Her daughter shrugged. “Really, Mama, do you think any of these people will notice whether it’s First Samuel or Second Samuel or a page from Mrs. Gaskell? It’s so dark in here you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

“Exactly as we like it, my dear. And, yes, details always matter. We don’t need some old biddy wandering over to refresh her memory about the encounter between Saul and the spirit of Samuel, and instead reading about some avenging angel flattening Jerusalem at the Lord’s command. It just wouldn’t do.”

Evangeline LeBlanc (born Elsie Gooch in Catahoula Parish, Louisiana, and whose most recent residence had been the women’s ward of the New Orleans municipal jail) cast an experienced eye over the room. The parlor of the little rented house was suitably respectable for a medium of Mrs. LeBlanc’s reputation (which was still wholly intact in Great Britain, if a bit tarnished in the States). True, the rooms were the tiniest bit shabby, but in an odd way that added to the verisimilitude of the experience; the people who came to see her were less interested in the quality of the lace antimacassars on the sofa and more concerned with her ability to contact the recently departed. The state of the room indicated a woman preoccupied with spiritual matters rather than earthly affairs. She couldn’t afford to be flashy, as that drew unnecessary attention to the fees she charged and the status of her bank account.

There was nothing flashy about the room now. It contained only the required articles for the séance. The round oak table was covered with a white lace cloth, and in the center stood a crystal ball. Two white candles in gleaming brass candlesticks stood north and south of the ball. The Bible, now open to the correct page, was situated on the western side of the crystal ball, and a piece of perfect white quartz acted as a paperweight. To the east of the ball, Alafair LeBlanc had positioned a bud vase containing a single white lily, its fragrance reputed to attract spirits. In the event any mischievous, or downright evil, spirits appeared, Alafair had laid out their defenses on a sideboard: a wicked-looking knife of Sheffield steel, a delicate silver bell and a salt cellar filled to the brim with coarse rock salt. Mrs. LeBlanc had never had the occasion to test these defenses against any ill-mannered apparitions, but then Mrs. LeBlanc had never actually been successful in contacting any spirits of any sort. The accoutrements of her trade were there for the comfort of her clients.

“The room looks perfect,” Mrs. LeBlanc said. She cocked her head critically at her daughter. “Should we go over things again?”

Alafair wheezed in exasperation. “No, Mama. We’ve done this dozens of times.”

“Another round of practice wouldn’t hurt. If we’d only covered that bit of string in New Orleans, I wouldn’t have spent seven months in the pokey, listening to whores scream for morphine or a drop of rum.” Mrs. LeBlanc sniffed. “Jail is no place for a woman of my sensibilities. It nearly shattered me.”

Alafair dropped a comforting arm around her mother. “That was the past, Mama. We’ve done really well here in London. Your name is known all over town. Everyone who is anyone wants you to conduct a séance.”

Her mother dropped her eyes modestly. It was true. Londoners were coming out of the woodwork for a chance to have Evangeline LeBlanc contact dear Uncle Piers (he was fine in the morning, but cholera acts so swiftly) or sweet little Mary (who knew there was an abandoned well there?).

“Of course,” Alafair went on, “we got terribly lucky when Lady Bancroft was run down by that hansom cab, just after you warned her to expect bad news by horse. Probably wasn’t expecting it to be quite such bad news, though.”

“I was only trying to scare the woman,” Mrs. LeBlanc said indignantly. “I didn’t take to her at all. What a snob. Acted like we weren’t fit to wipe her feet. I just wanted to put the wind up her.”

“Her death was regrettable,” said Alafair, without the slightest hint of regret. “But it’s been good for business. The swells are lining up to see you. Just look at the size of the fish we’ve landed tonight.”

There had been more involved in landing this particular fish than Mrs. LeBlanc had shared with Alafair, but then the girl need not know everything, especially since Mrs. LeBlanc found herself a bit uneasy about this specific detail. Still, bills must be paid, and if she did her job well, quite a lot of bills would be settled out of tonight’s work. She looked at the clock and clapped her hands. “Mercy! She’ll be here any minute. Look sharp, Alafair, and mind you don’t snag your ring on that wire again or there will be hell to pay.”

Alafair rolled her eyes. By now she was used to her mother growing anxious as the time arrived for the séance. Mrs. LeBlanc would turn snappish, like she had about First Samuel, and then pace the room in circles, muttering under her breath and wringing her hands. Alafair had mentioned it once, only to endure a diatribe about the similarities of séances to theatrical productions and the strenuous preparations her mother had to undergo in order to present a realistic performance. Like most artists, though, Mrs. LeBlanc would be ready when the curtain rose.

They heard the jangle of harnesses and the ring of iron shoes on the cobbled lane outside the house. The driver of the coach shouted hoarsely, slowing his charges to a standstill, wheels crunching to a halt in the rime of frost on the stones.

