As Deschamps and I gained the top of the stairs, Rachel's smile faded into a look of concern.

"Alec, what's wrong? You look... Well, forgive me for saying so, but you look as if you've seen a ghost."

I waved dismissively and shook my head. "I just need to catch my breath."

This was true, mostly.

"You are too cruel, Paul," Rachel said, only half teasingly as she rested a hand on my elbow. "Making the poor dear climb all those stairs."

"I'm alright, really," I said, forcing a smile even as I gritted my teeth. If there was anything I hated more than my 'fragility,' it was being pitied for it.

"Alec is tougher than he looks," Paul said, giving me a hearty clap on the back. "He's proven it often enough."

"Toughness is irrelevant," Lucy Bowman, of the hawklike nose, interposed. "Why, last year I was with Harold at one of his dreadful races. The favorite started well ahead of the others, but dropped dead in the second half. The jockey was lucky not to break his neck. Poor beast's heart simply failed — and he'd been given a clean bill only the day before. Healthy as a horse, indeed!"

"My oldest brother is a doctor," Margaret Lancaster volunteered eagerly. "He says such things can strike like lightning."

"All the more reason to take better care of our friends," Rachel said, casting me a fond smile and linking her arm through mine. "As much fun as a séance can be, I prefer the living, most of the time."

Paul opened the door to the sitting room and held it for us as we entered.

Miss Lancaster giggled girlishly. She'd had at least three glasses of champagne, and her cheeks glowed with color. "What a thought: a medium contacting the ghost of another medium — imagine!"

She laughed as if illness and death were things that only happened to other people.

Rachel cast me another sympathetic glance as we all took our seats around the table.

Once the banter had died down, I drew a breath, settled into my role, and addressed my audience.

"Today we hope to gaze across the veil," I said, in a properly somber tone, and lit the beeswax tapers to set the mood as Paul turned down the lights. "But a day shall come when each of us must cross it, and mediums are no exception to this rule."

Henri Deschamps arched a brow as he straightened his shirt cuffs, his posture impeccable.

"All the more reason not to make a spectacle of loss," he said.

"Between spectacle and ceremony there is a fine line," I countered mildly.

Deschamps merely sniffed.

Paul switched off the last electric lamp, leaving us with only the candles' glow; I lit the incense from a flame and set it in its stand.

I took a deep breath and extended my hands to Rachel and Miss Lancaster, who sat to my right and left. "Everyone, please join hands and shut your eyes. Let us begin."

After a suitable stretch of silence, I spoke in a hushed voice, mimicking the tone Eddie used to employ to great effect.

"We call upon the spirits, opening ourselves to receive their messages. We invite you, spirits, to enter our circle and speak with us."

I waited again, letting the silence settle like dust. When the creak of a chair told me the others grew impatient, I gently squeezed my companions' hands.

"If there is a spirit here, please give us a sign."

Silence.

I waited until the others' slight restlessness revealed the edge of boredom and unease before I repeated the call.

"Spirits, if you wish to speak, we are here to listen. Please give us a sign of your presence."

Nothing happened.

Rachel leaned towards me, undoubtedly to offer some kind excuse for my failure, when three sharp raps sounded from the center of the table.

Miss Lancaster gasped.

I let a warble creep into my tone, as if I experienced the same excitement. "Spirit, you are welcome. Will you speak?"

The candles guttered in a breath of air. Rachel's grip tightened on my hand, and I smiled inwardly. Eddie would be glad to know I hadn't lost my touch.

"I am sensing a presence," I murmured, furrowing my brow. "An older gentleman, with a mustache and... and a cane."

"That's my uncle Charles!" Miss Lancaster exclaimed. "Why, it sounds just like him!"

"He's saying something about... a beloved pet," I continued. "A dog, or..."

"A cat! Uncle Charlie did so love his cats. He wanted to be buried with them, like the Egyptian pharaohs!"

The scent of pipe tobacco infused the air. Miss Lancaster gasped.

"Oh, my word! Do you smell that? It's his very brand!"

"He has a message for you," I said slowly, as if in a deep trance. "He wishes for you to know how much he appreciated it when... when you would always..." I shook my head. "I can't quite..."

Miss Lancaster began to cry. "I would always bring him a treat for his Molly — his favorite cat — whenever we visited. Father said it was silly, and probably not good for her, but she did so love tinned fish..."

I nodded. "Yes, that's it. He's very contented now, and... he's got her with him."

"Oh! Oh, how wonderful! What else does he say?" Miss Lancaster gripped my hand eagerly.

The drapes moved in a slight breeze.

"Ah — there he goes... He is gone now." I sighed and slumped forward, as if in a half-faint.

Paul switched on the light, and Rachel touched my shoulder. "Alec? Alec are you alright?"

I let them fuss a moment longer, and then sat up, the show at an end. "Perfectly. Shall I reveal my secrets now?"

Miss Lancaster dabbed at her eyes and sniffed. "I know you told us it would be a trick, but I don't see how! My uncle... it felt as if I really spoke with him now. And how could you know how he looked, much less about his cats?"

"I didn't," I said, smiling. "You told me everything. I suggested an older man with a mustache and a cane. There are a million such men, but your mind jumped to one you knew — your uncle. I then teased out the detail of a pet. That was a bit of luck; I was fishing, but you took the bait and told me of his cats. Then, given that you seemed to remember him fondly, I suggested his gratitude, and you supplied the rest."

