I finish half of the plates before the sun rises, and then mark them with candle wax and pack them inside, placing the tape that seals the box right where I found it.
I hear sounds on the basement steps, so I pack all of my things back into my Hidden Place and lie in bed, pulling the blanket up around my neck to hide my clothing. I shut my eyes, slow my breathing.
There’s a light knock on the door and Charles opens it.
“Rise and shine,” he says, opening the door to my room. The morning light comes through the little window and makes a square pattern on the floor.
“Did you guard these?” he asks, picking up the box of half-altered plates and rubbing his hands over the packaging.
“Yes.”
Charles tucks the package under his arm and waits outside the room. “Get dressed, we have much to do today.”
I let a few minutes pass, enough to make him think I’m pulling on my clothes, and follow him upstairs. The house is bustling with people, and I have to press myself against the hallway wall to make it into the dining room.
Through the front window, I see a group of men examining the damage to the assembly hall. In the daylight, the hole looks bigger, a giant chunk ripped right from the front in a circular shape.
“A sudden storm must have passed through,” a woman says. “Tore the planks right from the frame.”
“We’re lucky it didn’t hit the house.”
Many of the guests inside are the same as yesterday, but there are a few new faces, probably some locals here for a day, and others that look like they traveled a long distance.
I scan the room for Mr. Spencer, but don’t see him among the others. John sits alone in a corner, silently watching people eat their breakfast, and Fox lies beside him.
Charles claps his hands in the center of the room to get everyone’s attention.
“Excuse me, all. There will be no assembly with Silver Star this morning. We’ll be working on repairing the damage.”
A man with plump red cheeks stands and says, “That’s the whole reason I came! Can’t we do it somewhere else?” Other guests murmur in agreement.
“Very sorry for the inconvenience. Anyway, Ms. Eldridge is still feeling weak from yesterday. Perhaps it’s for the best. Schedules for other events are posted around the grounds. There’s still much to keep us busy. Ms. Van Heusen will be doing another painting demonstration in the front room, so please sign up if you’re interested. Madam Crimson will be starting in the parlor in just a few moments for what I’m sure will be an interesting display, and later, Mr. Spencer will be taking photographs in the basement.”
Charles sets the package of photographic plates beside me.
“You wait here,” he says. “I’ll get us some food.”
I stay in the dining room, resting my hands on the photographic plates. The smells coming from the kitchen are amazing. I didn’t think I was hungry, not after what I saw last night, but my stomach rumbles in betrayal.
Before Charles returns, Ms. Eldridge comes beside me and places a thick hand on my shoulder.
“There you are!” she says. “We’ll be eating in the back room today.”
Fox wags her tail beside John, and she points and says, “You can stay where you are.”
Why did she say that to him? Did she see us talking?
“All right,” John says, softly, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.
Ms. Eldridge grabs my arm before I can pick up the box of photographic plates, leaving them unguarded on the table. Despite what Charles said, she doesn’t look weak to me. She guides me through hallways, and we pass the front room where Ms. Van Heusen is setting up easels and brushes, preparing to create paintings while her hand is guided by spirits. The ones she has on display are bright, with looping white lines and eerie faces, creepy things that no one would want hanging in their house otherwise. We continue on, past the parlor where Madam Crimson sits, surrounded by her cabinet and trumpets. A crowd has gathered around her, including Mr. Spencer.
Finally, we arrive at a pantry beside the kitchen. Charles is standing, eating eggs from a plate, and nods at me.
“Sit down, dear. Eat,” Ms. Eldridge says. I obey, taking small bites, even though it’s odd to have them standing there, looking down their noses at me.
I don’t know if they want me to talk first, so I sit quietly, moving the eggs around my plate.
“How are you liking your new room?” Ms. Eldridge says, breaking the silence.
“It’s very nice.”
“Did last night’s storm wake you?”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “Is that what happened to the assembly hall?”
She smiles.
“I suspect so. I hope it didn’t frighten you. Do you know what causes the storms?”
I don’t answer, afraid she’s asking about the things I saw last night.
“There are things happening in the air that are invisible to our eyes, forces battling against each other. The heat from the ground rises, forms the clouds, collides with the coolness high up in the sky and creates an electrical charge. The positive charge and the negative charge fight against each other, sparking into a bolt of lightning that unleashes upon us.”
I remember Mother telling John that to calm him when storms raged outside our window. Such a simple explanation for something so big and terrifying.
“Humans only recently learned these things. For centuries, storms were thought to be the work of the gods, or punishment for evil deeds. We are constantly learning, dear, replacing our superstitions for facts. Still, no one knows why a lightning bolt is shaped the way it is, or where it will strike.”
She motions to Charles.
“Charles will fix the damage to the assembly hall, but I fear the storms have just begun. He told me you saw shadows yesterday.”
I’m not sure if it’s a question, but I nod, wishing I had kept my mouth shut.
“There are some things only children can see. Or perhaps it is simply that adult eyes cannot accept it. When I was a girl, I saw shadows too. When my grandmother died, I could still feel her presence around me. I wasn’t able to let go of her. Annabelle was stuck between the worlds of the living and the dead, and when those worlds came too close, they crashed into each other, sparking like the particles in a cloud, forming lightning. The bolt scorched the trees around her gravestone, cut them clean in half, taking them out of this world and into hers. For a moment, if you can believe it, I felt like I was there, like the worlds had overlapped and I was in Summerland with the spirits. I stood with her in the trees, looked at the birds in the sky, felt the warm earth under my feet, and it was then that I realized I wasn’t done with this side. I wanted to return. I wanted to live again.”