“She’s here,” said Mrs. LeBlanc, who made a dash for the mirror, tucked her fading grey ringlets into her cap and ran a finger over her eyebrows.

“How do I look?” she enquired of her daughter.

“Very correct,” said Alafair. “And quite trustworthy.”

Mrs. Leblanc spared her a quick smile, flung herself into a chair with her hand on her chest and breathed deeply to calm her nerves. “Go to the door, dear, and welcome our guests. And don’t forget to curtsey,” she shouted after Alafair as she smoothed her dress and checked one last time for escaping curls.

Alafair opened the door and found herself staring at the chest of a tall, slim footman wearing a cloak and hat against the winter chill. He removed the hat and inclined his powdered wig at her.

“Mrs. Evangeline LeBlanc?”

“I am her daughter, Miss Alafair LeBlanc.”

The footman pirouetted and bowed prettily, his arm sweeping gracefully backward to indicate the stout, dark form that had appeared at his elbow.

“Her Majesty, the Queen,” he said, then stepped aside as the little figure marched resolutely into the hall, brushing past Alafair with barely a glance. Alafair bent a knee and wobbled dangerously, rising just in time to snare the first of many garments the Queen was beginning to shed with the help of a lady-in-waiting who had accompanied her. Alafair collected shawls, scarves, cashmere gloves and a severe bonnet in varying hues of black from the Queen, then held out her arms as the men and women who were participating in the séance with Her Majesty discarded their heavy coats and cloaks, bonnets, top hats, mittens and gloves. Alafair staggered under the weight, wished they had hired a maid for the evening and pondered the task of escorting the Queen into her mother while carrying the contents of a clothing shop.

Her mother had anticipated her, though, and now appeared in the parlor doorway, looking serene and somewhat otherworldly, as a good medium should. Alafair had no idea how she managed the transformation from nervous wreck to confident guide to the world beyond the grave, but Mrs. LeBlanc was not to be underestimated.

She dropped an elegant curtsey. “Your Majesty. Welcome to our humble dwelling.”

Alafair opened the door to the dining room and dumped her load of coats and gloves on the table. It would be hell to sort out later, but at the end of the evening everyone would be so excited by what they had witnessed, so eager to talk about it among themselves, that they wouldn’t notice the wait while Alafair frantically matched gloves and untangled scarves.

The Queen dipped her chin at Mrs. LeBlanc’s greeting and examined her new spirit medium. Mrs. LeBlanc smiled encouragingly, in a cordial, American sort of way, but did not speak. The Queen, though a devoted believer in communication with the spirits of the departed, was known to be skittish and unpredictable when dealing with even her closest advisors, and Mrs. LeBlanc was grateful for the suggestion she’d received to permit the Queen to make this slow perusal of her face and figure. She was confident she could pass inspection: her grey hair was sensibly covered by a lace cap, her clothes sober and her expression combined both a quality of aloofness from the sordid affairs of this world and a quiet assurance that you’d soon be speaking with your loved one from the next. Having practiced this expression in her mirror hundreds of times, Mrs. LeBlanc could now slip it on and off like a mask.

While she waited quietly for the Queen to finish her examination, Mrs. LeBlanc studied the Queen. Nearly sixty now, plump, with heavy jowls that accentuated her receding chin, a strong nose, pale blue eyes and the expression of a dedicated eater who has just been informed that dinner will be late. Her late husband, Prince Francis Albert Augustus Charles Emmanuel of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, had been dead sixteen years, but Victoria still wore widow’s weeds. Local rags had taken to calling her the “Widow of Windsor” due to her extended mourning period. Tonight, her black gown was of the finest Henrietta cloth, trimmed in crepe and sporting the nine-inch long lawn cuffs known as “weepers.” A cambric handkerchief was tucked into one, ready to be whipped out and put to use if dear departed Albert made an appearance. In the slightest of concessions to those who thought the Queen had worn her mourning clothes too long, she had adorned herself with a jet broach and rings.

The Queen and Mrs. LeBlanc held each other’s gaze for a few moments, then the Queen nodded slightly to her retinue, and there was a great whoosh of expelled air as the ladies and gentlemen realized the Queen was satisfied.

What a job, thought Mrs. LeBlanc, following this old pussy around, catering to her every whim and cringing when she was displeased. Made faking conversations with dead people seem positively pedestrian by comparison.

“Won’t you come into the parlor, ma’am? Everything is prepared.” Mrs. LeBlanc stood aside and let the Queen enter. She took in the room quickly, noting with approval the arrangement of the candles, the Bible and the lily in its vase. She seated herself at the table, and the three women and two men who accompanied her settled into chairs. The Queen peremptorily rapped the seat beside her, and Mrs. LeBlanc sat down.

