Page 6 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Chapter Three

The darkness felt familiar, reminiscent of the night her father tried to strike Daniel with the riding crop, the night everything changed and Clara’s life took an unexpected turn.

From her bed she’d heard the shouting, vile curses filled with fury. Anger rose through the floorboards, seeping into her chamber like a malevolent spirit. The fear her father might murder the only person she loved sent her scurrying downstairs in a blind panic.

She remembered the dark hallway, the storm raging in time with her pulse. Thunder growled and shook the heavens. A beast stood over her brother—not their father, but a towering figure of rage.

“You insolent swine! You’ll sell that damned horse tomorrow. Do you hear me? You’re not the master of this house yet, boy.” Lightning flashed, catching the gleam of her father’s raised arm and turning his face monstrous.

“I’m no boy,” came her brother’s indignant reply. “Strike me, and it will be the last damn thing you do.”

“Are you threatening me, boy ?” he goaded.

“Take it as a warning.”

“Why, you arrogant whelp. I should?—”

Desperate, Clara screamed for their father to stop, but he refused to listen. She was reaching for his arm, frantic to intervene, when it snapped backwards and struck her hard across the eye.

A white-hot burst of pain had her stumbling backwards.

The floor rushed up, dragging her down into a black abyss.

The sudden glow of candlelight in the basement pulled her back from her waking nightmare.

It flickered across the small stage of The Arcane Emporium, where a beautiful woman sat motionless in the heavy oak chair.

Her hands rested lightly on the solid wooden arms, and she tilted her head as if listening for the distant whispers of the dead.

No one in the room made a sound.

No one moved.

Everyone stared at the vision of loveliness with skin as pale as bone and lips as red as freshly drawn blood. Ink-black hair framed an oval face, one far too young and innocent for someone in such an obscure profession.

Clara glanced at the viscount, who seemed more captivated by her than the medium on stage.

Concern marred his otherwise perfect features, though whether for her or the strange proceedings, she couldn’t tell.

His subtle nod was a silent question. She responded with the smallest of smiles, then forced her attention back to the stage before it lingered too long.

Long seconds passed as Miss Nightshade whispered to people unseen. Then her slight frame jerked, and she blinked as though waking from a stupor.

Mr Scarth lit the candles in the standing candelabras, and they flared to life as Miss Nightshade slowly scanned the audience with inquisitive eyes. A smile curled her lips. “We have quite a gathering of souls tonight,” she said softly.

A wave of excitement rippled through the strangely atmospheric room. One woman clutched her own hand as though it belonged to someone dear.

“I ask you all to think of a question,” Miss Nightshade said before pausing to gaze at the low ceiling. “Something you wish to ask those who’ve departed. Be specific, and let the thought sit quietly in your mind.”

Clara emptied her mind. The last thing she wanted was a message from her father. The blackguard could atone for his sins in the dredges of hell.

Miss Nightshade took a beautiful tulip-shaped glass from Mr Scarth’s tray and placed it on the trestle table beside her.

She stared at the burgundy liquid, falling into an odd trance before her expression changed abruptly.

Her frown became a smile, which shifted and curled, as if she were a vessel collecting a lifetime of vivid stories.

The tension in the air tightened when Miss Nightshade pointed to a young red-haired man sitting directly opposite Clara. “You are not to blame for the accident, sir. The water was much deeper than expected, the current wild and dangerous beneath the surface.”

The man covered his mouth with a shaky hand, his eyes widening like the horror of that day played out before him.

“Bethany wants you to know that it’s impossible to predict when tragedy will strike.” Miss Nightshade paused to whisper to an invisible companion, thanking them for their patience. “It’s time to let go. You have spent enough time grieving.”

Lord Rutland stiffened, muttering something about grief under his breath. Clara recalled her brother saying the viscount was the only one of his siblings to survive infancy, and sorrow stirred deep within her for the weight he carried alone.

Miss Nightshade seemed to wrestle with her thoughts, her face contorting before she addressed the woman perched at the end of Clara’s sofa.

“What you seek can be found beneath the floorboards. The lady here tonight”—the medium waved her hands as though ushering someone closer—“she says you must move your grandmother’s escritoire to reach them, but what you believe in your heart is true.”

