But every Tuesday night, in a small, unmarked room above a chandler’s shop on Cheapside, she sits at a plain wooden table. No fees. No tricks. No ghosts.
“She says… ‘Papa Bear, the vase was an accident.’” Sarah opened her eyes. “She says the cat has forgiven her.”
Lord Harrowby’s breath hitched. Lilies had been Clara’s favorite.
“Because the living are so loud,” Sarah whispered, tears freezing on her cheeks. “Their pain is so loud. I just wanted to make it quiet for a minute.”
And that is comfort enough.
From beneath the table, a small, concealed bell rang—a child’s bell, tarnished brass. Harrowby’s eyes flooded. “Clara?”
Sarah Penn never held another paid séance. She closed her account at the bank, sold her velvet drapes and her phosphorous powder. The Society voted her out.
The Lord broke. A sob wracked his chest, and he clutched the table’s edge. “That’s her. That’s my girl.”