Free The Magnificent Lizzie Brown and the Mysterious Phantom by Vicki Lockwood Page B

Madame Aurora told her. “Nobody will know it’s not the real Madame Aurora under these wraps.”
    â€œWhat am I meant to tell them?” Lizzie protested.
    â€œHold your horses a moment. There! Now you look the part. Can you do the voice?”
    Lizzie coughed. “You are troubled, dear,” she said, just as she had the night before.
    â€œClose enough. Now, take my hand as if I was the client. That big line down the middle of my palm is the life line.”
    â€œGot it,” Lizzie said.
    â€œRun your middle finger down the life line. Gently!”
    â€œLike this?”
    â€œThat’s it,” Madame Aurora said.
    Lizzie frowned. “That’s funny.”
    â€œWhat? What’s going on?”
    â€œI can see something,” Lizzie said breathlessly. “Pictures in my head.”
    â€œNo, don’t sound surprised!” Madame Aurora snapped at her. “You’re supposed to be a psychic! And remember to do the voice. Start with something like ‘the mists are parting. . . .’”
    â€œNo, I really can see something,” Lizzie said. An image was forming in her mind, right behind her eyes, as if a magic lantern was shining it there. It was blurred, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, but she could still make it out.
    A boy, making a pile of sticks to burn a broken doll on. And a little girl, crying.
    â€œIt’s a doll funeral,” Lizzie said.
    Madame Aurora nearly jerked her hand right out of Lizzie’s grip. “What?”
    â€œThe doll’s broken, and the boy wants to burn it, but the girl don’t want him to.”
    â€œAmelia,” Madame Aurora whispered, looking shocked. “How on earth . . .”
    â€œNow there’s something else.” Lizzie moved her finger further down Madame Aurora’s life line. “The picture’s not quite so blurry this time. It’s that girl again. But she’s older. About sixteen? Wearing a bonnet. In a room, in a house. She’s tying up a stack of letters with a big pink ribbon. And she’s happy.”
    â€œHappy,” Madame Aurora echoed.
    Lizzie gulped and blushed a little. “I think they’re love letters.”
    Madame Aurora opened her mouth and shut it again.
    â€œNow she’s on a stage, singing a song. The pictures are getting clearer! She’s older now. She’s trying her best, but they’re booing her, poor thing.” Lizzie suddenly realized who it was in the visions. “She looks like you !”
    â€œWhat song?” Madame Aurora demanded. “What song, you little wretch?”
    Lizzie strained to make it out. “‘It was only a violet, plucked from my poor mother’s grave . . .’”
    Madame Aurora gasped. “How dare you? You ungrateful, prying —”
    â€œNow I can see you, just like you are today. It’s not blurry at all. It’s so clear, it’s like looking right at you! And there’s bright light . . . you’ve got your robes on, in this here tent, and you’re talking to a bloke. A posh-looking gent—”
    What Lizzie saw next shut her up quickly. In her vision, Madame Aurora was quite clearly stealing from her client. Lizzie watched her reach across, lift a pocketwatch from the client’s jacket, and slip it into her own. Then the vision vanished.
    Madame Aurora snatched back her hand, and before Lizzie could say another word, she pulled her up by her shoulders, tore the veils and robes off her, and shoved her out of the tent.
    â€œWho do you think you are, eh?” Aurora screeched from the doorway. “I’m the fortune-teller in this show, not you!” Then she bent over, clutching her head and wincing. “I’m going for a nap.”
    â€œWhat about the clients?” Lizzie protested.
    â€œForget the stupid clients! And forget you too. Get out of my sight! You’re finished here, do you hear me?