SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

“Wands are for show anyhow,” piped up Harriet Featherstone.

“Very good,” Miss Greensleeves replied. “Now, who is on what piece of the séance?”

Miss Harper stepped forward. “Miss Beatrix and I will be leading the séance.” Beatrix held up a clapper in one hand, to show she could knock on the table while holding hands.

“Miss Nessie and I are working on keeping the circle of protection up from inside the classroom upstairs,” volunteered Miss Featherstone “We thought it would be best to have additional support in case the security system is still rusty.”

Another pair of girls held up a can of phosphorus and the copy of the Strand .

“I’m making sure that none of our guests have any spells which would tell them we’re working illusions,” Miss Jean said. “Oh, and I’ll be taking coats, of course. Good hosting and all.”

“A reminder to all of you that Mr. Bentley is an inventor under suspicion from the Crown. Do not under any circumstances allow him to escort you home. While he might be a gentleman, his manners about experimenting upon people are utterly atrocious.”

The room fell silent, all the young ladies nodding in acknowledgement. No one wanted to become a experiment. Marrying an inventor had its perks of course—being able to talk about all the latest inventions with fluency was certainly a benefit, but the possibility of arriving to an event at the Season with a brand new robotic arm might be seen as amiss.

The time had come. The young ladies all swept to their places. Some sipped at champagne in the parlor, and others lit frankincense and myrrh in the workshop.

Mr. Bentley stepped through the door in his tuxedo, and offered little mechanical corgis to each of the ladies in attendance. Miss Harper set hers on the ground and pressed the button for it to start, resulting in high pitched yapping and rusted tail wagging. The security system began to fweep in alarm, unaware of the newest mechanical device in the building. With a sheepish smile, Miss Harper turned her new friend off in order to avoid trouble.

All but one of the guests had arrived—the most important guest—and Miss Greensleeves stepped to the door and opened it just as the final knock came.

“Sir Arthur, what a pleasure to have you here for our séance. Some of my young ladies are fans of your work.”

He ambled in, allowing the pretty young lady to take his coat and whisk it off to the coat room. Sir Arthur gave Miss Greensleeves a smile and a nod, kind words of thanks for a warm welcome. “Well, I hope they aren’t too angry about the most recent issue.” He muttered through his mustache, “There’ve been riots outside of the Strand , you know.”

Iesult feigned surprise and shock. “Oh, I’m so sorry. It must be terribly frustrating to have an authorial choice so challenged by the public. Well, I hope our little diversion can be of some assistance in cheering you. I know you’re quite a fan of the spiritualist movement. My young ladies have been studying it avidly, hoping to learn how to be proper and spiritualist at the same time.” She leaned in conspiratorially, “None of that American ‘free love’ nonsense, though. I promise you that.”

The Americans were always a good way to show that you were better and more poised than others. As an Irishwoman, she took points where she could score them

“If you’ll come with me into the parlor, we can begin.”

Sir Arthur followed as she led him to a seat at the circular table. The twelve participants were ready to take their seats.

“I’d like to introduce Miss Penelope Harper, who will be leading our séance tonight.” Miss Greensleeves gestured genteelly to Penelope, who took her seat. Everyone followed suit.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Miss Harper spoke before pushing her spectacles up on her nose. “This evening, I’m going to ask that we all hold hands. Palms up, if you please.”

From another participant, a giggle and a blush as she took the hand of Mr. Bentley. For an inventor potentially hiding out and turning people into part robot he seemed awfully well dressed.

Penelope sent a speedy glare in the direction of her classmate before fluttering her eyes shut. “Mr. Jeeves, if you could bring down the lights?” The gas lamps automatically lowered. (Not by the power of a butler, though, but rather by the power of a spell bound up in the mechanical security system triggered by the words Mr. Jeeves . Witches are tricky like that.)

“Please close your eyes, ladies and gentlemen, “She began. As soon as all eyes were closed, the room sank into darkness. Stealthily, young ladies moved into the room, levitating a few objects onto the table and then floating out of the room without a sound. Flicking her eyes over to her fellow witch, Beatrix, Miss Harper squeezed her hand and began. “O spirits, we ask if any of you has a message for us? Can you knock on the table? Knock once if you have a message for us and twice if you do not.”

The table shook with a resounding knock. Only one. From below the table, a small steam powered knocker responded to vocal cues through a nifty bit of spell work.

“Very well, is there any one person to whom this message is directed?” A single knock again. “If you could place a marker in front of the individual the message is for, we will open our eyes in five seconds.”

With the participants' eyes still closed, one of the girls helping put on the show lifted a small glowing orb out of nothing and blew it onto the table. It floated in front of Sir Arthur’s face, making his moustache cast eerie shadows onto the table.

“You may open your eyes,” Penelope intoned. She had to shove a self-satisfied cackle down as Sir Arthur’s eyes grew as wide as plates.

“For…" he choked out, “for me?”

“If everyone could please continue to hold hands. Please, do not break the circle.” Penelope spoke softly, working her intentions on everyone in the room. The witches present wouldn’t be able to let go of each other’s hands if they wanted to. “Sir, have you lost anyone dear to you recently?”

“No. No, I haven’t.” Sir Arthur sounded convinced, as though he was completely unaware of the many hearts he had broken with his prose.

“How curious.” She smiled. “Well, we shall just have to find out who it is.”

With a rumble, the table shifted and shook, the feeling of an angry spirit filling the room (or in this case, teenaged witchy hormones), and the table and all of the chairs lifted a foot off of the ground.

“Well, this spirit certainly wants our attention,” Penelope said calmly while the rest of the séance-goers began to struggle in fear, hanging on to each other’s hands for dear life. “Oh spirit, might you tell us who you are?”

On that cue, the walls flashed for a moment, red writing appearing on the walls. “You killed me, Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Doyle’s eyes got even wider, his face marked in pure disbelief.

“This cannot be, this is…Miss Greensleeves, are your students pranking me?”

And then a copy of the Strand magazine appeared in the middle of the table before bursting into green flames.

The table began to spin round and round before the whole dining set slammed down to the ground in a huff.

The participants began to scream, still clinging to each other’s hands, trailing off when a firm, ticked-off British gentleman’s voice spoke throughout the room.

“I am the man who never lived and can never die, Arthur Conan Doyle. You will bring me back or face the consequences of damning me to uncertain fictional hell.”

With that, Miss Harper allowed the attendees to release hands. While Beatrix was making eyes at Mr. Bentley, choosing to risk matrimony to an illegal robotics inventor over common sense, Miss Harper rose, watching Sir Arthur Conan Doyle grab at the scraps of air that once were the Strand . He sputtered and threw his hands in the air.