The Other Side - J. D. Robb [81]
“Sensitive how?” Lucien asked irritably.
“In the psychic sense. She has a way of—of knowing things in advance. It’s quite extraordinary. Not like a fortune-teller, but just ...”
“A special sensitivity to the metaphysical?” Mrs. Grimmett guessed. “She sounds perfect. But what do you think, Mr. Cleland?”
“Hm.” Henry pulled on an imaginary beard. “The only absolute requirements for séance participants are mental stability and an open mind. Beyond that, you want as many diverse temperaments as possible, positive and negative, male and female, so forth and so on, in order to form a battery, as it were, on the principles of electricity, or galvanism, so that the magnetic spheres emanating from the circle may empower the spirits.”
So it was decided. Angie’s landlady, who read tea leaves for a hobby, would be their ninth.
Nine
“You were wonderful.”
“No, you were wonderful.”
“You were.”
“Definitely you.”
Angie sighed, sinking back against the stiff horsehair cushion of her cousin’s closed buggy. “All right, we were both wonderful. Also splendid and brilliant and crafty and clever. Especially you.” A passing streetlamp lit Henry’s face long enough for her to see his smile—a lovely thing, and she was falling into the habit of trying to provoke it. “I’m beginning to understand,” she said, “the appeal of your profession.”
“That’s because it’s not your profession,” he said, and in the darkness she could tell he wasn’t smiling at all.
A silent moment passed. She said, “Then why—”
“Your cousin doesn’t have much use for me, does he? He looks at me with a lot of loathing.”
Henry sidetracked certain subjects so regularly, she was getting used to it. “My grandfather used to call him the white sheep of the family, and he didn’t mean it as a compliment. I think Lucien probably does loathe you, because you’re everything he isn’t.”
Henry turned his whole body to face her. “That’s absurd.” His incredulity was real, and it made her like him even more.
“Oh, Henry. Nobody likes Lucien. Everybody likes you.”
“That can’t possibly be true.”
“It is true. He’s homely and plain, you’re—not. He’s stiff and uncomfortable, not just with other people but with himself, and you . . . you’re the sort of man people want to be around, because you seem so at ease with yourself.”
“I do?”
She laughed. “Don’t you know it?”
“No. I suppose that might’ve been true once, but . . . ” He shifted to face forward again. As the buggy turned a corner, she was vividly aware of the part of her thigh that pressed against his. He, she was sure, didn’t even notice.
“What changed?” she asked when he didn’t continue.
“Life. Circumstances.” He shook his head. “Anyway, thank you for the compliment.”
“It wasn’t a comp—”
“Do you think we can be ready for the séance by Thursday? I can tell Mrs. Grimmett something about the moon if we need more time—it needs to be full, it needs to be new.”
“No, because the longer we wait, the longer it gives Lucien to find a buyer for the house. I’m afraid to delay.”
“Then we’ll just have to work quickly.”
“Yes. Even if we don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t. One thing I don’t understand, Henry. If everyone’s holding hands around a table, how can we play any tricks? Our hands will be tied—literally!”
“Don’t worry. It can be done.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you—I can make smoke.”
“You what?”
“It looks like fog or haze. Very ghostly. Nothing to it, you just mix glycerine and distilled water in a ratio of about thirty to seventy.”
The buggy had stopped in front of Mrs. Mortimer’s. Henry didn’t move, though, so Angie didn’t either. “You are,” he said, and stopped. “You are the most . . . ” She thought it would be another of their jokes—You were great; No, you were great—but his voice changed. “Angiolina Darlington, you are . . . the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.” His eyes, glowing with warmth, seemed to see nothing but her. He leaned nearer.
He was going