The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

Not that Violet was finished with it. She’d lain awake most of the night, reliving the memory of Daniel lying behind her in the bed, his arm around her. She felt again the moment he’d rolled her over and parted her nightdress, then kissed her with such caring thoroughness. She remembered every touch, every heartbeat, every breath.

Violet dozed off as morning came, and she awoke to a tray of croissants, coffee, and a bite of cheese, but no Daniel. She donned a peach-colored broadcloth dress, the fabric so fine it felt like satin. The bodice had lace and braid applique, the sleeves modestly puffed, the skirt graceful. She couldn’t help but picture a warm look of approval in Daniel’s eyes when he saw her in it.

But he didn’t come at midmorning, nor at luncheon. As the afternoon wore on, Violet made herself stop pacing, sit down, and have tea.

Outside, the short winter afternoon was ending. Celine finally came out of her bedroom, where she’d been resting all day.

“Ah, Violet, darling, there you are.” She was dressed in her black bombazine, the brocade turban in her hand. “It’s almost time for our appointment. I’m glad to see you’ve dressed well for it. We’re going to be late.” 

Chapter 13

“Appointment?” Violet’s hand jerked, and the tea in her cup nearly landed on her lovely peach skirt. “What appointment?”

Celine stared at her. “You’ve forgotten? You never forget appointments. But I see now why Mary had to rouse me. She didn’t forget. Monsieur Lanier, a banker, very rich. We’re going to his house to give his wife a bit of table-turning, remember? He’s not a believer, and neither is his mother, but Monsieur Lanier indulges his wife. At least, that’s what Mary says. She learned everything about him while you were gallivanting in the country, leaving your poor mother all alone in a strange city.”

“Oh,” Violet said. “That banker.” Monsieur Lanier had sent a letter to the concert hall, which Mary had collected the morning Daniel had whisked Violet away. Mary trotted every day to the concert hall for their mail, which was the address on the cards she gave out to the audience. They never told anyone where they truly lived.

Monsieur Lanier had asked for a private consultation in his letter, offering to pay well for it. Violet would have dealt with answering the letter and setting the appointment, but Daniel had arrived, and she’d gone.

“You agreed to go to his home?” Violet asked. “You know we should set up the consultation at a place of our choosing, especially if unbelievers attend.”

“Don’t be silly. Mary says the Laniers have a comfortable house, and it is easier to turn unbelievers if they see incontrovertible evidence of the truth in their very own homes. Besides, Mary says their cook makes excellent cakes, and the house has good heating.” For someone so attached to the spiritual, Celine loved her bodily comforts.

Violet sighed and quickly drained her teacup. “Blast. This means I have to wear those dratted veils.”

Celine gave her a triumphant smile. “If I have to wear the turban, you have to wear the veils. The next place we go, we’ll be Romany again and dress in easy skirts and scarves. Much more manageable.”

Monsieur Lanier had offered to send his private coach, but Violet negated that idea, much to Celine’s disappointment. They must go by hired coach, Violet said. That way, they could leave the boardinghouse as the respectable widow and her daughter and change into their personas on the way. Violet wanted no connection between the stage shows and the two ladies at the boardinghouse. Saved trouble all around.

Monsieur Lanier and his wife and mother lived on a fashionable street of elegant town houses, each with tall windows hung with thick drapes. Lights shone behind the draperies, making the houses look cozy and warm inside. The hired coach stopped at the doorstep of Monsieur Lanier’s house precisely at eight, and Violet and Celine were ushered inside. Mary took their wraps and followed one of the housemaids down the back stairs to wait until they were ready to leave. All as usual.

The younger Madame Lanier—a thirtyish woman with blond hair and large brown eyes—wished to contact her deceased mother, whom she’d much loved. Her husband, who was a little older than his wife, made it clear, as they took seats around the dining room table, that he thought this all nonsense. But his little Coralie had to have her notions.

The older Madame Lanier said nothing, but she obviously thought little Coralie a complete fool and nowhere near good enough for her son.

Celine took her place at the head of the table, and Violet, garbed in her peach gown and the dark veils, stood a little behind her left shoulder. Violet would be on hand to bring Celine anything she needed, to catch her if her trance made her faint, or to provide special effects when necessary. Celine didn’t like the special effects, but sometimes they made a difference when a client hesitated to believe Celine could contact the spirit world. When Violet used the effects, they always got paid.

“Do you have something of your mother’s prepared for me, Madame?” Celine smiled kindly at the shy young Coralie. Coralie nodded and dropped a locket into Violet’s gloved hands. Violet passed the locket to Celine, who took it between both hands and closed her eyes. “The connection, it is quite strong,” she said in her Russian- accented French. “She gave this to you.”

The elder Madame Lanier snorted. “There’s no magic in knowing that. Who else would a mother leave her locket to?”

Celine ignored her. She had a gift for focusing only on the believers and entering into their world. Everyone else ceased to exist for her.

“She is near,” Celine said. “I feel her. She misses you.”

“And I miss her,” Coralie said in a near whisper. “Can you tell her? Please?”

The poor woman was starved for love. Violet watched the family from under her veils, seeing contempt from old Madame Lanier and bare tolerance from the husband.

Violet knew exactly what Coralie felt. Spending the day and night and another day with Daniel had been like being given a taste of a feast she hadn’t been invited to partake of. The trouble was, the taste made Violet crave the feast all the more.

“You may tell her yourself,” Celine said to Coralie. “Let us turn the lights low and see if the spirits will let us through.”

Violet moved to the wall and turned down the gas to the chandelier. Once the room had dimmed, Violet lit the candles in the silver candelabra they’d brought with them. While Madame Lanier went on about how ridiculous it all was—How are we to see whether they trick us in the dark?—Celine closed her eyes, joined hands with Coralie, and sent out her supplication to the spirits.

Violet sat down at the table this time, pulling on gloves as she took a place between her mother and the older Madame Lanier. She had few tricks to employ when she couldn’t set up a house or theatre beforehand, but she had already pressed her bare palm, coated with phosphor-luminescent paint, onto a wall when she busied herself turning out the lights. Behind Celine, a handprint began to glow in the dark.

Coralie gasped, then gasped again when a loud rap broke the stillness.

“Ah,” Celine said, her eyes closed, hands rigid. “Are you there?”

One loud rap indicated Yes.

“She’s here,” Coralie said excitedly. “Maman?”

“Of course she isn’t here,” Madame Lanier said. “The girl in the veils is knocking on the table.”

Violet took her gloved hands from her lap and laid them on the table just as the spirit gave a decided double rap. She always enjoyed employing her tricks right in front of the most skeptical. Misdirection was the key. Make them doubt their own doubts.

“Two knocks mean no,” Celine said. “Are you still there, Spirit?”

One hard knock. Violet lifted her foot carefully from the small pedal she’d dropped on the soft carpet under