“I light a candle for you every seventh of January,” Gertie was saying. “And your rhubarb, the one you planted in the corner…” She went on, but her words grew indistinct. I felt a blurring of my vision that accompanied the muffling of Gertie’s voice. And then, as if I’d rolled to the edge of a precipice and could feel my weight tipping forward, I felt myself falling. I couldn’t remain in the spirit realm.
Clementine was tiring.
My return was swift. One moment I was gazing at Bess, and the next I found myself sitting at the table in the Keel House library. Clementine’s hands on my shoulders were heavy; she wasn’t resting them there, but propping herself up. I rose swiftly from the seat and eased her into it. “There,” I said, letting her rest her head upon her arm. “Well done.”
“That was so short,” Gertie protested.
“Hush, Gertie,” Wister chided. “It was an admirable first summoning.”
“Was it difficult?” Clem asked me quietly.
“Once I reached her, no. Not a bit.”
“Good.” Clem nodded.
“Take a rest in the lilac room,” Wister suggested.
Silently, Clem acquiesced, and I followed. She seemed not tomind my presence as she rested. On the contrary, she reached out for my hand and I, sitting beside the bed, gladly held hers. “We did it, Sam,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
“We did it,” I agreed. We’d accomplished a summoning. Now we had only to find the spirit we sought before the next Grand Séance at the Salem Lyceum.
Sam: The September Séance
Sonar: Not to be confused withsoñar. This more complex casting will allow the material to create sound, but unless the nature of the sound is carefully assembled, it will only result in the sound the object would make when struck.
—Euphemia Parra,Encantos de palabra(translation mine)
Saturday, September 29, 1888
The Salem Lyceum has an upper balcony and a ground floor. Seats on the ground floor are reserved for enchanters and their spirit thews. Around them crowd the members of society with means and connections, such as Jane Trench. Seats nearest to the stage are purchased in advance for the entire season, and not infrequently they are passed from parents to adult children, creating a predictable pattern of well-heeled attendees across many generations.
As a living man, I’d been to the Lyceum only once, and on that occasion I sat in the balcony. My view of the stage was partially obstructed by a pillar. As they performed, the enchanters had seemed remote, their features blurred by distance. The spirits they summoned were vague shapes, puppetlike, only somewhat corresponding to human forms. I’d been more impressed by the voices of the summoned spirits, which filled the hall and seemed to come from everywhere at once. And I’d been impressed by the Lyceum itself, with its velvet seats, its marble floor, the ornately carved wooden banisters that ringed the balcony, and the profusion of garlands that hung along the stairwell and stage, reminding members of the audience that life could still bloom in the midst of death.
Since we were new to the Lyceum and unfamiliar to the manager, we’d been slated to summon last. It was Roy who had secured the spot for us by claiming that one of his fellow officers had an uncommon gift for summoning spirits, a talent he used to call the spirits of people who had been wronged by the living. The manager had gladly made room in the schedule for a bit of melodrama. We thereby appeared on the program for that afternoon as “Constable Quiñones and the Spirit Thew Samantha.”
Clementine and I were given a small room backstage in which to prepare for the séance. Clementine was outfitted as she had been at Commonwealth: as a trim young man with a tidy beard. I was disguised as a female thew of middle age, unremarkable in appearance, with respectable clothes, a loose bun, and pudgy cheeks.
I found myself nervous as we waited in the cramped room backstage. It was filled with props from past performances, including a glass harmonica, the papier-mâché head of a horse, and a collection of swords that did little to inspire confidence. As I had in life with the tokens, I felt constrained by my appearance. Now I was a demure mouse of a woman, who seemed quite unwilling to ruffle feathers, let alone bring ruin down upon the Cisneros Society. Clementine, on the other hand, seemed entirely at ease, the indifference that had settled upon her dulling her nerves. While I paced back and forth in the cramped room, she sat calmly in the upholstered chair, reviewing a piece of paper that she held in her hand.
The wait seemed interminable. Finally, a little past two, a reedy, bewhiskered man with ink marks on his fingers opened the door and announced our turn. We followed him through a dark corridor, past a wooden set depicting storm clouds, through the enveloping swirl of black velvet curtains, and onto the stage. It was completely dark.
I felt a moment of paralyzing panic, but then I heard Clementine whisper,“Lucir.”A small white light appeared: an illuminated marble, floating in the air. Clementine walked ahead of me, her narrow shoulders turning with ease as she gestured to the wooden chair. Then more small lights appeared, ringing the stage, casting a dim light all throughout the vast hall. I could see the chair before her and the vast wooden stage, but my eyes were drawn to the audience, where every single seat seemed to be filled. Such a mass of people; more than I’d ever seen assembled. Had there been so many when I attended the séance before? I didn’t think so.
I drifted numbly toward the chair and sat down. Could there be a thousand people in attendance? It certainly seemed that way. I looked for Wister and Maxwell, but my eyes saw only the fluttering feathers of countless hats, the dark silk of men’s coats, and the bright twinkle of lorgnettes everywhere. Where was Simeon? I sought him out wherever I detected the dull gleam of armor, but I couldn’t find him.
Clementine stood beside the table and raised her arms. “In the Salem courthouse,” she said, “only a few miles from here, the Honorable Brice Richardson issued an invitation to a young woman named Clementine Quinn that was also a challenge.” Her voice was amplified by a token—a pearl earring, tied around her neck with a black ribbon—and I marveled at how calm and clear she sounded. She gestured to the audience—where was Richardson? I couldn’t see him. “He declared that if a woman could travel to the spirit realm and bind a spirit thew, the accomplished feat would serve to entitle all women the right to study enchantment at Commonwealth University.” She paused. “Isn’t that so, Judge Richardson?”
Ah, now I saw him. Third row, and rising to his feet,looking about him with an air of defensive apology, a lighted marble floating just over his head. “Not in precisely those words, but yes, more or less,” he admitted.
“And how long did you give her to answer this challenge?”
“Until the end of September—nineteen days.”
“How much time has passed since you issued it?”
He paused. “Eighteen days.”
Clementine quickly whisked away the tokens that altered her appearance, letting them drop to the table before me with a clatter that seemed, in the silence, thunderous. There was a gasp from the members of the audience who sat nearest to us, followed by whispers that began to mount in volume. Richardson looked about for a moment, no doubt on the verge of defending his decision, when he realized that the murmurs were sounds of admiration. He stood up straighter and looked pleased, as if responsible for the accomplishment being lauded around him.
