"That crystal ball allows her to make contact with the spirits of the dead," Mademoiselle LeFarge whispers to us as she reads her program. A gentleman behind us overhears our whisperings and bows his head to Mademoiselle LeFarge.
"I am compelled to tell you, my good lady, that this is all sleight of hand. Magician's trickery."
"Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken." Martha jumps in. "Mademoiselle LeFarge has seen Madame Romanoff speak in a trance state."
"You have?" Pippa asks, wide-eyed.
"I have heard about her gifts from a cousin who is very close to a dear friend of the sister-in- law of Lady Dorchester," Mademoiselle LeFarge asserts. "She is a truly remarkable medium."
The gentleman smiles. His smile is kind and warm, like Mademoiselle LeFarge. It's a pity she's engaged, for I like this nice man and think he'd make a very lovely husband.
"I'm afraid, dear lady, dear mademoiselle ," he says, drawing out the word, "that you have been deceived. Spiritualism is no more a science than thievery. For that's all this isvery skilled dodgers stealing money from the bereaved for a little glint of hope. People see what they want to see when they need to."
My heart is squeezed tight in my chest. Is it possible that I see my mother, my visions, only because I want or need to? Could grief's hold be that strong? And yet, the scrap of cloth. I can only hope I'll know something for certain by night's end.
Mademoiselle LeFarge's mouth is a thin line. "You are mistaken, sir."
"I've upset you. My apologies. Inspector Kent of Scotland Yard." He hands her an embossed calling card, which she refuses to accept. Calmly, he places it back inside his breast pocket. "You've come, no doubt, to contact a loved one? A brother or dear departed cousin?" He's fishing but Mademoiselle LeFarge can't see that he's interested in more than her preoccupation with the occult.
"I am simply here as an observer of the science, and as a chaperone to my charges. And now, if you'll excuse us, it would seem the seance is about to begin."
Men rush along the sides of the room, dimming the lights to a hazy gas glow. They wear high-collared black shirts and sashes of deep red around their waists. A handsome woman in long, flowing robes of forest green takes the stage. Her eyes are rimmed with the blackest kohl and she wears a turban with a single peacock feather. Madame Romanoff. She closes her eyes and lifts a hand over the audience as if feeling us. When she reaches the left side of the grand room, she opens her eyes and focuses on a heavyset man in the second row.