twirls the ciggie mournfully
though his nicotine-stained fingers.
Jessie
sighs. Young and vigorous. And insolent. And on the make. “Sure and you cannot
pay me right away.”
He
looks at her, all fraudulent innocence and cunning and genuine desperation
aging his youthful face into an odd sort of mask. As if a wholly different
person stands before her for a moment.
What
is happening? Something strange! Jessie’s breath catches in her throat.
Fireworks pop and crackle overhead, and she starts, her heart fluttering.
Then
a horse clatters on the cobblestones outside, and the spell is broken, and poor
Mr. Watkins looks like nothing so much as sick, lost kid.
Through
the window, Jessie spies Madame De Cassin. What a fine lady she is, too. Jessie
smiles as the dashing spiritualist leaps off her black stallion, ties him to
the hitching post, and stomps up the stairs. She bursts into the foyer without
ringing the bell, splendid in her billowing black cape, black riding habit, and
tall black boots. She always smells of horses, leather, and lavender oil.
Madame De Cassin surveys Mr. Watkins with a piercing glance and, without hesitation,
says, “Well, give him a room, Miss Malone, but he’ll want to watch his step.
I’ll wager you’re born under the sign of Aries, sir, am I correct?”
Jessie
fairly bursts with joy. Madame De Cassin is the most respected, most
sought-after expert in matters of the occult in this burg. Sure and the
spiritualist has never laid eyes on Mr. Watkins before, yet she offers her
opinion of him in less than a trice.
“You
see?” Jessie says. “Madame De Cassin knows everything!”
“Aries,
then, sir?” says Madame De Cassin. “The headstrong ram?”
“I
haven’t the slightest notion, madame,” Mr. Watkins says and lights another smoke
in spite of Jessie’s admonition. Mr. Heald pats perspiration off his forehead
and grins tightly. The spiritualist has laid eyes on Mr. Heald before.
“Well,
what I do know is this , my dear,” Madame De Cassin says to Jessie,
tossing her riding whip on the side table, together with her black riding hat with
its jet beads and black plumes. She flexes her hands, which she always keeps
gloved in the finest black kid, and imperiously surveys them all. “I do know
it’s a fine time to call upon the sweet spirits.”
“Mariah!
Li’l Lucy!” Jessie calls. “Get the sitting room ready.”
Madame
De Cassin boldly stares at Mr. Watkins. “Are you a believer sir?”
“A
believer in what?” Mr. Watkins stares back, bold as you please.
“In
communication with dead.” To Mr. Heald, “How about you, sir? Have you ever
spoken with the sweet spirits? Indeed, have you ever spoken truthfully with
your wife?”
But
Jessie is too excited to pay much attention to Mr. Heald’s scarlet face and sputtering
breath. “Sure and we have enough people to sit for a séance, do we not, Madame
de Cassin, if we include the gentlemen and Li’l Lucy? Have you ever sat at
séance, Mr. Watkins?” she says, taking his arm. “Mariah! Bring us the sherry.”
*
* *
Jessie’s
sitting room is a small inner chamber with no windows, one door, and one
low-burning brass gaslamp left unpolished so that a dark green patina has mottled
the metal. The walls are heavily draped in black velvet. Even on this sunny
day, the sitting room broods untouched by any natural light. A large round wooden
table stands at the chamber’s center, surrounded by eight plain wooden chairs.
A single brass candlestick holding a squat black candle thick with wax
drippings juts up from the table’s center.
Li’l
Lucy busily rearranges five of the chairs around the table, scraping three
chairs into a corner of the room. Mariah lights the black candle, holds the
match to incense burners slung on brass chains mounted on the wall among the folds
of black velvet. The room is heavy with the scent of lavender oil and incense
and candlewax.
Yes!
Just the way Jessie likes it.
Next
Mariah sets out
though his nicotine-stained fingers.
Jessie
sighs. Young and vigorous. And insolent. And on the make. “Sure and you cannot
pay me right away.”
He
looks at her, all fraudulent innocence and cunning and genuine desperation
aging his youthful face into an odd sort of mask. As if a wholly different
person stands before her for a moment.
What
is happening? Something strange! Jessie’s breath catches in her throat.
Fireworks pop and crackle overhead, and she starts, her heart fluttering.
Then
a horse clatters on the cobblestones outside, and the spell is broken, and poor
Mr. Watkins looks like nothing so much as sick, lost kid.
Through
the window, Jessie spies Madame De Cassin. What a fine lady she is, too. Jessie
smiles as the dashing spiritualist leaps off her black stallion, ties him to
the hitching post, and stomps up the stairs. She bursts into the foyer without
ringing the bell, splendid in her billowing black cape, black riding habit, and
tall black boots. She always smells of horses, leather, and lavender oil.
Madame De Cassin surveys Mr. Watkins with a piercing glance and, without hesitation,
says, “Well, give him a room, Miss Malone, but he’ll want to watch his step.
I’ll wager you’re born under the sign of Aries, sir, am I correct?”
Jessie
fairly bursts with joy. Madame De Cassin is the most respected, most
sought-after expert in matters of the occult in this burg. Sure and the
spiritualist has never laid eyes on Mr. Watkins before, yet she offers her
opinion of him in less than a trice.
“You
see?” Jessie says. “Madame De Cassin knows everything!”
“Aries,
then, sir?” says Madame De Cassin. “The headstrong ram?”
“I
haven’t the slightest notion, madame,” Mr. Watkins says and lights another smoke
in spite of Jessie’s admonition. Mr. Heald pats perspiration off his forehead
and grins tightly. The spiritualist has laid eyes on Mr. Heald before.
“Well,
what I do know is this , my dear,” Madame De Cassin says to Jessie,
tossing her riding whip on the side table, together with her black riding hat with
its jet beads and black plumes. She flexes her hands, which she always keeps
gloved in the finest black kid, and imperiously surveys them all. “I do know
it’s a fine time to call upon the sweet spirits.”
“Mariah!
Li’l Lucy!” Jessie calls. “Get the sitting room ready.”
Madame
De Cassin boldly stares at Mr. Watkins. “Are you a believer sir?”
“A
believer in what?” Mr. Watkins stares back, bold as you please.
“In
communication with dead.” To Mr. Heald, “How about you, sir? Have you ever
spoken with the sweet spirits? Indeed, have you ever spoken truthfully with
your wife?”
But
Jessie is too excited to pay much attention to Mr. Heald’s scarlet face and sputtering
breath. “Sure and we have enough people to sit for a séance, do we not, Madame
de Cassin, if we include the gentlemen and Li’l Lucy? Have you ever sat at
séance, Mr. Watkins?” she says, taking his arm. “Mariah! Bring us the sherry.”
*
* *
Jessie’s
sitting room is a small inner chamber with no windows, one door, and one
low-burning brass gaslamp left unpolished so that a dark green patina has mottled
the metal. The walls are heavily draped in black velvet. Even on this sunny
day, the sitting room broods untouched by any natural light. A large round wooden
table stands at the chamber’s center, surrounded by eight plain wooden chairs.
A single brass candlestick holding a squat black candle thick with wax
drippings juts up from the table’s center.
Li’l
Lucy busily rearranges five of the chairs around the table, scraping three
chairs into a corner of the room. Mariah lights the black candle, holds the
match to incense burners slung on brass chains mounted on the wall among the folds
of black velvet. The room is heavy with the scent of lavender oil and incense
and candlewax.
Yes!
Just the way Jessie likes it.
Next
Mariah sets out
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