The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

“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 the table. It connected with a little drum with a speaking tube attached, which she’d found at a market in Paris. The contraption made a considerable noise but was small enough to tuck into the box with her matches and extra candles, or slip into her pocket in a pinch.

“Can you open the veil?” Celine asked the air. “Let me through? We are looking for Madame Saint-Vincent. Seraphine Louise Saint-Vincent.”

Coralie gasped again. “How did you know her name? I never said.”

Celine knew because Mary had gathered every bit of information on the client she could beforehand. Violet usually helped her, but Mary was an expert. Few noticed a maid running an errand on the street, and servants were happy to stop and pass the time in gossip. Mary was open and friendly with women, coy and cheeky with the men, and fluent in several languages.

“She knows,” Celine said. “I shall try to find my guide now. Hush. I need quiet.”

While Celine sat still, preparing for her trance, Violet’s thoughts wandered.

Daniel had not come today. And why should he? Violet had no business putting on her best dress and waiting for him like a love-struck schoolgirl. Daniel didn’t owe her a call. He had things to do, people to see, engines to invent. He might have gone back to visit Monsieur Dupuis, to talk about the balloon adventure, or about propulsion and internal combustion, things of that nature.

Or Daniel was busy being a wealthy man-about-town. This was the south of France in the winter season, and Daniel must know people in the highest circles. He might even now be drinking wine with a count, smoking with a duke, dancing with a duchess. Or planning to move on to Nice and Cannes, or Monte Carlo, where the lovely young butterflies in the Casino would touch their fingers to his arm, and smile at him, and entice . . .

Violet’s heart stung, and her foot slipped. A loud knock burst through just as Celine began speaking as Adelaide, the Parisian girl.

“Oh,” Celine shrieked in her little-girl voice. “She is here!” In the pause, Violet gently moved the drum and pedal back under her skirts.

Celine’s voice changed again, taking on a lower note and a scratchy tone. “Coralie, my love, is that you?”

“Yes!” Coralie’s eyes swam with tears. “Yes, Maman, I’m here.”

“Are you well, petite?”

“I think so, Maman. I had that awful cold, but it’s been gone weeks now.”

“But are you happy, child?” the voice of Madame Saint-Vincent went on. “It is a different thing. Your husband, he means well, but perhaps he is not as attentive as he ought to be.”

Coralie shot a look at her husband, whose brows drew down. Monsieur Lanier was a well-fed man, not quite fat, with soft hands and an expensive suit. If he kept eating his cook’s fine cakes, he would become portly later in life, not having the height to carry weight well. He had all his hair, though, thick waves of it slicked with pomade. He pomaded his chestnut brown moustache as well.

“Oh no,” Coralie said nervously. “He is . . . a very good husband.”

“I never liked him,” said Celine as Madame Saint-Vincent. “Perhaps he will grow kinder when his goat of a mother is no longer there to command him.”

“Oh . . .” Coralie’s cheeks went red as she flashed a glance at her outraged mother-in-law.

Celine went on, still in the scratchy voice. “If his mother is here, tell her I am watching her. I will know if she is not kind to you, and I will take steps.”

“No, no, Maman. No need. Madame Lanier is quite kind to me.”

“Ha!” The sound rang through the room. “The lie becomes you, my darling. You are so angelic, little Coralie. But beware. Treachery surrounds you.” The table shook and shook hard. “I will look out for you, but you must beware.”

“Stop!” The elder Madame Lanier sprang from her chair, her face dark with anger. She pointed at Celine. “This woman is a liar and a fraud. And that one . . .” She swung her rigid finger to Violet. “She has a device under the table that is making noises and moving it.”

“Madame, I assure you, no.” Violet didn’t need a device to move the table. Bracing her legs against it and rocking it sufficed.

Madame Lanier jerked up the tablecloth and peered beneath. Violet, with the drum safely beneath her skirts under the chair, didn’t move.

“You,” Madame Lanier snapped at Violet. “Stand up. Turn out your pockets. I want to see what you have in there.”

An empty bottle that had contained the phosphor-luminescent paint was all Violet had in her pocket. The glowing hand was fading behind her mother—she or Mary would wipe the wall clean before they went.

“You had better do as she says,” Monsieur Lanier said to Violet in a stentorian voice.

Before Violet could decide whether to risk showing the empty, unlabeled bottle, her mother’s voice rose to a shriek. “No. No! Adelaide . . . help me!”

Celine clutched her throat, her eyes widening at some fear only she could see. She writhed in the chair, her breathing hoarse, spittle flecking her lips. She continued to wail, the sound rolling around the high-ceilinged room, then she began striking at unseen attackers.

Violet rushed to her side. “Please, fetch help! The countess is in danger!”