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Dedication

For Andrea - može da uvek bude šećer i krem za kafu.

Chapter 1: London, 1913

1.

LONDON, 1913

The dead are seldom silent.

They have their stories to tell and their gift of foresight to share. All that is required for them to be heard is that someone be willing to listen. I have been listening to the dead all my life, and they never clamor more loudly for my attention than at a funeral. This is in part due to proximity, of course. Here I stand, beside an open grave, somber in black, quiet, watching, waiting, pain constricting my chest more tightly than the stays of my corset, and all around me souls stir. But they must wait. Wait to be called. Now is not the time. I know they are eager to speak to me, and I value their trust in me, but wait they must.

It is always important, what the dead have to say. At least, they consider it so. As if departing this world has conferred upon their every single utterance a dignity, a value, that was not present while they trod the ground instead of sleeping beneath it. There are times their insistence and their self-importance tire me, I admit. Times such as now, when I am far too consumed by grief to want to hear them. Even so, I can never forget, must never forget that sometimes their words are indeed of great value. Necromancers through the ages have known this; we have learned to listen to their bold prophecies and their whispered warnings. What would the genteel lords and ladies assembled here today think, I wonder, if they knew that among them now are those who summon spirits from the past to divine the future? What would they think of me if I were to tell them I am most at ease in a catacomb, or sitting in a graveyard cloaked in darkness, talking softly with those who have crossed the Rubicon and dwell in the Land of Night? That I find comfort and solace in the companionship of the dead, as my ancestors did before me? What would they say if I told them I have always harbored a secret fondness for coffins? There is something about their sleek lines, the rich tones of the burred walnut, the gleam of the brass fittings, the comforting thought of a place of rest and safety, that appeals to me.