Chapter 7 #2
“Wait—” Katya reached into her pocket and pulled out a creamy unmarked envelope. “From Olga—for yesterday.”
I took the envelope. Money was very good.
Already, I felt my muscles easing, my tense shoulders relaxing.
Especially when I looked inside to behold the fat bundle of banknotes.
I immediately handed Katya half the sum, which was, as Olga had promised, very generous, and hurried on despite my friend’s protestations.
It had hit me all over again: I had performed a real séance, not a fraudulent one.
I had communicated with a real spirit, not a fake one.
Like a true medium. Something inside me had awoken, that spark of heat, the same one I had felt at sixteen years old.
It had shut me out—until now. It had to be my affinity blinking to life.
I needed to try again—another séance, a spiritual communing, this time with Mama.
I was no longer afraid of the darkness, of the black void.
Though I had lost consciousness at the end of my séance with Olga, it had not been as deep or as long as in my youth.
And Olga and Alec, possibly my long-lost siblings, had glided into my life too conveniently, too easily.
Holding a séance was my way to the truth—about them and the Grand Duke’s claims.
But first, I would stop by Marcel’s shop, purchase those cigarettes, and find Zefir, who had disappeared somewhere.
That night, after Katya left—with, You better tell me what is happening, Zina—and Baba Valya retired—with, Come upstairs as soon as you are done tidying—I went into the garden for a smoke.
All day, I had felt my grandmother’s watchful gaze.
I knew she also noticed the tearoom’s changed energy.
For some reason, she let me in on none of it.
A part of me, the dutiful granddaughter part, almost went to her and spilled the whole wretched business, Olga included.
But I wanted to be sure first. I wanted to see if I could summon Mama.
I exhaled a relieved breath, my throat raw. Toward nightfall, the tearoom had filled with moisture. A thick, noxious cloud of humidity hung over the rooms, dampening the smells I loved—ground coffee, lingering perfumes, sweet honeysuckle after fortunes had been seen and told.
Through the garden’s grainy darkness, I saw my little white meringue of a cat.
I had found her at the cathedral, over a bowl of milk put out for her by Father.
Now she was ambling through the dead shrubbery, no doubt looking for a mouse to catch.
The garden appeared even worse. The trees seemed to bow down with the same weight wedged against my chest, the plants appearing gray, the dirt dry and cracked, our herbs dying.
The night almost swallowed up the fence, but I recalled that dagger. I had hidden it under a floorboard in my loft. Could the Grand Duke’s spirit have led me to it? I shuddered when I pictured him standing where I was, breathing the same air as I was.
I brought the cigarette to my lips, my hand trembling a little. Not in fear of holding a séance but in fear I wouldn’t be able to do it again. I inhaled one last puff of smoke, held it in my mouth for a moment, then tossed out the cigarette. It was now or never.
I reproduced my séance with Olga faithfully.
In lieu of a photograph of Mama, which I never had, I placed her fortune-telling cards against the white lilies I had purchased and hidden in my loft.
I kept Zefir out of the consulting room as before, though by her yowls and scratches against the door, I knew she wasn’t pleased.
By the time I sat down at the table, the candles were flickering and I was seeing shadows everywhere.
Despite my erratic heartbeat, I closed my eyes and thought of Mama, what I knew of her and what I didn’t.
What I imagined her to be, how she had looked and felt and was.
I waited for the warmth, the spark, but I felt nothing.
“Svetlana, Mother, I summon you,” I whispered, feeling none of the admittedly false confidence of my séance with Olga.
“I bring light into your dark world of death. Commune with me, speak to me, show yourself. Are you there? Your daughter, Zina, wishes to speak to you.” I waited, growing uneasy by the minute.
I sensed the prickle of being watched. It felt cold and sharp, as though an invisible hand pressed that dagger against my throat.
A scream tore through the air—the same one from that morning. My eyes snapped open, widened, searching for the source of the scream, expecting those faces to stir to life in the drapery. Another scream, and blood pooled at my feet, wet and clinging and startlingly bright.
I stumbled up with a gasp, hearing more screams, each more agonized than the last. But before I could reach the consulting room door, they stopped abruptly, as if cut off.
What replaced them was much worse—a silence that was heavy, sinister in its still quality.
Dead. I yanked open the door and looked about the passage.
There was only Zefir, peering back at me with her jewel eyes, ghostly in the dark.
The blood had vanished. What had it been?
Was the séance with Olga and Alec another fluke?
Did it require their presence, or was Mama simply not answering?
It was time to speak to my grandmother. Though I still didn’t wish to tell her about my taking on Olga as a client or about my séances, whatever was happening to the tearoom was dark and unnatural.
I would also write to Olga and Alec. If I could manifest spirits only with the brother and sister, I needed to hold another séance with them. I couldn’t give up on my reawakened affinity or on Mama.