The Accidental Afterlife of Thomas Marsden by Emma Trevayne Page B

leather.
    Slowly, he walked toward the building that was his prison, though outwardly it was very pleasant. Red brick and white window sashes, stretching the width between two streets. A small plaque beside the tall front doors advertised the business conducted there, but this caused no alarm from passersby. Why, there were three other spiritualists over in Covent Garden alone, two more inFitzrovia, including the one named Jensen, with whom Mordecai had argued at the grand performance. Not to mention an enormous number of hacks or charlatans with bits of handwritten card propped up against the windows of dingy rooms facing the street, like the fortune-teller he had found to deliver his message to Thomas.
    Some might question why this one was so much nicer than any of the others, larger and reeking of wealth. Some might not. Other spiritualists did, for certain. Jensen was not the only one. But they had never come close to discovering Mordecai’s method.
    The desire to seek counsel with the dead had gripped Britain as a fever; for those doing the seeking, it didn’t do to be overly curious about how such things were achieved.
    The plaque was ringed in iron—to mock them, Deadnettle thought. In fairness, and it was quite a challenge to be fair, it was the only piece of metal in the entire place.
    THE SHOREDITCH SPIRITUAL SOCIETY
    Ha. A Spiritualist. A liar, more like. A warlock, a sorcerer, an evil soul, showing an acceptable face to the citizens of London.
    Two well-heeled ladies were emerging. Deadnettle pressed himself into the shadows, unnecessary though it was, for they were not paying him the slightest bit of attention. Eyes bright with amusement and wonder, theyclosed the door behind them and stood beneath the lamps on either side.
    â€œI told you, Lizzie, did I not? That man Mordecai knows his business, no doubt. I’ve spoken to Mother every time I’ve come!”
    â€œYou did. You did. I had my doubts. One hears so many stories, you know. Before tonight I’d half made up my mind that the entire movement was some sort of hoax, or the entire country had gone collectively off its rocker! But this . . .” And here the woman named Lizzie shivered, the light in her eyes changing to that of recollection. “What a strange thing. I’m so glad Peter is doing well.”
    â€œPerfectly fine,” said her friend. “And now you may shun those horrid black dresses and find yourself another husband. The queen might seem to be planning an indefinite mourning period, but you are young yet and far too alone.”
    â€œI might stay that way!” said Lizzie with a laugh. “Go off on one of those big ships and see the world. Wear trousers and drink too much champagne. I rather fancy causing a scandal. That sounds like splendid fun.”
    Here, blessedly, they began to walk, still chattering, but Deadnettle, though he could hear them, was able to ignore them.
    He crossed the street, strode past the front door and to the end of the long building. Around the corner, in analley no wider than a carriage, a small door once meant for servants—still meant for servants, in a way—was set into the brick. “Where have you been?” Marigold whispered as soon as she was on the other side. She was ghostly against the slimy wall, the only light in the cramped, dark stairwell. “He came looking for you!”
    â€œWhat did you say?” he asked, with a sinking feeling that he already knew.
    â€œTo use me instead. I’m younger, see, and stronger. Better.”
    All those things were undoubtedly true, but it was difficult not to feel slightly affronted nonetheless. Deadnettle shook it off. “You mustn’t let them use you,” he said. “If you can help it.”
    â€œCouldn’t be helped this time, could it? Where were you?” she asked again.
    He looked around, seeing none of the others. “Making arrangements to see our young