heightened her senses. The cat-woman goddess was covered with layer upon layer of hot, seething energy. “I can still see glimpses of the prints of the sculptor who made that figure and those of the priest who put it into the burial chamber. I can see the prints of the tomb thieves who stole it and those of the obsessive collectors who have handled it over the years.”
“How can you distinguish the prints of so many different individuals?”
“I can’t, at least not with any great precision,” Beatrice said. “That’s the problem with old objects and old houses like this one. Over the years, the layers of energy set down by people form a dark fog that is . . . unsettling to view for any length of time.” She shut down her senses. “I can catch glimpses of the various patterns but not complete prints. My talent is only accurate when I am viewing more recent tracks—those that were laid down in the past several months are usually the sharpest and most distinct. Beyond that things get murky fast.”
Hannah rose and crossed the room to close the door to the connecting chamber. She returned to the chair and sat down. She gripped the arm of the chair very tightly with one hand.
“When I booked those private consultations with you at Dr. Fleming’s Academy, you saw the truth in my psychical prints,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly firm and steady but her underlying tension vibrated in every word. “You said my nerves were badly frayed and that I must find a way to calm my inner agitation. You said my anxiety was based on some underlying fear.”
“You knew all those things before you came to see me,” Beatrice said gently. “It’s why you came to see me.”
“Yes, of course. You suggested that I identify the source of the fear and confront it. You indicated that if I did not do so, the anxiety would continue to gnaw at my insides. I tried to do as you said but I could not find any peace. And now this damned blackmail threat has made everything so much worse. My growing dread makes sleep almost impossible.”
Beatrice opened her senses again and examined Hannah’s prints on the floor. Some of the currents were feverishly hot. “I can see that your nerves are certainly more strained now than they were when you requested the consultations. That is only to be expected, given what you are going through.”
Hannah’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. She got to her feet and went to stand at the window. “Nothing like blackmail to bring on a case of shattered nerves.”
“I hesitate to inquire,” Beatrice said carefully, “but the answer might be important. You have said nothing about the nature of the secret that has left you vulnerable to an extortion attempt. It is certainly none of my business. But do you think there is any possibility that your secret is in any way connected to the anxiety that brought you to me all those months ago?”
“No, at least not that I can see. My secret is linked to the past of a dear friend of mine, not to my own past. She was involved in a dreadful marriage. Her husband abused her terribly. He died—and not a moment too soon, I might add—under what some might call suspicious circumstances.”
“Oh, I see,” Beatrice said. “In other words, your friend assisted her husband along to the next world.”
Hannah turned around. Her eyes were stark. “It was a bit more complicated than that.”
Understanding struck.
“You were involved?” Beatrice said.
“In a manner of speaking. I will tell you the whole story. It is only right that you know my secret.”
“There is no need—”
But Hannah was already talking. Her voice was clipped and tense. It was as if she needed to get the story out quickly.
“One night my friend appeared at my garden door,” she said. “She was bruised and bleeding. Her husband had beaten her unmercifully. Nelson was away at school. My housekeeper and I were alone in the house. Together we got my friend into the kitchen.
“How can you distinguish the prints of so many different individuals?”
“I can’t, at least not with any great precision,” Beatrice said. “That’s the problem with old objects and old houses like this one. Over the years, the layers of energy set down by people form a dark fog that is . . . unsettling to view for any length of time.” She shut down her senses. “I can catch glimpses of the various patterns but not complete prints. My talent is only accurate when I am viewing more recent tracks—those that were laid down in the past several months are usually the sharpest and most distinct. Beyond that things get murky fast.”
Hannah rose and crossed the room to close the door to the connecting chamber. She returned to the chair and sat down. She gripped the arm of the chair very tightly with one hand.
“When I booked those private consultations with you at Dr. Fleming’s Academy, you saw the truth in my psychical prints,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly firm and steady but her underlying tension vibrated in every word. “You said my nerves were badly frayed and that I must find a way to calm my inner agitation. You said my anxiety was based on some underlying fear.”
“You knew all those things before you came to see me,” Beatrice said gently. “It’s why you came to see me.”
“Yes, of course. You suggested that I identify the source of the fear and confront it. You indicated that if I did not do so, the anxiety would continue to gnaw at my insides. I tried to do as you said but I could not find any peace. And now this damned blackmail threat has made everything so much worse. My growing dread makes sleep almost impossible.”
Beatrice opened her senses again and examined Hannah’s prints on the floor. Some of the currents were feverishly hot. “I can see that your nerves are certainly more strained now than they were when you requested the consultations. That is only to be expected, given what you are going through.”
Hannah’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. She got to her feet and went to stand at the window. “Nothing like blackmail to bring on a case of shattered nerves.”
“I hesitate to inquire,” Beatrice said carefully, “but the answer might be important. You have said nothing about the nature of the secret that has left you vulnerable to an extortion attempt. It is certainly none of my business. But do you think there is any possibility that your secret is in any way connected to the anxiety that brought you to me all those months ago?”
“No, at least not that I can see. My secret is linked to the past of a dear friend of mine, not to my own past. She was involved in a dreadful marriage. Her husband abused her terribly. He died—and not a moment too soon, I might add—under what some might call suspicious circumstances.”
“Oh, I see,” Beatrice said. “In other words, your friend assisted her husband along to the next world.”
Hannah turned around. Her eyes were stark. “It was a bit more complicated than that.”
Understanding struck.
“You were involved?” Beatrice said.
“In a manner of speaking. I will tell you the whole story. It is only right that you know my secret.”
“There is no need—”
But Hannah was already talking. Her voice was clipped and tense. It was as if she needed to get the story out quickly.
“One night my friend appeared at my garden door,” she said. “She was bruised and bleeding. Her husband had beaten her unmercifully. Nelson was away at school. My housekeeper and I were alone in the house. Together we got my friend into the kitchen.
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