A Drowned Maiden's Hair by Laura Amy Schlitz

voice. “Better to have a millstone around my neck and be cast into the sea —”
    “Victoria, be quiet!” Judith commanded. “Come and sit. We have all agreed.” She looked back toward Maud. “You have not been plain with her, Hyacinth. She’s a sharp child, but she’s still a child. You must tell her — truthfully — what we are and what you do.”
    “It sounds so coarse,” protested Hyacinth.
    “Very well, then, I will say it.” Judith looked directly into Maud’s eyes. “We are frauds, shams, tricksters. Hyacinth can no more raise the dead than I can fly to the moon. There is no way that you could use Hyacinth’s powers to speak to your dead mother. There are no such powers.”
    “Judith —”
    “Be quiet, Victoria. Let us be plain.” Judith held up her hand for silence. “Victoria believes that there are genuine mediums — but I have never met with one. I never expect to meet one. We deal in trickery.”
    “Why?” asked Maud.
    “Why?” Judith gave a short laugh. “Because there is money in trickery, and we need the money.”
    Maud leaned back in her chair. It was true then: the Hawthorne sisters weren’t rich after all. Her eyes went from the silver candlesticks to the gold-framed pictures on the walls.
    “This house is mortgaged,” Judith said. “Victoria owns a cottage in Cape Calypso — we could sell that, except that is where we ply our trade. We seldom hold séances here, in Hawthorne Grove.” She sounded scandalized by the very thought. “The Hawthornes have always been respected in Hawthorne Grove.”
    “What’s a séance?” asked Maud.
    Hyacinth leaned forward, her face crinkling with amusement and excitement. “A séance is like . . . oh, like a very exciting party game. People who want to talk to the dead sit around the table, with the lights very low — the spirits don’t like the light, you see, which is just as well, because we don’t like it, either. It’s so much easier to trick people in the dark. At any rate, once the lights are out, we pray or sing hymns, and after a while, the medium — that is, I — fall into a trance. It looks a bit like fainting, but I can still speak. Then the spirits of the dead talk to the living — using my voice, you understand. Or sometimes, the dead appear.”
    “I thought you said you couldn’t do that,” protested Maud.
    “We can’t really do it,” Hyacinth explained, “but we can manage a very pretty little show. A mask at the end of a fishing pole, for example, is very effective. Remember, it’s quite dark. People see a white face floating in midair, and they’re sure it’s dear old Cousin Lucy. Add a beard and it’s Uncle Matthew.”
    “Do people really believe that?” Maud was incredulous.
    “My poppet,” said Hyacinth, “you would be amazed at what people believe. You must remember that the lights are low, and they came here wanting, longing — oh, dying to see Cousin Lucy or Uncle Matthew. And then, we prepare them, with music and darkness and prayers. . . . Your singing voice will be a godsend — so pure, so childish . . . and I brought you a little glockenspiel — I thought you might learn to play it.”
    “Me?”
    “Of course, you,” answered Hyacinth. “I knew the minute I saw you that you were just the person to help us. You’re so tiny — you can fit into all sorts of places — under the table, in the map cupboard, even in the dumbwaiter, if need be. I’ll teach you how to play the tambourine and how to make the chandelier swing in the wind when there isn’t any wind —”
    Maud’s face broke out into a grin of stupefaction.
    “And I’ll teach you to be Caroline.” Hyacinth reached across the table — Maud could have told her that this was bad manners — so that her fingertips brushed the hair by Maud’s earlobe. The caress was so light that it made Maud’s skin prickle. “We’ll need a wig — Caroline had long ringlets. But —”
    “Who’s Caroline?” Maud knew that she