Chapter 23
The Herrick House dining room had been transformed into something out of a Victorian spiritualist’s fever dream.
Purple cloth draped the long table. Candles flickered on every surface. Crystal balls sat at strategic intervals, catching the light and throwing tiny rainbows across the ceiling. The air smelled of autumn spices, woodsmoke, and whatever herbs Celia had been burning in preparation.
Celia herself presided at the head of the table in flowing purple robes and enough crystal jewelry to stock a small metaphysical shop. Her silver hair was piled dramatically atop her head, and her eyes sparkled with thirty-seven years of theatrical experience.
“This is incredible,” Forbes murmured to Gwen as they took their seats.
“Wait until she brings out the spirit trumpet,” Gwen whispered back. “Last year it allegedly played ‘Yankee Doodle’ all by itself.”
“Allegedly?”
“Trent was sitting suspiciously close to it.”
Forbes bit back a laugh as the MacBean children filed in, taking seats across from them. Sinclair climbed into Alan’s lap, already yawning. Kinloch looked serious and alert. Andrina was wearing a purple ribbon in her hair—clearly coordinated with Celia’s ensemble.
Trent settled into the chair beside George, pulling out a small notebook. “I’m documenting everything this year. For posterity.”
“You’re documenting to mock me later,” Celia said without rancor.
“That too.”
George caught Forbes’s eye and smiled. “Welcome to the non-seeing section. Best seats in the house, really. We get wine and entertainment without any of the ghostly responsibility.”
“I’m not sure whether tae be relieved or disappointed,” Forbes admitted.
“Relieved,” George said firmly. “Last year Caleb lectured us about the proper way to fold napkins. For twenty minutes. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear everyone else’s reactions. Apparently, he was quite animated.”
“He threw a candlestick,” Gwen said. “It didn’t go anywhere, obviously, but the intent was there.”
“Welcome, friends!” Celia’s voice rang out, silencing the chatter. “For thirty-seven years, we’ve gathered the night after Samhain to honor those who came before. Tonight, we invite my great-great-grandfather, Caleb Alexander Herrick, and all spirits who wish to make themselves known.”
She lit a bundle of dried herbs with ceremony. They caught with an unexpected blue-green flame—Forbes suspected a chemical additive—and smoke curled upward in lazy spirals.
“Everyone, please join hands and open your hearts.”
Forbes took Gwen’s hand on his left and Alan’s on his right. Gwen squeezed his fingers, her expression warm with amusement.
“We call upon the spirits who wish to speak,” Celia intoned, her voice dropping into something more dramatic. “If you have messages for the living, we welcome you. The veil is thin tonight. The door is open.”
Silence settled over the room. The candles flickered in unison.
Forbes saw absolutely nothing unusual. The room looked exactly as it had moments before—candles, crystals, purple cloth, and expectant faces.
Then Sinclair perked up in Alan’s lap.
“Look—they’re here now,” he announced, as casually as if he’d spotted a particularly interesting bug.
Forbes stared at the empty space where Sinclair pointed. Nothing. Just shadows and candlelight.
He glanced at Gwen. During the breach, she’d seen them—the victims, the spirits pressing through. Maybe now...
She caught his look and gave a small shake of her head. Nothing.
So it had been temporary—born of crisis, thinning veil, and raw power. With the seal restored, she was back to sensing magic but not seeing the dead.
Forbes squeezed her hand. Somehow, being in the non-seeing section together made the whole thing easier.
“Three of them,” Kinloch confirmed, his grey eyes tracking something Forbes couldn’t see. “An old man with white hair and a fancy waistcoat. Gold watch chain. Standing right behind Great-Great-Grandma Celia.”
Celia’s hand flew to her chest. “Caleb?”
“He’s here a lot,” Sinclair said matter-of-factly. “He likes your house. He says the shiny stuff came at the perfect time.”
“The treasure,” Celia breathed, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, Grandfather.”
“He’s making a face,” Andrina reported. “I think he doesn’t like being called Grandfather.”
“Great-Great-Grandfather, then,” Celia amended. “Is that better?”
“He’s still making a face. But a nicer one.”
Trent scribbled furiously in his notebook. “This is excellent. Continue.”
“He says he’s proud of you,” Andrina added. “That you made the house full of people again. Just how he wanted.”
Forbes watched the scene with something between wonder and amusement. The children’s utter matter-of-factness. Celia’s theatrical joy. Trent’s running commentary. George sipping wine with the contentment of a man who’d seen this show many times and still enjoyed it.
This was community, Forbes realized. This was belonging.
Then Sinclair’s expression shifted. His small brow furrowed.
“More are coming,” Kinloch said, sitting straighter. “Different ones. Not family ones.”
Forbes felt a prickle at the back of his neck.
“They got those stripey blankets,” Sinclair said, squinting at something behind Forbes. “Like in Da’s big books. Old people clothes.”
“Tartan,” Alan said quietly, his grip on Forbes’s hand tightening. “He means tartan.”
“Three more,” Andrina confirmed. “They’re standing behind Mr. Forbes now.”
Forbes went very still. He saw nothing. Felt nothing except Gwen’s warm hand and the sudden acceleration of his own heartbeat.
