The carriage wheels ground against the cobblestones, their iron rims shrieking in protest as they turned into a lane where the gas lamps grew thin and the fog thickened. Esther sat within, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, Horace hidden in the folds of her cloak, his golden eyes gleaming in the dark. Morrigan had flown ahead, her shadowy wings a harbinger in the night sky.
The letter had arrived two days prior, sealed in red wax with a crest of lions and thorns. An invitation—though worded more as a command—from Lady Ashcombe of Hollow Hall. The widow sought Esther's "gifts" for an evening of spiritual diversion, attended by society's elite.
The hall rose before them now, a vast Gothic manor with spires like spears and windows that glowed faintly through the veil of fog. Its stones were blackened with age, ivy clinging to its skin like veins upon a corpse.
Esther stepped down from the carriage, boots sinking into the wet gravel. The great doors groaned open, revealing Lady Ashcombe herself—tall, thin, her face powdered too pale, her eyes lined with kohl. Diamonds dripped from her neck and ears, but her smile was brittle as glass.
"Ah, Mistress Harrow," she purred, her voice like velvet stretched over knives. "Our guests are quite beside themselves with anticipation."
Esther inclined her head, though she said nothing. She followed the lady inside, her amulet cool against her throat.
The drawing room was immense, its ceiling lost in shadow, its chandeliers heavy with crystal that trembled in the drafts. Aristocrats draped in silks and satin lounged in carved chairs, glasses of wine trembling faintly in eager hands. Their whispers ceased as Esther entered, all eyes fastening upon her as though she were some exotic specimen brought from the colonies.
"Do forgive them," Lady Ashcombe said smoothly. "They are not accustomed to true witches in their midst."
Esther's gaze swept the room. She felt the weight of suspicion cloaked beneath curiosity, of fear woven into fascination. But she also felt another weight—heavier, unseen. The very air in Hollow Hall pulsed with unrest.
The séance table had been prepared—round, draped in black velvet, twelve silver chairs encircling it. Candles guttered in tall candelabra, their flames bending as though buffeted by breath from beyond.
Esther took her place at the head, her fingers resting lightly upon the wood. The others gathered, laughter and chatter growing thin as expectation thickened. Horace curled beneath her skirts, silent. Morrigan landed upon the chandelier above, feathers shivering, eyes fixed upon the velvet circle.
"Let us begin," Esther said. Her voice silenced the last murmur.
They joined hands, some reluctant, some trembling. Esther's eyes closed. She inhaled deeply, summoning the tide of voices that stirred beyond the veil.
At first, only silence. Then—the faintest knock upon the table. A ripple of gasps.
Another knock, louder. The candles quivered.
Esther's voice dropped, lower than her own, carrying a weight that was not hers: "I am here."
The lady to her left shrieked, but Lady Ashcombe tightened her grip and leaned forward eagerly. "Who speaks?"
The air grew colder. Frost laced the rim of the glasses.
The voice came again through Esther's lips, though her eyes were shut fast: "The one who was wronged. The one who was silenced."
A gentleman across the table went pale. His glass shattered upon the floor.
The spirit's fury rose like wind through the chamber, rattling the chandeliers, shaking the chairs. Esther's body stiffened, seized by the tide of grief and rage that poured through her.
"Blood on his hands," the spirit howled through her lips. "Blood in the garden, beneath the roses!"
Chaos erupted. A woman fainted. Men rose, shouting. The accused gentleman stumbled back, eyes wild, shouting denials.
Esther's eyes flew open, blazing. "Release me!" she commanded, and the storm broke. The candles snuffed at once, plunging the hall into blackness.
When light returned—only Esther still sat at the table, calm as stone. The rest had fled to corners of the room, pale and trembling, muttering prayers under their breath.
Lady Ashcombe's painted face was cracked with terror… and delight. "Marvelous," she whispered. "Absolutely marvelous."
But Esther knew what had stirred was no parlor trick. Hollow Hall's foundations had been steeped in secrets, and now the dead had found their tongue.
As she left that night, Morrigan circling above, the fog pressed close against her carriage window. Esther's hand lingered on her amulet. She could still feel the spirit's rage clinging to her skin like a second shadow.
And she knew—the dead had only begun to speak.