Saturday, September 1, 1888
A devilishly handsome and well-dressed man of about thirty years of age greeted us in the dining room the next morning. The way he looked at Bella from across the table made me wonder if they had ever had a relationship, or perhaps he just looked at all young and pretty women that way. However, as soon as Everett and I walked in, the man’s eyes darted directly to me and he sprang to his feet, immediately forgetting his previous flirtation.
“Good morning, new friends. Welcome, welcome!” he exclaimed. “It is very nice to make your acquaintance. I am Magni, the resident magician here at The Hemlock. You must be the Madame Pringle Bella told us about.”
I found it rather telling that he would welcome me to a house that was certainly not his own.
“Unfortunately, the name Madame Pringle is to be retired,” I said. “For the time being, it is just Mrs. Pringle. This is my partner, Mr. Rigby.”
Completely ignoring Everett’s presence, Magni lifted my hand to his lips and laid a gentle kiss on my knuckles. “Our acts are quite similar, you know. We both use themes relating to the occult.” He grinned. “People come to us to feel a little bit scared. It excites them.”
Although he was laying it on a little thick, Magni oozed charisma. It was hard to not be a little captivated by him.
He finally dropped my hand and offered Everett an extra firm handshake. “Mr. Ridley.”
Everett faked a smile. “Rigby.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Magni turned his attention back to me. “Perhaps once you have found your footing within our little troupe, we can do some kind of act together. Audiences love that sort of thing.”
I could practically hear the steam rolling out of Everett’s ears next to me.
“Perhaps.” I smiled up at him through my eyelashes. “However, are you not afraid that I would steal some attention from you?”
I glanced at Everett just long enough to see him grinning smugly.
Magni gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “We are on the same team, Mrs. Pringle. No need for us to be competitors. I think a few of my many, many adoring fans would find your presence in my act enthralling.” He smirked. “I do not mind sharing a few of them.”
I faked a smile and made my voice flat. “How generous.”
“What about your act is completely unique to you compared with all the other women out there claiming to speak to beings of the other side?” Minerva tented her fingers. “We need something to make your act stand out and catch attention.”
“The difference between them and I,” I began confidently, “is that I really can speak to spirits and they only pretend.”
Miss Baudelaire narrowed her eyes. She did this a lot. It was her way of showing displeasure while trying to be kind.
“Yes, of course. And Magni really levitates.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “You’re going to need to come up with something better than that, my dear.”
I frowned and remained silent, embarrassed that that was the best thing I could come up with.
My training had begun right after breakfast. Miss Baudelaire had summoned me to follow her up to the fourth floor of The Hemlock. Mostly used for storage it was a dimly lit, warm, chaotic, and dusty mess. Several large magic props lined the back walls, boxes and crates of related pieces piled in front of them. Three crates of poorly made taxidermy animals were placed closest to the door. I hoped that was not the Zoo of Wonders I had heard about the evening before. Various pieces of furniture, some broken and some not, were stacked in the corner. A long wooden table lined one wall while all sorts of tools hung above it in—almost certainly Mr. Jones’ workspace.
I sat on an old, weathered chaise as I listened carefully to every word Miss Baudelaire had to offer me.
“Right,” she continued, “you’re young, alluring, charming, and beautiful. These are all things that work in our favor.”
I smiled brightly.
“However, most of the spiritualists attracting audiences are also young, alluring, charming, and beautiful.”
My shoulders and my smile fell.
“However, most do not come from the upper classes as you do. That part is unique to your act. We can use that.”
I smiled again and gave a single nod, folding my hands in my lap, feeling smug that she couldn’t tell I had been raised a middle-class clerk’s daughter before rising in status upon my marriage.
“You’ll need to have a firm grasp of several methods for communicating with the other side. We’ll start with séances here at the house with individuals and then bring in groups. Eventually, you’ll be performing on stage for audiences. That is where the money is. I will see if Basil can whip up a few props for you. Perhaps Mr. Rigby knows a few lighting tricks we can use.”
I nodded enthusiastically. “I am sure he does.”
“Perfect.” Miss Baudelaire gave a single affirmative nod. “That reminds me, you’re not sleeping with him, are you?”
My eyes bulged. “Of course not! Miss Baudelaire, I—”
“I have seen the way you two look at one another,” she explained in a detached tone. “I can’t have one of my girls becoming pregnant.”
“I promise you, that will not be an issue for me.” I lowered my eyes. “He and I are friends.”
After a pause, she said, “Mr. Rigby is Indian, right?”
“His mother was Indian,” I said. “He was born in Bombay but raised in London.”
“Perhaps we can use that.” She tapped her cheek with her finger as the wheels turned. “The English love all things foreign and exotic.” She glanced at me and frowned. “Well, all but the people themselves, of course.”
She was not wrong. For a city so full of different cultures and races, I had seen countless curious looks thrown in Everett’s direction in the streets and I was not sure if it was because of his Indian heritage or because of the inherent mystery attached to a person of mixed race. It was clear Everett was used to it, but I certainly was not.
“India,” Miss Baudelaire repeated to herself, pacing in front of me again. “India could work.”
“For what?”
“Your father was a merchant who traveled around India. He brought you on one of his many journeys there.” Her voice took on an air of melodrama and she gestured with her hands as she pulled the story out of thin air. “It was there, at the edge of the Ganges, that you had your first experience with speaking to the dead.”
I raised my eyebrows at her. “Pardon?”
“You tried to push the voices away but the more of India you saw, the more the spirits rushed to you because they could tell that you and you alone could hear their cries for help.” She pointed at me as she spoke. “The legend of your otherworldly gifts spread between every village and every city until you, at last, decided to embrace your true calling. You were given a name by the Indians which translates to—” she finally looked right at me “—the Mystic of the Taj Mahal.” She smiled proudly, clearly waiting for my enthusiastic praise.
My eyes widened, and I let out a startled chuckle. “I know nothing of Indian culture—”
“Do you really think our audiences are the world-traveling type?” She tilted her head at me. “Audiences come to see us because they want an escape from their everyday lives. By creating this persona for you, you have preexisting fame from your time in India—”
“A place I have never been—”
“—and people will come to see your act just to say they saw someone famous.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “The poster is going to be marvelous.”