“But I . . .” Sibyl started to protest, stopped by Mrs. Dee’s holding up of one bejeweled hand.
“Shhh. Come. Sit. Bring the orb, if you like.” She smiled and gestured with a sweep of her hand for Sibyl to take the armchair opposite her, by a low teak tea table.
Sibyl hesitated, then took up the small box and seated herself in the armchair indicated by the medium. She placed the box on the tea table, crossed her feet tight at her ankles, and straightened her posture. Sibyl wished for clarity with such keenness that it felt like an ache in her limbs. Speaking with Benton tied Sibyl up in knots, filling her with confusion and dread. She stared into the medium’s face, willing her to lift the horrible uncertainty away.
Mrs. Dee leaned forward and scooped the trinket out of the box, keeping it wrapped in its scrap of black velvet. She cradled the ball in her hands, a perfectly round egg in a nest of darkness. Mrs. Dee started to roll the ball to and fro, slowly at first, though the orb’s surface was so polished that it appeared motionless, its movement perceptible by the working of the medium’s hands, but not by any change along its surface.
“Now then,” Mrs. Dee began, her voice low. “You have nothing to worry about.”
Sibyl felt the skin of her face loosen. Mrs. Dee always knew what to say. Helen certainly thought so. Her mother consulted the medium on everything of import to their family. What day was best for Eulah’s first tea? Would everything go well with Lan’s latest investment? Helen always returned home from these conferences feeling more confident in whatever decision she had already made. Mrs. Dee’s signal strength, it seemed, was to reassure Helen that she was usually right. Sibyl felt herself settle into the embrace of the armchair, craving for her own sense of clarity to return.
“There,” Mrs. Dee suggested. “You’re much more comfortable now.”
Still the orb rolled in her palms, winking and beautiful. Sibyl yearned to touch it. She wished that Mrs. Dee would pass it to her. Sibyl’s eyes followed the ball, rolling, rolling, silent in the velvet.
“Perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s troubling you?” Mrs. Dee inquired.
Sibyl sighed with relief. She could never speak about her fears to anyone. Always, people observed her—her friends. Mrs. Doherty. Her father. Her brother. She had to perform for all of them, and none of them knew the dark corner of her heart, where her secret self dwelled afraid and alone. More alone now. Sibyl had taken the adventurous girl she had been and stuffed her into a box, hidden her away in a dark and cold place while her adult self bent to duty and expectation. She didn’t know where to begin. So many . . . There were . . . so . . .
Sibyl’s eyelids dropped halfway over her eyes, and she struggled to keep them from closing completely.
Blackness—they had closed after all.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Dee’s voice, insistent, breaking into Sibyl’s thoughts and wrenching her eyes open. “I sense that you are gravely worried.”
“Oh, Mrs. Dee, how right you are.” Sibyl sighed, her eyes traveling to the medium’s face.
“I know,” she soothed. Still the ball rolled, though Sibyl wasn’t watching it. Instead she searched Mrs. Dee’s impassive eyes, craving to be seen, to be shown how to unlock herself from the careworn woman that she had become.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sibyl said, voice catching in her throat.
“It’s a lot to bear,” Mrs. Dee agreed.
“I had no idea things were getting as bad with him as they seem to be,” she continued. “Because he never tells me anything. He used to, you know. When we were small. But he’s pulled away. First the problem at school, and there’s the question of debts. But then, Benton seems to think he understands what the trouble is.”
“And does he?” pressed Mrs. Dee, in a manner that seemed to suggest that she, herself, already knew, but was waiting for Sibyl to see it for herself.
“Perhaps. Perhaps he does. But I can’t believe it. Well, perhaps I can believe it, if I’m being truthful.” Sibyl brought a hand up to her forehead and massaged her eyebrow. Mrs. Dee waited.
“He’s been moving that way for some time. Even Papa sees it. But I’d have thought . . . that is, what Benton thinks, it can’t quite explain everything. Can it?”
Mrs. Dee fixed her with a small, knowing smile.
“Maybe,” the medium said after a time, “we can find out.” She nodded with authority to the butler, who had appeared in the parlor door at some point within the past several minutes, unobserved, and was lingering for instructions. He moved silently about the room, extinguishing lights, until just one old-fashioned oil lamp burned on the end table by Mrs. Dee’s well-upholstered elbow. Sibyl watched these preparations with a mixture of unease and excitement.
