Page 25 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

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

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.”

“I fear I cannot help it, my dearest Cyril.” The duchess sniffed, then took a long, wavering breath. “What am I to do?”

She sounded so forlorn that Tilda could not help but feel sorry for her.

Whether this was real or not, she wasn’t sure if it was helpful or cruel.

Because in the end, the duchess could not be with her son or with Cyril, not unless she died.

Which, of course, would mean there was a spirit realm where everyone gathered after death.

Tilda truly hadn’t spent much time thinking of such matters.

But now that she did, she understood the woman’s desire to be reunited with someone she’d lost. Tilda would give anything to see her father again.

“You are to continue on,” Hawkins as Cyril advised.

“You will wake every morning as you normally do, taking your special tea. And you will walk each day around your garden, just as we used to do. You have not walked since I left, have you?” He sounded almost as if he were admonishing her, but his tone was gentle.

The duchess’s head dipped once more. “No, I have not. How well you know me.”

“You must promise to stop crying as you gaze at my portrait. No good can come from so much grief, especially since you needn’t grieve me. Not when we can still be together like this.”

“Can we?” the duchess asked hopefully. “I miss you terribly. But if we can continue our chats with Mr. Hawkins as our intermediary, I may just be able to manage.”

“Of course we will continue our talks,” Cyril said. “For as long as I am able. Until you join me here in the spirit realm.”

“How I long for that day!”

“Do not wish for that, Agatha,” Cyril cautioned. “You’ve much life to live yet.”

The duchess stilled. “How much?”

“I cannot say.”

“But you must know,” the duchess persisted. When he did not respond, she sighed. “I wish you would tell me.”

“It is time for me to go for now, Agatha. Until next time.” Hawkins twitched again, his body shuddering several times before his eyes fluttered open.

“Is he gone?” the duchess asked.

“Yes,” Hawkins replied gently. “But I’m sure he will return another night.”

The duchess began to weep softly. Surprisingly—at least to Tilda—she did not release the hands of those next to her.

“There is another spirit who wishes to pass a message to one of our guests,” Hawkins said. “Let us see to whom they wish to speak.”

The medium spoke the name of the person seated at number one. There was a single rap in response, which meant no. He continued around the table until he reached Hadrian. The response was also no.

Tilda was aware of the fact that the table had a hollow pedestal within by which someone was delivering these responses. If that much was fake, was Hawkins’s channeling of Ward also false?

Hawkins called out Tilda’s name. The answer was three raps.

Yes.

Tilda stiffened. Though she wanted to see her father again, she knew in her heart it wasn’t possible.

She did not want to receive a message from the spirit realm, even if it was real.

Whilst that may be comforting to some people, it was not to her.

Especially in this instance, when she had not asked to communicate with any spirits. It felt … intrusive.

“No, thank you,” she said clearly.

She was aware of everyone’s eyes on her, including Hadrian’s. He no doubt gazed at her with understanding, but the rest of them were likely watching her with bated breath. She did not care to be the source of their entertainment, for that was surely what a séance amounted to.

Hawkins’s eyes clamped shut and he jerked. “Tilda, darling. Do you have my hat?”

Tilda’s blood went cold. How would Hawkins know about her father’s hat? It was one of the few belongings of her father’s that she’d kept after his death. But he’d never called her “Tilda, darling.” He’d called her Tilly when she was young and then Til as she’d grown older.

This couldn’t be real. But then how did Hawkins know about the hat?

Was it another guess that had proven correct?

Or was it a memory Hawkins had seen when he’d taken her hand as he’d greeted her earlier?

It could be a memory, for Hadrian was never able to hear what was said.

It would make sense for Hawkins to call her by the wrong name.

Tilda was torn between wanting to end this immediately and trying to determine what was happening. She felt Hadrian squeeze her hand and looked over at him. His expression was one of deep concern and care.

In the end, self-preservation won out, and Tilda released the hands of the men on either side of her. She did not want to be the center of this spectacle, whether it was real or not.

Hawkins’s eyes opened. “The circle has been broken.” He looked to Tilda. “You did not wish to speak with your father?”

“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 have nerves ,” she grumbled.

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