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time I turn around, but he pretends he’s looking at something over my shoulder.
    As my mother talks quietly to the older woman in one corner of the room, Jacques, Cole, and the society couple, Jack and Cynthia Gaylord, are discussing spiritualism in the other.
    “I just find it fascinating that people can actually talk to the dead. Think of all the things we could learn!” Mrs. Gaylord says earnestly. She looks up to her husband for confirmation, but he’s staring, disinterested, at his drink.
    “Like what?” Cole asks.
    My lips twitch at the amusement in his voice.
    For a moment Mrs. Gaylord looks blank. “Well, all sorts of things. There are some very important studies going on right now. One organization in London is doing some groundbreaking scientific work in the field of psychic phenomena. There are even rumors that they have a secret laboratory where they test real psychics and mentalists. It’s all very hush-hush.” She turns to me. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s called the Society for Psychical Research.”
    Next to me, Cole starts, his drink sloshing over the rim of the glass and onto the floor. “I’m so sorry. Clumsy of me, that.”
    Surprised, I hurry into the kitchen to get a rag, and when I return, the others have joined my mother at the table. Cole’s still standing there looking tense and miserable.
    “I really am sorry,” he says. “I’m a bit of a bungler, actually.”
    “I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I say without thinking. “You move like an athlete.” My cheeks redden. Now he knows I’ve been watching him.
    “Oh. Er, yes. Indeed,” he replies pointlessly.
    Wonderful. Now I’ve embarrassed both of us.
    I stand and smile brightly. “We should join the others.”
    He nods and moves away, and, after tossing the rag on a nearby table, I follow.
    “I just want to know if you can really talk to my dear son, Walter,” the woman with the glasses sniffs. “He died in the war, you know.”
    My mother stops shuffling and lays her slim hand over the woman’s fat one. “I’m so sorry for your pain, Mrs. Carmichael. How old was Walter when he passed?”
    Cole snorts. “Why don’t you ask Walter?”
    This seems so out of character that a surprised giggle escapes my lips. I turn it into a cough and watch as he fights the smile curling the corners of his mouth.
    My mother stiffens and then relaxes her shoulders. “The young are always more difficult to reach. I need to know this before we begin.”
    Cole lapses back into silence. Not many men can resist my mother’s smile.
    “He was eighteen,” Mrs. Carmichael says softly.
    My chest hollows. Not much older than I am.
    “Oh, dear.”
    “Yes.” The lines of the older woman’s face crinkle in sorrow and my breath catches at her anguish. “He died of dysentery soon after he landed in Europe.”
    “I will do my best,” my mother promises. She turns to the Gaylords. Mr. Gaylord takes a case out of the pocket of his vest and lights a cigarette. His young wife hunches forward, eager, excited.
    “And what do you wish to gain from tonight’s séance?” Mother asks.
    “Oh, I don’t know!” The blonde twitches her fashionably bony shoulders. “I’ve just always been interested . . . I got tired of my old medium, and when I told old Jack here about you, well, here we are!” She giggles, and I feel my mother’s contempt. Cynthia Gaylord is a dabbler, a dilettante. She’s probably as bored with her marriage as her husband is with life and is on the constant lookout for something to fill the emptiness.
    But the Cynthia Gaylords of the world are my mother’s best clients.
    “Yes, well, here you are,” my mother says. I’m the only one who detects the underlying scorn.
    Cole’s eyes dart about, keeping a close watch on everyone. I frown, my spine tightening. Why is he here?
    I clear my throat to catch my mother’s eye and then scratch my nose, glancing at our neighbor. The signal that we might have a