“Do you know what this is?” Mrs. Dee asked, holding the crystal, the pale color of skimmed milk, nestled in its velvet.
Sibyl wasn’t sure. It seemed as if it could only be what it was—a smallish, polished crystal ball, about the size of a chicken egg, if chicken eggs could ever be made perfectly round. And blue.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” she said, feeling foolish, then adding, “It’s very pretty.” She still wished that Mrs. Dee would pass it to her. Her fingers craved its touch.
“This, my dear, is a very particular tool of mine. We use it to see pictures of things beyond the normal powers of vision. It’s especially adept at revealing the true nature of things within the past, and of unlocking the secrets of the human soul. It is, Miss Allston, a scrying glass.”
Sibyl had never encountered such a strange word before. It sounded to her like crying—a crying glass. At this unwelcome suggestion Sibyl felt a prickling sensation within her nose, the heated hard crumpling of her cheeks. No, she must push that feeling away. She couldn’t start weeping in Mrs. Dee’s parlor. Granted, in the years she had been attending the séances Sibyl had overheard much behavior that was not accepted in drawing rooms. But somehow that was different; they were all shielded by the darkness of the room, and by the assured silence of their collective weaknesses. She couldn’t bear to think she might break down in Mrs. Dee’s closely observing presence, alone.
“Why, Mrs. Dee,” Sibyl said, fighting through the prickling with a forced smile. “Whatever can you mean?”
“Scry is a rather outmoded word,” Mrs. Dee said, in the tone of a schoolteacher delivering a lesson. “We oftentimes find we must resort to older words, even to describe new phenomena, for our modern age sadly lacks the language necessary to speak of the world beyond normal perception. It’s a pity that the world of science fails to interest itself more fully in the work that we’re doing.”
Mrs. Dee shook her head, mourning over what a pity it was. Sibyl was confused; Professor Friend’s group had been active in Boston for some time, investigating human potential along scientific principles. Sibyl had assumed that Mrs. Dee knew this, and wished to keep herself a secret from them. But at least Mrs. Dee wouldn’t disapprove of her earlier indiscretion.
“It means,” Mrs. Dee continued, “to consult a reflective surface in hopes of revealing images beyond our ken. The reflective surface can be most anything. Some use mirrors, painted black. Some use little dishes of oil dropped in water. I’ve even heard that in earlier days, they’d break an egg into a glass of water, and use the egg white for divining. How clever of them, don’t you agree? But by far the most effective, all the books suggest, is a polished ball of pure crystal. Like this one.”
Sibyl returned her eyes to the beautiful toy in Mrs. Dee’s hands. Its surface shone almost mirrorlike, now that most of the lights had been extinguished. The orb caught the oil lamp’s glimmer, gathering the small light within itself, and returning the light to its surface in a smattering of spangles, like tiny stars in a miniature firmament.
“How does it work?” Sibyl asked, entranced.
Mrs. Dee laughed. “It’s the spirit guides who reveal the hidden truths to us. They’ve crossed over and so can see far beyond what we can. I’d think, given y
our particular problem”—she eyed Sibyl, knowing—“that your dear mother and sister would wish to give us their aid and comfort. Don’t you think?”
Sibyl held her breath, sitting perfectly still, warring with the burning tears collecting in the rims of her eyes. So that was why she had led herself back here. Sibyl wanted Helen to solve Harlan’s problem. Helen had always been soft with Harlan, admiring and permissive. If Sibyl was honest, she could admit that as a girl she had sometimes envied her cherished younger brother.
Of course, it was rather a hard lot, to be cherished. The beloved can so easily disappoint when they inevitably prove to be human. And Harlan was certainly that. He was prone to solitary imaginary games as she was, never as good in school as he knew he should be. Harlan had been given to understand that he was constantly at risk of being a grave disappointment. But even with Harlan’s flaws, Sibyl knew her mother would worry over the recent changes that had come over her son.
“Oh, I hope so,” Sibyl wished, eyes fixed on the glittering trinket rolling in Mrs. Dee’s palms.
“As do I,” Mrs. Dee assured her.
“What do we have to do?” Sibyl asked.
