Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

As the party assembled in the White Room that evening, Marianne was struck by the difference in atmosphere from the preceding night. Then darkness and mystery and distress had filled the air. Tonight, thanks to Carlton, the affair had the brisk efficiency of a scientific experiment.

Lady Annabelle had agreed to cooperate, even though her offer of the cat Horace, as a sniffer out of evil spirits, had been firmly declined. In the music room next to the parlor she searched Marianne, while the Duchess looked on. She was surprisingly efficient, shaking out each petticoat as it was handed to her, and running light fingers over Marianne's body once the girl had removed all her clothing except her drawers and bodice. She even asked Marianne to unpin her hair.

"That is that," she announced, motioning Marianne to resume her clothing. "I can testify, Miss Ransom, that you have no infernal devices about you. How silly this is! No self-respecting animal would engage in such a performance."

"Animals have no souls," the Duchess said.

"I am not convinced of that," Lady Annabelle retorted. "I can tell you, at any rate, that if my cats don't go to Heaven I won't go there either."

She stalked out of the room. The Duchess smiled apologetically at Marianne.

"She is such a strange mixture of child and woman. Thank you, my dear, for taking this so well."

"Candidly, it is a relief to me," Marianne replied, tying the strings of the last petticoat. The Duchess helped her into her gown, it having been decided that the servants should not be involved in the affair.

"I don't blame you for being confused," she said. "Or for doubting your own powers. It is frightening at first, and I would not have pushed you as I have, but… There is a reason, Marianne."

"The anniversary?" Marianne asked.

She had no need to be more specific. For the tormented woman there was only one date in all history worthy of remembrance. "You know, then," the Duchess said.

"Mr. Carlton told me."

"Marianne, I must hear from him – I must! I will go mad if that day passes without some word. I know this is hard for you; but I will repay you, child, never fear. I will make sure you have -" She caught sight of Marianne's face and began murmuring apologies.

"No, I didn't mean that. I know you need no reward. Forgive me."

"Of course. Please don't distress yourself."

There was a knock on the door – Carlton, impatiently demanding whether it took all night to tie a few ribbons and button half a dozen buttons.

The Duchess had accepted Carlton's suggestion of restraints. She had insisted on only one point: total darkness. It was well known, she said, that the vibrations of light were hurtful to the discarnates.

Marianne was led to an armchair, upholstered in the seat and back, but with legs and arms of plain wood. After asking if she was comfortable and receiving an affirmative reply, Carlton proceeded to fasten her wrists to the arms of the chair. Her ankles were tied together and bound to the cross-piece. When Carlton rose after performing this last task, his face was redder than usual. Marianne had felt herself blushing too; it was the first time since childhood that a man's hands had touched her lower extremities, and although Carlton had been quick and respectful, the pressure of his fingers had felt… strange. Marianne wondered what the vicar would have said about that slightly indelicate act. She forced the thought from her mind.

It would not do to think of the vicar now.

Carlton turned to the doctor, who had been watching morosely. "Would you like to test the fastenings, Gruffstone?"

"My dear boy, don't be ridiculous. You are sure the chair itself is firmly anchored?"

"I did not have the heart to ask that bolts be driven into this beautiful old flooring," Carlton replied. "But the chair is extremely heavy; I doubt that a slight woman like Miss Ransom could budge it. However, I intend to remove any doubts on that score by sitting here beside her." And he drew up a low stool with a petit-point floral scene and sat down at Marianne's feet.

"Quite satisfactory," the doctor replied. "Er – Honoria?"

The Duchess was flushed with excitement. "Quite, quite," she said impatiently. "Get on with it, Horace. The lights, if you please – and draw that screen closer to the fire."

She took her place at the table, turning her chair slightly so as to face Marianne. Lady Annabelle took another chair; her hands moved restlessly, as if stroking an imaginary cat. The doctor dealt with the lights.

"Curse it," came his plaintive voice, from the darkness that followed the extinction of the last candle. "I can't see a thing, Honoria.

Can't we have just one light so I don't fall and break a limb?"

"Sit down there, where you are, and stop fussing," the Duchess said sharply.

Marianne was nervous, but it was no more than the nervousness of a performer before she goes on stage – a sensation with which she was tolerably familiar. She feared only one thing, a repetition of the horrid trance state, if that was what it was. To lose control of one's body is frightening in itself, but the experience of the previous evening, the bodiless struggle in darkness with some unseen force, was an experiment she did not care to repeat.

The silence continued for a long time, so long that it was at last broken by the unmistakable sound of a soft snore. Carlton emitted a snicker of amusement, but he did not speak, and Lady Annabelle continued to snore until the well-known rap was heard. Annabelle snorted. "What?" she began sleepily.

"Quiet," the Duchess ordered.

A perfect fusillade of cracks replied. A creak from somewhere in the darkness was followed by Annabelle's exclamation. "The table is moving. It is lifting, tilting… Ow!"

"Really, Annabelle, if you cannot refrain from crying out you will have to leave the room," the Duchess said.

"It came down on my foot," Annabelle replied angrily.

"Then tuck your feet under your chair. I warn you, one more word…"

But the apparitions did not seem to be inhibited by conversation. The cracks reverberated from all corners of the room, and others pieces of furniture began to creak and sway. At least Marianne assumed that was the cause of the sounds she heard. Her eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, but since her back was to the scanty illumination of the well-screened fire, she could not even make out dim shapes.

A faint glow heralded the appearance of a mandolin, outlined in fire, hanging unsupported in midair. A strain of soft music sounded.

"David," the Duchess whispered. "David, is it you?"

The mandolin swooped up and down, still playing.

Hands fumbled at Marianne's feet, touched the bonds on her ankles, and moved up to her wrists.

"I beg your pardon," Carlton whispered. "I only wanted to make certain -"

"Your head is in my way," Marianne answered, straining her neck to watch the gyrations of the flying mandolin.

"Stop squirming! How can I be sure -"

"Move your head! Oh – oh, it is gone."

The luminous mandolin had indeed disappeared.

A medley of music followed – bells rang, chords sounded on the piano, a tambourine jingled. They were pleasant-enough sounds, though they formed no pattern and no recognizable tune.

Then there was a brief pause, as if the spirit needed rest after its strenuous efforts. In the silence Marianne heard the Duchess's breath coming in quick, sobbing pants, and her initial fascinated interest faded. She felt sad and a little giddy, and wished she had not taken quite so much wine at dinner.

The next demonstration was of a luminous hand that appeared suddenly in midair. Marianne could see it was not the same shape as the one that had materialized on the previous evening, being long and slim with delicate fingers.