The fact that Eve hadn’t seen Maggie all day troubled her, even if Zofia had mentioned she was off, preoccupied. Usually her best friend passed through, checking in, a consistent companion. Maggie was Eve’s familiar, her spirit tether, guiding her through life. Losing her to Prenze’s interference once made Eve nervous about any further absence.
“I wonder if those spools of wire, since dispensed, relates to the danger to ghosts, as Maggie seemed to think it was Prenze turning up the lights to a blinding level that…blinked her out, severing her spirit’s tether to our world.”
“I think you must be a connective piece, then. You and Gran,” Horowitz said. “Cora too, those with psychic capacity. To do what he wants to do, he must need information from you; why else study you or hook you to the device?”
“I don’t know. Whatever he did opened something; it was after that that he began the astral projection.”
“Let’s see if next door can be any more reliable than any of your ghostly narrators,” the detective suggested.
Exiting the Irving Place address, Horowitz took a moment to lock the door after him before they turned toward Gramercy Park. Following the promise of trees ahead, they walked a block north and stood at the southeastern corner of the rectangular enclave of townhouses facing a gated green with a wrought iron fence to keep out anyone who didn’t belong to the little district of old money that hid itself from the city’s biggest industrial changes in the widening streets and avenues beyond.
The spirits that usually coursed around the neat and tidy green were still today, all floating in place, all staring straight at Eve. For them to be stock still was unnatural—stifling, even, to a Sensitive so accustomed to seeing them as reflective of the city’s constant movement and restless nature.
Eve stopped in her tracks, the detective beside her, his hand brushing hers. After a moment he caught her hand and kept it, squeezing her palm as he tilted his head toward her.
“What is it?” her ever-attentive companion asked.
“All the ghosts are staring at me.” Eve fought a nauseous wave of unease. “Their stillness is unsettling. Ghosts are creatures of movement and floating. Entities of eternal breezes. For the whole of the spirit world to be acting unnatural makes me wonder what Prenze is doing or perhaps what other changes are happening to affect them.”
“Perhaps his electrical work, the monitors, the blockades—and more—are affecting their general freedom?”
“Perhaps…” Eve squinted at the spirits, which stared blankly back. She shook her head and turned toward the closest row of townhouses, Dupont’s home around the corner from his parlor.
A breeze blew back the loose hair around Eve’s face and Vera appeared again before her, white hair up in a bun with strands floating as if underwater. Her floral shawl that Eve had once seen in beautiful reds and blues in the fullness of Sanctuary was greyscale here, held taut over bony, folded arms. Born and raised in Mexico City, a talented artist, she’d spent her adult life in Manhattan. Her intense love of art and this city kept her soul as vibrant as her paintings.
“I was torn from here,” she said, her accent light and lilting. “I tried to go in again, just as you stand, and from here I was ripped apart. Sanctuary put me back together, as it did Maggie. The same thing happened to her at the Prenze mansion. Break these devices of torture, Eve!”
“We’ll do whatever we can,” Eve promised, explaining to Jacob what the spirit said. “It’s this house,” she said, indicating the white sandstone façade with carved stone lions on either side of the stoop. They ascended. Vera hung back, hesitant.
Horowitz looked at the ring of six keys with a fob of a sacred heart stamped in metal, a sad reminder to Eve of all the little reliquaries Dupont had made from the parts of children. Jacob chose the most elaborate key, brass with a filigree pattern, and turned the lock that matched its pattern. Their reflection shifted in the etched-glass panel of the door as they entered.
Dupont’s townhouse appeared just as empty as the viewing parlor, and as they stood in the house’s parlor, similarly white walled and open, Eve noticed some of the same spirits that had been floating around the viewing parlor had come with them, looking in the front bay window.
“Let’s disarm the blockade.” Eve gestured to the windows. “They’re here, looking in.”
“Does it ever startle you, seeing them? I know you look upon the dead as your duty, but—”
“Always,” Eve interrupted. All the spirits kept staring at her unnervingly through the window. “Just because one accepts a calling doesn’t mean it can’t scare you.”
Jacob stared at her a moment. “Brave and honest,” he said in admiration.
Eve shrugged. “If I wasn’t at least a little frightened of the power of spirits, I wouldn’t have built up my reserves, my shields, learned my limits. If I’d have just let it all in, without discernment, we’d never have met. I’d have been committed to some private asylum upstate.” She turned and found her way to the back of the home.
Past a rear kitchen, the two exited onto an exterior landing. Eve gestured toward the electric box affixed to the brick outside where a similar blocking mechanism was mounted beside, and Horowitz did the same as was done at the parlor to remove it.
Spirits poured in; a floodgate lifted. Quiet at first, they took stock of the place, moving meticulously through walls, phantoms floating a foot from the floor.
“Greetings, spirits,” Eve called. “Please direct us to anything of note.”
At this bidding, Vera reappeared, her wrinkled face determined.
“No, Vera,” Eve assured gently. “I would never ask you to revisit a site of trauma.”
“No, no,”—she shook her transparent head, white wisps of hair flowing—“this place is an enemy and I want to vanquish it. This house.” She clucked her tongue. “Dios mio.” The spirit sighed, floating toward the library, off the main entrance hall, gesturing with a bent hand that Eve follow her. “This room was the start of everything for me, with this case.”
The library must also have served as Dupont’s study. Umber-painted walls were broken up by tall maple bookshelves that seemed to have mostly been left alone. Books were stacked along the bookshelves, with gaps where perhaps Mrs. Dupont had taken some tomes of note or worth. A large leather chair and desk remained near a tall lancet window with stained-glass squares. Mrs. Dupont must not have felt the need to move what was obviously his, the man’s actions and obsessions having estranged him.
“This was where little Ingrid Schwerin appeared to me,” Vera explained, gesturing as she spoke, “just outside the house and then leading me into this hall. Just as the spirits of children begged for Maggie’s intervention at the Prenze mansion, so did Ingrid want me to know her story here.” The spirit shook her head. “I don’t know how I was able to get in, past that blocking device to begin with. Perhaps Ingrid’s tie to this place carved out a door for our souls. I launched her postmortem photograph from this desk into the hall, and that began the unraveling.”
It was true; little Ingrid’s spirit had led the charge toward what Eve prayed would prove ongoing justice. Their search continued.
Upstairs, the main bedrooms and boudoir, in earth-toned brocade wallpapers and wood paneling, were empty, a few small side tables and one bed left behind, and the spirits that had gathered seemed unconcerned for this floor. It was the uppermost floor they wanted Eve to see.
A silvery mass flew above, calling for Eve to follow as they passed through the ceiling.
Eve led the detective up a narrow flight of curving stairs to an arched top-floor hall with two small doors open into empty, cobwebbed rooms and one large door at the end of the hall, painted a bright