Page 53 of A Whisper and a Curse

“Be warned,” the duchess said thickly. “They are addictive. Were you close with Mrs. Frost? Perhaps we should try to contact her as well.”

“I was not,” Hadrian said. “Her death is a great loss.”

Hawkins nodded in agreement, his features solemn. “We are deeply saddened by the deaths of Deborah and Cyril. But tonight we will hear from Cyril and know that he is well and safe in the spirit realm.”

The duchess turned her head toward Hawkins. “That is my fervent hope. May we please begin?”

“Certainly,” Hawkins said quickly. He addressed the room. “Please take your seats.” He turned to the duchess. “You are at number ten, of course.”

Tilda wondered if “of course” meant that was her usual seat. “Where would you like Lord Ravenhurst and I to sit?” Tilda asked.

Hawkins gave his head a shake. “I neglected to tell you, my apologies. Miss Wren, you will be at number six, and my lord, you will be at number five.” He moved to escort the duchess to her chair.

Tilda saw that Miss Sullivan was making her way back around the table. She stopped at number eleven. “I see that Miss Sullivan will be next to Her Grace,” she whispered to Hadrian. “That does not follow the typical man-woman arrangement.”

“The same as the vision I saw with Hawkins seated beside Montrose,” Hadrian noted. “It seems Hawkins does not adhere to that rule, despite him saying it was typical.”

“There must be a reason,” Tilda murmured.

“I’m sure it’s something to do withenergy.” Hadrian did not roll his eyes, but if that action had a sound, he’d made it with his sardonic stress on the wordenergy.

When everyone had taken their places, Hawkins sat at number twelve and smiled serenely. He took a long, deep breath before speaking. “Good evening, friends and neighbors. Tonight, we honor the memory of our dear friend, Cyril Ward. Hopefully, we will speak with him, or perhaps someone who is with him.”

As Hawkins spoke, Crocker went about the room extinguishing all light except the large branch of candles at the center of the table. The young man then moved to stand in the corner, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Let us join hands,” Hawkins said before closing his eyes.

Heat flushed through Tilda as she took Hadrian’s hand. His touch never failed to heighten her awareness of him. And of the attraction she felt toward him. Still. Apparently, it didn’t matter that she didn’t want to feel that way. Her mind and body were not in alignment.

The man on Tilda’s opposite side held her hand loosely. Tilda wondered how he knew Hawkins and whether he was a member of the society.

Silence reigned for several moments. Tilda watched their host as well as the duchess. Miss Sullivan sat between them, and Tilda wondered why she and the duchess had been placed next to one another. It seemed that Miss Sullivan was leaning slightly toward Hawkins.

“I would ask that you all clear your mind of excess thoughts and direct your energy toward the spirit realm. Think of Cyril Ward. Say his name over and over, either silently or aloud if you are moved to do so.”

Tilda sent Hadrian a sideways glance. His lips were pressed tightly together, as if he were determined not to speak. Or as if he was annoyed. Tilda gathered it was likely both.

Cool air moved over the table, causing the candles to flicker. Tilda looked about to see the source of the breeze, but the candlelight from the center of the table did not provide enough illumination for her to see into the corners of the room.

“My guide is with us,” Hawkins announced, though he did not open his eyes. “He says he has seen Cyril and that Cyril is well!”

Murmurs sounded around the table. The duchess bent her head.

Hawkins’s brow creased. “He also says that Cyril is there, that he wishes to speak.”

The table moved then, a gentle rolling. Hawkins flinched, his body jerking forward and then back against the chair. His chin lifted, but his eyes remained closed. When he next spoke, his voice had altered. His accent shifted, making him sound as if he hailed from north of London, in the middle of the country.

“My dear Agatha, I am so pleased you are here,” Hawkins said. Though perhaps he was speaking as Ward.

Tilda felt the unknown man beside her tense. She glanced over at him. He had long sideburns and a crooked nose.

“Oh, Cyril!” the duchess exclaimed. “I am bereft!”

“Do not be,” Hawkins—or Cyril—said. “It was my time, and I am quite safe here in the spirit realm, not that I ever doubted I would be.” Hawkins did not open his eyes, nor did he turn his head toward the duchess.

“It is too cruel for me to lose you after losing my son,” the duchess nearly wailed. “How am I to carry on? I wish I could be in the spirit realm with you and my beloved boy.”

“Have strength, Agatha,” Hawkins replied in Cyril’s voice. “The society is here to support you. Lysander and Victor will guide you. You mustn’t be distressed.”