Born of Illusion by Teri Brown Page A

right, the bookstore should be just before Columbus Circle. It’s a lot farther by foot than I thought, and my toes are numb by the time I spot the sign for the milliner’s.
    It’s a relief to step into the warmth of the bookshop, and I stand for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. Instead of being stacked in pretty rows across the shelves, the books are piled haphazardly on every available space. Of course, this means it will be harder to find anything useful, but the chaos pleases me.
    An elderly woman behind the counter observes me sternly over the top of her glasses.
    “If you’re looking for gossip magazines, you’re in the wrong place.”
    I shake my head. “I’m not,” I assure her. “Do you have anything on . . .” I’m all set to say the occult, but something about her pursed mouth changes my mind. “Um, history?”
    With a skeptical sniff, she leads me to a section toward the back of the store. I wait until she leaves before browsing the shelves. Maybe I can find something on my own. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday morning. Once, quite by accident, I discovered a fascinating book written more than fifty years ago by Robert Hare called Experimental Investigation of the Spirit Manifestations, Demonstrating the Existence of Spirits and Their Communion with Mortals. It was the first time I’ve ever come across a book where the science of spiritualism was being explored rather than just anecdotal evidence. Of course, until yesterday I was a lot more skeptical about communing with the dead.
    Thinking of last night reminds me of my conversation with Cynthia Gaylord. What exactly is the Society for Psychical Research? An organization that studies psychic phenomena? I decide to ask her more about it next time I see her. I stare at the old history books in dismay. It’ll be impossible to find anything in this mess. Girding my loins, I march back to the clerk. She has a large book open on the counter and refuses to look up as I approach. Behind me, the bell over the door rings and still the clerk remains motionless.
    “Excuse me,” I finally say. She places her finger at the end of a sentence and looks up with a frown.
    “May I help you?”
    “Yes. Do you have any books on the occult? Or on the Society for Psychical Research?”
    Her frown deepens. “I’ve never heard of the Society for Psychical Research, but we do have a small section on the occult. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
    “Do you have anything on Mrs. Emma Hardinge Britten or Nellie Brigham?” Both women were spiritualists during the late 1800s, and some of the supernatural activities that occurred during their séances had never been explained.
    She sniffs. “You will have to look for yourself.” Her heels click impatiently across the wooden floor and I follow, wondering if she hates her job or if she’s just taken an irrational dislike to me. She indicates a shelf about two feet above our heads, then turns on her heel and stalks off. I spot a step stool at the end of the aisle and head down to grab it.
    “Can I help you?” I hear her snap to the other customer.
    So it isn’t just me.
    I climb up on the stool and run my fingers along the titles. Some I’ve read; others don’t look helpful at all. I pause for a moment on Spells and Incantations but then move past it. My mother and I often used incantations during our séances to add authenticity, but I’m no longer interested in helping to make our séances better. It’s enough for me to keep us from getting caught.
    “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear you asking about mediums and the occult,” a rich English accent comes from behind me. “Have you read anything on D. D. Home?”
    Startled, I grip the shelf and turn to find an older gentleman looking up at me.
    “Excuse me?”
    “My apologies for eavesdropping, but spiritualism is a hobby of mine.”
    “Oh. No, I haven’t.”
    “If you like Nellie Brigham, you might find