"But what about the rapping, and the breezes, and the smell of tobacco smoke?" Rachel asked.

"Simple tricks of the trade." I showed how I could extend my leg and tap the toe of my shoe on the underside of the table. "The breezes were a carefully directed breath upon the candle and a chance gust of air through an open window. As for the tobacco smoke..." I extinguished a candle and held it out for Rachel to inspect. "There are bits of things embedded in the wax. It's mostly chance what you'll get, but the tobacco worked perfectly this time."

"All tricks!" Margaret Lancaster shook her head as if dazed. "And yet, still I feel so strongly as if Uncle Charlie were really here."

"I agree," Henri Deschamps announced suddenly. "The problem, as I see it, is not so much that Mr. Monroe cannot summon spirits, but rather that he does not know how to listen when they speak."

"And I suppose you do?" I challenged.

He nodded slowly. "Indeed. Is it so difficult to believe that there are those who hear what others cannot?"

A tingle of alarm crept over my scalp. Paul was the only man alive who knew about my gift. It made no sense that he'd reveal it to Deschamps, whom he meant to target.

"Prove it, then," said Paul, eyeing Deschamps as if sizing up a rival. "You say you're a medium — so prove it."

Deschamps shook his head and rose. "No. I do not give performances. If I have a message to pass along, I do so in private, with respect for both the living and the dead. If you will excuse me." He bowed politely and exited the room.

In the awkward silence he left in his wake, humiliation burned my soul, as if he'd caught me in some shameful crime. And yet it was to combat exactly that sort of chicanery that Eddie had always revealed his illusions.

"Genuine mediums may exist," he'd said. "But for every authentic, well-intentioned man or woman, there are a thousand waiting to relieve the grieving of their wages with a sale of false hope."

"Never mind him, old boy," Paul said dismissively, coming around the table to set a hand on my shoulder. "We all enjoyed the demonstration, and there's no harm done."

"None at all," Miss Lancaster assured me warmly. "In fact, I think the Frenchman is right, in a way. I think you really did summon my uncle. I felt his presence, truly — right here."

She beamed at me and rested her hand above her heart, inadvertently inviting my gaze to her bosom. Too late, I understood this as flirtation, and blushed furiously as I turned away.

Paul clapped his hands beside my ear, startling me. "Well, what do you all say to a game of cards? We're too many for bridge, but we could play a few hands of auction."

"I ought to find Harold," Lucy said, rising from her seat and adjusting her stole. "Make sure he hasn't drunk the house dry. Thank you for the séance, Mr. Monroe. It was... enlightening."

She smiled as warmly as she ever did. Few people proved worthy of Lucy Bowman's approval. She'd only bestowed it upon me after I'd painted her portrait and made her nose resemble that of a Roman goddess more than a fairytale witch.

"Bridge, then?" Paul asked once she'd excused herself.

I wanted almost nothing less, but would be a boor to refuse. Paul helped me gather my séance materials and pack them into my valise while the women laid out the cards.

"Well?" he asked, leaning close as I rolled up the candles in paper. "What did you get?"

I shook my head. "Later."

Though impatient, he knew this was not the time, and let it lie.

We played a rubber — Miss Lancaster and I against Rachel and Paul — which went faster for the fact I meant to lose, and then rejoined the party downstairs.

By then it was past eleven, but despite the late hour, the guests still laughed and danced; the orchestra played on. Paul took Rachel by the arm and began to circulate. Miss Lancaster hovered at the edge of the dance floor hopefully, but before she could catch my eye, I took my valise and slipped away. I had fulfilled my obligations.

As I gathered my hat and coat in the vestibule, Henri Deschamps stepped from the shadows like an apparition and blocked my path.

"Mr. Monroe. I would like to speak with you, please."

"So you can accuse me of further corrupting the public good?" I smiled slightly to allay offense.

"Not at all. I have a message to relay."

I turned away from him and shrugged into my coat. "You're wasting your time with me. If you want to gain a convert, speak to Miss Durham or Miss Lancaster. Even Mr. Barrington, I think, might make a better mark."

"This is not for them."

The earnest solemnity in his tone gave me pause, and I turned again to look at him. He moved closer, and I resisted the instinct to retreat. I had the door at my back, and one step would put me against it.

"You are in danger, Mr. Monroe," he said softly, "in grave peril, in fact."

I exhaled a laugh, surprised he would stoop to such theatrics, yet unexpectedly relieved. "Is that it? You think me a rival and hope to scare me off. Well, you have nothing to fear. I don't practice illusions anymore, and certainly not for profit. Tonight was an exception for a friend."

I made to turn once more, but he set a hand on my arm and gripped it firmly — a very forward gesture that caused me considerably more alarm than his words.

"Thomas," he whispered, leaning closer. "What does this name mean to you?"

Dry-mouthed, I could not answer and merely stared at him in shock. He glanced over his shoulder. We were alone, but likely not for long.

"I know you have a gift. We are alike," he said. "Call on me tomorrow, and I will explain." He took a card from his pocket and slipped it into my hand. Then he strode away, leaving me alone and deeply shaken.

There were only two explanations I could fathom: either Paul had told Deschamps my dearest secrets, or Deschamps was the real thing.