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  Cranky and exhausted, she instead switched off the light and snuggled into her mattress, hoping her tiredness would overtake whatever was making her thoughts dance like jackrabbits in the spring.

  Letitia closed her eyes. Although she was weak with fatigue from the previous night at the Driscoll’s, a prickling sensation remained imprinted on her skin. Her usual precautions on nights she feared nightmares would haunt her would be to drink lots of water and eat a plain dinner.

  Tonight before her session, she’d eaten in the kitchen with Mrs. Finch, who hadn’t minded Letitia’s absence when she explained. But Letitia felt she couldn’t say no to a dinner of baked fish and creamed potatoes. Letitia had returned to her rooms bloated and queasy. There were few times when she remembered being so exhausted.

  Her thoughts now were not her own, and instead turned to the Driscoll house, to its cellar, and the typewriter there. She hadn’t touched it, hadn’t laid a finger on it, but her mind’s eye created those strong hands typing out bills, hands that would later bend, break, and bash.

  Finola hadn’t been able to sleep, and now neither could Letitia.

  She tossed, and heaving a sigh, turned the light back on.

  It was a relief not to see any strange figure waiting to scare her half to death, for she wasn’t sure if her heart could take it. Instead, she rose to her feet, threw a few logs on the dying fire, and set to watch the flickering flames.

  Inside them was the heat she wanted from Mr. Driscoll, but its warmth was no comparison.

  The way she’d fallen into the assumed safety of his arms—what a fragile and tangible comfort she clung to, her mind lingering over the press of his fingers against her shoulders.

  Letitia had loved before. Her whole life vanished in a matter of months because of love.

  Scowling at the memory, she picked up her case files and messages as a distraction.

  The case files she scanned for any similarity, annotating the ones with other figures lurking within. The only common thread was that they started appearing after Mr. Driscoll had first visited, and in each of those sessions she hadn’t been afraid. She’d panicked at the sight, but the memory spoke something else to her, though she couldn’t place her finger on why.

  The figures in the visions were scary, but they didn’t emanate the same emotions that Letitia experienced when she’d looked for the spirit haunting the Driscoll household. In fact, the longer she thought on it, the more she saw those figures as being like Daniel—they were trying to get her attention. They had nothing to do with the cases. They were there for another reason.

  Confused about how to account for them, she turned instead to the list of phone calls missed during her absence.

  Imogen had taken them, but Letitia hadn’t looked through them yet.

  There was one from a lady asking to see what happened to her late sister who’d died abroad and her death was being treated as a mystery. Another regarded a father who’d ended it all. The last one was a simple request for a call back.

  It was Mr. Barkley again, and he wanted her to meet another family whose daughter had vanished.

  The girl had been missing only forty-eight hours.

  Chapter 13

  “Mr. Barkley? It’s Ms. Hawking. I’m sorry for calling so early, but I haven’t been home and this sounded very urgent.” Letitia clenched the phone, hearing the grogginess in Mr. Barkley’s answer at the early morning call.

  “Ms. Hawking.” There was noise in the background, made fuzzy by the line, but there was a long moment before he spoke again. “I’m so glad you called. Would it be possible to appeal on your good nature and arrange an appointment this morning at all?”

  Letitia hesitated.

  She was still exhausted from the previous night’s lack of sleep and had another appointment later that afternoon and the session in the evening. But the message had stayed with her all night—another girl, missing only weeks after Mr. Barkley’s daughter.

  “I have to tell you, Ms. Hawking,” Mr. Barkley said, “I understand that I…that my dau―”

  His voice broke off, and Letitia heard murmurings in the background, indicating others were listening in on the call, and Letitia waited a moment before speaking.

  “This is a terrible time for you,” she said, voice as compassionate as she could make it, “but I must tell you I’d only be able to tell them whether she is alive. I don’t believe that information is the most useful thing they need to hear, not while there is still hope they can find her.”

