ass was better than being an outcast, he supposed. God, he regretted not taking up Felipe’s offer to have him come along. Felipe would have known what to say to skirt the line between lies and truth, and if he didn’t, he would have said something to smooth things over with the others. He was good at everything Oliver wasn’t.
“Now, I would like to know what experience you all have with charity work or mutual aid. For example, I have done fundraising for several organizations, and I teach classes at young men’s organizations. It’s perfectly all right if you don’t have any experience. Let’s go the other way this time. Mr. Appleton, you may go first.”
Oliver silently released a tense breath. This he knew about. This would put him back on good footing. The moment Holbrook reached him, Oliver blurted, “My grandmother was a Quaker. She did a lot of charity work in our community. I often helped her when I was a boy.”
Mr. Holbrook gave him a patronizing smile. “How quaint. So no experience, then?”
Before Oliver could manage a reply, Holbrook nodded to the woman next to him. Oliver swallowed against a growing knot in his throat. Hehadhelped his grandmother. He had been by her side sewing, distributing, and listening at the meeting house as they organized. It had been a long time ago, but he had contributed. He had even helped out with Louisa and Agatha’s last fundraiser behind the scenes, addressing envelopes and doublechecking things hadn’t been overlooked. It wasn’t charity or mutual aid, but he had also worked with the librarians to finish the book inventory. He was organized, methodical, and took direction well enough. Not everyone could be the one running the enterprise, yet it seemed that was what Holbrook wanted. Forcing the thoughts down at the first twinge of heatbehind his eyes, Oliver focused on what the others around the table were saying. Bennett and Theo had extensive experience together and separately, but many of the others hadn’t done more than donate to various causes. Oddly, Mr. Holbrook seemed less antagonistic toward them than he had been to him.
“Now that Thanksgiving has passed, we’re heading into the thick of the giving season. I know some of you are going to be selling your work at the charity bazaar this weekend, but I also want you to start thinking about the open house the Paranormal Society will be holding in a few weeks. I know as it gets closer to Christmas, you all have plenty to do, but we will need lots of volunteers. The goal of the open house is to bring more people in, whether that’s as an auxiliary member or someone who works here, but either way, we need to show off the great community we have created. We want to make it clear that the Paranormal Society is more than a boarding house or an investigative unit.”
“We could give guided tours,” the woman next to Oliver said.
“I think that’s a marvelous idea. The society is far too large to let people wander free, so we’ll need several volunteers to act as tour guides.” Turning to the chalkboard, Mr. Holbrook twirled a fresh piece of chalk between his fingers thoughtfully. “I was also thinking we could have people do demonstrations in their respective areas of expertise. Anyone have any suggestions? Oh, and don’t hesitate to mention people you think might be willing to help. I can always reach out to them later this week.”
“I could do a tour of the greenhouses to show everyone what we’ve been doing with plant breeding as well as food preservation,” Theo Bisclavret said from the end of the table. The werewolf looked far more at ease than Oliver felt, though he had probably been raised to deal with this sort of thing since he was the Rougarou’s eldest son. “During the presentation, I couldmake it clear that plantmancers aren’t the only ones who can work in the gardens. We could also bring in someone from the kitchens to talk about how they use the food we produce to help feed everyone.”
“Splendid idea, Mr. Bisclavret,” Holbrook replied, his white teeth gleaming as he turned back to the board.
Oliver blenched at the skull-splitting squeak of chalk against slate. His eyes instinctively trailed toward the door, but if he bolted now, they might think he was making a scene. Taking a breath, Oliver forced his body still.
“The other sybils and I will happily act as tour guides or manage the front desk and get everyone sorted as they come in,” Miss Patel added the moment Holbrook finished writing.
“Perfect. Unless stated otherwise, we should assume you and the rest of the sybils will have first crack at that position. You keep our events running like a well-oiled machine.”
Miss Patel beamed with pride, but the look quickly turned to annoyance when Oliver grimaced again as Holbrook added her name and idea to the board. Glancing up from the chalkboard, Holbrook followed Miss Patel’s gaze to Oliver. His eyes narrowed and his features darkened as he approached. Oliver schooled his face, but it was clear when Holbrook gave him a once over and sneered that he hadn’t done a good job of it.
“And you, Mr. Barlow, do you have any idea of how you may be of use?” Holbrook asked, crossing his arms.
The wordnocame to Oliver’s lips unbidden, but that wasn’t true. Stuffing down the hornet’s nest of sensation buzzing in his head, Oliver forced himself to say, “I— I thought I could show people around.”
“You’re the medical examiner, correct?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Holbrook said dismissively, “that wouldn’t do. No one wants to think of dead people when joining the society. Anything else?”
