Mrs. Gordon nodded while her sister rang for the tea cart. “My own Amelia loved Christmas.”
The long-deceased Amelia was why my mother had decided to bring me along. I was meant to distract Mrs. Gordon, to keep her off balance. It was a cruel thing to do to a sad old woman.
I stared at my mother mutinously. She pinched me under the table hard enough to leave a welt and make my eyes water.
The hot chocolate finally arrived and everyone except for Colin was offered a delicate porcelain tea cup. The sweet aroma of chocolate and cream smelled so good, it nearly made the whole night worthwhile. I’d never tasted any before and I sincerely hoped to taste it again soon, and often. I drank greedily until my mother spoke.
“We’ll start with a prayer.”
That was my next cue. As everyone closed their eyes and bowed their heads, I slipped the small bottle of liquid out of my pocket and tipped a little into each of the ladies’ cups. Mother said it was medicine, brewed from opium flowers, and that nothing made from flowers could ever be harmful. Hot chocolate was meant to mask the bitter taste, as the ladies mustn’t find out they were drinking laudanum. She was very emphatic about that. I still didn’t understand why it had to be a secret, if it was harmless flower juice. I hesitated for a fraction of a second until my mother opened one eye.
“We’ll sing the traditional hymns now,” she said. She made us sing three of the longest songs in her repertoire until all of our throats were dry. Meanwhile, Colin had smothered the fire, just enough to let a chill creep over us. The old women reached for their cups, taking several deep, restorative swallows.
Mother had us hold hands. “Horace Gordon, we call on you, beloved dead, to speak to us.”
Mrs. Gordon’s fingers trembled. She looked eagerly around the room.
“Horace Gordon,” Mother called again, louder. We all reflexively looked at her. Colin seized the moment to toss a handkerchief packed with Epsom salts and table salt into the dying fire. It flared high, tinged with green and yellow, then burned white when the Epsom salts in the center of the bundle caught.
Mrs. Gordon caught her breath. Even Miss Hartington looked impressed.
And then the laudanum took effect. Their pupils dilated so that they really did look like sinister old witches. I cringed.
“He’s here!” Mrs. Gordon exclaimed. “Oh, Horace!”
Mother tilted her head as if she were listening to ghostly voices. I peered into the shadows, looking for a transparent foot or ectoplasmic cloak. Disappointed, I saw only Colin and a small fluttering ball of dust under one of the sofa legs.
“Mr. Gordon would like me to tell you that he is well,” Mother said. “He is happy on the other side and is with your Amelia.”
“I do smell his horrid cigars,” Miss Hartington admitted, stunned. She blinked several times, then yawned.
“I see him!” Mrs. Gordon wept. “I see him standing right there. Like he used to be, so handsome!”
She was looking over my shoulder. A chill crept over the back of my neck.
“And Amelia, dear Amelia.” She wiped her eyes. “Might I speak to her?”
“I can try,” Mother said, sounding exhausted. “I have a little strength left. Amelia? Amelia, dear?”
Mrs. Gordon was practically on her feet, staring into the space over the table where my mother’s gaze was focused.
“She’s here.” Mother’s arm lifted slowly, her white glove pale as moonlight. She extended her elbow with such concentrated energy, such purpose, that we were all arrested. We couldn’t look away.
She pointed right at me.
I stared back at her in horror, my dark ringlets bobbing at my temples.
Mrs. Gordon looked down at me, laudanum, grief, and desperation clouding her vision. “Oh, Amelia. My Amelia.”
She reached for me but I cringed back in my chair. Miss Hartington was smiling as though she’d drunk too much gin. Their fingers were knobbly and crooked, grasping at my hair and the mended ruffle on my pinafore.
“I don’t like this,” I whimpered.
Colin threw another handful of salts into the fire and it flared so high and hot that the weird green light burned the color from us all, until we were as pale as wilted celery. The ladies barely noticed. They wouldn’t stop reaching for me, looking so hopeful and pleased even as they wept.
Mother suddenly pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and gave a heartbreaking little sigh. “Alas, Amelia has left us,” she declared in a strong voice that was distinctly at odds with her drooping posture.
Mrs. Gordon blinked at her, then at me, her arms dropping suddenly to her side. The diamond ring on her hand hit the table with a crack. She looked even older than before.