The dining hall of the duke’s residence was as beautiful and expensive as the rest of it. Dozens of lit beeswax tapers in silver candelabras placed down the long table gave the room a soft glow. The centerpiece pyramids of apples, pears, and grapes were all out of season.
As Jacques pulled out my chair, I noticed the wallpaper: a dark blue field with a winding vine of green holding bunches of yellow grapes. It made me connect the Archambeau name to the province of Chambaux and its wine.
Stupid of me not to have made the link between them before, but it was difficult to visualize one of the most established and celebrated wines of Sarnesse with that of the face of Mysir de Archambeau himself. He did not look like the one who toiled the earth.
The room filled with guests and Jacques took his place further down the table, so we could not continue our interesting discussion. Instead, on my left was an elderly deaf man who was interested in only food, and on my right was a determined flirt who was busy pursuing the lady across the table. Jacques was enjoying company far more engaging than my own, so cheerful smiles sent my way were few.
I sighed. Mysir de Archambeau had silenced me by removing anyone who could have been a sympathetic confidant. Looking to where he sat at the head of the table, I tilted my glass of white wine to him as a salute. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he returned a subtle toast of his own glass towards me.
Thus, thwarted from conversing, I devoted myself to the delicious food and observed the guests.
My host’s sister, Lady Valentina, sat at the opposite end of the table from her brother. Since she was closer, I could hear her talk about Sarnesse’s complicated history with our across-the-ocean neighbor, Perino. She appeared to be in her element, the early nervousness gone.
It was during the fourth course when the woman who was the object of my flirting neighbor said, “Now I remember who you are. You’re Madame Chalamet, the Ghost Talker. I’m surprised Tristan would have your sort at his table.”
“Pardon me, but I don’t believe we’ve met?”
“No, we haven’t. Perhaps because I have no dead relations that I would like to speak to!” She gave one of those light laughs that are as frothy as whipped cream and about as fulfilling to the soul. “I am Lady Josephine Baudelaire, a dear friend of Tristan and Valentina. We’ve known each other for years; I’m practically family.”
The look she gave under her eyelashes to Lady Valentina was indeed familial. In my line of work, I'd seen it before; it usually ends with someone dying under mysterious circumstances, along with a lost will, and the police involved.
A woman somewhat younger than Archambeau and his sister, Lady Josephine, with her blond hair, plucked eyebrows, and subtly tinted cheeks, was every drop a sophisticated lady of society seen in a fashion plate. She wore a gown of deep purple, and with no shoulders to hold it up, it relied on her bosom to keep everything in place. It had ample support.
“That is a beautiful necklace. An heirloom, by chance?” I asked her.
Her hand went up to touch the piece.
“Yes, it is a piece from my husband’s family, handed down for over six generations to the heir’s wife. A gift from Queen Marcelina.”
There was no way not to notice it. Filigree links of a silver chain connected a series of about twenty round-cut half carat diamonds. At the midpoint, three large pear-shaped diamonds were suspended. These show-stoppers were probably between three and four carats.
Lady Josephine happily entertained me with her family’s illustrious history: a long list of famous battles where Baudelaires saved princes and high lords aplenty, and were gifted castles and land by various nobles. This recitation of every exploit of her husband’s bloodline while dropping names occupied her from the fourth course to the seventh.
"- the earl was must be appreciative of how Avellino risked his life to save his daughter."
"I can only imagine," I commented.
Having scraped his plate clean, my elderly seat mate announced in a booming voice, “Vineyards.”
“Yes, Sir Vincent, we have vineyards.” Lady Josephine nodded at each word like a marionette, giving him a fixed smile, as if talking to a child or an imbecile.
“Next to Archambeau’s estate.”
Lady Josephine said quickly to me, “Madame Chalamet, tell me, as I have been dying to ask. Are you here to speak with the spirit of Tristan’s dead wife and lay to rest the rumors of how she died?”
Mysir de duke must have hearing like a cat, for I felt his gaze upon me from the head of the table, six seats down. If he wanted to test me, I would tease him with his distrust.
“Can you keep a secret?”
The corner of her sharply defined, painted lips quirked up to form a sharp V she couldn’t quite suppress. “Oh, indeed.”
“I think he brought me here to evaluate his jewelry. After all, I am the daughter of Augustus Chalamet, the jeweler who selected the pieces gifted to King Guénard’s bride.”
She shrank back and her hand flew again to her necklace, but now in a protective posture. So Lady Josephine knew it was fake. Interesting. However, she quickly regained her composure and fired back with a carelessness that did not fool me.
“Oh yes, now I remember your father. Wasn’t he murdered?”
“Yes, he was. They bashed his head in and cut his throat from ear to ear,” I confirmed calmly. Lady Josephine wasn’t the first to bring up the subject and nor would she be the last. I had met many more insulting questions about my father’s death than this one.
A servant removed my plate, and set the mignardise, the last course, in front of me. Attentive staff laid new silverware, removed glasses, and placed a cup of steaming coffee next to the bite-sized dessert. Each guest had the initial of their first name drawn in dark chocolate icing across the smooth white cream surface of the mignardise.
A dessert though did not distract my opponent, for Lady Josephine had the tenacity of a terrier. “Do you use your talent to speak with him? Your father, I mean. Beyond the grave?”
Her surname Baudelaire was an old word meaning dagger, but those who play with knives sometimes cut themselves.
“Oh yes, we chat all the time,” I said. “But he doesn’t speak of his death; he only talks of his trade. The jewels he’s handled and set. And how no matter how well cut, glass never outshines the brilliance of diamonds.”
