It sounds like a speech; the words trip out too easily.

I feel the cold draft, and slight tremor of the table, all the things I know are tricks, part of the performance. But I don’t feel anything ghostly.

And then I do.

The air in the room changes. The draft drops away, and the mist holds still, and the bell at Mr. Blanc’s elbow begins to ring, even though he never touched it.

Mr. Blanc stares down at the bell, and for a second, he looks totally surprised.

But then his head lolls forward, like a puppet without any strings. His hands drop from Jenna’s and Mom’s, landing on the table with the dull smack of dead weight.

For a moment, he’s as still as a statue, as still as a corpse, and Jacob slips behind my chair, as if he plans to use me as a shield.

Nice, I think, right before Mr. Blanc’s mouth hinges opens and a voice spills out. A voice that isn’t really a voice at all, but wind against old windows, a draft beneath a door. A rasping whisper, a rumble in the dark. The same voice I heard at the Place d’Armes.

And this time, it’s speaking to me.

We have seen you, little thief.”

The words slip between Mr. Blanc’s teeth, hissing like steam from a kettle.

“Light burning in your chest.”

The words roll over me like a chill, carrying that hollow fear, that strange emptiness. The same cold terror I felt on the platform in Paris.

“Once you stole from us. And once you fled.”

The words keep spilling out of Mr. Blanc’s mouth, but they don’t belong to him. There is no projection now, no drama, no flair. If anything, his delivery is eerily flat, his voice empty of emotion.

“But now you cannot hide.”

As the Spiritist speaks, something moves inside the black stone centerpiece. I watch as it rises to the surface. At first, it’s nothing but a pale white streak. But soon, I can see its hinged jaw and its empty black eyes, and I know it’s a skull.

And I can’t look away.

“We have seen you.”

I can’t move.

“And we will find you.”

I’m back on the train platform as the skeleton in the black suit reaches up to pull away its face.

In the séance room, Mr. Blanc’s head drifts up, his eyes open and empty. Like something else has climbed inside, like something else is looking out.

“We are coming for you, little thief.”

The Spiritist leans forward, unseeing, and my hand goes to the mirror at my throat. An anchor in the storm.

“We will find you, and balance the scales.”

Mr. Blanc’s fingers dig into the silk tablecloth as the voice that is not a voice gets stronger in his throat.

“We will find you and return you to the dark.”