Silence.
Laura took a step backward. The Parkeys could manage their séances without her.
“Wait,” said a new voice, shrill and breathless. “I hear him, I hear footsteps.Jimmy.” A creak, and a crash, and a small, slender person shot into the hall and straight into Laura. With two good legs, Laura might have dodged. As it was, she hadn’t a prayer. She went downin a heap, heard a soft “Oh” of dismay. Then small, ineffectual hands descended, trying to pull her to her feet. “I’m so sorry, I’m…”
“It’s all right, ma’am,” Laura said, trying to escape the helpful hands. Starbursts of pain exploded up her calf.
The stranger, surprisingly, stepped back. “I’m making it worse, aren’t I? I do that.”
The tone of wry regret was disarming. Laura said, “You are, rather.” She flexed her ankle, rolled to her knees, and put up a hand. “All right. Pull in one direction?” Laura was hauled to her feet. She found herself standing before a finely dressed, old-fashioned person, half a head shorter than her, perhaps ten years older, and enchantingly beautiful. Outlandish hair, the color of fool’s gold, framed neat cheekbones and a mouth like a rosebud. She was wearing black.
Laura got her balance and collected her wits. “Thank you, ma’am. Such a soft carpet. I’m glad I had the occasion to learn it firsthand.”
“Oh, don’tthankme,” said the woman. “Are you sure you’re all right? I mean, when I heard footsteps, I just— I was in there, and Miss Parkey was— Oh, I felt such a thrill, as though she was reallyspeakingto the beyond, and then you were walking, so I had to run out and see. Iamclumsy. I’m so sorry. I just— I thought it might be Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?”
“My son. James. He’s missing—I mean I haven’t had news of him. Or— Well, he was in a battle. Near a place called— Oh, I can’t pronounce it. Something with aP. Pass—”
“Passchendaele,” supplied Laura, voice going a little flat. She’d gone home wounded in the midst of that ill-starred push. She refused to think of Freddie.
The stranger was still talking. “Oh, yes, of course—I never— Oh, those foreign words, you know— I hoped—that is—that the Parkeys could tell me where he is now. Because he’s missing. I’m Penelope Shaw.”
“Laura Iven,” said Laura.
Mrs. Shaw smiled: an impish expression that crinkled her nosebut didn’t reach her worried eyes. “My aunt did always call me a heedless elephant of a girl. I’m really— Well, I usually do look where I’m going, but I— Oh, am I talking too much? I do that when I’m nervous, and—”
Three heads had popped out of the parlor: the Parkeys, neat as birds. Stout Lucretia, motherly Clotilde, vengeful Agatha. Agatha was blind. Her eyes, milky with cataracts, swiveled round the hallway in a parody of seeing.
“Not a ghost, Miss Parkey,” Laura said to Agatha. “Only your elusive lodger. Good evening to you all.”
“That’s Laura,” announced Agatha. “Could never mistake Laura.”
Clotilde looked solemn. “The spirits have sent you, dear.”
“Have they, Miss Parkey?”
“You are the link,” intoned Lucretia. “Come in, dear, come in, we will hold hands and commune with the spirits once more.”
That was what she got for escaping the kitchen. Tackled flat, then hauled into a séance. And yet…Mrs. Shaw had brightened with renewed hope, and the only thing waiting for Laura was thatbox.
She followed Mrs. Shaw and the Parkeys into the parlor. They had turned down the oil lamps—the Parkeys abhorred electric light—but the last of the daylight filtered in. A meager coal fire shone red in the grate. The Parkeys’ wooden Ouija board was laid out on the green tablecloth. Mrs. Shaw’s golden hair caught the lamplight.
“Come,” said Agatha. “Quickly, quickly, while the spirits are with us. The hour is fortuitous, the hour is propitious.”
She hissed her sibilants. Mrs. Shaw shuddered. Laura, used to comforting people, gave her a reassuring look. Agatha put the planchette onH.Laura put her fingers on the planchette. She wished she were sitting down to supper.
“Come, dear,” said Agatha Parkey. “Let us begin.”
Mrs. Shaw gasped when she saw Laura’s hands. Her finger-joints were knotted, stiff with scar tissue, palms latticed red and white. “Oh, dear. What happened?”
Flanders happened.“I shook hands with a fine gentleman in a top hat,” Laura said. “A mistake; they told me later he was Lord Beelzebub. You really meet all kinds of people at parties abroad.”
But Mrs. Shaw didn’t seem to register Laura’s reply; she was obviously putting together Laura’s limp and her hands, her uniform and the lines that stress had carved round her mouth. In a moment she was going to start asking questions. As though Laura, who had nursed in a war zone, was the closest thing in the room to Jimmy Shaw’s ghost.
The last of the day was gone and the shadows lay thick in that room.
Laura, exasperated, shook her head across the table. Blessedly, Mrs. Shaw bit her pink lip and was silent.
