Waiting for the next victim to make contact—dreading the shockand unpleasantness sure to follow—I sit in a gazebo near the city park, wherethe wilderness begins to encroach upon Stonehenge. The air feels cool upon myface, smelling of pine needles and chimney smoke, and the ancient trees creakin the wind like bark-encrusted giants. Properly outfitted under my cloak withscads of ruffles and pleats, not to mention a bustle, a petticoat, and adamnable corset, my body doesn’t feel the chill, just my soul.
I’m not alone this evening. Miss Cordelia Collins and I sip mugsof warmish cider with a shared plate of biscuits between us. People fill the enormousgazebo, celebrating All Hallows as though their lives depend upon it. They talkand drink, throw confetti, eat pie. I ignore most of these collateral sounds bysubduing my ability to hear them. Not with ear plugs or cotton wool but throughmagic.
Until I grow careless and let my guard down. Then a hideous,unexpected noise crashes into my head, and I wince and rub my temples. The pianokeys at The Red Rooster Pub are being brutally assaulted. The instrument is atleast two hundred yards away but seems so much closer. Next there’s a bit ofplayful gun fire, followed by singing. It’s a felony against music, completelyoff-key.
Supernatural hearing can be such a pain in the tympanum.
Cordelia knows nothing of my enhanced senses—auricular range,olfaction and touch. Nor that I am a demigoddess of sorts, cursed with visionsand ghost-sight, etcetera. She is decidedly un-supernatural, as oblivious tomagical gifts as one can get. And I’m glad of it. I love Cordie for being alevel-headed, no-frills human.
A credit to paid companions everywhere, she puts her mug downon the biscuit plate and begins to hover. “Are you warm enough, Miss Hester? Wecould have snow by tomorrow.”
I nod that I am snug, but Cordie yanks my scarf up around myneck as though I am incapable, at twenty-two years, of discerning my own bodytemperature. Before I can pull the scratchy cloth away, she stiffens and sucksin her breath. She’s finally noticed that people are moving to the otherside of the gazebo, as though I am carrying the bubonic plague instead of beingblind and mute.
The wind gusts around my companion and I, causing confetti toswirl against my cheek. I brush it away, and nudge my spectacles into place.Round, opaque lenses, they serve no real purpose other than to conceal my eyesfrom the superstitious townsfolk.
“We shouldn’t have come,” Cordie says. “They’re so unkind.”
She has a point. I might have remained with my parents tonight.But an evening out with neighbors who consider me a freakish anomaly of natureis preferable to staying at home. Either place, the sentiment is the same. Itjust feels less personal in town.
“Shall we leave, miss?”
I shake my head—not yet—and turn my face west toward Langtree’sMusic Hall. The jewel of High Street, it sits across from the park like amarble monarch on her throne. Cordelia does not share my interest inLangtree’s. She sighs wistfully and taps her foot. Then she cracks her knuckles,drawing out the popping noise, and the whole process begins again. Sigh-tap-pop.Sigh-tap-pop. I cannot bear it! Something must be done about Cordelia’s boredomif I am to concentrate on finding my ghost.
Fortunately, we are joined by Isaac Baker before I give in tothe urge to strangle my companion and silence her forever. They make small talkfor a few moments in the way of shy, young lovers, and it is almost worse thanthe sigh-tap-pop routine. Then, as Shakespeare would say, Isaac finally screwshis courage to the sticking place and invites her to dance.
“A waltz, my dear?” he asks.
“No. I can’t.”
“Liar-liar. I’ve seen you do it. Quite well, as I remember.”
I hear Isaac pull her up from the bench. There’s suddenmovement—twirling perhaps?—and Cordelia laughs brightly. Now the swish of longskirts, rhythmic stepping back and forth.
Dancing.
And then the motion stops. “You’re being fool-headed, Isaac. Isaid that I can’t.”
Her voice is sorrowful—as though Cordie wants more thananything to waltz properly but knows she should stay. Young women deserve alittle fun, though. I gently push her shoulder, encouraging her to accept.
Isaac squats down by my side. “She has nothing to worry about,does she? We have your promise. You’ll stay right here.”
Crossing my heart, I am the very definition of solemnity.
Cordelia sighs, nearly giving in. “But what if Mr. Graysonfinds out? I’ll lose my position.”
I turn an imaginary key at my lips and push her again.
“Oh, all right. Who can resist the two of you?”
Cordie puts an arm around me. Her breath tickles my ear as she whispers,“Leave this bench, and I’ll make your life miserable. Don’t think I won’t.”
Oh, believe me, she would indeed. Has, in fact, on manyoccasions.
“Thank you,” Isaac calls. He sounds so delighted that I can’thelp grinning in return.
As they walk toward the music hall, I remove two, button-sizedpebbles from the pocket of my cloak. I shake them like dice, calculating actualwaltz time with travel distance between Langtree’s and the gazebo. I shouldhave the next twenty-five minutes at my disposal. Fortunatas mea! Clutchingthe lucky pebbles against my palm, I unwind the scarf with my other hand, graspmy cane, and stand up. I thrust the end of the cane two feet ahead of me, andstep toward the balustrade, savoring the aroma of dry corn stalks and candlewax.
Why was I drawn here? Where is that pesky ghost? It’s out theresomewhere, I can feel it.
As the minutes tick by, people leave the gazebo and filter intothe night—for dance, for drink, for home—until only two of us remain. Agentleman and myself. I breathe in quietly, hoping to learn more of hischaracter through the gift of supernatural olfaction. My sense of smell is asacute as my hearing, and most emotions have a distinct odor. Hatred ismetallic, blood-like, and romantic love is a rich cocoa powder with hints ofchili-pepper. Happiness is floral, fleeting.
Shaking the pebble-dice again, I read the most obvious scentfirst and then work my way inside this stranger. He smokes an imported cigar, thesame brand my father uses. And I pick up the rich man’s holy trinity:
