longer! Comfort me!”
“Farewell, my only love! I am always your own Agnes,” breathed Hyacinth — and Maud joined in, whispering through the ear trumpet. She and Hyacinth had practiced intoning the words in unison. The effect was both haunting and precise. “Darling Horace, farewell!”
The final line was Maud’s alone. She knew that Hyacinth had fallen back in her chair so that her face was tilted upward, toward the light. Burckhardt would see that the medium’s lips were still, but the ghostly voice would go on speaking. “I will be yours . . . always!”
In the silence that followed, Maud withdrew the ear trumpet from the slit. She could hear Burckhardt gulping back sobs. Since he was making a good bit of noise, Maud shifted slightly, squirming into a more comfortable position. Next time, she thought, I won’t wear so much underwear.
“The spirit has passed,” stated Judith.
“Hyacinth?” said Victoria. Maud heard footsteps, the rustle of skirts, a light slapping sound. “Hyacinth, awake! Oh, heavens — she is so pale — she’s in a swoon. Hyacinth, come back!”
“Her pulse is rapid.” It was Burckhardt speaking. “Oh, God forgive me — what have I done? Shall I go for a doctor?”
Maud heard a gasping sound from Hyacinth. After a moment, Judith announced, “No. She’s better — her eyes are open —”
“Judith?” Hyacinth sounded babyishly meek. “I — I feel so queer. And oh, Mr. Burckhardt, I’m sorry! I — I had no strength. The spirits did not come.”
“The spirit came,” Burckhardt told her. “How can I thank you enough?”
Judith’s voice directed him. “Help me support her — she must go to bed at once — oh, that’s better! Can you carry her all the way up the stairs?”
“Easily,” gasped Burckhardt valiantly. “She weighs nothing.”
The conversation dissolved into murmuring, the voices growing more distant. Maud heard “nervous strain,” “all unselfishness,” “true medium,” and “sea air.” Then there was the sound of footsteps receding and footsteps on the stairs. At long last, Maud was alone. She lifted the tablecloth and crawled out. The fresh air was cool against her sweaty face.
“M aud,” announced Hyacinth at the breakfast table, “was magnificent.”
Maud stopped chewing her bacon and tried to look magnificent. It was the morning after the séance, and a lovely one: the sunlight stole through the lace curtains and dappled the tablecloth. Maud was eager to discuss the séance. She felt like an actor after a successful show. She knew she had done well, and she was ready for the others to tell her so. Unfortunately, Judith was scanning the columns of the newspaper; Victoria was removing the crusts from her toast.
“She was,” insisted Hyacinth. “I told you she would be.”
Judith looked up. “She did well enough,” she remarked, to Maud’s disgust. Judith felt that lavish praise, like rich food, was bad for children.
“She did a good deal better than well enough,” Hyacinth insisted, defending her protégée. “She did everything at exactly the right time, and she never giggled once. And her singing was perfect — neither too loud nor too soft.”
“Did we get the money?” inquired Maud, slathering her toast with marmalade.
It was the wrong thing to say. Hyacinth made a little moue of distaste. Victoria looked at Maud as if she were a dead mouse in the pantry. “Really, Maud!”
“Why shouldn’t she ask about the money?” broke in Judith. “What we do, we do for money. The child’s part of it now. She might as well speak plainly.”
Maud flashed Judith a look of astonished gratitude. She could scarcely believe that Judith, the strictest of the sisters, was taking up for her.
“Very well, then.” Victoria pushed her plate away. “We will speak plainly. Mr. Burckhardt gave us the money — enough to pay for doctors that Hyacinth doesn’t need and a bit more so that Hyacinth can travel to Cape Calypso for
“Farewell, my only love! I am always your own Agnes,” breathed Hyacinth — and Maud joined in, whispering through the ear trumpet. She and Hyacinth had practiced intoning the words in unison. The effect was both haunting and precise. “Darling Horace, farewell!”
The final line was Maud’s alone. She knew that Hyacinth had fallen back in her chair so that her face was tilted upward, toward the light. Burckhardt would see that the medium’s lips were still, but the ghostly voice would go on speaking. “I will be yours . . . always!”
In the silence that followed, Maud withdrew the ear trumpet from the slit. She could hear Burckhardt gulping back sobs. Since he was making a good bit of noise, Maud shifted slightly, squirming into a more comfortable position. Next time, she thought, I won’t wear so much underwear.
“The spirit has passed,” stated Judith.
“Hyacinth?” said Victoria. Maud heard footsteps, the rustle of skirts, a light slapping sound. “Hyacinth, awake! Oh, heavens — she is so pale — she’s in a swoon. Hyacinth, come back!”
“Her pulse is rapid.” It was Burckhardt speaking. “Oh, God forgive me — what have I done? Shall I go for a doctor?”
Maud heard a gasping sound from Hyacinth. After a moment, Judith announced, “No. She’s better — her eyes are open —”
“Judith?” Hyacinth sounded babyishly meek. “I — I feel so queer. And oh, Mr. Burckhardt, I’m sorry! I — I had no strength. The spirits did not come.”
“The spirit came,” Burckhardt told her. “How can I thank you enough?”
Judith’s voice directed him. “Help me support her — she must go to bed at once — oh, that’s better! Can you carry her all the way up the stairs?”
“Easily,” gasped Burckhardt valiantly. “She weighs nothing.”
The conversation dissolved into murmuring, the voices growing more distant. Maud heard “nervous strain,” “all unselfishness,” “true medium,” and “sea air.” Then there was the sound of footsteps receding and footsteps on the stairs. At long last, Maud was alone. She lifted the tablecloth and crawled out. The fresh air was cool against her sweaty face.
“M aud,” announced Hyacinth at the breakfast table, “was magnificent.”
Maud stopped chewing her bacon and tried to look magnificent. It was the morning after the séance, and a lovely one: the sunlight stole through the lace curtains and dappled the tablecloth. Maud was eager to discuss the séance. She felt like an actor after a successful show. She knew she had done well, and she was ready for the others to tell her so. Unfortunately, Judith was scanning the columns of the newspaper; Victoria was removing the crusts from her toast.
“She was,” insisted Hyacinth. “I told you she would be.”
Judith looked up. “She did well enough,” she remarked, to Maud’s disgust. Judith felt that lavish praise, like rich food, was bad for children.
“She did a good deal better than well enough,” Hyacinth insisted, defending her protégée. “She did everything at exactly the right time, and she never giggled once. And her singing was perfect — neither too loud nor too soft.”
“Did we get the money?” inquired Maud, slathering her toast with marmalade.
It was the wrong thing to say. Hyacinth made a little moue of distaste. Victoria looked at Maud as if she were a dead mouse in the pantry. “Really, Maud!”
“Why shouldn’t she ask about the money?” broke in Judith. “What we do, we do for money. The child’s part of it now. She might as well speak plainly.”
Maud flashed Judith a look of astonished gratitude. She could scarcely believe that Judith, the strictest of the sisters, was taking up for her.
“Very well, then.” Victoria pushed her plate away. “We will speak plainly. Mr. Burckhardt gave us the money — enough to pay for doctors that Hyacinth doesn’t need and a bit more so that Hyacinth can travel to Cape Calypso for
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