Page 28 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Pearl hurried down the stairs, eager for a moment alone with her thoughts. How could Oliver misunderstand her—and himself—so thoroughly? And why did she feel such a strong attraction at the same time as such serious frustration? He was maddening.

A voice rose up the stairs as she descended. “Miss Ellicott.” Madame Genevieve’s performative, moaning wail sounded like someone pretending to be a ghost.

Pearl closed her eyes and breathed deeply before putting on a polite expression.

Madame Genevieve stood at the landing, waiting for Pearl. “I wonder if you’d prefer to be present when I interview Master Maxwell.”

Pearl thought she had better not specify precisely what she preferred.

“Of course I would. I’ll let you know when he’s feeling up for a visit.”

She continued down the stairs, hoping if she didn’t say more or make eye contact, the woman would go away, but Madame Genevieve’s drawling, tremulous voice stopped her again.

“Oh, no, my dear.” How did she make her voice sound like it carried its own echo? “I will see him now.”

The nerve of the woman. Pearl shook her head. “This is not a good day for Maxwell. He is not well enough for a conversation with a stranger.”

Madame Genevieve’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll only be a stranger until we get to know each other.” She turned toward Maxwell’s room.

Would she dare enter right that moment, even when Pearl had told her not to?

It appeared she would. Pearl muttered something impolite and jogged into the bedroom wing after Madame Genevieve. The woman moved fast; by the time Pearl caught up to her, she was stepping through Maxwell’s doorway.

Had she even bothered to knock? Did she plan to show him any sign of respect at all? Pearl caught the handle of the door before it closed in her face.

Madame Genevieve strode into the room, one arm raised in front of her and the other trailing behind, as if she was performing a strange dance.

“Maxwell Ravenscroft, you are a boy whose mind whirls with questions.” On the word whirls , she flung both arms in front of her as if to stop an oncoming charge with the strength of her hands. Pearl was certain the move was designed to give maximum dramatic effect to those ridiculous scarves.

“And I, Madame Genevieve, Seer of the Hidden Realms, Communicator with the Departed, Oracle of the Beyond, have come to help you uncover your answers.”

She clasped her hands together at her chest, closed her eyes, and breathed heavily for a moment, as if the rush into the room and the performance of her introduction had winded her.

She didn’t appear to be an old woman, but her costume made it difficult to guess her age.

Pearl thought she could be thirty-five or sixty.

The hennaed hair might have been covering some streaks of silver, but now Pearl saw a youthful exuberance in the woman’s expression.

She pulled her eyes away from Madame Genevieve and looked to Maxwell.

He sat up straight in his bed, a book fallen from his lap to the blanket beside him, his mouth open in wonder.

As Pearl made to move to his side, Madame Genevieve stepped in front of her, settling herself with every possible ceremony into Pearl’s chair beside the bed.

Had the seat always appeared so regal? The thought surprised Pearl, especially because her general impression of Madame Genevieve was that of an overpainted, overdressed charlatan. But in this moment, seeing her at Maxwell’s side, Pearl wondered if she’d misread the woman.

Maxwell’s cheeks glowed. Pearl couldn’t tell if it was excitement or fever, but his eyes shone with the joy he often displayed when learning something new, not the frightful sheen that accompanied a troubling illness.

“You can speak with ghosts?”

Max sounded breathless, more so than Madame Genevieve had only a moment before. Pearl saw his hands clenched around his bedcover, gripping it tightly.

Pearl wanted to put a stop to this immediately, but there was no time for her to interrupt before Madame Genevieve raised her arms to her sides, her hands framing her head. “I can hear the whispers of memory.”

Pearl recognized, from her own work with children, a master at responding to a question without giving a specific answer. A bit of grudging respect unfurled in her.

“You have lost a great many loved ones.” Madame Genevieve’s words were not a question, but Maxwell nodded in agreement.

“My father was gone before I was born, and my mother never recovered from my birth.”

Pearl had never heard the boy say such a thing; the self-blame in his voice pained her.

He kept speaking without any prompting. “My father must have had a family, but nobody will tell me anything about him. Not even his last name. That’s why I’m called Ravenscroft. And that’s why my grandfather lets me stay here even though I’m a great deal of trouble to care for.”

Each word felt like a physical blow. Pearl had spent every day for the past six years with Maxwell, yet she’d never heard him speak this way. The guilt he seemed to carry must press against his heart like a millstone.

She waited for Madame Genevieve to tell the boy his parents’ deaths were not his fault, but instead, the medium closed her eyes and lifted her chin to the ceiling, as if smelling the air.

Maxwell watched silently. Pearl struggled between the desire to go to him, to comfort him, and wishing this woman’s strange ways would cause Max to open up and say more about his heartache.

The woman scooped the air in front of her close to her face.

“I hear the sounds of water lapping against wooden boards. I hear the creak of a mast and the flap of heavy canvas. We are surrounded by salt and fish and fresh air. Strong men pull ropes in sun and rain. Your father was, I believe, a sailor.”

