Free The Spirit Room by Marschel Paul

as could be. The departed ones are happy as could be.” Whispering out loud, she churned the rule over in her mind so that nothing could make her forget it. Grabbing the seat of her ladder-back chair, she pulled as close to the table as she could, pressing her chest against the weight of it.
     
    Three loud knocks rattled the door. Clara flinched. Papa stopped pacing and stared at the door. With a smart little slap, Izzie shut her notebook, slipped it into her dress pocket, and then winked at her.
     
    Clara took a deep breath and nodded. In the candlelight, Izzie looked calm and ready for something new. If anything went wrong with the three men, if they got angry or sad, Izzie would steer things the right way. And Papa would be nearby, too. Clara exhaled and put her moist palms on the bare table.
     
    “Here we go, my young mediums.” Papa tugged down on each of his jacket sleeves. He glanced at Izzie and Clara, grinned, and strode to the door. Clara bit down on her lower lip so that the fluttery feeling in her stomach might not turn into laughter.
     
    Papa opened the door and the three men entered bringing in a cold draft with them. The men greeted Papa as Ol’ Frank and laughed about something that had happened on the way to the Spirit Room. They hushed down lickety-click though, when they looked over at her and Izzie standing in their good dresses near the table.
     
    “These are my talented daughters, Isabelle and Clara.” Papa stepped toward the table and the men followed.
     
    He placed a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him. “This is Sam Weston.”
     
    Clara could hear Papa’s instructions in her head. Notice everything you can about every customer. Try to understand them by the things they say, the way they look and dress, the way they move around, and even what their posture is like. It would all come in handy. So, when Weston took off his hat and while Papa was introducing him, Clara noticed that his slicked-down hair had far too much pomade in it. Even from where she stood, several feet from Weston, his hair smelled like over-ripe apples. He was the one whose fiancée had run off. He looked older than thirty years, though, his eyes hollow and tired with dark circles below and the skin on his face sagged like the gravity in his world had more pull on him than other people’s gravity did.
     
    He dressed fancy for being in Geneva. His clothing was like the pictures in those magazines Mrs. Beattie, the milliner, had downstairs. His coat was the prettiest brown color and had a thick, soft look to it. It fit him to perfection.
     
    “This feller is John Payne.” Papa, gripping his lapel like a statesman, pointed at the man in the middle of the three.
     
    This one was the widower, Mr. Payne. Payne beamed like he just won a bet. He was short, but his neck was thick and his shoulders were wide as a wagon and he looked strong enough to pull one if he had to. The top of his right ear was gone. Darn sure there was a story to that, but Papa hadn’t mentioned the ear. Mr. Payne’s eyes were blue and his hair light blond like a Norwegian’s, but Papa never said anything about Norwegian either.
     
    “And this last feller is Herbert Washburn.” Now with both hands on his lapels, Papa indicated Washburn by nodding at him.
     
    “Miss Isabelle, Miss Clara, a pleasure,” Washburn said.
     
    This one was polite, but he wore no smile. He was the married one with the boats. He was the plainest of the three, plain clothes, plain hair, plain eyes. Was there anything about him to notice? Clara stared hard at him, but then all of a sudden Izzie stepped a little away from her chair.
     
    “Good evening, gentlemen. Thank you for coming to our very first spirit circle. Will you sit with us, please?”
     
    Holy rolling Moses. Izzie never spoke like that. It was Mrs. Purcell, Mrs. Fielding, Anna and that Jane Austen all in one.
     
    Washburn walked by Clara. He smelled like steaming vegetables, maybe beets. That