“Just rest your eyes on the ball,” Mrs. Dee urged. “And concentrate as hard as you possibly can. It’s the magnetic forces in the mind, affecting the latent magnetism of the crystal, that opens a fissure between our world and the next, like a cable wire to the beyond. We need all of our concentration.”
The explanation of the crystal’s mechanism slid past Sibyl. Instead she nodded, furrowing her brow with effort as she stared into the medium’s hands. Several minutes passed in silence as both women fixed their gaze, barely blinking, on the sparkling ball.
Somewhere in the distance, muffled by walls and upholstery, a clock began to chime the dinner hour, and Sibyl realized with a sinking in her stomach that she was being missed at home. Lan would be dining by himself, assuming Harlan hadn’t returned, and her father hated dining alone. Sibyl frowned with mingled guilt and dismay. She could already hear his objections when she returned to the town house. Couldn’t she have called? Surely she hadn’t been out, alone, with Benton Derby, at this late hour?
She scowled, plotting out the coming argument in her mind. An explanation of her true whereabouts would do little to placate him after his lonesome supper in the dining room, attended by the withering gaze of Mrs. Doherty, her very silence serving to underscore her disapproval of his recalcitrant children. Sibyl’s grim anticipation of this homecoming kindled warring desires to hurry home immediately, and to flee and never return.
Sibyl noticed that she had forgotten to keep concentrated on the crystal ball. Her mind had wandered. She glanced at Mrs. Dee to see if the medium had perceived her inattention, but the lady appeared absorbed in her work. Sibyl let out her breath by a small degree, relieved, and turned her guilty attention to the orb.
Its surface had changed. The tiny points of light seemed duller, less playful. Almost as if obscured by smoke. Sibyl blinked, bringing moisture to her eyes. No, her eyes were clear, but the orb seemed smokier. There was no fire going in the parlor that could be leaking smoke from the flue, since she had burst in on Mrs. Dee unexpected. But wait, Mrs. Dee said she knew Sibyl was coming. Odd. And it had been gray and chilly all day, her father even thinking they’d have frost by nightfall. But in any case, no fire. The lamp’s wick was well trimmed; it wasn’t smoking, either. She peered closer.
Sibyl imagined she could see clouds moving over the surface of the glass. Smoke, or clouds? Sibyl couldn’t tell. As she stared the smoke coiled back on itself in whorls, moving, slow, silent.
“There!” Mrs. Dee cried, and Sibyl jumped from the unexpected intrusion of the medium’s voice. “There, I see her! Her face, just as it was. Ah, Helen, my lost and most mourned friend!”
Sibyl looked back at the glass, confused. The smoke had vanished. The orb had reverted to a pretty, sparkling, inert object.
“How blessed I am to rest my weary eyes on your countenance!” Mrs. Dee cried, delivering her lines with flair. Sibyl sometimes wondered if Mrs. Dee formed her persona in part from watching the representations of mediums in films. Still, the drama suited the small woman. The language lent her a gravitas that was lacking in her physical form.
Sibyl’s gaze oscillated between the medium’s face and the ball, watchful and alert. Mrs. Dee gave every appearance of beholding a clear vision in the glass, but try as she might, Sibyl saw nothing. Less than nothing. She saw a round lump of rock.
“Mrs. D—” she started to say, but was stilled by the medium’s holding up of one pudgy finger. Sibyl sat back, chastened. When she was still, Mrs. Dee continued.
“Helen, my dear, you surely must know why we summon you. Why we reluctantly rouse you from the paradise where we know, in our hearts, that you now reside.”
Mrs. Dee paused, her eyes closed, the corners of her mouth turned up in a willful smile. When her eyes opened again they darted to Sibyl, who caught their look for an instant before they returned to the glass orb.
“I am here with Sibyl, your loving daughter. She has such worries, my dear. I know you ache to soothe her. Would that it were possible for you to reach out from beyond the grave and smooth the cares from her fevered brow!” Mrs. Dee’s voice rose in pathos, her chin lifting to carry her exhortations to the ceiling of the dim parlor.
Sibyl folded her hands in her lap, brows lowering over her eyes. Her nostrils flared.
“But what? What’s that you say?” Mrs. Dee cried, bringing the orb up to her nose and peering inside, as a child might into a Christmas present. There was a long, excruciating silence. One of Sibyl’s thumbnails dug into the flesh of her palm.
