Authors: Lisa Ann Brown
“Francesca!” she barked. “Come here, immediately!” and Arabel was shocked when the blonde girl leapt to her feet and obligingly approached the formidable woman in the quickest of manners. The large woman embraced the girl and the girl appeared to respond with slightly less enthusiasm.
The proprietor broke away from the group of salesmen, who were now surveying the odd newcomers with relish and a not-so-subtle approval for the blonde girl, their immediate battle for price reductions swallowed up by their interest of the lobby proceedings.
“Madame de Lorimar!” the proprietor exclaimed with a relieved sort of false cheer to his voice as he moved toward the woman. “Welcome back!”
Madame de Lorimar, the large woman, peered down at the slight man with a condescending glance.
“Our rooms, I take it, are ready? And the games-room for the engagement tonight?” she queried, and her voice was a deep growl of both practiced seduction and imperious command.
“All is ready, Madame; I will show you personally,” the proprietor replied, graciously taking the arm of Madame de Lorimar. They set off down the hallway, the albino girl following behind, and the strapping young Gypsies following after.
Arabel was more than intrigued. What was going on? Who were these odd strangers?
Arabel decided to investigate further and she made her way to the doorway leading to the second floor, keeping a good distance between the flamboyant party and herself. At the foot of the stairs, Arabel paused. Madame de Lorimar’s deep voice easily carried down below, but Arabel could not make out her words. Arabel stepped onto the stairway just as someone grabbed her arm.
Arabel turned to see the person holding her arm and found herself staring into the expressive brown eyes she had longed so much to view, the almond eyes of Eli.
“Eli!” Arabel exclaimed, shock and pleasure coursing through her. “What are you doing here?”
Eli grinned. “I couldn’t very well let you have all the fun now, could I?” he responded cheekily, running his fingers lightly up Arabel’s arm before bringing her hand to his lips for a soft kiss.
The colours burst through Arabel’s eyes - the pink, the red, and the pulsing blue and green stripes. Arabel’s face suffused with colour and it felt as though her very skin would combust with sensation. Eli kept hold of her hand as she smiled back.
“I was just going upstairs,” she said.
“Then let’s continue,” he said.
They held hands as they climbed the stairs and Arabel could not wipe the smile from her face. She was filled with the urge to laugh and she squeezed Eli’s hand tightly in unexpected pleasure.
“How did you manage to get away?” she asked.
“I finished up today and asked for tomorrow off. Seeing as it was fine by the stable master, here I am, ready to do what next needs to be done,” Eli replied easily.
Ahead of them, the bustle of Madame de Lorimar’s party could be heard. An open door lent itself to a few measly scraps of conversation. Arabel strained to listen but conceded defeat as the door decisively swung shut. Arabel turned toward Eli.
“Have you gotten a room yet?” she asked and he shook his head.
“No, I saw you straight-away. I haven’t seen the proprietor. “
“He’s in there,” Arabel said, pointing to the closed door. “I was going to eavesdrop, but you came along to distract me.”
“A welcome distraction, I hope,” Eli quipped and Arabel laughed.
“Of course,” she replied as the door opened again and the proprietor scuttled out.
“Sir!” Eli said, approaching him.
The proprietor swung around and peered at Eli. “Can I help you, young man?” he asked.
Eli was about to respond when the young albino girl, Francesca, popped her head out of the room. She spotted Eli immediately, and her pink eyes lit up with unbridled delight.
“Eli!” she squealed somewhat breathlessly, before hurtling toward him and launching herself heartily into his arms.
Arabel watched in dismay as Francesca hugged Eli tightly and kissed his cheeks with a fervour that made her want to wrench the two of them immediately apart, perhaps forever.
“What are you doing here?” Francesca asked, her voice a light, melodious sound.
The girl was slightly younger than she’d appeared from across the room and infinitely more beautiful. Arabel found herself reeling from the unexpected shock of jealousy, an emotion she’d had yet to experience in its full, ugly, green expression. Arabel clamped down upon the feeling, plastering a polite smile to her face.
“I’m here with my-”, Eli paused, glancing at Arabel briefly, before rephrasing his response. “Francesca, this is Arabel. Arabel, Francesca,” Eli finally said, looking oddly discomfited.
Francesca offered a dainty white hand to Arabel. “Pleased, I’m sure,” she said, glancing for barely a second at Arabel before turning her pale charms back to Eli.
“What are you doing here?” Eli asked Francesca.
“Why, we’re here for the séance, of course. Mama is leading it tonight – you’ll have to come!” Francesca entreated prettily. “And you, of course, as well,” she added to Arabel, almost as an afterthought.
“The séance?” Eli repeated. “And whom are you trying to contact this time?” he asked.
“The two dead girls,” Francesca answered hastily, as Madame de Lorimar’s imperious voice was heard from within the belly of the room, calling her daughter to her side.
“I have to see Mama,” Francesca apologized, turning away, “but do come! Tonight, in the old games-room, at seven, sharp!”
Francesca kissed Eli enthusiastically on both cheeks again, and then danced away, as if clutching a secret merriment to her young and beautiful heart.
Under any other circumstance, Arabel was quite certain she would like Francesca de Lorimar, but there was no other circumstance, and so like her she did not.
