Page 55 of A Whisper and a Curse

“No. My apologies for ending the séance so abruptly, but I was not prepared for that. I did not realize spirits would come and speak to anyone in the circle.”

“Oh yes, that happens sometimes. I’m sorry for your discomfort,” Hawkins said kindly. “I understand that it can be overwhelming. We can try again next time when you are prepared.”

The hell they would. Tilda had no intention of becoming entertainment for anyone. She was even more invested in discovering the truth behind the society’s séance performances.

Everyone else had released their hands. Crocker moved about the parlor relighting candles.

Tilda pushed her chair back from the table, and Hadrian rushed to stand and hold it for her.

“You’re upset,” he said quietly.

“I was taken off guard. I’m fine.” She turned toward him and kept her voice low. “I would like to know how Hawkins knew about my father’s hat.”

Hadrian arched a brow but didn’t say anything because Hawkins was approaching them.

Their host gave Tilda an apologetic look. “I am sorry to have surprised you like that. I’m afraid the spirits can be very forceful sometimes.”

Was he saying Tilda’s father was an aggressive spirit? Tilda would no more believe that than she thought any of them could levitate.

“Forgive me for ruining the séance.”

“You did nothing of the kind.” Hawkins gave her an encouraging smile. “I hope you’ll stay for dinner. Crocker is pouring wine. That may settle your nerves.” He departed, and Tilda resisted the urge to glower after him.

“I do not havenerves,” she grumbled.

“Would you care for wine anyway?” Hadrian asked.

“I suppose.” She watched as Hadrian made his way to the corner where Crocker was filling wine glasses on a small sideboard.

“Are you all right, Miss Wren?” The unmistakable husky voice of Miss Sullivan drew Tilda to pivot.

“I am, thank you.”

“You went quite pale.” Miss Sullivan sounded concerned.

“I was surprised by what happened.”

Miss Sullivan grasped Tilda’s hand. “You must listen to the spirits when they wish to speak. You never know what unfinished business they need to conclude.”

Tilda’s blood chilled once more. She hated the way her father had died—so suddenly and violently. He’d deserved much better, and so had she. Not being able to tell him that she loved him, that she would miss him, that he was the best person she’d ever known was salt in a wound that never seemed to fully heal. To think that her father was somewhere with the same open wound was agony. Still, none of that was fodder to entertain these people.

“I would think that mediums could better control what happens in a séance,” Tilda said. “There is … grief involved, and some people may not wish to share that publicly.”

“I do understand,” Miss Sullivan said kindly. “I think the mediums believe that if someone is attending a séance, they are open to conversing with the spirit realm. That is, after all, the point.”

Tilda couldn’t help feeling as though she were being scolded, however politely. “That was not made clear to me.”

Miss Sullivan gave Tilda’s hand a gentle squeeze, their bare palms pressing together, then released her.

Hadrian returned with two glasses and handed one to Tilda. He looked to Miss Sullivan, who abruptly took the other one from him. She did so almost clumsily, her hand covering his briefly before she managed to clasp the glass.

“Pardon me,” she said with a throaty chuckle. “Thank you, my lord.”

“My pleasure,” Hadrian said, though Tilda was almost certain the wine had been for him. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

Tilda hoped so. She wanted to see the woman’s face.

“I’m afraid not.” Miss Sullivan held her veil out and lifted the wine glass beneath it to take a sip. “It was lovely to meet you both. I hope we’ll encounter one another again.” She turned and walked away.