Lady Josephine quickly returned to flirting, ignoring me for the time being. From the corner of my eye, I saw Archambeau raise his coffee cup towards me in his second salute of the evening. My, my, what mighty fine hearing the gentleman had.
Dinner over, our Lady Valentina stood up, and the party followed her into the adjoining receiving rooms, where guests mingled with the people they truly wanted to speak with. Now I suspected the real art of negotiation and deal-making would begin. I wondered how many had trade concerns the treaty and its increased taxes would impact?
Jacques sought me out, and I found I could breathe again. I gave my first honest smile since dinner. Our mothers were childhood friends, and we had carried on the tradition.
“Whatever are you doing here, Jacques? Your sister told me you were in Zulskaya, wooing three women at the same time.”
“The number of my conquests is greatly exaggerated. There were only two, and it turned out they had huge brothers and fathers with no sense of humor. But to answer your question, I’m here in Alenbonné as an attaché to General Reynard Somerville. Writing his correspondence, managing his calendar, getting ready for the big parade.”
“The general is that gentleman in the army uniform talking to Mysir de Archambeau?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk about him.” Jacques took my arm and guided me behind a plant, some tall monstrosity with leaves larger than my head in a brass pot. In a low voice, he said, “I want to know why you are here, as the guest of a man who hates Ghost Talkers?”
“I can’t really discuss that. I’m under orders.”
“Do you know about his marriage?”
“Yes, and that a Ghost Talker was called in after she died.”
“But did you know it was his wife’s family who dragged in a Ghost Talker, because they wanted to prove it wasn’t a proper marriage in order to get her family property returned?”
Not a genuine marriage was an insinuation that it was unconsummated. Not insulting at all. I’m sure someone as prideful as mysir de duke took all of that placidly.
Before I could reply, I heard my name spoken across the room.
“Do you think spirits are really just sewage gas, Madame Chalamet?” Lady Josephine's voice carried across the room and it made the other conversations sputter to a stop. She was standing next to Lady Valentina, who did not look pleased at all with her dear family friend.
Their group included two men: a young man in his twenties with light blond hair and an overeager face, and an older, sandy-haired man who had flirted with Lady Josephine at dinner. Both wore expensive clothes and haircuts, and carried themselves with a certain weary, bored expression on their faces that seemed to be part of the required costume for their social class.
Jacques extended his arm, and I took it. As we walked over to the group, I felt we were leading a charge into enemy territory. When we were close enough to discuss things in a normal tone of voice, I answered the question.
“The fumes from sewage, especially in a confined area, can cause health concerns. Mind-doctors say the air can produce hallucinations, illusions that seem real.”
“I told you, Stephan,” said the younger man, giving an elbow jab into the other man’s ribs. The recipient of this hilarity said with a laugh, “Madame Ghost Talker, so you’re confirming that spirits are nothing but vapors from a leaky toilet?”
Lady Josephine tittered at his witticism.
“No, but every vapor, every will-o-wisp seen, any shadow on the wall without something to cast it, is not always a ghost.”
“I doubt Lance can tell the difference between swamp gas and ghosts,” said Stephan.
The two shot acrimonious looks at each other, and I suspected gaining the attention of winsome Lady Josephine might be at the heart of their competition. It would be better to calm them down before I caught the blame for any unpleasantness.
“When faced with the unexpected, my advice is first always to check for a scientific explanation. Do the walls, windows, and floors produce a draft? Next, record your findings. Is this vapor seen only once, by only one person, and in what places? Science can explain many things that, upon first glance, appear to an uneducated eye as supernatural.”
“There must be a way to identify ghosts. To know where to find them and when?” said Stephan.
“I’m sorry, but unlike a reliable clock, which produces always the same results if wound correctly, ghosts are less predictable. They randomly move between the two planes.”
“What do you mean?” Lance’s question was one I had answered many times.
“The Morpheus Society believes there are three planes of existence: the Earthly, the Beyond, and the Afterlife. The Earthly is the physical plane we inhabit. Once we die, there is a transition period where the spirit or soul travels to the Beyond, where they may become ghosts, although most souls travel on to the Afterlife, and are never heard from again.”
“But what makes a ghost?” Stephan asked.
“All we have been able to determine at this point is powerful emotions, traumatic death, perhaps an important point in history, can weigh a soul down and prevent its transition. From our study of the paranormal, it seems spirits use the energy of the living to cross back to the Earthly plane.”
“Why doesn’t some of your lot go to this Beyond and find out more?” Stephan’s comment was more sneer than question.
“So far, we’ve only been able to reach into the Beyond through astral projection, in dreams, or in meditation. But it can be very dangerous to linger too long. Remember, living energy gets drained where ghosts reside. My advice is to leave the Ghost Talking to the professionals.”
“Not fair, madame!” said Stephan. Even Lance agreed. “That’s an evasion! What of those who want to hunt ghosts themselves?”
“I wouldn’t want to lose my income, mysir. This is best left to those trained by the Morpheus Society to do it.”
During our conversation, Lady Valentina continued to cast glances to where her brother was standing with the general and two ladies. From their countenances, it was a serious discourse. Probably something about taxes. Taxes always gave me that slight bilious cast to my face.
Lady Josephine interrupted our discourse.
“If you wanted to ghost hunt, Stephan, why not start tonight? After all, we have access to a professional.” Lady Josephine gave the duke’s sister a snake smile. “What an amusing evening it would make for you guests, Valentina.”
Lady Valentina did not look happy, and neither was I. This was deep water, and would no doubt anger the duke. Before I could think of a graceful way to decline, Lady Josephine clapped her hands to gain the attention of the entire room.
“Madame Chalamet, a Ghost Talker, wants to conduct a ghost hunt. Who would like to come with us?”