I nod. Then blush, because maybe he heard that as well and saw my agreement? Is he also psychic? Crikey. This could get sticky. My shivering increases. “You’re a Spiritualist.”
“We hope to bring people peace,” Pax says quietly. He’s looking at the napkin in his lap, not at me. For some reason, it makes me think he’s telling the truth. Pax is the sort of personwho can look you in the eye and tell you a falsehood, but his truths are uttered indirectly.
He continues: “We all have so much grief, and Julia’s Bureau hopes to lift some of that burden. We can have peace, through connection with our beloved dead.”
Oddly, Spirit sends me a waft of—stale cigar smoke? My stomach roils. Why is it cold in here? I attempt to control my shivering, but one does not simply stop shuddering when one is freezing.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to feel less guilt, Stella?”
Yes. That thought is immediate.
No. That thought immediately follows. Guilt is my anchor. I owe it to Daisy to carry it, always.
His leap from grief to guilt—the two intertwine like vines of poison ivy for me. I’m shivering so hard now, my teeth chatter. My skin takes on a bluish hue. I lean back from the table.
“Are you all right?” Pax asks again. I am practically convulsing with cold now. My eyes leap to and fro across this restaurant, and I pray no one sees this. Many idiots still stigmatize seizures as being evil. If I am spotted convulsing in public, I might find myself in a padded cell.
Pax strips off his velvety jacket, then drapes it over my shoulders. It smells like sawdust and pine, though Pax seems neither a craftsman nor an outdoorsman. I inhale his calming scent.
“St-st-steadfast,” my blue lips chatter. “Does that word mean anything to you?”
“Well, Stead. That’s my mentor’s name.Was. William T. Stead. He is the benevolent founder of Julia’s Bureau, and he was a devout Spiritualist. I am recruiting on his behalf.”
At the mention of Stead’s name, an Irish brogue comes to me, loud and clear:
Tell Pax no.
I’ve made a grave error.
This Bureau is a mistake.
There is too much evil nearby.
Pax shifts in his seat, his shirt crisp as paper. “I’m assembling those with the gift of Sight to be a part of his team. William T. Stead—the famous journalist? Surely you’ve heard of him and his untimely demise. He froze to death. Drowned on theTitanictwo short weeks ago.”
Froze to death. You don’t say. My every muscle clenches with cold.
Tell Pax:
He can keep the money I gave him.
Do good with it.
But opening the portal between the living and the dead?
I was wrong. It is a mistake.
Exploration of the other world can be fatal.
Crack!
A flash of white light fills my ears, my eyes, my heartbeat, my breath. All is light. And then: warmth. No more convulsing, no more blue skin. Complete and utter peace.
I blink. Slowly the restaurant comes back into view.
The waiter must’ve brought food at some point—a disgusting aspic mold, and it jiggles as Pax taps the card still resting on the table. “I’m carrying on the work of my deceased mentor. We want the most gifted persons in the world to work for this Bureau. We wantyou. Think of it: Steady pay. Trustworthy,screened clientele. A storefront, so no more moving about from boardinghouse to boardinghouse. No more inviting strangers into your… quarters.” He clears his throat there. “No more knives. Security when facing those crazed zealots.”
He collects himself, swallowing hard. “Protection. I…we… can protect you, Stella.” Those words hang in the air. Protection is an essential part of who Pax is. This pull is intense.
