Not natural, Violet thought with anger. Mothers shouldn’t lose their children. She thought about Daniel, and pictured the bleak look in his father’s eyes when the news was brought to him.
Violet forced herself to turn from the edge of the stage and continue. “Countess?”
“Yes.” Celine lifted a handkerchief to dab away real tears of sympathy. “I will find him.”
The hall went quiet. Celine closed her eyes, rested her hands on her lap, and went into her trance.
Violet watched her closely, ready to assist at any sign of illness or faintness. Sometimes her mother could render herself unconscious—once, she’d fallen from her chair and struck her head before Violet could catch her, and had bled profusely.
“The veil,” her mother murmured, her breath coming rapidly. “It is parting. I see light, I see . . . ah.”
Celine trailed off. When she spoke again, her voice took on a high-pitched, childlike tone—her spirit guide, Adelaide, a Parisian child of ten. “Do not worry, Madame. I will find him. He is here, and so lonely.”
The mother’s cry rang out from the audience. The young woman sitting next to her—a stranger from the way she’d kept herself as distant as the seats allowed—now patted the woman’s arm comfortingly.
Celine spoke again. This time, her voice was deep, the Russian accent gone, her French flawless, but provincial. From the coast, in a town not far from here, Violet guessed.
“Maman, are you there?”
The woman sprang to her feet, handkerchief clutched to her breast. “Jules? Jules, is it you?”
Celine remained silent until Violet turned and said to Celine in her halting accent, “She wishes to know whether this is her son.”
“Maman,” came the answer in relief, spoken through Celine’s mouth. “I am here, Maman. Do not cry, I beg of you.”
“You are all right? She said you were lonely.”
Violet conveyed the question, and Celine answered. “Lonely for you, Maman. I am worried for you, now that you are alone.”
“I am fine. Really, my darling. I have my friends, and they care for me. But what about you? I can’t bear thinking of you, lying alone . . .”
“The form in the grave is but clay. I have left it far behind and crossed over. Papa is here, and little . . . little . . .”
“Brigitte? Brigitte is with you?”
The hope in the woman’s voice broke Violet’s heart. Celine, she knew, would firmly believe she spoke to the dead soldier called Jules, but Celine was also using the trick—whether consciously or not—of getting the client to supply information they didn’t have.
“Yes, Brigitte is here. She misses you.”
“And I miss her. Tell her that her maman misses her so much. And you, Jules. But you are happy, that is good. One day we will all be together.”
Statements like this always worried Violet, but the woman looked healthy and possibly was too staunch a Catholic to contemplate suicide. She also looked very relieved to learn that her family was all together in the afterlife. If they were taking care of one another, she wouldn’t have to worry about them.
“I must go, Maman. The veil is thin. You have my love . . . my love.” The voice drifted away, and the childlike voice returned. “He has gone.”
The woman sat down, tears on her face. The young woman next to her, less of a stranger now, put her arm around the woman’s shoulders.
The crowd was more eager now to petition Celine to contact those dear to them. Violet sifted through the requests, granting one to a man who needed to apologize to his sister, another to a scared-looking young woman who asked her mother whether she should stay with her stepfather who beat her. The first man’s sister accepted the apology with gracefulness. The second woman’s mother, when contacted, agreed that the stepfather had always been a brute, and the young woman was not obligated to live with him.
The audience grew more excited, happier with every person able to speak to their loved ones and learn answers.
They needed this, Violet had realized long ago. Religious leaders or social rules could not let some people find comfort or relieve guilt, and so they came to Violet’s mother, who gave them what they sought. Celine congratulated herself on her gift, and Violet had long ago decided to go along with it. Violet might not believe, but her mother did, and so did all these people. If Celine could relieve their pain, who was Violet to stand in the way?
Remain detached, Jacobi had always said. You are the messenger, the conduit, not their mentor or friend.
Well, Jacobi had known all about detachment, hadn’t he?
Violet shivered. She gave the signal for Mary to let down the rigging high above the stage, which they’d set into place beforehand. Violet always prepared little phosphorus-coated balls to dance on strings above her mother or above the seats if the proceedings lagged a bit. She didn’t need to as much tonight, but the tangible evidence of the “veil” never ceased to delight.
As Mary let down the cascade of balls on their wires, heads swiveled upward, people pointed, and some even applauded. The questions had died down, but now a new voice broke through, in English, but with the accent of the Highland Scots.
“So, tell me, Mademoiselle,” the man said, his words tinged with a hint of laughter. “Do ye believe in ghosts?”
Chapter 8
Daniel Mackenzie stood on the floor just below the stage, upright, whole, and definitely not dead.
His gaze pinned Violet into place, and though he didn’t smile, the twinkle in his dark amber eyes held impudence. He wore a suit similar to the one he’d had on the night she’d met him—black coat, ivory waistcoat, Mackenzie plaid kilt. His hair was neatly combed, his face newly shaved, his gloves in place. Violet couldn’t help thinking he’d looked better disheveled, with his hair sticking out and his strong hands uncovered.
Violet realized several frozen heartbeats of silence had gone by, and the audience, Daniel, and her mother awaited her answer.
Her returning breath nearly choked her. “When the veil parts,” she said hoarsely, remembering at the last moment to speak French with a Russian accent, “all manner of things may come through.”
The audience murmured their agreement. Daniel regarded Violet with eyes full of mischief, the sparkle in them rivaling the brightest of the glowing balls above them.
“Ye don’t say. I couldn’t ask a question of me dear old mum, could I? Gone these twenty-four years or so?”