Page 5 of The Secret of the Three Fates
By the time I managed to settle my thoughts, the three mediums had taken their seats around the table at twelve, four, and eight o’clock, splitting our group into equal portions. One by one the women lifted their veils. The first medium was very old, probably of an age with Mr. Owen. Another possibly a decade older than me with fine features and auburn hair. And the third…
When I looked upon the third, all my earlier fears made perfect sense. The woman’s distinct hawkish appearance and unusual eyes unnerved me as much now as they had the first time I saw her at the crossroads in Lothlel Green weeks earlier.
It was the White Witch of Launceton, and she was averylong way from home. The first time I laid eyes upon her, I thought she was a ghost. I had no idea I’d ever see her again, nor did I want to—for last time there was a murderer on the loose.
“What is it, lass?” Mr. Owen whispered in my ear. His breath rustling my hair with his words.
I was unable to speak. The memories from my time in Cornwall struck hard and fast—no more than fragments of thoughts— of how she’d mysteriously appeared portending death and destruction only to vanish again like an ill omen. I stared unblinking at her pale face, unable to form the words.
The oldest of the three women began to speak.
Mr. Owen took my hand in his own, squeezing tenderly, as did Lady Amelia, reminding me of what I must do.
Join hands.
Right.
I think that’s how it went the last time I participated in one of these ridiculous charades, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now except the White Witch, and why she washere.
The youngest of the three mediums began to speak from where she sat on the far side of Lady Morton, the dowager countess.
“Arthur. Arthur McTavish. Can you reach him, see why he called for me?” Lady Morton asked.
McTavish?Now that was intriguing, my own curiosity at war with my sense of self-preservation. While I wasn’t as versed in the aristocracy as Mr. Owen, I was quite certain that the late Lord Morton was not named Arthur. Nor were they McTavishes. I chewed on my lip, curious about this turn of events despite the White Witch’s unwanted appearance.
She couldn’t harm me.
Shecouldn’t.
I simply had to make it through this farce, then I could find out what she wanted. And from the way she watched me, I was certain that I was the reason she’d come.
As soon as I latched onto my post-séance plan, the temperature dropped precipitously. The room fell into silence as a strange lilting voice rang out. “He’s here… the one who betrayed me… he’s here.”
Mr. Owen’s pulse galloped against my palm as he crushed my knuckles against his fingers.
“What’s your name, spirit?” called the youngest medium. Her voice bore a faint Russian accent. “Tell us your name.”
But the eerie voice continued, as if she had not heard the young medium’s request at all. “Boundless ambition. Boundless desire.” The lilting voice called, the words neither spoken nor sung—hovering somewhere between. “Wanting and striving. Always wanting and striving. My love was not enough. Was never enough. Never enough.”
Mr. Owen tensed as the voice echoed around us.
“I tried to warn you. Tried to show you… but it was too late.” The strange voice grew sharp, as the words died upon thelips of the eldest medium. It wasshewho spoke. Was this the Lucy Campbell that Mr. Owen spoke of? The only true spiritualist he’d ever met. I swallowed hard, unable to look away from the scene before me. The old woman’s head lolled from side to side, her eyes rolled back into her head revealing only the milky whites. I’d certainly never seen anything likethisin France. “Butyou…I know what you did. I know… what… you… did. And soon the world will know too. Too long have I lain in my stony tomb. Too long have you stolen my tongue. I will be heard. We… will… be… heard.”
The eldest medium’s expression contorted in pain as her body drew ramrod straight in the chair. Her eyes wide and sightless as her head continued to rock about on her neck like that of a newborn babe unable to control the weight—white eyes moving from face to face to face with a terrifying liquidity I’d never seen in all my days.
The spirit was seeking something.
There was no other explanation for it.
My breath was visible in the coldness of the room.
The medium grew still at last, her eyes fixed upon me with an odd gentleness before looking away, craning her neck into an improbable angle. “There is nowhere on earth you can hide from the dead. We have not forgotten… we shall not forgive. The dead know what you’ve done.”
“What do they know, spirit?” Challenging a possessed spiritualist was likely a terrible decision—but she,it,had been looking at me before going on this tirade, andsomeoneneeded to take charge of this nonsense as things were quickly getting out of hand.
The unearthly voice softened as an icy breeze floated through the room, gently caressing my neck. “He knows you’ve come, child. He’ll be coming for you now.”
Whois coming?