The vague information appeased the woman but left the audience dissatisfied. What was she hoping to discover? And what did she believe in her heart?

Minutes passed, during which Miss Nightshade relayed messages, only a few specific enough to claim. “Does anyone know a gentleman who hailed from Guernsey? I’m being shown a mangled foot.”

Heads shook.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Lord Tarrington, still holding his Egyptian mask, stepped forward. “I believe the previous owner of this house had family in the Channel Islands. If I’m not mistaken, his son used to walk with a crutch.”

Miss Nightshade smiled serenely. “Then just give me a moment to help them on their way. They are both quite insistent and determined to offer a warning.”

The medium began reciting a blessing, her voice steady until it faltered midway. Her lips trembled. The next words came in Latin, the syllables sharp, her jaw locked tight. Her fingers curled around the arms of the chair, as though something unseen tugged at her from beyond.

At last, she exhaled deeply. “Fear not. They are gone.”

A collective breath followed, though the tension still gripped the room.

Clara’s heart galloped, each beat echoing like thunder in her ears. She placed her palm flat to her chest and had to ask, “What was the warning? Is there something we should know?”

Miss Nightshade shivered as if a biting chill had pierced her bones. Her gaze snapped to Clara, then swept the room before she answered. “Someone here has dark intentions. The spirits, they sense wickedness cloaked in curiosity.”

A hush fell over the gathering.

The candle flames stuttered, though there was no breeze.

Several members looked at Clara as though the black feathered eye patch marked her as the villain come to commit sinister deeds. She daren’t remove it, or they would think she carried the Mark of the Beast.

“The devil marks his own.”

“She bears his seal, clear as day.”

And they would be right.

A devil had left his imprint, destroying her sight and confidence in one fell swoop, ruining all chances of a bright future. She could don pretty dresses and daring disguises, but would always be damaged beneath.

The viscount spoke up, addressing the medium. “Perhaps the spirits sense that some of us doubt your ability to commune with the dead. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a non-believer.”

Despite the gasps from those gathered, Miss Nightshade nodded and smiled. “Yet you believe in Isaac Newton’s law of universal gravitation. You have faith in a force you cannot feel, touch, or see.”

The viscount nodded. “The concept is logical.”

“Just as a moving compass is proof of the Earth’s magnetic field?”

“Precisely.”

“I suppose you find it harder to believe that Marcus didn’t perish from a nasty bout of measles and still walks on the heavenly plane.”

His eyes widened, and he flinched. “Are you saying Marcus is here? Or have you been delving into my past as a form of trickery?”

The elderly gentleman next to him chuckled softly.

“Did you not hear me, sir? The spirits are always present.”

The viscount leaned forward, his hands resting on his strong, muscular thighs, the sort a lady ought not to notice. And yet Clara’s gaze lingered for a moment too long.

“Then prove it,” he said. His voice was calm, yet edged with challenge. “Tell me something you couldn’t possibly know.”

The woman who had been wringing her hands earlier scowled. “Sir, I find your disbelief rather distasteful. One must question why you even bothered to purchase a ticket.”

Lavinia Nightshade answered on his behalf. “Because it’s an escape from his current pressures. And he is yet to make sense of what is in his heart.”

While the viscount’s snort rang with mockery, Miss Nightshade addressed the woman. “Albert has been with you since you left home this evening. But I know you feel his presence daily.”

The woman sniffed back tears. “Yes, but one can never be sure. If you’ve truly loved someone, they always live within you.”

Miss Nightshade paused. “He tells me you planted a cherry tree in his memory because he loved pink blossoms.”

And so the night went on.

Miss Nightshade offered those present snippets of information to whet their appetites—names, locations, specific dates, anecdotes a few people could claim.

Excitement buzzed through the underground chamber until a sudden bang from above silenced the room. All heads turned. Then came a low, guttural moan from the stage. The medium’s head lolled, her eyes rolling back as though seized by something otherworldly.

An icy chill breezed over Clara’s neck.

When she shivered, so did the woman beside her.

Miss Nightshade writhed as though wrestling with irate voices in her head and suddenly blurted, “They’re forcing me to say—” she shifted uneasily—“that the spirits grow restless when the truth is buried. And there are many truths buried by those in this room.”

