Free The Spiritglass Charade by Colleen Gleason Page B

in hopes they will visit us.”
    Despite the medium’s warning, Mina muttered, “And to ensure everyone’s hands remain in view.”
    Mrs. Yingling had removed her glasses, placing them on the table. Her eyes were closed and her face lifted toward the ceiling. “Come, now, spirits of our loved ones! We are here, and we beg you to join us. We welcome you and ask you to give a sign of your presence.”
    The chamber became quiet. I could hear Mina’s soft, even breathing on one side of me, and on the other, the more labored breaths of Miss Ashton. She had a drowning-man grip on my hand as she gawked, looking about the chamber.
    The candle flames burned straight and steady. Silence reigned. As the stillness went on, I felt a prickle of anticipation instead of my normal impatience.
    Something was going to happen.
    â€œThere are nonbelievers here.” Mrs. Yingling broke the silence in her soft, quavery voice.
    Mina shifted, her fingers tightening over mine. I listened to her lecture all the way over here about the mediums who’d been exposed as frauds. Even the celebrated Fox sisters from America confessed their entire career had been a sham, according to the know-it-all Miss Holmes.
    â€œI know it is difficult for you, O Spirits, to visit when you must breach a wall of unbelief . . . but I implore you to be strong and to come to us. Make yourselves known. Make the nonbelievers into believers. Give us a sign of your presence.”
    This time, Mrs. Yingling’s voice had hardly died away when there was a sharp
rap
.
    My tingle of anticipation became a full-fledged flutter as our medium responded, “Ah! You are here. Thank you for making yourselves known to us. Is there anything you wish to say?”
    Rap, rap. Rap
.
    Beside me, Miss Ashton was very still. On my other side, I felt Mina quivering with interest. She muttered something inaudible. No one’s hands had moved from the table during the rapping. Nor had anyone shifted in their position in order to, say, kick at the table. And the rap sounded more like bare knuckles than a slippered foot, anyway.
    Did ghosts even
have
bare knuckles? How
did
they make that noise—assuming they were real?
    â€œThe spirits wish to speak,” Mrs. Yingling announced. “They have messages for us.”
    Miss Ashton shifted next to me, her grip on my fingers even tighter. “Mother? Are you there? Please speak to me, Mother.”
    â€œYou must remain silent,” Mrs. Yingling said swiftly. “Only I may talk, or the spirits will wither away, dissolving back to the Other Side.”
    Mina gave a derisive snort, but before I could jab her in the ribs again, the table moved.
    I mean,
it moved
.
    The whole thing jolted, as if someone large had lumbered up and bumped into it in the middle of the night.
    Someone gave a little shriek and I heard a mutter from next to me: “Trick wires.” The candles hadn’t tipped because of their solid holders, but the flames danced wildly. Everything became quiet once more.
    â€œThus the spirits acknowledge the nonbelievers. And yet, they remain, for their messages are of utmost importance. I implore you to remain silent, and to allow me to commune with them.”
    I swallowed, more than willing to allow the spirits to commune. There was no way the table had moved the way it did with any assistance on anyone’s part. That much force would have required even myself, with my unusual strength, to move violently . . . and someone would have noticed it.
    â€œIs Marta, mother of Willa, here? Marta, if you are here, make yourself known!”
    Rap!
    Miss Ashton jolted and her grip tightened even more. “Mother.”
    â€œMarta, do you wish to speak to us?”
    Rap-rap!
    â€œAsk if she is . . . if she knows where Robby is,” Miss Ashton begged.
    Perhaps realizing she was fighting a losing battle requesting silence, Mrs. Yingling