Page 79 of Dead Serious Case 5 Madame Vivienne

“Do you want to come with me? Get out of the flat for a bit?” he asks.

I frown as I stare out the window.

“Tris,” Danny says gently. “I know what you said the other night about not wanting this anymore, and I get it. You’re perfectly entitled to feel like that, but look at it this way. Even though you’re hurt and you resent the fact you didn’t get to see Martin, you at least have the comfort of knowing he’s safe. He’s in Heaven with your mum, he’s free and hopefully happy. Viv doesn’t have that same luxury. She’s trapped and she’s in pain. She can’t cross into the light unless we help her. We owe her that much.”

I lift my gaze to his and stare at him silently.

“Just… think about it, okay?” he says, and I nod.

I pullmy coat around myself tighter against the cold breeze as February gives way to March. It’s still chilly and very wet. I glance up at the turbulent grey sky which suits my moodperfectly. The first light spots of rain hit my glasses as I enter the alley and stop to look at the bookshop, locked up and silent.

Danny probably won’t be happy that I’m here on my own while he’s off playing time detective at the records office, but in my defence, I didn’t realise this was my destination until my feet led me here. The keys are still in my coat pocket from the last visit, a fact I was well aware of when I left the flat to take a walk and clear my head, so maybe I did intend to come here. Who knows. I’ve given up trying to figure out any of this insanity.

The rain starts to patter down heavier, flattening my hair. Reaching into my pocket, I grab the keys and let myself in, closing and locking the door behind me, then flip the lights on. The room looks as dim and dusty as it ever did.

The rain pelting against the front windows casts uneven patterns which dance and shift on the floor. I stand in the stillness, listening to the silence. The ghosts don’t really come into this room anymore. Not that I can blame them, especially not now that we all know what lurks under the floor, trapped deep in the earth beneath our feet.

I should be scared, I suppose, but now that the glowing circle has faded, leaving nothing but the dented and worn wooden floorboards, I can almost fool myself into believing it’s not real.

“Tristan?”

I look up to see Evangeline standing in front of me. Usually, she’s smiling warmly, planted on her favourite sofa and knitting with pastel-coloured balls of wool. But now the colour of her seems to have faded to shades of grey. Like she’s somehow… diminished.

“Hello, Evangeline.”

“You came,” she says quietly, and I can see the sadness and pain in her expression.

“Yes,” I say after a moment.

“I’m sorry about your father.”

“He’s in a better place, so they tell me.” I let out a slow breath and shake my head. “I know that he is. I guess I’m not quite done feeling sorry for myself.”

“Will you come and sit with me?” I look to the sofa and nod, then follow her across the shop floor and take a seat.

“What did you want to tell me, Evangeline?” I ask. “Is it about Viv? Her son? The demon? All of the above?”

Evangeline smoothes her skirt and folds her hands neatly in her lap. “I will tell you. But my family is… complicated, and things are rarely black and white. Will you listen? Without judgement?”

“Okay.”

She sits for a moment as if gathering her thoughts. “I’m not sure how much you know about my family. We have, of course, discussed Uncle Cornelius several times, but we’ve never really spoken of my mother and my aunt.”

“I think your mother was very much underrated,” I reply. “If you think of a huge old ancient oak, I think she was the trunk, the core that held up the weight of all the branches.”

“That’s a lovely way to put it.” Evangeline gives a sad little smile. “And very accurate. History tends to forget her—or rather, overlook her. Uncle Cornelius was a famous medium and my Aunt Cordelia was a powerful witch, although she did make a lot of very questionable choices.”

“Tell me about her.” I turn on the sofa so I face the old woman and tuck one of my booted feet under me, resting my elbow on the back.

“Aunt Cordelia?”

I nod.

“She was a passionate woman, she felt everything deeply.” Evangeline glances away, her eyes distant as if she’s lost in memories. “She was incredibly beautiful. Fell in love with an Irish lad and gave him a son. My grandfather wouldn’t allowthem to marry, considered the boy beneath his daughter. Which is ridiculous. Despite the size of the property, it was still situated in Whitechapel too close to the Old Nichol for comfort. With unfortunates and Molly boys walking the streets, it was hardly Mayfair. Grandfather never quite let go of his imperial days, but he was living in a fantasy. As a governor of one of the provinces in India, he’d had wealth and status, but the fact was, he was disgraced and sent home with his family in tow. He was a drunk, a womaniser, and a consummate gambler. After he bought this property, there was almost nothing left from their time in India, and as fast as he made money, he gambled it away again.” She shrugs. “He refused to let Cordelia marry, not even to legitimise his grandson. He was livid when he found out she was pregnant. After the boy was born, Grandfather sent him to his father’s family and had Aunt Cordelia committed to the asylum.”

“That much we know.” I nod. “But there was another child, wasn’t there? A girl.”

“You know about her?”