Page 1 of Necromance
CHAPTER ONE
MIA ARDEN
1890
Most people didn’t come to my door unless they were desperate.
The sort of desperate that left them pale, twitchy, their voices hushed, their hands trembling as they reached for a cup of tea they wouldn’t drink. The kind that drove them to the edge of reason, to my doorstep, to the woman who spoke to the dead.
Lady Margaret Hathaway sat across from me, her back straight as a poker, a slight tremble in her hand, despite the thick wool shawl wrapped tightly around her frail frame. The candlelight flickered against her lined face and there was a weariness to her—a weight thatsettled in the corners of her mouth.
I poured myself a cup of tea slowly, letting the scent of bergamot and honey fill the small cottage. The rain outside pattered against the windows, a soft, insistent tapping, as if someone, or something was waiting to be let in.
I leaned back in my chair, one leg crossing over the other, the layers of my dark skirts pooling around me.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, filling the room with a warm, flickering glow, but it did little to chase away the chill that always seemed to settle around me.
“So,” I said, letting my voice remain light. “What can I do for you, Lady Hathaway?”
Her gaze flicked up, searching my face. She pressed her thin lips together as if considering her words. “I am told that you provide… certain services.”
I smiled against the rim of my cup. “I offer many services. Some say I host parlor tricks for the desperate widows and over indulgent lords. Others whisper that I consort with the dead.” I took a slow sip. “Both are true, of course.
A muscle in her jaw twitched. “I need you for the latter.”
I tilted my head, watching her carefully. I didn’t know Lady Hathaway well or at all truly, but what I did know of her certainly intrigued me now. I’d dealt with all kinds of customers. Grieving mothers who wished for one last word from a lost child, jilted lovers desperate forclosure, noblemen who had killed a rival in a duel and feared their ghosts would haunt them.
Some sought comfort. Others wanted control. Few ever wanted the truth.
“I’m listening,” I said softly.
Lady Hathaway exhaled slowly, reaching into the folds of her shawl, she produced a small envelope and placed it on the table between us. The weight was unmistakable. Gold or banknotes, it hardly mattered to me.
“I own an estate,” she said at last. “Ravenspire.”
The name settled between us like a lead weight and she watched me closely. I didn’t need to feign ignorance. Anyone with a sense of self-preservation steered clear of Ravenspire. The castle loomed over the cliffs like a blackened husk, its towers bent against the sky, its windows hollow and sightless. Stories of it traveled faster than the wind. Gossip of strange lights flickering through the halls, voices calling out from empty rooms… Everyone knew Ravenspire. Especially me.
A long ago story my grandmother used to tell me fluttered through my mind, like a forgotten memory sailing through a breeze. A fairytale, no doubt, but one I’d forgotten about after all these years.
The Duke of Ravenspire betrayed a heart…
I nodded. “I know of it.”
“I’ve been trying to sell it for years,” she continued, her voice tight. “Butno one will touch it. Rumors of strange happenings, hauntings. The staff abandoned it long ago. One of them went mad, swore she saw a woman in the walls, beckoning to her in her head.”
A faint prickle ran down my spine, though I kept my expression neutral. “I see. And you, Lady Hathaway? Do you believe the servants?”
Her gray eyes narrowed slightly. “I believe I’d like the property cleansed so I can be rid of it.” She tapped the envelope with a single, bony finger. “I am willing to pay handsomely.”
I smiled, leaning forward to lift the envelope, weighing it in my palm before slipping it into the folds of my skirts. “I imagine you’ve had priests and exorcists already try?”
Her mouth curled into something sour as she waved a dismissive hand. “More than I care to admit. They all left claiming there was nothing to be done.”
They always did. Holy men and skeptics alike had their limits. I had none.
I let my fingers drift idly over the rim of my cup, my nails tapping softly against the porcelain. “Tell me, Lady Hathaway… have you seen this ghost yourself?”
A flicker of something passed through her expression. Not fear precisely, but something older, wearier.
