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PROLOGUE

B eyond a few puddles of moonlight from the windows, there was precious little illumination to guide Adam on his stealthy passage through the silent halls of Brand Manor. Fortunately, the ten-year-old knew every betraying board and squeaky hinge that stood between him and his objective.

At the echoes of footsteps and voices, the boy slid into a shadowed niche, holding his breath until his father and Mr. Riggsworth had passed.

The alcove had once held one of his Mama’s favorite statues, but now the pedestal was empty and the winged marble fairy was gone, like so many of the pretty things that she had loved.

He waited until the oak door at the end of the corridor closed with a thump.

Adam smiled to himself as he heard the rasp of a bar sliding into place.

No doubt that was Mr. Riggsworth’s decision.

Papa’s medium was doing his best to make certain that Adam was kept from the library, despite his father’s solemn vow to allow his son’s presence at tonight’s attempt to raise Mama’s spirit.

Mr. Riggsworth and the last bottle of their best brandy had finally persuaded Papa that a child would disturb the séance.

Mr. Riggsworth had even issued ominous warnings about the horrors that the spirits visited upon uninvited guests and little boys in particular before taking the added precaution of locking Adam in his room, “for your own safety, lad.” Fortunately, his father’s mystic was unaware that bolts and keys were futile gestures.

With the staff quarters long-empty well before his arrival the previous week, Mr. Riggsworth had no inkling that the ancient manor contained a labyrinth of secret tunnels which had been incorporated into a series of servants’ corridors.

The ancillary means of access had once allowed the maids and footmen to go about their tasks invisible to their betters and Adam knew every twist and turn of that dark maze.

The passage from his room led to the end of the gallery and a concealed stairway that led below.

Since his protests at being excluded had gotten him sent to his room without supper, Adam paused to forage in the empty kitchen.

It would not do to have a rumbling belly giving him away.

With the remnants of a loaf and some cheese in hand, Adam climbed another narrow set of steps leading to the service passageway.

Munching the last bite of bread, he swept away the cobwebs before pressing an ear to the sliding panel in an alcove to the rear of the library.

“The time is nigh!” Mr. Riggsworth rumbled loudly. “I will place the tribute of silver on the table. Your wife was familiar with these items, Milord?”

“Indeed,” his father’s reply was muffled. “Ch . . . cherished it, she did. Grandmother’s y’know.”

Great-Grandmama’s tea service, most likely , Adam decided. The elaborate set was one of the last items of Mama’s that they still possessed, but he reckoned that it would be well worth it if they could finally speak to her.

“I will now invoke my spirit guide, Milord.” The medium declared and he began to speak in some mystical-sounding tongue before declaring, “Prepare yourself to embrace the darkness.”

The sliver of candlelight disappeared from the gap beneath the woodwork.

Adam gave a prayer of thanks when Mr. Riggsworth’s intonations became a booming chant that covered the slight scrape of the hidden panel sliding open on its track.

The boy snaked into the rear of the pitch dark room and hid beneath the desk, hoping that he would not sneeze at the dust.

“Call her, Milord,” Mr. Riggsworth commanded.

“Helen . . . my l…love, can you hear me?” Papa called.

Now that Adam could hear more clearly, his Papa’s halting, slurred speech made it apparent that he was even deeper in his cups now than he had been at dinner.

Is Papa frightened, too? Adam wondered.

Suddenly, the boy felt the knife edge of terror. What if Mr. Riggsworth was right? What if the spirits became angry? But this was not just any spirit, the boy reminded himself. This was his Mama. Surely she would recognize the son she had loved so dearly.

“Helen Chapbrook, Helen Chapbrook! Helen Chapbrook!” Mr. Riggsworth intoned, his demand rising to a thundering crescendo.” I call you in the name of the angel Salphiel. Hear us and come hither.”

There was a sudden chill in the room and the drapery fluttered. Adam held his breath as a thin reedy voice began an ethereal whisper.

“Who . . . summons . . . me?”

“Helen?” Papa began to weep. “Helen is it really you at last?”

“Robert? Be. . . loved?”

She didn’t sound at all like Mama. Or maybe? Maybe he was forgetting what Mama sounded like? Silent tears slid down his cheeks.

“Helen . . . dearest, I have nothing without you!” Papa declared with a cry of anguish.

The words echoed in Adam’s head as he tried to creep closer to the voice. I have nothing. I have nothing.

“By God! H. . Helen, the s . . .sign?”

The draught had created a gap in the draperies, allowing a shard of moonlight to cut the darkness.

Adam saw a pair of shoes in the shadows, the outline of a feminine form.

“Rob, . . I . . . misssss you,” the ghost hissed.

“Mama!” With a cry, Adam leapt up and hurtled toward the limned figure.

There was an unholy screech and a thud as he tangled in the draperies.

The heavy fabric fell to the floor, sending clouds of dust motes dancing in the full moonlight.

An apparition, robed in black, rose and moved menacingly towards him.

He cowered, almost paralyzed, until the ghost grasped for him. Adam scuttled away as the apparition tripped and hit the floor with a shriek, a dark cowl sliding back to reveal the face of the daily maid-of-all-work his father had recently hired.

“You are not my Mama!” Adam screamed scrambling out of her reach as terror gave way to indignation.

“Milord, I assure you I have no idea who this woman is,” Mr. Riggsworth babbled.

“It’s a cheat, Papa!” Adam ran to the table to grab his father’s hand. “It’s not Mama at all.”

Lord Brand’s forehead thudded against the table and his sole response was a prodigious snore.

“Stupid slut,” Mr. Riggsworth raged as Adam desperately tried to shake his father awake. “How much of the stuff did you put in the wine?”

“No more’n what I was supposed to, to give him the visions, like you said,” the erstwhile specter protested, her upper-crust accents disappearing entirely “how was I to know his nibs would be draining the bottle dry?”

“Well, it would seem to be a lucky thing for us he did,” Mr. Riggsworth said, advancing on Adam with a malicious grin. “I told you, lad. Terrible things happen to boys who trifle with the spirits. Looks to be that your poor father may be losing his son and heir in addition to his wife. A pity.”

Adam slowly backed away from the table as he assessed his options. He had to get out, but Riggsworth blocked the path to the alcove.

“The boy must’ve sneaked in after me,” the woman speculated, gesturing toward the door to the garden as she moved to block it. “But he ain’t gettin’ out this way.”

Her declaration sparked a plan. Adam made a feint for the barred oak door. As he had hoped, Mr. Riggsworth quickly advanced to intercept him at the exit, leaving a clear route to the entrance hidden in the shadows.

“Might as well give it up, boyo!” The medium taunted.

Adam ran for the passageway, sliding it shut behind him. The echo of fists pounding futilely upon the panel pursued him until he reached the deserted kitchen and fled out into the freezing drizzle of a December night.

A tenant farmer found Adam two days later, half out of his mind with fever and fear, babbling of his mother and ghosts, hiding among the animals for warmth.

By the time he had recovered sufficiently to give a more coherent narrative of the night’s events, Mr. Riggsworth and his accomplice were long gone.

Adam’s father refused to believe that he had been so utterly taken in, especially when he nurtured the distinct memory of his dead wife miraculously appearing to him in a vision from the beyond.

Lord Brand cursed the son whose interference was responsible for banishing her back to the spirit world. Adam remained locked in his room until the doctor pronounced him fit to travel. The boy was packed off to begin his education at Eton.