Madame informed my aunt as her eyes stared at a point just above my head. I knew from my mirror that candlelight behind me causes an orangy halo effect, shining through my curls. I thought this was her meaning. “Blue,” she went on, nodding her head in satisfaction. “I hope the vibrations are not inimical. The rest of our little group has proved so compatible,” she added, with a sliding glance to Mr. Sinclair. He grinned but did not open his mouth. It was a strange, cunning expression he wore.
“You will wait for us below, Robert?” Madame said, turning to her spouse, a man who wore a decent dark jacket but looked like a farmer despite it.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said, destroying any aura of gentility the jacket might have induced.
He darted off down the hallway while the rest of us went to the sitting. A feathered room, in the likely event that you have not seen one, is a very dark place, even in daylight. The feathers, dark browns and grays for the most part, soak up all light without giving any reflections.
At night, with one lone taper burning in the middle of a table covered with a dark cloth, it strongly resembles a coal hole. Madame pulled her dark shawl up over her head for dramatic effect, sat down, and placed her hands palms-down on the table, fingers splayed. She had pretty hands, white, long-fingered, with highly arched and long fingernails, like a Chinese mandarin. She wore no jewelry, not even a wedding band. Familiar with her routine, the other members went without instructions to their preordained chairs. We were seated man-woman, like a polite dinner party. Mr. Sinclair sat on Madame’s left, Dr. Hill on her right, with Aunt Loo beside him, Pierre beside her, leaving one vacant chair between Pierre and Sinclair. I sat down on it and put my hands on the table like the others.
Our spread fingers made a circular pattern on the dark cloth. By stretching them to the limit, we managed to touch fingers, the pinky of each sitter touching the pinky of his partner on either side. It was rather pretty, but I suppose the purpose of it was to prove no one was using his hands to manipulate things. Pity Madame had not insisted we put our feet on the table as well. Pierre, being so very “English” you know, was no sooner in the dark than he began rubbing his leg against mine in the most insinuating way imaginable.
Glaring did not the least good. He stared with fixed concentration at his fingers, while his feet stroked my leg.
If my good green gown was not covered with boot marks, I might count myself fortunate. I pulled my legs as far away as possible, only to come up against Mr. Sinclair’s limbs on the other side. His head jerked toward me. He was surprised out of his wits by what he imagined I was up to. His brows rose right up above his spectacles, which he did not remove, even in this dark chamber. After his initial shock wore off, he began trying Pierre’s pedal maneuvers, but with some Anglo refinements. There was a gentle pressure first, then a sliding movement. I pulled away, and spent the remainder of the séance shifting my poor legs from left to right to escape molesting.
These efforts interfered with observing what was going forth above the cloth. It appeared to be the fashion to let your head hang down and close your eyes. At least the others all did so. We sat thus for an interminable length of time, while the candle flickered, Pierre massaged my lower limb, and Sinclair tapped playfully on my toes, with an occasional start up my shin bone. I eventually got my foot on top of his, exerting every ounce of pressure I was capable of to keep it pinned to the floor. With Pierre, who was the more adept at the art of playing footsie, I had less success. He kept sliding out from under my toes.
Suddenly Madame’s head fell back. Some crooning, gargling sounds issued from her throat, while her fingers convulsed on the cloth. None of the others paid the least heed, but I gave over any
“You will wait for us below, Robert?” Madame said, turning to her spouse, a man who wore a decent dark jacket but looked like a farmer despite it.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said, destroying any aura of gentility the jacket might have induced.
He darted off down the hallway while the rest of us went to the sitting. A feathered room, in the likely event that you have not seen one, is a very dark place, even in daylight. The feathers, dark browns and grays for the most part, soak up all light without giving any reflections.
At night, with one lone taper burning in the middle of a table covered with a dark cloth, it strongly resembles a coal hole. Madame pulled her dark shawl up over her head for dramatic effect, sat down, and placed her hands palms-down on the table, fingers splayed. She had pretty hands, white, long-fingered, with highly arched and long fingernails, like a Chinese mandarin. She wore no jewelry, not even a wedding band. Familiar with her routine, the other members went without instructions to their preordained chairs. We were seated man-woman, like a polite dinner party. Mr. Sinclair sat on Madame’s left, Dr. Hill on her right, with Aunt Loo beside him, Pierre beside her, leaving one vacant chair between Pierre and Sinclair. I sat down on it and put my hands on the table like the others.
Our spread fingers made a circular pattern on the dark cloth. By stretching them to the limit, we managed to touch fingers, the pinky of each sitter touching the pinky of his partner on either side. It was rather pretty, but I suppose the purpose of it was to prove no one was using his hands to manipulate things. Pity Madame had not insisted we put our feet on the table as well. Pierre, being so very “English” you know, was no sooner in the dark than he began rubbing his leg against mine in the most insinuating way imaginable.
Glaring did not the least good. He stared with fixed concentration at his fingers, while his feet stroked my leg.
If my good green gown was not covered with boot marks, I might count myself fortunate. I pulled my legs as far away as possible, only to come up against Mr. Sinclair’s limbs on the other side. His head jerked toward me. He was surprised out of his wits by what he imagined I was up to. His brows rose right up above his spectacles, which he did not remove, even in this dark chamber. After his initial shock wore off, he began trying Pierre’s pedal maneuvers, but with some Anglo refinements. There was a gentle pressure first, then a sliding movement. I pulled away, and spent the remainder of the séance shifting my poor legs from left to right to escape molesting.
These efforts interfered with observing what was going forth above the cloth. It appeared to be the fashion to let your head hang down and close your eyes. At least the others all did so. We sat thus for an interminable length of time, while the candle flickered, Pierre massaged my lower limb, and Sinclair tapped playfully on my toes, with an occasional start up my shin bone. I eventually got my foot on top of his, exerting every ounce of pressure I was capable of to keep it pinned to the floor. With Pierre, who was the more adept at the art of playing footsie, I had less success. He kept sliding out from under my toes.
Suddenly Madame’s head fell back. Some crooning, gargling sounds issued from her throat, while her fingers convulsed on the cloth. None of the others paid the least heed, but I gave over any
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