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Clara immediately trust her.  She
had such an open vulnerability to her, an innocence that seemed to ask Clara to
do the same, and a promise that whatever Clara had seen or endured, it would
not be mocked or ridiculed.  So, Clara finally dared to ask, "Tell me,
have you ever seen anything unworldly before?"
    Violet was still for a moment
and then nodded.  "Yes, when I was a young woman, I thought I saw someone
in my room.  That vision has stayed with me for all these years and I wonder
what he was trying to tell me.  I have sought out answers from so many
different flim-flam men and frauds.  But this Mr. Lowenherz, I have confidence
in him.  Marguerite has sworn that I am wasting my time and energy again, and
this is why she has insisted upon bringing Mr. Scettico, but if there is even a
possibility that Mr. Lowenherz can give me answers, well... I cannot think of a
better way to spend a few days.  And if he is as big a fraud as Marguerite
warns, then at least I shall have a lovely weekend in the country with my fiancé
and friends."  She leaned forward and grasped Clara's hand.  "I do
hope that you will come, Clara, for I feel as if it was fate which brought us
together."
    Clara could not cause that
hopeful face to fall, and so she found herself replying, "Of course.  Of
course I will be there as your guest and will look forward to an entertaining
weekend of new friendships and adventure."
    Violet suddenly seemed alight
with joy and excitement.  She clapped her hands and declared, "Splendid! 
I shall send a carriage round for you Friday afternoon!"
    Her enthusiasm was infectious,
and Clara found herself strangely looking forward to this surprise holiday.  She
felt as if saying yes to this kind invitation was a step forward.  If her
isolation was causing her late husband sadness beyond the grave, she would try
to live.  She would try her best to bring him joy once again.

Chapter Ten
    T he carriage rocked gently along
the muddy path.  A low mist hung over the boggy fields and the sky was
darkening threateningly.  Horace Oroberg's house in the north country was two
hours by rail and then another hour by carriage ride.  Despite the luxury in
which Clara traveled, she was exhausted and looked forward to arriving at her
final destination.
    The horse's hooves clomped
across a long bridge over a steep bank.  Clara looked down and saw that the
river below was already high.  The storm clouds must have broken farther away
and caused the rain to gather.  From the speed of the water already, she could
see that the storm would be violent.
    Far ahead, she could see the
country house.  The lights shone from the windows warmly across the cold moor. 
She wondered what a figure she would appear arriving in such a splendid place,
her in her mourning clothes as all the others gathered to reach out to dead
ones.  She thought of the assumptions that others would make about her, so sure
that it was her husband she wished to reach.  She wondered, as she stared at
the house, why she had not sought him out in the spiritual realm before. 
Perhaps it was her own skepticism of such things, of charlatans who preyed upon
the weak and grieving.  And yet, here she was.  If it had not been for her own
strange experience, she never would have ventured into such passings.  She
hoped that this was not some ill-fated ruse.  She could not think of any reason
someone might go to such effort and expense to swindle her.  Indeed, her new
home and her pension were the only wealth she had, and while comfortable for a
woman living alone, they were not sizeable enough to be attractive to a con
artist.  She knew her only defense would be to keep her wits about her and to
keep herself from falling under the spell of proceedings.
    The carriage pulled up to the
house and as the driver removed her baggage, Horace's butler, Gilbert, emerged
to lend his hand as she climbed out and gather her things.
    "Good to see you again,
Gilbert," she