Silence repossessed the room. Hyacinth leaned closer to the candle flames, her eyes searching Maud’s.
“Have you ever heard that there are spirits who come back from the grave in order to speak to the people who loved them?”
“You mean ghosts?” Maud’s gaze strayed to the shadows of the room, checking the places where a ghost might materialize. “Miss Clarke said there was no such thing as ghosts.”
“Not ghosts.” Hyacinth’s face crinkled with amusement. “We never say ‘ghost,’ child. Spirits. Good spirits who come back from the dead.”
Maud shook her head.
“Jesus of Nazareth,” Victoria said unexpectedly. “Jesus Christ rose from the dead.”
Maud gave her a skeptical glance. “Jesus was different.”
“What Victoria means,” Hyacinth explained, “is that part of our Christian faith is the belief that the spirit cannot die. The body dies, but the spirit lives on after death.”
“In heaven,” Maud stipulated.
“Ye-es . . .” agreed Hyacinth, but she drew the word out, as if she didn’t quite agree. “Do you know what spiritualism is, Maud?”
Again, Maud shook her head.
It was Victoria who answered. “Spiritualism is a religion. Spiritualists believe that the spirits of the dead dwell with God. They have been made pure, and they wish to help the living on earth.”
“Victoria is a spiritualist,” commented Judith.
Maud turned interested eyes on Victoria. “Is that why you never go to church?”
Hyacinth’s smile broadened, but Victoria remained serious. “Yes, it is. Spiritualists don’t believe that God is kept inside a church. We believe that He is present all around us, and He has no need of priests or ministers. We believe that all men and women — women, too, mind you — are equal in the sight of God. The Lord speaks directly to every one of us.”
Maud considered this. “I think I’m a Catholic,” she said politely, “but spiritualism sounds good, too. I like it that you don’t go to church.”
Hyacinth giggled. “Oh, Maud, you are the most delicious child!” — but Judith shook her head.
“We seem to be wandering from the point,” complained Judith. “She doesn’t have to know everything about spiritualism.”
“I wanted her to know that there was another side —” began Victoria. Her cheeks were flushed with annoyance. This time it was Hyacinth who interrupted.
“You may tell her as much as you like later on. Judith is right. We ought to go on. Maud, do you know what a medium is?”
Maud’s puzzlement increased. “It’s between good and bad,” she answered. “Or hot or cold. It’s halfway between two things.”
“No,” Hyacinth said. “Or rather, yes, that’s one kind of medium, but there is another. In spiritualism, a medium is one who can call up the spirits of the dead.”
“You mean — raise the ghosts?”
“Not ghosts,” Hyacinth said irritably. “For heaven’s sake, child, take that word out of your vocabulary! No, a medium is a person who stands between the living and the dead. The medium can put the living in touch with the spirits.” She paused, waiting for the words to sink in. “And because a great many people miss their loved ones, sometimes they pay a medium a lot of money in order to speak with those who have gone before.”
She let the words trail off. Maud gazed into Hyacinth’s face. The old woman’s eyes were sparkling with mischief and pride. Maud sensed that there was something she was meant to guess. When she realized what it was, her hand shot up, as if she were in school. “I know!” she cried out triumphantly. “You’re a medium!”
Hyacinth nodded demurely. She lowered her lashes, her lips curved like the mouth of a cat. “I have that power, yes,” she acknowledged. “Not always, but sometimes, the spirits speak through me —”
A thought flashed through Maud’s head like a jag of lightning. “Could you find my mother?” she begged. She forgot her manners and knelt up on her chair, straining across the table toward Hyacinth. “Could you make it so I could talk to my mother?”
She was startled by the sound of Victoria’s chair scraping against the floor. Victoria was halfway to the door. “I can’t bear this,” the old woman said in a low, taut voice. “Better to have a millstone around my neck and be cast into the sea —”
“Victoria, be quiet!” Judith commanded. “Come and sit. We have all agreed.” She looked back toward Maud. “You have not been plain with her, Hyacinth. She’s a sharp child, but she’s still a child. You must tell her — truthfully — what we are and what you do.”
“It sounds so coarse,” protested Hyacinth.
“Very well, then, I will say it.” Judith looked directly into Maud’s eyes. “We are frauds, shams, tricksters. Hyacinth can no more raise the dead than I can fly to the moon. There is no way that you could use Hyacinth’s powers to speak to your dead mother. There are no such powers.”
“Judith —”
“Be quiet, Victoria. Let us be plain.” Judith held up her hand for silence. “Victoria believes that there are genuine mediums — but I have never met with one. I never expect to meet one. We deal in trickery.”
“Why?” asked Maud.
“Why?” Judith gave a short laugh. “Because there is money in trickery, and we need the money.”
Maud leaned back in her chair. It was true then: the Hawthorne sisters weren’t rich after all. Her eyes went from the silver candlesticks to the gold-framed pictures on the walls.
“This house is mortgaged,” Judith said. “Victoria owns a cottage in Cape Calypso — we could sell that, except that is where we ply our trade. We seldom hold séances here, in Hawthorne Grove.” She sounded scandalized by the very thought. “The Hawthornes have always been respected in Hawthorne Grove.”
“What’s a séance?” asked Maud.
Hyacinth leaned forward, her face crinkling with amusement and excitement. “A séance is like . . . oh, like a very exciting party game. People who want to talk to the dead sit around the table, with the lights very low — the spirits don’t like the light, you see, which is just as well, because we don’t like it, either. It’s so much easier to trick people in the dark. At any rate, once the lights are out, we pray or sing hymns, and after a while, the medium — that is, I — fall into a trance. It looks a bit like fainting, but I can still speak. Then the spirits of the dead talk to the living — using my voice, you understand. Or sometimes, the dead appear.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t do that,” protested Maud.
“We can’t really do it,” Hyacinth explained, “but we can manage a very pretty little show. A mask at the end of a fishing pole, for example, is very effective. Remember, it’s quite dark. People see a white face floating in midair, and they’re sure it’s dear old Cousin Lucy. Add a beard and it’s Uncle Matthew.”
“Do people really believe that?” Maud was incredulous.
“My poppet,” said Hyacinth, “you would be amazed at what people believe. You must remember that the lights are low, and they came here wanting, longing — oh, dying to see Cousin Lucy or Uncle Matthew. And then, we prepare them, with music and darkness and prayers. . . . Your singing voice will be a godsend — so pure, so childish . . . and I brought you a little glockenspiel — I thought you might learn to play it.”
“Me?”
“Of course, you,” answered Hyacinth. “I knew the minute I saw you that you were just the person to help us. You’re so tiny — you can fit into all sorts of places — under the table, in the map cupboard, even in the dumbwaiter, if need be. I’ll teach you how to play the tambourine and how to make the chandelier swing in the wind when there isn’t any wind —”
Maud’s face broke out into a grin of stupefaction.