Page 5 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Bentley reached for the tickets in his pocket, but Scarth raised a reassuring hand. “No need. Miss Nightshade is expecting you.”
He gestured toward the basement door, but not before directing them to wash their hands in the porcelain bowl resting on a black-lacquered console table.
“If you’d be so kind. Clean hands ensure a clear channel.”
Miss Dalton cast Bentley a wary look, but neither questioned the request. The water was cool, faintly scented with lavender, and the ritual felt oddly ceremonial. If only it had the power to wash away oaths.
They descended into the soft glow of candlelight.
Below, the air carried a gentle chill and the rising wisps of smoke from hanging brass burners.
The room looked more like a bordello than a seance parlour.
Red velvet draped the walls like theatre curtains.
Gilt-framed mirrors fractured the candlelight into ghostly glimmers.
Black brocade sofas encircled a narrow stage, almost every seat taken, their occupants staring as though under a spell.
“It seems we’ll have to sit separately,” Miss Dalton whispered, sounding relieved not disappointed.
“No, we won’t.” Bentley was determined to have someone move seats to accommodate them, but Lord Tarrington appeared from the shadows to guide them into position.
Tarrington looked every inch the polished gentleman, his black hair swept back, his charcoal coat perfectly tailored. He wore a permanent smile as if a private joke lingered behind those oddly twisted lips.
“Miss Nightshade has marked the places,” Tarrington said, inclining his head before directing Miss Dalton to the sofa nearest the stage. “I’m afraid your positions have been chosen and cannot be changed.”
What nonsense was this? No doubt the medium had researched everyone who’d purchased a ticket. Perhaps she’d spent days planning how to frighten them out of their wits.
On the bright side, this was quickly becoming one of those strangely unique events they would remember in their dotage. And for some unknown reason, he wanted Miss Dalton to be impressed.
Tarrington didn’t address him, though they’d crossed paths at countless social events.
The eccentric had once brought a stuffed python to a dinner party.
Now, he merely gestured to the only seat left, directly opposite the small stage, where the sole prop was a heavy oak chair with solid wooden arms and a high back.
Bentley settled into the stiff sofa beside a scholarly-looking man in spectacles. He gave the fellow a curt nod but did not offer his name.
The man waited for Tarrington to approach the stage before leaning closer to Bentley and saying, “Keep your wits about you, sir. The eyes are easily tricked, but everything you see can be explained.”
“Ah, a fellow cynic.”
“Cynic, critic, call it what you will. I simply refuse to be fooled by flickering flames and rattling chains.”
Tarrington mounted the two steps and took centre stage. “Welcome to The Arcane Emporium, home of rarities gathered from far and wondrous places.”
A stout woman seated next to Miss Dalton clapped, her excitement palpable and filling her apple-shaped cheeks.
Tarrington responded by raising a handheld funeral mask to his face, hiding his overlong brows. The cold black eyes painted on the pottery tore a gasp from the select crowd.
“Soon you will meet the famed Miss Nightshade,” Tarrington intoned, sounding like a narrator in a theatrical play. “A renowned medium, whose performances are as rare and sought after as this pharaoh’s funerary mask.”
While some were in awe of their host, the fellow seated beside Bentley seemed more interested in studying every shadowy corner.
“Mr Scarth will bring refreshments.” Tarrington gestured to the stairs. “It’s important to relax if we’re to open the gates between this life and the next. I must urge you to clear your minds of negative thoughts.”
Bentley nearly laughed. To clear his mind of negative thoughts would be a greater feat than summoning spirits. His mind was a tangle of problems, regrets, and things left unsaid.
Scarth appeared carrying a silver tray with tulip-shaped glasses containing what appeared to be red wine.
Bentley met Miss Dalton’s gaze as she took the proffered glass and her fingers settled around the dainty stem. He could almost hear her heart racing. She was afraid and doing her best not to show it.
His own heart thumped wildly in response, a startling thing, after years of feeling dead inside and him walking around like a living corpse.
“Keep your hearts and minds open,” Tarrington urged again, encouraging them to drink. “And spare a thought for those who dwell upon the ethereal plane. They are nearer than you think.”
Bentley spared no thought for his three siblings or the father buried three years past. He focused on Miss Dalton, noting the way her fingers tightened on the seat and the sudden grimness of her expression.
Then a gong clanged from a room above them, the sound reverberating through the brick walls.
Tarrington inhaled deeply as if drawing in the essence of unseen spirits. “Miss Lavinia Nightshade,” he said, gesturing to the empty chair seconds before the room plunged into darkness.