The Mystery Woman (Ladies of Lantern Str - By Amanda Quick Page 0,31

artifacts sitting near our beds,” Beatrice said. “We have enough on our minds as it is. I suggest that we ask Sally to make arrangements to have the Bastet and canopic jar temporarily stored elsewhere.”

“Excellent idea,” Hannah said.

She went to the connecting door and spoke briefly to Sally. Beatrice started to unpack her own small trunk. In her guise as a paid companion she had brought only two dresses, one for day, which she had worn on the train, and one for evening.

Hannah turned around just as Beatrice was putting the staid evening gown into the wardrobe.

“Let Sally take care of that for you,” Hannah said quickly.

“It’s all right,” Beatrice said. “I’m almost finished. There’s not much to it.”

“I can see that.” Hannah looked at the unfashionable dress hanging in the wardrobe with dismay. “I assumed that as a Flint and Marsh agent you would be able to afford a more expensive wardrobe.”

“I assure you, my employers are very generous,” Beatrice said. “But when I am conducting an investigation, I try to stay in my role as a companion at all times. I learned that lesson in my former career.”

Hannah sank down onto a chair and regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “You gave a very fine performance as Miranda the Clairvoyant. I never saw your red hair beneath the black wig and I never realized your eyes were blue. The veil you wore was quite heavy.”

“Dr. Fleming believed that Miranda should have a commanding presence onstage.” Beatrice carried a folded nightgown to a drawer. “He did not think that I could accomplish that without the costume. But the main reason he insisted I play the part of Miranda at all times was because he worried that there were those who might become obsessed with a woman they believed to be clairvoyant.”

“He was right to be cautious.” Hannah hesitated. “You have had two very interesting careers, Beatrice.”

“I have been fortunate in that regard.” Beatrice slipped the nightgown into a drawer. “Both paid well.”

“It was not all an act back in the days when you played Miranda, was it? You truly do possess some paranormal talent?” Hannah tensed, as if bracing herself for bad news. “Can you foretell the future?”

“No.” Beatrice closed the drawer and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I do not see the future. I do not believe anyone can do that, although it’s certainly possible to predict probable outcomes if one has enough information. But that is a function of logic, not fortune-telling. And in my experience it does no good whatsoever to warn people that they are heading down the wrong path.”

Hannah smiled wistfully. “Because no one really wants good advice.”

“It’s the rare individual who is ruled by logic instead of passion.”

Hannah sighed. “I know. What is the exact nature of your talent?”

“I see the psychical energy that others leave behind in their footprints and on the things they touch. The colors and patterns of the currents tell me a great deal about the individual who generated them.”

“It must be fascinating.”

“That is not how I would describe it,” Beatrice said. “I won’t deny that my talent has its uses. With the exception of a couple of very short stints as a governess that did not end well, I have made my living off my paranormal abilities in one way or another. But there are some disturbing aspects to my other sight.”

“How can you say that? It would be such a gift to be able to read other people by viewing their paranormal footprints and fingerprints.”

“Psychical energy sticks around for a long time—years, decades, centuries.” She looked at the Bastet statuette and heightened her senses. The cat-woman goddess was covered with layer upon layer of hot, seething energy. “I can still see glimpses of the prints of the sculptor who made that figure and those of the priest who put it into the burial chamber. I can see the prints of the tomb thieves who stole it and those of the obsessive collectors who have handled it over the years.”

“How can you distinguish the prints of so many different individuals?”

“I can’t, at least not with any great precision,” Beatrice said. “That’s the problem with old objects and old houses like this one. Over the years, the layers of energy set down by people form a dark fog that is . . . unsettling to view for any length of time.” She shut down her senses. “I can catch glimpses of the various patterns but not