Her story would be impossible for me to believe just a few days ago. But now that I’ve seen the light for myself, seen how it seemed to burst around us and eat up the wood surrounding the door to the assembly hall, I don’t know what to think. But still, it’s hard to believe when I know there are lies behind everything.
“Speaking to Annabelle has always been a risk, but one that we have managed so far. Things must remain in balance here. The thin place is all that separates us. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I know you have a gift, and I want to help you if I can. But to do that, you need to be completely honest with me, and with yourself.”
I nod, even though I don’t mean it.
“Very well,” she says, motioning at me to stand. “Follow me. You’re about to see what we do to frauds here.”
The ground feels like it’s dropped from under me. Does she already know? Was this all a test or a way to get me to confess?
She leads us through the halls, back to the room with Mr. Spencer. A group of women are gathered around Madam Crimson. She’s telling them stories of her travels, her visits with angels, and the energy they passed to her.
Ms. Eldridge watches this from the doorway, finally stepping forward and interrupting her speech.
“Good morning, all!” Ms. Eldridge announces. “I must deliver some difficult news. It seems we have a fraud among us.”
Mr. Spencer glares at me. My body feels numb and I try to speak to him through my eyes.
I didn’t tell her anything. Please believe me.
John’s nowhere to be seen. If we’re going to run, we need to be together.
Ms. Eldridge scans the room slowly. She pauses on Mr. Spencer, as if waiting for a reaction, then continues on.
“Madam Crimson.”
The large woman smiles, pushing herself up from her seat. Her jewelry clanks together.
Ms. Eldridge walks beside her and lays a hand on her arm.
“I had my suspicions about you and took it upon myself to investigate your cabinet last night when you were out in the yard with the others.”
Madam Crimson tries to pull away, but Ms. Eldridge’s hand has tightened, like a trap that’s sprung.
“This woman doesn’t speak to the spirits. She speaks through this,” Ms. Eldridge says, ripping a small rubber hose from Madam Crimson’s sleeve. As she continues to pull, we all see that the hose runs down her dress and under the carpet, hidden by the flowing fabric and jingling jewelry.
“When the lights are off, she sticks this in the end of the trumpet”—Ms. Eldridge pulls at the hose, following it to the back of the cabinet, where there’s a small mouthpiece—“then crouches here to make the sounds you hear.”
Madam Crimson clucks at this, but the crowd stands, eerily silent.
“Before the lights come on”—Ms. Eldridge says, tugging the end of the hose so it falls from the trumpet and slithers under the cabinet—“she hides the evidence, hoping she’s fooled you.”
There’s a gasp from the crowd, and Madam Crimson backs away.
“She’s a fraud,” Ms. Eldridge says.
A woman in the crowd raises her fist and yells, “Fraud!” and then a chant starts, small at first, and then getting louder as men and women join in.
“Fraud, fraud, fraud,” they chant.
Clenched fists pound at the air, beating imaginary drums.
Fraud, fraud, fraud.
The group closes in, surrounding her. Madam Crimson stands, grabbing some of her things before they force her out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door into the yard.
I’m caught in the stampede of angry people. Shadows dance on the walls, dark black things from the harsh morning light. These aren’t like the ones I saw last night though; these are connected to people, waving their arms.
Fraud, fraud, fraud.
The sound is almost a scream now, and Madam Crimson stumbles down the front steps and falls onto the cobblestones of the courtyard.
There’s no time to hear her side of the story, no trial with witnesses, no defense. The decision has been made, the punishment given.
“A curse on you all!” she screams, just as two men throw her cabinet on the ground. The wood cracks on impact, spilling out trumpets and silks and pamphlets.
“Stop it!” Charles commands, helping her to her feet. He points to two men and says, “Load her tricks into the carriage. Everyone back!”
The men obey, and Charles guides her to the horses.
The chant continues, softer now. Fraud, fraud, fraud.
“I’ll take you into town,” he says. “You can figure out the rest on your own.”
Madam Crimson stands, pleading, “Listen . . . all of you . . . you must understand . . .”
Her faraway accent is gone, and the New York sounds slip out. “I’m not a fraud. I’m not! It can all be explained if . . .”
But no one is interested in hearing her side. They push her toward the carriage, still chanting, and she hoists herself up, sticks out her tongue at them. Charles hops into the front and whips the reins, and the horses speed from the house, onto that well-worn dirt road.
Mr. Spencer runs behind, holds a fist in the air and yells, “And never come back!”
He’s smiling, though, that stupid nasty smile.
John watches it all from the porch, leaning against the railing. His eyes search for mine.
When all the others return inside, I stay on the porch, keeping enough distance from him that it doesn’t appear that we’re together.
“We need to be more careful,” John whispers. “If he gets caught, so do we.”
He’s right, and I know Mr. Spencer is thinking the same thing. I can see it on his face.
I slip back inside the house, grab the box of photographic plates from the table, and clutch them under my arm.
I won’t let us get caught.