What was Madame Genevieve doing? How dare she invent a story about his deceased father? And to what purpose?

Maxwell clapped his hands together. “That’s smashing! A sailor!”

Pearl hadn’t heard Max so excited about a story in many weeks. She wished he understood it was as fictional as the pirate novel they’d been reading at the fireside.

“I wonder if he was strong enough to carry those huge barrels. You know the barrels I’m thinking of? The ones sailors store food and water inside?”

Madame Genevieve, her eyes still closed, nodded. Which part of what he said was she agreeing to? And how long would this falsehood continue?

When next he spoke, it was in a hushed tone. “Did my father die at sea? In a shipwreck? I do hope he was surrounded by his friends. Sailors are so brave. They never fear death as long as they have their crewmates beside them.”

Pearl gasped. This was the message Maxwell carried away from the adventure stories she read with him? The danger and the possibility of death at any moment? Not the daring, last-minute rescue. Not the reunion with loved ones at the docks as the sailor’s feet once again touched solid ground.

“I believe you are right about sailors’ bravery,” Madame Genevieve drawled. “But in order to know more about your father, all we need to do is ask.”

Maxwell looked at Pearl. She could practically see his mind whirring with all the questions he’d been asking for years. Questions she could not—and his grandfather would not—answer.

A log popped in the fireplace, and Maxwell returned his attention to Madame Genevieve. His voice was a whisper. “I’m not sure anyone knows the answers.”

With another wave of both hands through the air in front of her, she sighed long and slow. “Your father knows.”

Pearl hadn’t seen Maxwell move as fast as he did then, shifting from reclining to kneeling. Hands clasped at his heart, he was the image of a supplicant. “I hear voices here all the time, but I never hear him. Can you speak to him? Ask him to talk to me?”

Pearl resented the way she tilted close to hear Madame Genevieve’s answer. She wouldn’t trust the woman’s words, no matter how her body was currently betraying her.

“If you are willing, and if we all set aside our doubts, we shall try.”

A shiver ran down Pearl’s spine. She knew perfectly well the words about doubts were for her. Now if Maxwell couldn’t—What? Commune with his dead father?—it would be Pearl’s fault because she was not a believer.

Max, still on his knees, nodded vigorously. “I am willing. What do I need to do?”

Pearl couldn’t sit by silently any longer. “Wait. Wait, please.”

Both of them looked at her: Max with patient curiosity and Madame Genevieve with thinly veiled amusement.

“Yes, Miss Ellicott? What is it?”

Confound the woman, she knew Pearl couldn’t stop her now, at least not without becoming the villain in this bizarre story. But Mr. Ravenscroft could—both stop her and be the villain. Simple.

“Wouldn’t you rather discuss this with your grandfather?”

Maxwell nodded. “Oh, yes. Let’s invite him.”

Madame Genevieve nodded as if the idea was her own. “One must not rush these things. We are in the preparatory stages of our exploration. Today you have only one assignment, young Master Ravenscroft.”

Maxwell wiggled on his bed until he was even closer to the chair where Madame Genevieve sat. He was the picture of compliance. What might this ridiculous woman do with a child so eager to please?

“You need to gather all your happiest memories.”

Pearl looked from Max to Madame Genevieve. That was not what she expected.

The woman went on. “Of course, the most powerful memories would generally be those connected with the deceased. In a different situation, those recollections of your best times together would forge the strongest bonds. Since you didn’t ever have the opportunity to make such memories with your father, you must work doubly hard.

Consider your happiest times. Remember your best days.

Ask the house to help you. Take time to write the stories down.

Talk them over with your governess. She ought to do this exercise as well.

” Without missing a beat, Madame Genevieve turned to Pearl.

“Did you know your father while he was alive, dear?”

“What? Yes, of course I did.” Pearl felt herself spluttering in her surprise.

The smallest twitch appeared in the woman’s eye. She had just tricked Pearl into formally acknowledging her father was dead.

Not that it was a secret, but Pearl had no intention of sharing her personal information with a pretended medium.

Maxwell was already asking for paper and pencil. Sensing the opportunity for a dramatic exit, Madame Genevieve swept from the boy’s room. With her hand on the doorknob, she turned to Pearl.

“It’s a worthwhile exercise. For both of you. You need to see his joy. And you need to find your own.”

Did Pearl imagine the tone of the woman’s voice settling into a more normal cadence, or was she simply growing used to the wailing and moaning that underscored all of Madame Genevieve’s pronouncements?

In any case, Pearl didn’t imagine the wink. Madame Genevieve was not a subtle woman, and Pearl couldn’t have missed that wink unless she was turned around completely.

She wanted to ask Madame Genevieve what she meant by her suggestion to ask the house , but the woman slipped out the door.

Max drew her attention back to him with a sweet demand. “Pearl, hurry. I have loads of ideas to write down. I don’t want to forget any of them.”