Joan Smith by Valerie Page B

intention of hanging my head and closing my eyes at this point. If I was going to see a séance, I was going to see it. She went into a chant in some language I did not recognize, a sing-song bit of stuff repeated four or five times. The word “Ahmad” was said more than once. Then she came to rigid attention in her chair, began snorting most theatrically, like a mare about to bolt. I could swear that beneath that shawl her ears were pulled back. Perhaps she was rehearsing to be a race horse in her next incarnation. She took a deep breath and said, “Edward ... Edward ... lady ... justice ... Louise ... ” Then she shivered, opened her eyes, and the visitation was over. Her black eyes stared accusingly at me. The others recognized this for the end of the session.
    “The spirits are not communicating tonight,” she announced sadly. “I was afraid that blue aura might interfere. Ahmad could not complete the passage to us. A pity. He had Edward with him tonight. The sensation was very pronounced.”
    “Who is Ahmad?” I asked.
    “Our guide to the other side,” she replied, rather unhelpfully.
    “Other side of what?”
    “The beyond.”
    “Is it not possible to get an English guide?”
    “One has not the privilege of choosing. Ahmad is the one who came when I called,” she told me. “He will return another time. I fear we accomplished nothing tonight. Did he say anything?” she asked of the table at large.
    “No, but you mentioned Edward, and a lady, and justice,” I told her, thinking to be helpful. “You also said Louise.”
    “Ahmad said that?” she asked, quite surprised.
    “The guide speaks through Madame,” Mr. Sinclair informed me, easing his toes out from under mine and giving my ankle a sharp rap for punishment.
    My aunt began puffing in her chair. I noticed Dr. Hill’s fingers had closed over hers protectively, or perhaps restrainingly.
    “What can it mean?” I demanded.
    “The cards will tell us,” Loo said. I had long since come to realize any mention of cards referred to tarot cards. I hoped it would not require another three-day session.
    “Is that all there is to it?” I asked, disappointed at such a poor showing. No ghosts, no rapping or jumping table, no candle blowing out. It was pretty dull entertainment.
    “Try Anastasia for me,” Mr. Sinclair requested, “if you are not too fatigued, Madame.”
    She sighed wearily but nodded her head in acquiescence. We resumed our original hand-touching. Madame lowered her head on to her chest, closed her eyes, and the others followed suit. After the usual interval, she began snorting again. Anastasia did not come. I looked around the table with interest and noticed that Mr. Sinclair’s green glasses, which looked perfectly black in the gloom, were turned toward me. The table gave a wild leap, knocking over the candle. The grease that spilled over on to the cloth was the last thing I saw before the flame was extinguished, and we were plunged into total darkness.
    Pierre attacked like a tiger, coming at me with his hands instead of his feet. I gave him a sharp pinch on the underside of the arm, the upper arm, where it really hurts. It would likely leave a bruise. He muttered a soft French curse and laughed. The table went on jumping up and down for a few seconds, but any one of the sitters could have been doing it with his knees, or his hands for that matter, since we were in total darkness.
    The séance ended in this foolish manner. Everyone was jumping up, exclaiming, running to open the door and get more lights. When the lamps were brought in, Madame was seen to be just coming out of her trance. We waited politely for her to return to normal. When she had done so, she arose and told us we would retire now. From the room I assume she meant, since it was by no means late enough to retire to bed. I, for one, had a trellis to climb before I could close my eyes.
    Pierre, his passions aroused by the under-the-cover games, put an arm around my