“It is a rarity that I seek solace from anyone other than Mr. Lees.” The Queen wasted no time in getting down to business.

“I understand perfectly,” said Mrs. LeBlanc. As a thirteen-year-old schoolboy, Robert James Lees had gone into a trance just after Albert’s death and conveyed messages from him to Victoria. Rumour had it that during the past several years, Lees had lived at Buckingham Palace for long stretches of time, so that Vicky could converse with her husband whenever the mood struck her.

Mrs. LeBlanc smiled gently. “I have the greatest regard for Mr. Lees. I have not yet had the good fortune to meet him, but I hope to do so soon. He is highly respected in America.”

“He is a most empathetic man and most gifted. He has a rare affinity for the spirits of those who have gone before us. My dear Albert finds him a most congenial medium through which to speak to me. While he lived, the prince and I were inseparable, and I depended on him for so many things. Now that he has passed on, it is such a comfort to be able to consult with him as needs dictate.”

“I sympathize, ma’am. I too have lost a husband.” Well, not so much lost him as never quite found him. Given Alafair’s colouring and temperament, her father was likely Charlie McClelland, the cardsharp who haunted the Mississippi riverboats, relieving commercial travelers of their hard-earned profits. Or the culprit could have been Frank Summers, the itinerant preacher who was always skating out of town after pocketing the contents of the collection plate.

“Then you will understand how important my dear Albert was to me and how much I long to speak with him whenever I can.”

“Of course I do. And if he is ready to speak to you tonight, you shall have the chance to say all that you would wish to him.”

“Dear Albert always comes to me,” said the Queen. “I am a spiritually receptive person.”

I’m counting on it, thought Mrs. LeBlanc. Victoria Regina she might be, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India, but she was desperate to contact her dead husband, and in that frame of mind, she would ignore all evidence to the contrary and believe Mrs. LeBlanc had the power to summon spirits.

“Shall we begin?” Mrs. LeBlanc placed her hands on the table and extended her fingers until her pinkies touched that of the Queen on one side and the bewhiskered old gentleman on the other. The rest of the group likewise stretched out their hands until their little fingers rested against those of their neighbors.

Alafair glided discreetly behind a small desk tucked into the corner, out of the line of sight of everyone except her mother, and surreptitiously fingered the elaborate arrangement of wires and twine located beneath the desk.

Mrs. LeBlanc closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The group around the table muttered and rustled until finally the noise subsided to an expectant silence. The Queen sat like a statue, staring into the flame of the candle on the table before her. Minutes passed, and the room was quiet. Alafair studied the circle of participants and smiled. The bewhiskered gentleman looked bored out of his skull. Probably wished he were tucked up at his club with a brandy and soda, and a lively game of whist to occupy his time. None of the others looked very excited at the prospect of hearing from Albert again, either. After twenty years, the gossip from the spirit world must be getting pretty stale.

Mrs. LeBlanc spoke softly. “I am seeking Albert. Come, Albert, and commune with us.”

Silence. The air stirred, and the candle flame guttered. The Queen sighed. Alafair carefully replaced the tiny fan of peacock feathers.

“Come, Albert,” said Mrs. LeBlanc. “Your friends are here. Your wife is here. They want to speak to you. Leave the realm of living souls and move among us.”

The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock on the mantle and the crackle of the fire in the grate. There was a muted popping sound, like a cork being pulled from a bottle, and a blue flame erupted among the coals. Alafair let the thin wire slip from her fingers, as the group at the table started in their seats and shifted nervously in anticipation.

“I feel your presence, Albert,” said Mrs. LeBlanc. “Will you speak with us tonight?”

The scent of lilies filled the room, and the Queen drew in a long, quavering breath. “He is here,” she whispered. “I feel his presence.”

Alafair snorted silently and replaced the atomizer behind one leg of the desk. She was as bored as the whiskery gent. She’d done this so often, she could have done it in her sleep.

“Are you there, Albert?” asked Mrs. LeBlanc. “We seek your companionship and counsel tonight. Please, do not fail to appear to us.”

The table tipped to one side and rocked gently.

“Albert,” cried the Queen. “Oh, Albert, my dear.”

Mrs. LeBlanc removed her foot from the lever beneath the table and pressed another. A tapping sound, like fingers rapping gently on the old oak table, resonated through the room.

“Drina?” The sound had emanated from Mrs. LeBlanc, but the voice belonged to someone else. It was deep, guttural, and overlaid with a thick German accent. The Queen’s hand quivered against Mrs. LeBlanc’s.

“It must be him,” whispered one of the ladies-in-waiting. “Only her family calls her that.”

“Albert, are you there?” asked the Queen in a tremulous voice.

