Whispers Beyond the Veil by Jessica Estevao

matter, miss?” she asked.
    â€œI’m going out for a walk and remembered my parasol was all the way on the third floor. If anyone asks for me, please tell them I’ve gone to see the beach.” I gathered what I needed and slipped back down the servants’ stairs without being seen.

C HAPTER N INE

    D espite the troubles of the day, it was impossible not to be distracted from them by the sights and sounds of the sea. Sunlight bounced off the waves and the gulls swooped down from above as if they wished to steal the flowers from the ladies’ hats. Small boys raced up and down the boardwalk, weaving between the adults, garnering scoldings for their unruliness.
    Up ahead, the pier, still under construction, stretched out like a steel leviathan whose tail had been anchored to the beach. Yesterday, I had only had a hurried glimpse of it as Officer Yancey escorted me to the Belden. I was eager to take a closer look. Indeed, all along the beach, strollers were drawn to the imposing structure. A large crowd had assembled as close as was safe, and I was as curious as the rest. Clanging and hammering echoed from where men stood atop the pier, fastening bolts and attaching beams.
    I watched the work for a few moments before continuing on. I slowed as I passed a sign advertising tintypes and souvenir photographs. The scent of hot roasted peanuts and buttered popcornwafted toward me from a cart, its metal wheels half buried in the sand near the foot of the Sea Shore House.
    As I moved along the hard-packed sand my mind returned to the problem of Flora Roberts. The obvious solution was to tell my aunt I, too, was a medium. Since Honoria had hoped that I had inherited some sort of mediumistic ability from my mother she would be easy enough to convince. The real test would be with the clients. Surely most of them would have far greater experience with such matters than I.
    All my life I had known people who were believers in the possibility of communication with the dead. Spiritualism was a popular movement in Canada and abroad. Even Arthur Conan Doyle, whose latest works I devoured as soon as they were released, made no secret of being an ardent believer in such things.
    But even more troubling than whether or not I could pull off the deception was if I should even attempt it. Was deceiving spiritual seekers any different from deceiving people who looked for miraculous cures for their physical ailments? Was it even more reprehensible to prey on grief than on faint hopes for the future? Would it be best to ignore the voice and leave the Belden and Honoria’s problems far behind? After all, it would be selfish of me to stay with Honoria if she lost the hotel. I would only be a burden to her, and over time I felt sure she would grow to resent me.
    Carnival people are a superstitious lot whether they work the sideshows, the fairs, or the snake oil circuit.
Please
, I pleaded silently,
just give me a sign
.
A symbol, something to tell me if I should cast my fate in with Honoria and stay or if I should cut my losses and run.
And then, just as if something otherworldly had heard me, as I approached the Fiske Hotel, a bit of bright red material,propelled by a gust of wind, careened down the beach toward me. I bent to pick it up and realized it was a kerchief. A sturdy woman hurried up to me, a look of relief upon her face.
    â€œIs this yours?” I asked, extending the scarf to her.
    â€œYes. Thank you for stopping it.” The woman’s voice came in pants. “I’ve chased it halfway down the beach.” She paused and dragged a deep breath into her lungs. I was intrigued by her appearance.
    Her shirtwaist was white but around her shoulders she wore a vividly violet shawl trimmed with brass-colored disks that tinkled and jingled as the sea breeze tickled them. Her skin was darker by far than mine and her hair was black with a few streaks of silver. Fastened to a sash tied at her waist hung a pouch that