Free How It Happened in Peach Hill by Marthe Jocelyn

even a fella, eh, Sylvie? You’re too pretty to mope about all day, biting your fingernails!”
    “What?” Mrs. Torn curled her fingertips into fists.
    “I love you, Sylvie.” Very faint.
    I cracked my toe joint again quickly, hoping to limit the sobs.
    “Buddy’s gone,” said Mama’s husky voice. “Handsome fellow, wants the best for you.”
    “Yes,” breathed Mrs. Torn.
    “But there’s someone else here who won’t wait a moment longer. She insists on speaking to Gregory Poole.”
    “Christine?” said Mr. Poole.
    “Gregory? Gregory? Is that you?” Mama’s voice was high and querulous, the same one she’d used in his fancy dining room.
    “It has been a quiet week,” said Mr. Poole. “Thank you, Christine.”
    I had a sudden vision of her bracelet nestled on velvet in Laraby’s window. I hadn’t told Mama, but now I looked at Mr. Poole more closely. Was he really thanking her for her jewelry?
    “I’ve been resting,” said Mrs. Poole. “Watching you. I’m trying to decide what I think of your new friend.”
    “Oh, well, ah …” Mr. Poole was embarrassed and confused. His wife was speaking through the mouth of the very friend she was being rude to!
    “And I’ve noticed that you haven’t been to visit my grave, Gregory.” Mr. Poole squirmed as Miss Weather looked up sharply. Good guess, Mama! “It could use some attention. What will people say?”
    “Ah, well, you’re right, Christine. I’ll order fresh flowers tomorrow.”
    “No woman alive will feel affection for a man who doesn’t honor his deceased wife.”
    “Ah, thank you, Christine. Is there anything you’d like to say about the business?”
    “Watch carefully for signs, Gregory,” said Mrs. Poole. “You haven’t heard the last from me.”
    Mama loved to tack that on with wealthy clients. Even if they loathed their dear departed, they could never resist hearing more as promised. Mama started to hum, ever so quietly, so I knew to crack my toe again.
    Suddenly there came a thud, and it wasn’t me this time. I was the only one who jumped, because the others didn’tknow we were at the end, didn’t realize we were waiting for Mama’s “fall” out of trance.
    Instead we heard her husky voice again. “There’s quite a vision here now. She’s an ancient soul indeed and seems to be wearing—is it called a wimple? She’s here for Annie.”
    “Wha—?” One syllable escaped before I gathered my wits. I settled my hands back to the table. All eyes were on me.
    “This is Annie,” I called out.
    There was silence, then a thump.
    “She cannot speak,” said Mama. “She wants parchment and ink.”
    “Parchment?” said Mr. Poole.
    I looked around wildly. Peg had been distracted by the guests’ arrival and had not brought the paper. We couldn’t call her in the middle of a séance!
    Mrs. Newman removed her hands from the circle and groped beneath her seat. She dragged her bag onto her lap and pulled out a notebook, which she laid flat on the table. She riffled through it, past columns and lists to a blank page toward the back. Mama was back to humming all the while. Mrs. Newman produced a sharpened pencil and placed it in the center of the book.
    “There,” she said. “The parchment of 1924.”
    Mama’s eyes stayed half lowered, and she kept humming for a bit before speaking. “She wants Annie to hold the writing implement.”
    “Tell her it’s called a pencil,” said Mrs. Newman, sounding peevish. The notebook was passed to me and I picked up the pencil, awaiting inspiration.
    I took a breath and threw my head back and then forwardas if someone were throttling me. I shuddered a tremendous shudder and began to write.
    My name is Gwendalen of Stone House
, I scrawled.
I am daughter to Arne the Vast and Elbecca of Tune
.
    “What’s she writing?” whispered Miss Weather. “What does it say?”
    “I can’t quite see,” said Mrs. Torn.
    “Well, lean over! Read it aloud!”
    I kept going.
    My oldest brother,