Mrs. LeBlanc shivered. Her eyes closed and her head lolled to one side. Alafair stifled a yawn.

“I am with you, my darling Drina,” said Mrs. LeBlanc in the harsh tone of a Teutonic aristocrat.

“Are you well, my dear?” asked the Queen tenderly.

Alafair bit back a guffaw. He was dead, for Christ’s sake. How well could he be in those circumstances?

Mrs. LeBlanc forged on. “I am quite well. And you? Are you also well?”

“Well enough, dear. Just the slightest indisposition. Nothing for you to worry about. I fear I have had some difficulty sleeping, and my appetite has decreased recently.” The Queen paused for breath, and the German voice spoke hastily.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better soon. And the children? How do they fare?”

Victoria inhaled sharply, and the group around the table stirred uneasily.

“The girls are doing wonderfully, Albert. And Arthur, Leopold and Alfred are such fine gentleman. But Bertie—” The Queen’s voice rose in indignation as she contemplated the ribald exploits of her son Albert Edward, Prince of Wales and heir to the British throne.

There was a strangled moan from the participants in the séance, and Mrs. LeBlanc, realizing she had started down a path leading to disaster, interjected swiftly in the heavily accented voice: “My dear, do not trouble yourself about Bertie. All will come right in the end. Trust me.”

“I do wish that I could, Albert, but he is such a trial. There’s not a serious bone in his body. All he wants to do is drink and carouse and chase women. I don’t understand why you could not have had greater influence on him while you were with us.”

Mrs. LeBlanc was quickly developing sympathy for poor Albert. Generally, those left behind were looking for reassurance from the departed, not an opportunity to complain about their health or harangue the poor dead relatives about their lack of parenting skills. The Queen was still cataloguing Bertie’s deficiencies for her departed husband. At this rate, the séance would drag on for hours, as Bertie’s deficiencies were both manifold and extensive. Mrs. LeBlanc seized the bull by the horns.

“My dear wife, I know how you struggle to rein in Bertie and to see that he is provided with the training appropriate for your successor. I do not like to see you so exercised by these trials. I beg you not to concern yourself with this matter and to take care that you do not injure your health by worrying excessively about our son. My time with you is brief, and soon I must return to the others. I have come to you tonight with a request, Drina.”

The Queen straightened in her chair, her face avid with curiosity, and Bertie’s shortcomings forgotten for the moment. “Anything, anything at all for you, my dear.”

“I miss you terribly, and the children as well.”

Tears seeped down the Queen’s heavily powdered jowls. “And we miss you.”

“I remember all the happy times we shared at Osborne and at Windsor. But most especially I long to relive those halcyon days at Balmoral.”

The Queen sniffed and nodded lugubriously. “They were happy times indeed.”

“If I could return to you, I would ask only that we might spend the rest of our lives there together.”

“What, even in the winter?” Her Majesty looked dubious.

“Yes. I would go this instant, if I were there with you. My one regret is that we never took the opportunity to spend the holiest of days there together with our family. I would so dearly love to spend the Christmas holiday there, with friends and family, and hold a ghillies’ ball for the servants, and dance to a reel together just as we used to do.”

The Queen’s lip trembled. “Ah, yes. What wonderful times we had at those balls.”

“Will you go now, this instant, to Balmoral? Will you give me the satisfaction of spending Christmas at our Scottish home, where I may visit you in spirit and observe the close bonds of our family once again?”

“Well,” said the Queen, “you know I always spend Christmas at Osborne.”

“Please go, my darling. How I long to be with you there in the Highlands. It would mean so much to me if you would accede to my wishes, just this once, and spend the holiday at Balmoral. It is my heart’s desire. Please, do not disappoint me.”

“Er, no, of course not,” said the Queen. “I should never dream of disappointing my dear husband. I shall inform the master of the household at once that I will be spending Christmas at Balmoral.”

“I should like to see you again, Mrs. LeBlanc. I have spoken to dear Albert on several occasions, but he has never been quite so, er, explicit about his wishes. You must be exceptionally talented as a channel for spirits.”

“Thank you for your kind words, ma’am. I am glad that I could provide such a direct communication to you. I should be pleased to wait upon you at any time.”

The Queen shuffled to the door, and the footman swept it open for her and her entourage.

The bewhiskered gentleman dropped a coin into Mrs. LeBlanc’s hand. “With Her Majesty’s compliments,” he said as he tipped his hat.

The last of the party to leave sidled furtively to Mrs. LeBlanc’s side. “Most convincing, madam. You remembered every detail. Well done.” The voice was a soft Scottish burr. A handful of coins cascaded into Mrs. LeBlanc’s outstretched hand. “Remember, not a word to anyone, or you may find yourself back on a ship to Louisiana, Miss Gooch.”