It was a little after noon on Saturday when the doorbell rang. The harsh brinnnng! of the buzzer shattered my concentration, and I set my brush aside, rising stiffly from the stool before my easel.

My breakfast of toast and coffee, cold for hours now, sat untouched on the side table. Once I got into my rhythm, little less than a klaxon — for which the ringer made a good stand-in — could break the spell.

Stretching the soreness from my shoulders, I wiped the paint from my fingers with linseed oil and a rag and made my way downstairs to the front door.

A delivery man from the local steam laundry stood on the other side, huddled beneath the meager shelter of the stoop. Curtains of gray, misting rain fell steadily across the city; traffic crawled along slick streets, and the whistles of passing trains sounded especially forlorn. Spring did not arrive in Philadelphia so much as it crept shivering from beneath winter's shadow. Perfect weather for a séance.

I took the parcel containing my clean clothes, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with string, and slipped the man a penny for the Saturday delivery and the rain. He tipped his hat and trotted off down the steps and along the street, out of sight. I shut the door against the inclement weather and took the parcel up to my room.

Usually, I sent my soiled things to a local washerwoman once a week, but knowing I'd be the poorest man at Paul's party, I'd brought my suit and best shirt to the laundry only yesterday, paying extra for quick service. It was an extravagance out of character for me, but worth it for the small measure of confidence that a crisp collar and a freshly pressed shirt could give a man.

That was something Eddie had taught me.

My gaze shifted to the framed portraits on my dressing table, where my brother, dashing in his uniform, smiled back at me from a sepia-toned photograph. After our mother left and our father, heart-broken and humiliated, abandoned us for the long-faded lure of gold in Alaska, Eddie had raised me with a steady, if whimsical, hand.

The one good thing our father had done, and the surest sign he meant never to return, was to leave Eddie the deed to the house. A small, three-story affair in a working-class neighborhood, it made up in charm what it lacked in style, and no amount of money could replace the memories it held. In some ways, it appeared to be merely waiting for its other residents to return.

I hadn't touched Eddie's room since he'd left for the trenches in France, and our mother's presence lingered in lace-hemmed curtains and delicate embroidery. Father's drawing table and architect's instruments still waited for him in the attic, along with Eddie's piano tuning kit. Our illusionist's paraphernalia was up there, too, and that was where I headed next.

Eddie's perfect pitch had landed him an apprenticeship with a local tuner at fourteen, and by twenty — when Father left — he had a steady business of his own. But it was the tricks he lived for.

Pianos let him into the houses of the rich; parlor magic got him invited back. He'd taught me everything I knew about illusions, and let me assist him when I wasn't at school.

I paused at the top of the steps to catch my breath. I didn't come up here often, and dust lay thick on every surface.

The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I went to the old sea trunk in the corner and knelt to unlatch the brass clasps on the lid.

The trunk opened its maw and exhaled memories. Eddie's citrusy eau de Cologne still infused the short, silk-lined black cape he'd wear for performances, and the long beeswax candles, carefully wrapped in paper and stored in a wooden box, gave off a faint scent of honey. The special incense Eddie had bought from a Chinese merchant still smelled of sandalwood — soft, warm, and vaguely mysterious.

When I'd asked him why we couldn't use frankincense, which was cheaper and easier to come by, he'd winked and pulled two coins from his pocket. One was a common penny, the other a Chinese coin with a square hole in the center.

"Which would you rather have?" he'd asked.

I pointed to the Chinese coin. "That one."

"Why? It's not good for anything here. With the penny, you could buy yourself some sweets."

"But the other is more interesting," I'd said.

He'd flicked it to me with his thumb, and I'd caught it clumsily.

"Exactly. Frankincense is common. Boring. It smells of church: funerals and finality. This other is something different — the unfamiliar; the ancient and mysterious. It invites belief."

That, Eddie said, was what a medium really did: not invite the spirits to speak, but invite the living to believe they could.

I took out the spirit writing slate, the candles, incense, and cards, but left the cape. Dressing up had never been my style. As I shut the trunk and turned to go, a white shape in the corner caught my eye.

I went over and lifted the dust cloth covering the canvas, then let it fall again without looking at what lay beneath.

There were too many ghosts in this house, and I didn't need a séance to summon them.

***

Later, I stepped out into a dreary evening, umbrella and the small leather valise containing my illusionist's accoutrements in hand, and locked the door of the narrow rowhouse behind me.

The wind had shifted, and along with the usual hints of coal smoke and refuse, carried the faint stink of animals and wet hay from the zoological gardens on the opposite side of the street.

Careful not to stand too close to the curb, I waited at the nearest stop and boarded a streetcar for Rittenhouse Square.

The closer one got, the finer the dwellings became, until one reached the likes of Paul's grand brownstone townhouse and mansions that stood unattached.