The séance was held in a large room off of the third floor balcony. An eerie space to begin with, the room easily lent itself to the occasion of dark ritual and necromancy as it came complete with heavy blood-red burgundy velvet draperies, plush, noise-concealing rugs in muted rusts and blacks, dark wood panelling, and old faded wallpaper featuring bleeding red roses. Adorning the walls were numerous gruesome hunting paintings, in oils, of dead prey enclosed within dark, sombre wood frames.
Apparently the games-room of the previous owner, and still called by that name, the room was empty of almost everything but the paintings and the draperies, giving it the profoundly desolate air of the long dead past. To Arabel’s keen senses, it fairly vibrated with stale indifference and old cruelty. She wondered why this room had been chosen over all of the restored rooms at the inn and concluded that the Gypsy woman, Madame de Lorimar, probably liked the rundown decay for the atmosphere it would provide to her séance.
A grand, impossibly polished, circular mahogany table dominated the room. Thirteen straight- backed mahogany chairs with dark red cushions surrounded the table. Candles glowed from wall wickets and covered the shiny surface of the table, rendering the room almost as bright as daybreak. The candles were warmly fragranced with a fresh yet cosy cedar scent, which offset the austerity of the room and Arabel breathed in their scent deeply.
Arabel sat beside Eli around the side of the table closest to the exit door. Next to Arabel was a thin, finely dressed woman holding a dainty blue hanky to her face, periodically sniffling, her eyes rimmed red and her shoulders hunched slightly forward. Arabel could feel the pain the woman was enduring and she longed to comfort her. There was something familiar about the woman, but Arabel could not immediately place her.
Directly across from Eli sat Francesca, her pale eyes closed tightly, her lips moving in an inaudible chant. Her fingers repetitively worked a set of white beads or stones, but Arabel could not see them clearly enough to identify them with any sort of accuracy.
Around the table gathered seven women, including Arabel and Francesca, and five men, including Eli and Mr. Hill, the obsequious proprietor, bringing their numbers to twelve. No one else at the table was known to Arabel and the room was silent of all conversation. Somewhere in the inn, a clock chimed the hour, seven bells. The bongs sounded heavily within the room; it was as if no one dared to breathe. The last bell rang out and the welcome sounds of footsteps upon the landing were heard.
On cue, Madame de Lorimar appeared at the door, dressed in her brightest séance finery – a voluminous caftan of elaborate proportions in canary yellow silk and a bright fuchsia silk headdress with various coloured floral adornments. Following discreetly behind Madame de Lorimar, one of her male Gypsy minions carried into the room and placed on the shiny table, with reverent care, a heavy, milky-white crystal ball wrapped in indigo satin.
Arabel noticed that Francesca’s eyes popped open the second that the crystal ball was set upon the table and uncovered from its indigo satin cover. Arabel watched in reluctant fascination as Francesca stared at the crystal, her lips continuing their silent chant, her fingers moving over the white stones. Arabel began to wonder if Francesca was perhaps possessed when Madame de Lorimar began to extinguish many of the candles in the room and the girl stopped chanting.
Soon the room was pitched into a gloomy semi-darkness, with one lone candle flame to hold out against the inky blackness of the encroaching night. Madame de Lorimar moved into position beside her daughter, closing in and completing the circle of thirteen at the large mahogany table. Shadows flickered as the candle danced in an invisible breeze.
Next to Arabel, Eli observed the proceedings warily. He’d never been to one of Madame de Lorimar’s séance’s before, but he knew that Francesca was the true medium, it would be she who would contact the dead girls, but her mother would lead ‘the ceremony’.
“Spirits, we are pleased to invoke you!” Madame de Lorimar intoned, her voice husky, as if entreating a reluctant lover or stubborn child to obey her. “Join us, spirits, let us speak to you and hear your response! Your loved ones have gathered, they are here to seek the truth – do not disappoint us! We beseech you to appear now, Alice-May Marpole and Klara Edna Baker!”
Madame de Lorimar briskly clapped her hands thrice in a quick succession.
Francesca stood up suddenly and moved her small, pale hands overtop the crystal ball. Her eyes were shut once more and her hands swirled over the smooth surface quickly, as if building to some musical crescendo. Madame de Lorimar had shut her eyes now as well, and when Arabel glanced around, she observed that everyone but she and Eli had also closed their eyes. Eli nodded to her, and Arabel understood he was going to emulate the others, so she followed suit.
Arabel shut her eyes and was assaulted immediately by the harsh, vibrant colours – they seemed angry, full of hostile aggression - dark black purples and harsh, grey muted yellows. A low keening sound penetrated from within the colours, as if they were moaning in pain, trapped in an evil fog of dark submission. A pressure was building in Arabel’s chest; she could feel a scream begging for release from the back of her throat but she didn’t know why. Her fingers tightened in Eli’s hand.
Francesca began to speak but she was no longer Francesca.
“Sister, I beg of you, leave this place,” she uttered softly, and her tone was heavy with sorrow; none of Francesca’s bright, eager, girlish manner remained. Arabel couldn’t resist opening her eyes to stare at the young girl who had magically transformed into someone else. Francesca’s eyes were open now as well, but they were blank, staring at some other vista, some other place, through some other soul’s perspective.