“Ah!” Mrs. Dee sighed.
Sibyl sat forward.
“Oh, how wonderful,” the medium exclaimed. “Helen, I shall tell her. I shall tell her immediately.” Then the medium closed her eyes and lowered the orb to her tapestried lap.
Her low simmering skepticism cast aside, Sibyl gripped the armrests of her chair. Feeling at once foolish but full of hope, she forced herself to stay in her seat. Her breath came fast and high in her chest, and her heart thudded so that she thought it must be visible, trembling under the delicate linen of her blouse.
After a time, Sibyl wasn’t sure how long, she observed Mrs. Dee’s eyelids fluttering, like moths’ wings, over her rounded cheeks. The woman roused herself from an unspecified altered state, sighed with satisfaction, and turned to Sibyl.
“My dear, I have wondrous news to report,” Mrs. Dee began. “I have communed with your mother’s spirit, yet again. How blessed we are! Could you see her? Could you?”
Sibyl’s shoulders vibrated near her ears, humming with anxiety and frustration.
“No, Mrs. Dee,” she said, her voice small. “I couldn’t see her. Please. Please, just tell me what she said. Tell me how I can help Harlan.”
Mrs. Dee reached a soft hand forward and patted Sibyl on her knee. “You poor darling,” she murmured. “But you have nothing to fear. Your mother asks me to tell you that she sees your troubles. She is sorry that the household depends so much on you. She wishes you to know that she loves you, and so does your dear sister.”
Sibyl’s mouth twitched, out of relief partly, but mostly out of guilt, for all that afternoon she had scarcely thought of Eulah. Eulah, who was worth the cost of the ticket to go on the tour. Eulah, who was sure to marry well. Eulah, who’d been pretty like Helen, not staid and Allstony, like Sibyl. At times Sibyl worried that, in a black and tarry corner of her heart, she was relieved that Eulah had been the one chosen to go on the ocean liner, and not her. As soon as the uninvited thought began to form, Sibyl rejected it as impossible. She loved her sister. Everyone loved her sister. She was young, she was vibrant, she was glamorous and unconventional, she . . .
Without Sibyl’s noticing that it was about to happen, a teardrop coalesced in the inner corner of her eye, brimmed over, and traced down her cheek, around the groove at the side of her nost
ril, to the ridge atop her lip. The salty taste brought Sibyl back, and she cast dejected eyes into her lap. Without looking up, she whispered, “What of my brother, Mrs. Dee? What did Mother have to say about him?”
The hand on her knee lingered there and squeezed in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring. “She sees your fear for him,” Mrs. Dee murmured. “She sees, and she pities. But she wishes you to know that all will be well with your brother.”
Sibyl glanced up, her brimming eyes searching Mrs. Dee’s face.
“He will,” the medium affirmed, answering Sibyl’s unspoken plea. “You must be patient. You must wait. But all will be well.”
“Really?” Sibyl whispered.
The medium smiled a tiny, self-satisfied smile.
The two women sat, regarding each other across the tea table, the oil lamp flickering. Sibyl had no idea of the time. Her father would be anxious. But what if what the medium was saying was true? Perhaps she didn’t need to do anything at all. Harlan could even have come home while she was away.
Sibyl stood, fumbling a wrinkled handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbing under her eyes. Mrs. Dee stood also, signaling to the butler, who moved about on silent feet, illuminating lights. He drew apart the velvet curtains at the window, but night had come to Beacon Hill, extinguishing the last of the weak afternoon sunlight. Sibyl caught sight of herself broken into pieces and reflected by the lozenge-shaped panes of glass.
When Sibyl turned, tucking the moist scrap of linen back up her sleeve, she found Mrs. Dee gazing on her with a look of sincere-seeming concern. The medium stroked her arm, saying nothing. Sibyl smiled, but it was a stoic smile. The medium took her elbow and walked her to the front hall.
There, the butler proffered Sibyl’s overcoat and hat, which she accepted. In principle, she ought to feel relieved. Sibyl glanced back to Mrs. Dee, whose face wore an expression of worry. The medium lifted her chin to the butler, gesturing with a flick of her eyes back into the parlor.