Everyone exchanged terrified glances. Some gasped as the flames of one candelabrum flared and then died, as if an invisible presence had snuffed them out.

Miss Nightshade gripped the wooden arms of her chair, fingers claw-like, her voice cracking as she cried, “I—I must speak, though the words are not mine! What was done in shadow cries for the light. The dead will not rest while secrets fester in the darkness.”

The young man with the red hair pointed a shaky hand to a gilt-framed mirror and cried, “Lord have mercy. I see Bethany rising from the water, wet and bedraggled. She’s pointing, pointing at people in the room.”

Someone shrieked.

Clara saw nothing but the room’s reflection in the glass.

Miss Nightshade opened her eyes wide, but a dark menace lingered there. The older man seated beside Lord Rutland received the first warning to fall from her distorted lips.

“Anne says you refuse to believe because you know what you did with the … the …” Miss Nightshade turned to the middle-aged man on the sofa to the viscount’s left. “Sir, your mother says there’s a fine line between reform and rebellion. They’ll stretch your neck if they catch you.”

Lord Tarrington hurried to the stage, clearly concerned for her welfare. He was almost scared to touch the troubled medium. “Lavinia? Good heavens, Lavinia. Can you hear me? You must fight against those who seek to harm the living.”

“I—I cannot. They’re telling me things, horrid things I don’t want to hear.” The medium tried to rise from the chair, but an invisible force threw her back into the seat. “Nothing is forgotten. All your lies and your secrets travel with you beyond the grave.”

That’s when she told the viscount he was doomed to live a miserable existence. She jerked towards Clara and said, “Agnes died with stained hands. Stained by silence, not blood. That’s why someone killed her.”

A hush fell over the guests. Even the candles seemed to dim. Clara swallowed against the tightness in her throat, unsure whether the message was intended for her and how the medium had known her mother’s name was Agnes.

Lord Tarrington shook the medium by the shoulders and called, “For mercy’s sake, Silas, fetch Lavinia a drink!” The lord snatched the tulip glass off the trestle table and pressed the rim to Lavinia’s mouth. “I need more. She’s burning with a fever.”

Other guests stood, offering what little wine they had left, except for the red-haired fellow who had already drunk his.

“Everyone will pay the price,” Lavinia said as Lord Tarrington gripped her jaw and forced wine into her mouth. She raised a weak hand towards Clara. “A shadow clings to you, an ill wind that stirs the spirits. You must seek redemption before it’s too late.”

The ladies on Clara’s sofa began backing away from her. The red-haired man glared at her like she’d cast a spell that drowned poor Bethany.

A voice from the crowd rang out, sharp and accusing. “She’s the one who brought ruin into this room. The spirits have marked her!”

Viscount Rutland was beside her in seconds, pulling her closer as if shielding her from every accusing eye. “This is nothing but nonsense,” he said, voice steady despite the chaos. “That woman is no oracle, but a charlatan. This whole spectacle was a sham designed to part fools from their coin.”

The musky scent of the viscount’s cologne enveloped her, disarming and sadly comforting, yet it roused thoughts no well-bred lady should entertain.

She coped better when he teased her or acted the confident peer.

Not so well when he played the caring friend.

Foolishly, she wondered how different things might have been if he were not a viscount and she bore no scars.

“Lavinia Nightshade is no charlatan,” the rosy-cheeked woman countered. “She once told me my brother had buried a chest full of guineas in the garden, and I found it the very next day.”

“You must all absolve yourselves of your sins,” Lavinia suddenly cried. “Cleansing the soul is the only way to gain redemption, or you will carry your guilt like a shroud into the next world.”

Then Miss Nightshade blinked rapidly, as if the candlelight had grown too bright. The faint twitch at the corner of her mouth was likely another ploy to frighten the crowd.

She gripped Lord Tarrington’s coat so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her skin lost its rosy hue as though her soul had vacated her body.

“Silas!” the lord yelled as the medium’s body stiffened and her eyes widened in alarm.

Miss Nightshade gasped, the sound sharp and shallow. “Help me!”

“Silas! For Pete’s sake, man, fetch a doctor.”

But it was too late to save Lavinia Nightshade. A shudder rolled through her, and she collapsed to the floor like a marionette with severed strings.