Cecilia catches up at last. ‘You cannot simply tell me we are going to a séance and run off.’
‘I didn’t run off.’
‘Why did you keep it a secret?’
Odette hesitates beside a tree, pressing a hand to the trunk to steady herself, and for the first time, she feels real, horrible doubt. What is she doing? Why bring Cecilia into this?
Still. They are here now. Cecilia is watching her.
She schools her nerves, straightens. ‘I thought you might not come.’
Cecilia looks at her reproachfully. ‘Don’t you know I would follow you anywhere?’
If they were not in the open street, she would kiss her. She must not lose Cecilia. Who would she be without her?
But Odette has no words for any of it.
‘We’re late,’ she says instead.
Cecilia must see for herself. If the ghost is real, then it must show itself at a séance, surely?
It would be a relief to know she is not mad. That she is not alone.
Odette checks the house number in her notebook and mounts the steps to a nondescript front door. There is no sign or plaque explaining what this place is; through the window, she can see only a very ordinary parlour with a fire burning in the grate. A maid shows them inside, and they wait a moment before there is the sound of footsteps descending the stairs.
Odette squeezes Cecilia’s hand so tightly she knows it must be painful.
‘Whatever you see, whatever you hear, you must promise to report it to me faithfully,’ she says. ‘However mad it may seem. I must hear your complete and truthful account of it. Do you understand?’
All Cecilia has time to do is nod before a plain, friendly-looking woman comes into the room.
‘Miss Fairfax-Waugh.’ She takes Odette’s hand in an overly familiar way. ‘I feel as if I already know you.’ Then she turns to Cecilia. ‘And Miss Moore. I am Mrs Emilia Weston. Thank you both for joining me in my home. I hope that today I may offer two grieving souls some small comfort. The spirits are always with us, my dears, and it is my greatest joy to reunite love lost too soon.’
‘Thank you for seeing us,’ says Odette mechanically.
Cecilia says nothing, only takes a step closer to Odette.
In the hallway is a slender girl whom Odette would have assumed to be one of the staff, if not for the smartness of her dress and the clean pink of her hands.
‘This is Rosina, my assistant.’ Mrs Weston waves her in. ‘This will be our little party for today. Tea first? I find my clients often welcome a moment to remember their dear departed before we begin.’
‘No,’ says Odette abruptly. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Mrs Weston falters but smooths it over quickly. ‘Of course. Please come this way.’ She indicates for the group to move from the parlour.
Odette and Cecilia are led past the main staircase to a door at the back of the house. It is murky with shadows, but Mrs Weston guides Odette’s hand to a rope that hangs on the wall and ushers them in.
As they are closed into the darkness, Cecilia leans forwards to speak into Odette’s ear. The light breath against her neck is all too familiar. ‘I don’t like this. Say the word and we can leave.’
‘Please. I have to,’ is all Odette can say.
Cecilia touches one hand to her back, in a gesture of comfort.
They stumble along the corridor, clutching the rope, the wall, and the immense sense of vulnerability feels too much. Odette stubs her toe on a step and gropes her way up a set of stairs thatare narrow and steep.
This is not safe.
What is she doing? Oh God. Please let this be worth it.