Free The Dead of Winter by Jane A. Adams

or who ‘had an auntie recently passed who liked violets’ and she had hoped that something would come to her. And as she had watched, she had grown angry and then enraged. It wasn’t that Rina was against religion or against those who claimed to be able to speak to those who had ‘passed over’.
    Died, Rina thought. They had died.
    It was the randomness of it all; the blandness or meaninglessness of so many of the pronouncements. Surely, she thought, if you wanted to transmit a message to a loved one via some talented stranger, then you’d make bloody sure the message was particular enough to be unequivocal and not just something that would have been quite at home in the most platitudinous of greetings cards?
    She had listened to the fifth or sixth assertion that Uncle So-And-So was happy and at peace and seen the looks of gratitude, the undoubted comfort the grieving had received, and had felt nothing but anger. Had heard the exhortation that a bereaved parent should ‘finish the bottle of pop’ their dead son had neglected to drink and, unlike the rest of the audience, not been overwhelmed by the fact the medium had known about the remaining soft drink so much as consumed by outrage that anyone, dead or alive, should waste time on such banality.
    Rina had left before the rage broke free and became words; it wasn’t in her nature to be cruel or derisive of those who so clearly needed and wanted such contact. After all, hadn’t she thought she was one of them; hadn’t she gone looking for such comforts?
    Leaving as quietly as she could, she stood outside the hall and sucked deep breaths of cool air. It had rained, and she drew into her lungs damp wind that carried the tang of sea salt, despite the fact that she was at the time a good fifty miles inland, and, bemused and wondering, tears had begun to flow as she recalled how Fred had always loved the sea.
    And then the voice in her ear, close and clear as though he stood beside her: ‘What do you want to bother with all that for, lovely? You and I, we can chat anytime you like.’
    Rina had spoken to no one about that moment, but she knew it had been her Fred talking to her. It had not been some desperate self delusion; neither had it been imagination. Fred had been there, and Rina had felt both comforted and newly bereaved.

SIX
    Aikensthorpe, 1872
    E lizabeth breathed slowly and deeply, preparing herself before the others in the party joined her in this little panelled room. They had met here, for the same purpose, many times, but tonight was different, the preparation was different and her performance would be faultless.
    She patted the diamonds back into place and smoothed her hair, then took her seat at the round table, facing the door. Elizabeth knew that she looked spectacular. ‘Ethereal’, Albert had said, ‘perfect’, and she felt a sudden surge of affection for her fond, foolish husband and reflected on the strangeness of the fact that a man so ruthless and efficient in his business dealings should be so easily manipulated in his emotional ones. Had he not been so obviously happy to have won her, then she might even have felt a little guilt.
    The door opened and the company trooped in, quiet now, anticipation palpable. They took their seats. Albert to her right; Dr Pym and Mrs Francis directly opposite her with Mr Francis, her lawyer husband; then Mr Weston, Aikensthorpe’s Estate manager, and, of course, the Reverend Overton. The Reverend seated himself directly next to Elizabeth and smiled conspiratorially. She looked away rapidly. Stupid man, Elizabeth thought. He could give the entire scheme away, just because he couldn’t keep control of his emotions.
    Her old friend, Miss Esther Grimes, had taken her place at Dr Pym’s left, and between her and Albert was the object of this exercise, the Reverend Spinelli.
    Odious man, Elizabeth thought, but tonight she would finally see him brought