  “I know,” he rasped, “but please, Mrs. Edwards is eight months pregnant, and the stress of what’s happening make the doctors think…”

  His voice drifted off.

  Letitia’s head dropped back, her eyes shut, and she bit her lips.

  Taking one steadying breath after another, she dropped her tense shoulders.

  “Please do not bring Mrs. Edwards. I will do nothing if she comes,” she said. “But if there is a Mr. Edwards who would like to come by my address at ten, that would be fine. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Can he come by earlier? Say in half an hour?”

  It was seven in the morning, but Letitia thought it would be far better to be done with it.

  “Yes, Mr. Barkley,” she said, “that will be fine. Please tell him to bring her picture and something that belonged to his missing daughter. I’d like to add that there will no compensation required. However, I cannot do this again. For anyone, Mr. Barkley. You need to understand I have to protect myself from people who don’t believe me.”

  “I understand,” he said, “and thank you so very much for your help.”

  Letitia heard him ring off, and she put the receiver down.

  “What are you doing?”

  Letitia gave a start, seeing it was only Imogen behind her standing in her doorway and still in her dressing gown. It was a beautiful peach silk with chrysanthemums stitched on the shoulders.

  “Helping someone find out whether his daughter is alive,” Letitia said.

  “There’s another one?” Imogen said, eyebrows raised in shock.

  “Yes, and less than three months since someone took Mr. Barkley’s daughter.”

  Imogen looked at her with wide eyes. “That’s the gentlemen you didn’t do a reading for because someone kidnapped her.”

  When Letitia nodded, Imogen shivered and rubbed her arms.

  “How ghastly,” she said. “It’s a wonder the police don’t do more. Have you thought about going to them?”

  “And have them accuse me of being a con?” Letitia asked. “Or worse, involved in some scheme of blackmail or kidnapping?”

  “No,” Imogen said, “I suppose not. They aren’t as strict about those things here, religion and such, as they are in England, but you have to admit, many people aren’t…” Imogen waved her hand, giving up on the sentiment.

  “Otherworldly gifted,” Letitia supplied when Imogen struggled for a word. Imogen was comfortable enough with her gift, but not experienced in the terminology Letitia preferred.

  “Speaking of abilities,” Imogen said, spinning about and going to her rooms, “I have something for you.”

  Letitia walked into Imogen’s apartment, a strange and theatrical taste dominating the sitting room from blood red Turkish rugs to large sunny prints of Parisian fashion, and oriental chairs and tables. It was far more flamboyant than the somber burgundy of Letitia’s session room with its old furniture.

  “Through here,” Imogen called, disappearing into the bedroom. Letitia had visited the sitting room before but the room beyond was new to her. Letitia glanced inside to see racks upon racks of clothes. Scarlet taffeta was a splash of blood, summer’s gold bringing dawn, green the hue of a nymph. Stitched on everything were glittering beads, gauze on every second item, chiffon hung so as not to crease. A rainbow kaleidoscope of color all vying for att
ention, spectacular in the tones and hues. She’d known Imogen’s apartment was bigger than her own, but not by how much.

  “Where on earth do you sleep?” Letitia asked, amazed at the mass of clothes.

  “There’s another little room at the back,” Imogen said from among the racks. “Well, I say room, but it’s a small corner I keep for myself. I bring home a lot of old things and find other uses for them, or if they’re nice enough I keep them for myself. Ah, here it is!”

  She came back carrying a dress over her arm.

  Made of black silk that hung only to Imogen’s knees, the dress was wreathed in copper and jet-black beads stitched in a swirling pattern that caught and distracted the eye with its intricacy. Threads dangled from the shoulders, covered with more beads, which flared out when the dress swished. Sleeveless and close cut, it was a magnificent dress, and far more than Letitia could afford.

  “I can’t take that,” Letitia said, not sure whether her refusal was in protest at the hemline or the sheer wealth of such a gown.

  “Nonsense,” Imogen said, “you have to take it, I’ve already fitted it for you. Though you may need a snugger corset than normal, just to make it sit right.”

