“Good. I’ve the darning needle in my boot already. At least I won’t have to hobble around with the bellows again.” I looked up at him. “Do you think she’ll stop after this? For a little while?”

His mouth turned. “What do you think?”

I sighed. “No, of course she won’t.” The lease on our house expired this summer. If no more money came in, we’d be destitute. Worse yet, mediums were expected to accept gifts, not actual coin, if they didn’t wish to be labeled professional. “I hate this, Colin.”

“I know.”

“You, at least, aren’t actually related to her.” Maybe these medium gifts were penance for all the lies I’d told.

He shrugged one shoulder, looked away. “It’s not so bad, not really.”

“Why do you stay?” I asked quietly. “Is it because your mother mentioned me?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you about that,” he muttered.

“What did she say, Colin?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Colin?”

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “She spoke of a girl with violet eyes. That’s all.”

“Do you still miss her?”

“Aye.” He came closer.

“Is that why you stay? To honor her memory? Even though my mother is horrid?”

His eyes locked onto mine. “I stay for you, Violet.”

I suddenly felt warm all over. “For me?”

He nodded once. “I can’t leave you to her. She’d eat you alive.” He crouched in front of me. “You should get away from her, Violet. There’s better for you out there.”

I could smell the rose petals on his hands. “The only way I can get away is if I marry.”

“Trethewey,” he said grimly.

“Not necessarily,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable. “Maybe.”

“You don’t love him.”

“I don’t hate him.”

He laughed but there was no humor in it. “And you think that’s a good enough reason to enter into marriage? You’ve got it arse backward.”

“But I don’t have options, Colin, not like you do,” I snapped defensively. “I’m a woman, in case you’ve forgotten. My options are the stews or the seamstress; Mother always said no wife would hire me as a governess.” Though I still harbored the belief that I could make it happen. Somehow. “So that leaves one other option: marriage. And Xavier’s a good man.” I wasn’t sure whom I was trying to convince, or why I felt so wretched. All I knew was that the moment was ruined, like good lace unrolled to reveal moth-eaten tears.

“He’s hardly a man. He’ll never understand you,” he said fiercely. “Do you think he’ll smile and hold your hand the next time a ghost tries to corner you at supper?”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“Then he won’t know you.”

“Don’t you think I realize that?” There were tears burning behind my lids. I refused to let them fall. My breath hitched as I lifted my chin stubbornly.

He reached down for my hand and pulled me to my feet. I was suddenly standing very close to him. His blue eyes were nearly silver in the gloom of the dark parlor. I could see the tanned glimpse of skin under his collar. His throat moved rhythmically when he swallowed.

And just as I was beginning to wonder if he was going to kiss me he released me abruptly.

“We should get some sleep,” he said gruffly.

I nodded mutely. We didn’t speak again, parting ways in the hall.

When I reached my room, there were pink rose petals scattered across my pillow. I got under the blankets and lay down, inhaling their delicate scent.

I wasn’t sure if they made me feel better or worse.

Mother was drinking sherry out of a teacup painted with fat peonies. Her hair was perfectly swept up, her dress black silk, her gloves black lace. Jet beads dripped from her throat.

I yawned and dropped into one of the chairs, reaching for the teapot.

“Violet,” she said. “Good. I need you both to work especially hard. This has to be our best performance yet.”

Colin glanced at me, his dark hair tumbling over his forehead. There was something intimate between us now, a secret shared—but one that didn’t feel heavy or deceitful. One that didn’t have anything to do with my mother or murder.

And I didn’t know why, but when our eyes met, I felt like blushing. Instead I stirred more sugar into my tea.

“I can’t have you getting missish on me. Violet, are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Maman.”

I could tell she was nervous. Her fingers trembled slightly and she was fidgeting. She hated fidgeters. Marjorie had long since abandoned us; she fidgeted something awful when Mother was in a mood, and it never ended well. I drank more tea. “Mother, do you believe in spirits?”

“Don’t be daft.”

“You don’t think some of the others really see and speak to ghosts?”

She glared at me. We weren’t ever supposed to speak of fraudulent séances. That’s how mistakes were made, how secrets were discovered. It didn’t matter how secure or private you thought the conversation might be, there might always be someone else listening; thus there were no conversations at all.

“No, I most certainly do not. Charlatans, the lot of them.”