Grisham pushed his shoulders back, expanding himself to a regal height, exhaled, and then strode down the hallway without checking to see if the other men followed.
Cringing as the soles of their shoes ground the broken glass into the valuable Persian carpet, Levi bit his tongue and held the door open, his gaze dropping to the damaged pane. The door was repairable, but it would need to be done soon before the outside air altered the ambient temperature in the conservatory.
He inhaled a deep breath as the door closed behind him, a tendril of tranquility unfolding through his chest. This was his sanctuary, with plants he’d nurtured for years, and it infuriated him to have the space invaded by Mr. Philbert’s spirit.
While the others strode down the path, Levi took a slight detour, stopping at one of three marigold plants in the corner of the structure and plucking one of the golden blossoms from a stem. Crushing the petals in his fist, he hastened toward the rear of the conservatory, following an auxiliary trail toward the gazebo.
When Levi pushed through the overgrown greenery, Mansfield, Roxburghe, and Grisham were already stationed around the mortar, which rested in the center of the gazebo floorboards. On top of the mortar sat the knife they’d previously discovered.
After Levi dropped the flower into the mortar, Mansfield held a flickering candle to the contents, waiting until a small tendril of smoke wafted up from the ingredients, then set the candlestick beside the bowl and rose.
Grisham cleared his throat, placed his finger beneath the first word of the incantation, and read “Deus?—”
“Incorrect.” Roxburghe grabbed for the book. “You’ve pronounced the word wrong.”
Jerking the book away, Grisham snapped, “I speak Latin.”
“As do I. That was incorrect.”
“How would you say it?” Grisham asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Deus.”
“That is exactly what I said!”
Mansfield glanced at Levi and shook his head, mouthing, “They’re never going to resolve this.”
Leaning across the smoking bowl, Levi extracted the book from Grisham’s hands, flipped the tome over, and dragged his finger down the page. Finding the incantation, Levi read the words aloud. When he reached the end of the paragraph, he lowered the book, his gaze landing on the smoking mortar.
Nothing happened.
Levi lifted his eyes and frowned. “Did it work?”
“No,” Mansfield said, gesturing for Levi to pass him the book. “You don’t believe, and faith is a major component of this kind of ritual.”
“How would you know that?”
Mansfield pressed his lips together as though offended by Levi’s question. “I read.”
“As do I. However, I’ve never come across that information.”
“Then, perhaps, you are reading the wrong books.” Mansfield’s mouth twitched, but before Levi could respond, he read the first line of the paragraph aloud.
A gust of wind zipped through the gazebo and extinguished the candle, plunging them into semi-darkness. Roxburghe and Grisham paused mid-argument and turned, their wide eyes reflecting Levi’s astonishment.
“What happened?” Roxburghe asked, his voice barely audible.
“I,”—Mansfield swallowed—“read a sentence.”
“Read another.”
“Wait.” Grisham’s voice surprised them.
Roxburghe’s eyebrows raised. “Do you protest the expulsion of Mr. Philbert?”
Grisham shook his head and sidled closer to Mansfield. “More voices add more strength.”
“That doesn’t count,” Roxburghe said, gesturing at the book.