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” Letitia said, as Imogen brought it up to Letitia’s reluctant hands.

  “It will look divine on you,” Imogen insisted.

  “But isn’t it indiscreet?” she asked, looking at the length against Imogen, who laughed.

  “Silly, I’m a foot and a half taller than you. Hold it against yourself.” She thrust the garment into Letitia’s arms.

  She held the dress to her front, and it hung down about her calves. She gave a little sigh of relief and Imogen chuckled.

  “Heaven forbid you be improper,” Imogen teased and grinned at Letitia’s raised brows.

  “Thank you, Imogen,” she said instead. “It’s kind of you.”

  “Feel up for going out for dinner this Saturday?” Imogen asked. “I know our plans were waylaid, but that’s no reason not to do it at all. Perhaps we could go to a club afterward?”

  “Yes,” Letitia said, wanting to be gay and light and forget the last few weeks of darkness, “that would be splendid.”

  “How do you feel about company?” Imogen asked, and when Letitia looked concerned Imogen shook her head. “Not men. I mean a few of the girls I work with.”

  “Do they know what I do?” Many people frowned on what Letitia did, and she’d rather not have her evening spoiled.

  “Actually,” Imogen said, “they are curious more than anything. Expect a few questions but I will restrain them if it becomes tiresome.”

  “I can manage that,” Letitia said with a small smile.

  “Great, we’ll leave here about seven, and make an evening of it.” Imogen leaned forward, giving Letitia a quick embrace. “I’m glad you are coming. You’ve looked all out of fun, and I recognize the expression well.”

  Letitia knew it to be true, but hearing it made her soul weary.

  “I’ll go so you can get ready for work,” she said. “Thank you so much for the dress. I am looking forward to an evening out.”

  Saying farewell to her neighbor, Letitia went back to her rooms and put the kettle on for the impending arrival of Mr. Edwards. With so little time she dressed and did her hair with haste, adding her heavy sessions veil. Having an anxious man visit her, another who’d lost his daughter, made Letitia nervous when she heard the urgent knock at her door minutes later. It was less time than she’d expected, and ramming the last pin into her veil, she went to the door.

  Mr. Edwards was panting, his pale complexion reddened by what must have been a run up the stairs. A rotund waist showed too many dinners, but his weight made his face look younger than his years, though he’d hidden the roundness underneath a trimmed beard.

  He brushed past her as she opened the door, still puffing, eyes darting about the room.

  “Mr. Barkley said you needed a picture.” He thrust out an image to Letitia without looking at her.

  The rudeness shocked Letitia, but she didn’t let it show as she closed the door.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Edwards,” she said. “There are some things I need to explain to you that Mr. Barkley may not have told you.”

  “I know, no compensation.” He still searched his coat for a wallet, taking a wad of bills out and flinging them on the table. “And that’s too bad because I have to know. I don’t want to go home and tell Sally that our daughter is dead.”

  Every single word rose as he spoke, his worry transforming into an uncontainable rage.

  “You must understand, Mr. Edwards,” Letitia said, cutting through his anger with her coolness. “Rudeness won’t be tolerated. I didn’t ask for money because I don’t know if I can help you.”

  Panic showed in his widened eyes, and Letitia knew he had a dread that he would leave without knowing.

  “Now,” she said, softening her voice, “I suspect you’d like to sit down and have a cup of tea. Perhaps talk about your daughter. It helps to know things about her.”

  Letitia waited, the seconds stretching past the uncomfortable awkwardness into an uneasy peace.

  “That would be good.” Mr. Edwards seemed to decide it almost to himself as he sat down and put the picture away. He left the money on the table.

  “Tell me about your daughter,” Letitia encouraged, making tea as he calmed and placing milk and sugar before him. He added both while speaking of his daughter.

  “Cassy’s a beautiful girl,” he said, eyes distant. “She’s delicate like her mother. Loves to paint watercolors of the sea, reads poetry, and wants to be a nurse when she grows up, but for animals. She’s the sweetest creature on this earth, and I don’t know what we’ll do if I don’t get her back.”

