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Anna.”
    “But, Mother . . .”
    “Sit.”
    Cole’s stiff formality slips and he flashes me a knowing look, sure he’s called my mother’s bluff.
    I plop down into the chair and wipe my palms off on my dress before joining hands with the others. Cole’s fingers curl slowly around mine. To my relief there is no accompanying spark like there was last time, though the feel of his hand in mine still sends heat rushing to my face. I glance over at him and am surprised to find that he looks as uncomfortable as I feel. I wonder if he came here on his own or if one of the other mediums, jealous of my mother’s growing reputation, sent him. I also wonder what his connection to Jacques is. Jacques, on my other side, also takes my hand, but his emotions are always muddled. Some people are like that—a jumble of undecipherable impressions. Jacques is one of those unreadables, part of the reason why I don’t trust him. Cole, on the other hand, isn’t even a jumble—just nothing. Strange.
    My mother, voice dark and mysterious, begins her chant.
    “Oh spirits, hear our plea. Join us. Speak to us. Teach us. Oh spirits, I implore you. We respectfully ask that you join us, speak to us, teach us.”
    She instructs us to repeat the words after her. We follow her lead and wait again.
    The blonde giggles nervously, but the older woman, leaning forward in hopeful anticipation, hushes her. Tension, as thick and smoky as burning incense, fills the air as the clients breathlessly wait for something to happen. Even Jacques, who knows better, seems strained and quiet.
    “Mrs. Carmichael, please place your hand on the planchette first, as I am going to try to contact Walter. The rest of us will follow suit,” my mother instructs.
    As soon as our hands unclasp, I wipe them again on my dress.
    I force my breath to an even, measured rate. In and out, calm and slow. Don’t be silly, I tell myself. You know more than anyone just what a farce this all is.
    Hesitating, Mrs. Carmichael lays her fingers on the pointer. Everyone else follows suit except me. I bite my lip.
    “Anna?” My mother’s voice holds a faint note of warning, undetectable to the others.
    Trembling, I reach out my fingers but can’t make them connect. Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes and gingerly place my fingertips on the piece. It’s no longer cool but warm to the touch, and the slight buzzing has increased. I cast a quick glance around the table, but no one else seems to be aware of it. Lucky me.
    Touching Mrs. Carmichael’s fingers opens me up to her feelings. I try to close myself off as her hope, shining and tremulous, reveals itself to me. The truth is, it isn’t the grief of my mother’s clients that rips me apart; it’s the hope.
    My mother’s beautiful face is composed, her bow-shaped mouth relaxed. Her large, normally expressive eyes are flat, unreadable. 
    “What’s supposed to happen?” Mrs. Gaylord whispers.
    “Hell if I know,” her husband answers.
    My mother ignores them, waiting. “Spirits! Use me as your mouthpiece. I am open, yours!” she bursts out. Mrs. Gaylord gives another nervous titter, but everyone else is silent. “Walter, your mother is here and would very much like to converse with you,” my mother continues in a softer tone.
    Mrs. Carmichael sniffles, and my heart twists painfully.
    Feeling the emotions of others is both a godsend and a curse. If I knew how to turn it off completely, I would, but I don’t know how, and God knows there isn’t anyone to ask.
    “Do you have a question for your son?” Mother’s voice is quiet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she really cared about Mrs. Carmichael’s grief. Maybe she does. It’s hard to tell with my mother.
    “Ask him if he’s all right, if he’s happy,” Mrs. Carmichael’s voice thickens. Her anguish is relentless and I suck in a tight breath as the heavy mass of her grief crushes me.
    Suddenly the temperature drops and I stare, shocked as an icy tendril of