Stepping from the relative warmth of the streetcar onto the cold sidewalk, I breathed clean air scented with new money.

Paul's father had been rich enough to begin with, but made a true fortune in steel during the war. Paul had come into his inheritance early, via a trust, and made the most of it.

He lived alone in a house that spanned four stories, where he employed a cook, two housemaids, and a valet.

I was early, as Paul had asked me to be, and the curb along the block remained empty of the automobiles that would soon line it. The younger of his maids — recently hired in preparation of his wedding — answered the door and took my coat and hat.

"Mr. Barrington is upstairs in the library," she said with a light Irish accent. "He's expecting you, sir."

"Thank you, Miss," I said with a fleeting smile, and went up the stairs.

Nerves made me short of breath, and I paused on the first landing, pretending to admire the crystal chandelier hanging above the center of the entry hall as I waited for my heart to catch its beat before continuing. At the top, the door of the library stood ajar in welcome, and I announced myself with a light knock.

Paul stood by a window overlooking the street. He wore a fitted gray suit in the latest fashion, and flashy two-toned shoes. His blond hair shone slick with pomade, and a gold ring gleamed on his hand.

He turned and grinned at the sight of me, walked to meet me in the center of the room, and leaned in to kiss my cheek in the continental style, which he liked to imitate.

"You look splendid, old boy," he said, straightening my collar. "Top notch."

I brushed aside the compliment, knowing I did not. The suit I wore had been Eddie's, and though I'd had it tailored to fit my smaller frame, there was no disguising it was out of date.

"I'm serious, you know," he said, as he led me into the inner study and shut the door. "I wish you'd paint yourself as Thomas always wanted you to do. I'd hang your portrait right there and stare at it all day."

He gestured at the wall. Upon my last visit, it had displayed a rather daring Matisse, but now was blank.

"Are you redecorating?" I asked, ignoring his comment. He was the only person besides myself who knew exactly what Thomas had requested.

Paul unstopped a crystal decanter and poured a finger of brandy into a matching glass. He handed this to me and poured himself twice as much into another.

"No. I sold it."

"I thought you were collecting," I said, surprised. Paul purchased things; he did not sell them.

"I needed the money."

I laughed at that. The thought of Paul needing money was akin to Midas needing gold.

He met my gaze, and the lack of humor in his eyes sobered me.

"You're serious."

He nodded. "I bet on the wrong horse, and what with the wedding and all, I didn't have the cash in hand to cover my debt." He gestured at the blank wall. "The market was still hot for that piece. I decided I didn't like it after all and offered it to the man I'd outbid for it."

I swallowed a sip of brandy, letting its burn excuse my uneasy silence. Paul and I had shared more than most men ever did, but he'd always kept the subject of money close to his chest. That he spoke so frankly now unnerved me.

"You're wondering why I'm telling you this," he said knowingly, resting his hip against the sideboard and crossing his arms. "I confess: I've a much larger debt to pay, and people will notice if I sell off half my things to cover it. If Rachel's father gets wind of it, he'll call off the wedding, and I'll be ruined. I just need a little to get by until I can free up some capital."

I stared at him, nonplussed. "Paul, I'd lend you my last penny if I had one to spare, but—"

"No, no." He waved a hand, cutting me off. "I'm not asking you for money, my dear. I'm explaining why I need your help to get Henri Deschamps's. He's the perfect mark: filthy rich, precariously pedigreed, and a dreadful fraud. I just need you to uncover his secret so he can pay me to keep it for him."

"Blackmail?" I took a step back, horrified.

Paul regarded me coolly. "He claims he's the real thing, Alec. He says he can speak with the dead. Surely you've as much interest as I have in... well, if not exposing him, then in preventing him from perpetuating a lie."

"That is one thing; buying silence is another," I argued with hushed vehemence.

We were alone in his study; no other guests had yet arrived, and preparations for the party had his servants occupied, but this was a dangerous conversation, best held in whispers.

"Just wait until you meet him," Paul said. "I think you'll see my point. Besides, this is in your interest as well; if I am ruined, you might as well be ruined, too."

The quiet threat, spoken softly, almost with affection, sent a chill through my veins.

Seeing my expression, Paul set down his drink and came to me, taking my shoulders in a gentle grasp.

"I would never expose you, Alec," he said. "But people have seen us together; I've brought you to my club, perhaps more often than is proper; I've introduced you; gotten you commissions. It's a matter of association, and scandal is a stain that won't wash out. Help me do this. It's not blackmail. It is self-preservation."

Distantly, the doorbell chimed, announcing that the first of the guests had arrived. We were out of time.

"Well?" Paul's eyes flicked between mine.

Caught in his trap, and with no way out but through, I nodded my reluctant assent.