  Mr. Edwards met Letitia’s gaze, and she saw what it cost his pride to let himself cry.

  When the tears came, a part of him faded as he stared at her, lost, blinking away the wetness but not raising his hands to wipe it away. It was as though if he didn’t acknowledge the tears, then they weren’t there.

  “The picture, Mr. Edwards,” Letitia said, focusing him on why he was here. “Did you bring anything of hers?”

  He brought the picture out again and a folded piece of paper, which he opened and laid in front of Letitia.

  The girl was blonde from the pale tones of the photograph, dainty in a frilly dress, a shy smile aimed at the camera. Letitia’s gloved finger stroked the edge of the picture as she examined the figure, and for a moment she wasn’t sure. There was a glimmer there, but it was fading, the last flutter of a dying flame. It wasn’t enough to confirm though, and putting the photograph aside, she looked to the paper.

  It was a watercolor of the seaside, the view from a cliff along a beach to a lonely house on the opposite headland. The pastel colors had been added against soft lead lines of the scene, denoting that the artist was sure of her hand as she worked. The water was rich with color, distinctive from the gray sky painted above, darkening to the distant house on the far bluff.

  “She painted it over the weekend,” Mr. Edwards said. “Sally, I mean Mrs. Edwards, wanted to go to the ocean before she had the baby, and so we spent a day at the beach. It was too cold to swim, but we had a picnic on a headland, and Cassy painted that. She finished it when she got home. She…she disappeared the following day.”

  Letitia didn’t know what to tell him. The sensation she had from the photograph was dim—a thread of life that could be cut at any moment. Wherever Cassy was, she wasn’t safe.

  Letitia pulled off her gloves and touched the watercolor.

  The dark assailed her.

  The smell of the sea whisked over her face before turning to the fetid aroma of rotting seaweed, the air cloying and sickening on the tongue as other scents filtered in. Earthy, but not clean, it smelled dank and unpleasant.
It consumed all, the dark and the stench.

  Letitia drew her hand back.

  The same as Maisie.

  Whoever had taken Cassy was the same person responsible for taking Mr. Barkley’s daughter.

  When Letitia reached out to pick up the painting again, she focused on the girl rather than the object, on how she’d felt when she’d drawn it. Letitia brushed the watercolor with her fingertips, and she knew without a doubt that this girl had been sad.

  “She’s an only child,” Letitia said, “and she wanted one more picnic with just the three of you. It wasn’t Sally’s idea. It was Cassy’s. Even if it was freezing, she wanted to go. To stay long enough to remember when it was just you three. She never thought you’d have another child.”

  Mr. Edwards’ hands clenched on the table, so much it creaked, and Letitia stopped and put down the picture.

  “Is she alive?” He hissed it out between his clenched teeth.

  “Yes, Mr. Edwards,” Letitia said, knowing she had to tell him the truth, but she feared it might not be for much longer. Mr. Barkley had been far better at receiving the awful news, but he’d had months to prepare. Mr. Edwards still had a chance, but Letitia became aware with a sickening twist of her stomach that while Cassy was alive, they would never see her again.

  “I can’t tell you anything about where she is, except it’s dark,” Letitia said. “I can only do so much, and I’m afraid to say if her kidnapper…progresses things, I cannot tell you much about what happened.”

  “You can damn well show me who took her!” He slammed his hand on the table, the frustrated rage turning his face an unbecoming shade of purple.

  “Not unless I want to die, too,” Letitia said, not raising her voice as he had but sitting still and composed.

  “Mr. Barkley said you wouldn’t look for his daughter if someone had murdered her, but my little girl is still alive!”

  “Yes, and that means she still has a chance,” Letitia said, “which is why you should look for her because I can’t see where she is. It’s all darkness. There are no clues. She is somewhere I can’t see, which makes looking for her of no use to you. To do more would be dangerous enough as it is.”