Page 97 of The Premonition at Withers Farm

“Why is it silly?”

“Because!” She laughed again, then paused as the question became more poignant. PaPa. What she wouldn’t give to be with him again. To converse with him. To have his influence helping her. Guiding her. Teaching her and... “Oh!” Perliett’s eyes widened, and she stared at George.

He tipped his head and waited.

Perliett considered for a moment. “I would need my PaPa—”

“More often than God?”

“More often than God.”

They both spoke in unison, George with a grim set to his mouth, and Perliett with an aching feeling in her heart that was quickly threatening to overwhelm her. Which was totally unacceptable, especially in front of George.

“Or perhaps it would complement my faith?” Perliett offered.

George was kind enough to give her a small nod. “Perhaps. But I daresay, and I know you will battle me on this, that perhaps not all of the spirit world your mother dabbles in isas real as you believe. While I believe some could be, I know even devoted spiritualists have questioned the validity of some of their practices.”

Perliett stiffened. “You’re accusing my mother of trickery?”

“No different from my accusing you of quackery.”

Perliett bristled, the warm tingling subsiding. “And you’re wickedly rude.”

“I never claimed otherwise, but at least I’m truthful with myself about it.”

“Not all of my ministrations of medicine are quackery,” Perliett added, feeling justified.

“No.”

She looked down at her fingers, still clutching the blanket. “I concede that heroin may not be the wisest of treatments.”

“And that you’re ignorant of new advances in medicine?” George prompted.

Perliett met his eyes. “Not ignorant. I study.”

George grinned. It broke through the storm on his face and stunned her. He had long creases in his cheeks. “You study?” He laughed. “Study what?”

“You.” Perliett smiled sheepishly.

George nodded. “Ah.”

And it was painfully true. Shedidstudy him and his techniques. In fact, Perliett despised admitting how much George Wasziak had influenced her daily life.

“Well then.” George rested his hands on his knees. “I can do no more for you today. Continue to rest.”

Perliett’s hand shot out and grabbed for George’s shirtsleeve without thinking. He stiffened, looking down at her. She dropped her hold. Dropped her gaze. She dropped what she was going to say too. It was foolhardy, impulsive, and ridiculous.

“What is it, Perliett?” His voice was husky, and she dared to lift her eyes.

“I’m frightened.” There. She admitted it to the one person she thought she would never admit weakness to.

George had no reaction.

“I miss PaPa.” She sounded like a child, so she added, “He knew what to do. Always.”

Still nothing from the doctor.

Perliett tried again, feeling as if she were digging a hole and getting ready to bury herself in it. She probably would soon—of embarrassment, if nothing more. “My mother is convinced Eunice Withers is warning us. She has three sittings this week with others in the community who wish to contact their dead relations. Her existence is consumed now by contacting the dead, and I don’t—I can’t—I feel alone,” she ended weakly.