“And sensitive,” she says, scratching between the cat’s ears. “They can sense trouble.”

Jacob wiggles his fingers in front of the cat’s face.

The girl behind the counter shoots him a look. “Please don’t antagonize my cat.”

Her attention flicks back to us, but Jacob stares at her, his eyes wide as marbles.

“Cassidy,” he hisses under his breath, “I think she can …”

“See you,” finishes the girl. “Yes. I wouldn’t be much of a medium if I couldn’t see ghosts.”

Jacob sucks in a breath. His eyes narrow to slits. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks.

“Two.”

He gasps. “No one has ever been able to see me.”

“I’ve always been able to see you,” I say, hurt.

“So have I,” adds Lara, sounding more annoyed than wounded.

“I meant normal people,” he shoots back.

“Oh, no normal people here,” says the girl with a laugh. “In-betweeners,” she muses, looking at me and Lara. “And you’re friends with this ghost? I didn’t think in-betweeners were fond of spirits.”

“We’re not,” says Lara.

“He’s different,” I explain.

Jacob puffs up his chest a little.

The medium studies him. “Yes,” she says. “I think he is.” She addresses Jacob directly. “You look a little … corporeal for a ghost.”

“Why, thank you,” says Jacob.

“It’s not a compliment,” she says, attention flicking back to me and Lara. “I’m Philippa, by the way. Now, why do you want to see the Society?”

Lara looks at me. I clear my throat.

“I’m being chased by a missionary of Death.”

“Emissary,” corrects Lara.

“Oh my,” says Philippa. “That sounds serious. Hold on.”

She rings a bell, and a few moments later, two people pass through the curtain at the back of the shop. A middle-aged Black woman wearing pink glasses, and a younger white man with a shock of black hair. His widow’s peak makes him look like he belongs in a vampire story.

“We have guests,” Philippa tells them brightly. “Veil-walkers! Or, what did you call it, in-betweeners? Anyway, this is Cassidy and Lara.”

Lara and I exchange a look.

We never said our names.

Jacob clears his throat, and Philippa adds, “Oh yes, sorry, and Jacob, their incorporeal friend. This,” she says, nodding at the woman, “is the current president of the Society, Renée. And this is Michael, our specialist in wards and charms. I’m afraid our historian is out.”

“Lara Chowdhury,” says Renée, looking her up and down. “I’ve received your letters.”

“And yet you still haven’t granted me membership—”

“Not why we’re here,” I say impatiently.

Renée turns her attention to me. “Yes, what brings you to the Society?”

“We need help,” I say. “I’m being hunted by an Emissary.”

Renée frowns. “Indeed,” she says soberly. “Well then, come on back.”