Chapter Six #3
Violet rises from the bed and drifts toward the window, seeming to transform right before my eyes into a completely different person.
Her earlier warmth is gone, replaced by a cold intensity that borders on the ominous.
Even her appearance seems to change, her face instantly becoming severe, almost sinister.
“Perhaps,” she says, sounding like herself but also…
not. But it’s not the first time I’ve heard her sound like this.
She used a similar voice during the table read, making me realize what’s happening.
She’s trying on a version of Ruth Hume Semple to see how it fits.
I watch, rapt, as she continues to adjust the way she speaks, moves, looks.
It’s fascinating and intimidating in equal measure.
“Just like there are things we’ll never know,” she says, “I believe there are also things we’ll never be able to explain.”
I think of Molly, my bedroom, her shadow stretched across the wall.
Tell me a story.
A ghost story.
“I think what happened here is one of those unexplainable things,” Violet continues.
“In my mind, what Daisy wrote—and what Ronan came up with in his script—is just as likely as anything else. Maybe even more so, considering this island’s past. All that talk of witches.
Of covens. And of course there’s Roderick Semple to consider.
The man made a fortune off instruments of death.
I imagine the men struck down by his cannons—and the people who loved them—would hold quite a grudge about that, even in death.
It makes perfect sense to me that, if it were possible, they’d want to seek revenge. ”
I take a drink, swallowing hard, the gin burning. “Revenge?”
“It’s the most powerful force on earth.” Standing in a patch of shadow, Violet turns to look at me. Only her eyes are fully visible. An icy blue. So bright they seem to glow. “The one thing that could rouse someone from their grave.”
“So you do believe in ghosts?”
“I guess I do,” Violet says, stepping from the shadows and letting the character of Ruth Hume Semple fall away like a discarded robe.
I look at her while sipping my drink, the rim of the glass splitting her in two.
Her upper half is completely normal. Her lower blurred and distorted by the gin-slicked glass.
Like a mermaid, dazzling yet dangerous. “Don’t you believe in ghosts? I thought you, of all people, would.”
“What do you mean?”
“I watched your audition,” she says, proceeding with caution. “Loretta wanted me to see it before a final decision was made. I think she wanted my approval.”
“Oh,” I say, unable to muster anything more. How does one react to knowing one of the most famous women in the world has seen you reveal your deepest, darkest secret?
“You told that story so well that I assumed it was true. Was it?”
I wish I knew. Most days I’m certain it never happened.
That it was exactly what my parents said.
Grief playing tricks on me, making me see something that wasn’t there.
That is, by and large, the most logical conclusion.
It was a phase of mental imbalance. A year in which I thought I was being haunted.
And yet sometimes I think it was real.
It felt real, even as I recited the mantra that had been taught to me.
You’re not real. You don’t exist. Please be gone.
But that’s not a satisfying answer. Not to me and certainly not to Violet, who watches me with keen interest, eagerly awaiting my reply. Unsure which answer to give—the yes I think she wants or the no I assume she expects—I settle for a noncommittal “No comment.”
“Well, you’re a quick study,” Violet says, pleased. “I’m going to need to keep my eye on you.”
“I learned from the best.”
She raises her martini in a toast, and we clink glasses, the sound drowned out by a sudden knock on the door. On the other side, Ronan calls my name. “Marin? You in there?”
Violet’s eyes go wide as she becomes yet another person. The good girl caught doing something bad. “Hide the gin!” she whispers.
She tips back her martini glass and drains it.
I do the same, even though I’ve had too much already.
As the last drops slide down my throat, Violet grabs my glass and flies to the thermos on the counter, her limbs flailing like a Muppet’s.
She drops everything into a drawer before giving the all-clear.
I stride to the door, my legs unsteady. My swaying sets Violet into a giggle fit, which she covers her mouth to hide. She nods, and I open the door, catching Ronan mid-knock.
“Hey, I—” he says, stopping when he sees Violet. “What are you doing here?”
Violet transforms again at will, morphing into Professional Violet. Sober Violet. It’s astounding to witness. She makes it look so easy. Like flipping a switch.
“Bonding with Marin, of course,” she says. “Were you looking for her or me?”
“Both of you, actually. I’ve already corralled the others.”
During my evening of diaries and dinner and a movie star plying me with gin, I’d forgotten that Brad told me what Ronan has planned. But now, as the martini buzzes through my brain, as loud as the insects outside, I remember.
It’s time for us to attempt a séance.