Mr. Blanc raises a brow. “The spirits, it seems, are eager to begin.”

I scowl at Jacob, who flashes me a bashful grin. Sorry, he mouths.

“Do you wish to call on a specific spirit,” asks Mr. Blanc, “or shall I open the gates and see what comes through?”

I tense a little, but remind myself of what Lara said. Séances aren’t real. And unless Mr. Blanc is an in-betweener, which I seriously doubt, there’s no risk of him letting anything through.

“Ohh,” says Mom. “Let’s let the ghosts decide.”

“Very well.” The lights dim around us, and Dad, ever the skeptic, raises a brow. Mom kicks him lightly under the table. Jenna squirms excitedly in her seat. Lucas looks straight ahead, his face carefully blank.

Mr. Blanc clears his throat, and I realize I’m the only one who hasn’t joined hands.

“Don’t worry,” says Mr. Blanc. “The spirits cannot hurt you.”

Well, that’s a straight-up lie, I think, remembering all the ghosts I’ve met in the Veil who’ve tried to kill me.

But this is just a game. A bit of fun, as Lara would say.

So I take the hands on either side of me, completing the circle.

I can still feel the Veil, but it’s no stronger here than it was out in the street. If anything, it’s softer, the tap of ghosts reduced to a gentle press. I stare at my own warped reflection in the black stone centerpiece.

“Close your eyes,” says Mr. Blanc. “And quiet your minds. We must create a clear channel.”

If Lara were here, she would scoff, and say that isn’t how it works. That we’re on one side and they’re on the other, and unless someone died really close to this spot, there’s probably no one to talk to.

But Lara’s not here, so everyone, including the Spiritist, closes their eyes.

Everyone except for me.

Which is why I see the strings, the seams, the tricks that make it easy to believe.

I see the pale smoke spilling between a break in the velvet curtains. I see Mr. Blanc shift something between his teeth. I see his shoe move under the table, just before we hear a knock.

Everyone opens their eyes, blinking in surprise at the fog, the subtle changes in the room.

“Is anyone there?” asks Mr. Blanc.

Jacob holds his breath, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s resisting the urge to cause a scene, or if he genuinely thinks he might be summoned and forced to answer.

But when Mr. Blanc speaks again, his voice is higher, stranger, a little muffled, as if there’s something in his mouth, which I know there is.

“My name is Marietta,” he says. “Marietta Greene.”

It’s like watching a ventriloquist, except Mr. Blanc is both the master and the doll. His lips are always moving.

“I don’t know where I am,” he continues in that strange, squeaky voice. “It is so dark, I think they must have boarded the windows and locked the doors …”