Page 96 of The Trick of It

“Bait,” the medium repeated with a little nod. “Good, yes. Bait. You too, madam, if you please,” she said, pointing at Mags, who looked displeased with the honor.

Rhys twisted around and saw that the puzzlemaker boy, Gordon, who was sweet on Seph, had taken the empty spot to her left and joined in on the conversation Seph herself and Nini were having.

He narrowed his eyes at the lanky, little blond genius and whipped back around to Mags. “You look ravishing tonight,” he said petulantly. “Beautiful.”

“Aye,” she said, her deep wrinkles spreading around her smile. “I know.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “That Russian gent tried it on, you know, but I know the type. He’s more interested in the priest than any woman here.”

“He tries it on with every woman,” Rhys replied, knowing he was pouting now.

“Exactly,” said Mags, leaning back and resuming her normal volume. “Exactly.”

Rhys studied her, studied every deep rivulet in her handsome face, and nodded. She likely knew exactly what she was talking about.

“Bonsoir, friends,” Madame Ivanova said, clapping loudly and bringing everyone’s attention around. “And blessed All Hallows’, or as my new friend Mrs. Caradoc has taught me, Oíche Shamhna Shona Duit.”

Rhys whipped around at Seph again, the secretive wench, and caught her giving a silent mime of applause to Madame Ivanova.

He narrowed his eyes and bit his thumb at her, which only seemed to confuse her.

He’d explain that later.

And she’d said he didn’t know his Shakespeare. Bah.

“We will dim the lights now,” Madame Ivanova continued. “I find that I hear better when I cannot see as well. If any are not yet where they intend to stay, I suggest they move to a comfortable place forthwith.”

There was some jostling around, bodies slumping into cushions or moving to a better vantage point, and then the nod was given and the lights were lowered.

She picked up a crystal glass from the center of the table and filled it a little past half with water. “This might seem odd to you,” she told her audience as the light from half a hundred jack-o’-lanterns bounced off the crystal facets. “But this is how I learned myself how to adjust my ear. Crystal tones are pure and strange. You may listen too, and perhaps you will hear something from beyond.”

She dipped her finger in the water and began to rotate it on the rim of the crystal goblet. Rhys watched in fascination as the glass itself began to sing, a ghostly, sweet peal that rose and fell as Madame Ivanova moved her finger around its circumference.

She stopped abruptly, the sound lingering in the cool autumn air and then dissipating, like the song itself were now a ghost and fading from the world.

Madame Ivanova reached down and picked up a squat, brown bottle made of glass and brought the rim to her lips. She blew over it like a flute, and this time, the sound was deep and masculine, like a war horn a mile away.

She blew three times, each one a long, sustained note, and then stopped, letting those two sounds find one another in the silent, darkened space of the vaulted ceiling. Next, she tapped both the bottle and the crystal goblet with her fingernails, alternating deep and high sounds.

When she stopped this time, she did not let the song linger. Instead, she held her hands up and said, “Yes. I hear you!”

It seemed to Rhys that everyone held their breath. Even the candles inside the turnips seemed to go still.

“Cousin Maggie, small and queer,” Madame Ivanova whispered. “Plays with dead things, so steer clear.”

Next to Rhys, Mags gasped.

“They are sorry,” Ivanova said, her eyes still closed. “They are sorry they teased you. And they are thankful for how you treated them, once they were gone.”

There was another beat of silence, another tap on the rims of the glass and bottle. “Watch for sharp stones,” Madame Ivanova said, her eyes flickering open and focusing on Rhys. “Ha,” she said without amusement. “Twpsyn.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He averted his eyes from her and they fell on those mirrors by the curtain panels from the Changeling performance the night before.

In the reflections, he swore he saw people moving. Walking past.

But everyone was seated.

It was likely the flicker of the lanterns, he decided. Likely just that.

“Aust sounds like lost,” Madame Ivanova finished, trembly and wavering, “but you were not.”