Gwen’s fingers tightened around his, her body instinctively leaning closer.
“They’ve been waitin’ for you,” Sinclair said simply. “‘Cause you put their names in your book so nobody forgets them.”
Forbes’s throat tightened.
“Fraser tartan,” Kinloch said, his voice carrying that weight it got when he was seeing something important. “Cameron plaid. And MacDonald.”
The families Forbes had been researching. The immigration records. The stories he’d been piecing together.
“They say thank you,” Sinclair reported. “For rememberin’. For writing their names so careful.”
Forbes’s eyes burned. He blinked hard, keeping his composure through sheer Scottish stubbornness.
“The Fraser man says you have a warrior’s heart,” Kinloch continued. “You fight with words instead of swords, but you fight just as hard.”
“The Cameron woman says follow your heart and you won’t get lost,” Andrina added, glancing meaningfully between Forbes and Gwen.
Gwen squeezed his hand. When he looked at her, she was smiling—soft and proud and entirely his.
“The MacDonald man says thank you for making him not-lost anymore,” Sinclair mumbled, yawning hugely. “He says you made him matter again.”
Forbes had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. “Tell them... tell them it’s my honor. That I’ll keep writing. Keep making sure their names are remembered.”
“They heard you,” Kinloch said. “They’re smiling.”
“They’re leaving now,” Andrina confirmed. “All of them. But they were really happy, Mr. Forbes.”
“They said you’re one of them now,” Sinclair added sleepily, slumping against Alan’s chest. “A keeper of stories. They said that’s better than magic.”
The candles steadied. The charged energy in the room eased.
Forbes let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His eyes were damp, but he held himself together. Barely.
Gwen leaned close. “You okay?”
“Aye.” His voice was rough but steady. “That was...”
“I know.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I know.”
Celia broke the spell with characteristic timing. “Well! The most successful séance in thirty-seven years! I believe this calls for cake.”
“And something stronger than tea,” George added, already rising.
“The good whisky,” Celia agreed. “Forbes, you’ve earned it.”
The room dissolved into warm chatter and movement.
Trent immediately cornered Forbes to show him his notes (“I got everything—the stripey blankets comment is going in my memoir”).
Several guests approached to ask about his research—people with Scottish surnames who’d never thought much about where they came from, suddenly curious about ship manifests and immigration records and the stories hidden in old documents.
Forbes answered every question with patience and enthusiasm, promising to look into family lines, scribbling names and email addresses on the back of Celia’s cloth napkins until she threatened to charge him for laundry.
Gwen watched from across the room, a slice of cake in her hand, her heart full.
Forbes was in his element now—animated, passionate, explaining the research with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved his work. The rawness from moments ago had settled into something warmer. Something like purpose.
He looked steady now—like a man who had finally stepped into the place he belonged.
“He’s going to be here all night,” Trent observed, appearing at her elbow. “I’ve never seen anyone so excited about ship manifests.”
“It’s endearing.”
“It’s extremely endearing. Annoyingly so.” Trent sipped his wine. “You’re keeping him, I assume?”
“I’m keeping him.”
“Good. Salem could use more enthusiastic historians.” He paused. “And he makes you glow. Literally, based on recent events. But also figuratively. It’s disgusting and I approve completely.”
Gwen laughed and nudged him with her shoulder.
Later—after cake and whisky and more questions about genealogy than Forbes had fielded in years—they found themselves on the front porch, the October night cool and clear around them.
“Big night,” Gwen said.
“Aye.” Forbes leaned against the railing, looking lighter than she’d ever seen him. “I didn’t see them, you know. Not even a flicker. Just empty air.”
“But you believed anyway.”
“I did.” He turned to look at her. “A month ago, I’d have demanded documentation. Eyewitness corroboration. Peer-reviewed sources.”
“And now?”
“Now I know that some truths doonae need proof.” He pulled her close. “They just need trust.”
Gwen leaned into him, warm against the October night. “The kids really liked you tonight. Kinloch doesn’t give the ‘warrior’s heart’ speech to just anyone.”
“I’m honored.” Forbes pressed a kiss to her hair. “Though I suspect Sinclair was mostly interested in the cake.”
“Sinclair is always mostly interested in cake. It’s his superpower.”
They stood together in comfortable silence, the sounds of the party still drifting from inside.
“Gwen?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you. For bringing me into this.” He gestured vaguely—at the house, the party, Salem itself. “All of it.”
“You brought yourself in,” she said. “I just opened the door.”
“Still.” He tightened his arms around her. “Best research trip I’ve ever had.”
“Even with the ancient evil?”
“Especially with the ancient evil. Very dramatic. Will make an excellent footnote.”
Gwen laughed against his chest. “You’re not putting any of this in your books.”
“Course not. No one would believe it.” He smiled down at her. “Some truths are just for us.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. “See? You followed your heart.”
Forbes went still for a moment—the Cameron woman’s words echoing through him. Follow your heart and you won’t get lost.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “I did.”
And for the first time in years, he knew he wasn’t lost at all.
Behind them, through the window, one of Celia’s candles flared brighter for just a moment.
Neither of them saw it.
But inside, Kinloch and Sinclair exchanged a look and smiled.
Some things didn’t need to be seen to be true.