Molly found there was something rather enjoyable about being part of a large group who all had their own ideas about how they should organize. With so many strong opinions, a simple task such as arranging transport for a short journey across town became a bit of a chaotic mess. For instance, how many hackney carriages were required for six adults? It was Dr. Watson's contention that they hail one of the larger coaches as his contention was that they still had matters to discuss. Holmes balked at this idea, insisting that he would not survive the journey. Two or three hacks were required in his opinion.
"It is twenty minutes, at most!" Dr. Watson's voice rose above the din of people preparing to depart in the front hall.
"Twenty minutes too long packed together like canned meat and about as palatable . . . if not less so," Holmes muttered as he buttoned his coat.
Lestrade winked at Molly as he helped her into her coat. "That does not sound so bad to me, actually."
Molly tucked in her bottom lip when Holmes' chin jerked up. Greg was completely oblivious to his stormy expression. Holmes' gaze flicked in her direction as if slightly confused and irritated, of course, as to why Greg still solicited her attention. She looked away guiltily. She had meant to explain to Greg that she was no longer interested in his courtship but had lost her courage to do so the previous day in the last few moments of their outing. She caught some movement from the corner of her eye. When she looked aloft, she noticed her uncle wandering away from the hall.
"Excuse me," she hurried after him.
"Uncle," she grabbed his elbow in the corridor just around the stairs, "are you not coming?"
He sighed. "No, my girl, it does not interest me in the least."
Molly felt at a crossroads and unsure of how to move forwards. Melancholy gripped her soul. She knew change was inevitable buy the little girl in her desperately wanted her father's approval to grow up. For all intents and purposes, her uncle was her father. She needed for him to approve of her decisions.
"Uncle . . ."
She twiddled her fingers.
"Ah, go and have fun, Molly, my dear," he took her hands and squeezed them gently, "you have not needed my support for quite some time."
She sniffed and looked up at him through bleary eyes. "I have . . . and will always need you, Uncle."
He shook her hands once. "Then I will endeavor to be ever here for you, my child. Do not doubt that for an instant."
Her reserves of self-deprecation were running low with his and Gomery's unconditional love. In fact, she was at risk of an inflated head between the two of them. Her whole life she thought she was a burden. They had never said as much, but she had projected that upon them.
"I am quite cross with you, you know," she wiped away a tear.
Her uncle frowned. "Is it that important I tag along tonight?"
She gave her head a shake. "No, no! I am just letting you know I mean to have a word with you about the expensive silks and satins decorating my room."
He laughed. "Oh, that! Yes, well, I will save you the trouble. Those are long overdue, my girl. I will not have people look down on you. You are the equal of anyone of my acquaintance and they should be reminded of that fact when they behold you."
"Oh, Uncle!" She hugged him, her eyes scalded with tears.
He patted her back. "Go on! Get. Do not even think of returning at a reasonable hour."
She reluctantly let him go. "A-Are you really encouraging me to be an outcast?"
He smirked. "Outcast? That is not what I have observed lately. In fact, you have more admirers than ever."
Molly did not entirely agree with him on that score. However, they said their goodbyes and she returned to the front hall feeling a bit lighter. She surveyed the scene a moment before rejoining her group. Despite the squabbling and jockeying for command, she could not imagine a better faction of society in which to belong. She just wished that her future was more certain. Her association with Holmes and his entourage still felt tenuous at best, but she was going to make the most of it.
"Are we decided yet?" She asked as she plucked one of her new hats from where she had left it on the hall tree. "Five hacks, is it? One for each personality?"
Mary smiled with utter delight. "Better make it a coach for Sherlock! A regular hack might crush under the weight of his largesse alone."
Holmes tipped a top hat onto his head and raised a single brow. He opened his mouth to reply but then seemed to decide he no longer cared to respond and stalked towards the door.
Two hours later, Molly found herself in a dimly lit formal dining room decorated with all manner of gothic artifice. A swath of black lace covered the large mirror above the mantel. Black candles littered every surface around the periphery of the room as if a congregation had swept in and created a temporary shrine. Incense burned in a multitude of pots and lingered in the air as a pungent haze. Even the dining table was covered with a black, brocade sheet. It was a bizarre scene but also a bit thrilling. She had no idea what to expect of this seance.
As she surveyed the space, something slipped by her and splashed to the floor. She looked up from where she was seated next to the room's massive hearth at a candle which had burned to a short stub. She and her group had been waiting in that room so long for the infamous Sally Donovan that the wax began to drip over the ledge. Molly scooted her chair sideways to avoid the mess and bumped into Mary.
"Oh, sorry!" She whispered.
"It is quite alright, Molly," Mary replied. "I think everyone is getting a wee bit antsy. Erm, except for John."
Molly glanced to where Dr. Watson dozed off at the table. She covered her mouth to suppress a snort of laughter. His head had fallen back and he snored at the ceiling. A dribble of drool clung to one of the curls on his mustache. To his left at the end of the table, Holmes tugged at one of the loose threads on the tablecloth absentmindedly.
"The stage is set," he muttered to no one of in particular and then looked up. "When is this confounded curtain rising?!"
Mrs. Clairmont jumped in her seat at his aggravated bark. Then, she rapidly cooled herself with the fluttering of a hand-painted paper fan. Her daughters, flanked on either side of her and one directly across the table barely reacted. The oldest, Henrietta, was content to continue the examination of her nails. The youngest leaned on her elbow on the table. Mr. Clarimont checked his watch next to his daughter.
"Miss Donovan was not specific on her arrival," Mrs. Clairmont sighed. "She said she would be here exactly when it was required."
Holmes' eyes narrowed. "Have you given her free license to dictate this entire event then?"
The matriarch of the household bristled. "I have given her leave to conduct herself however she must to achieve the desired outcome."
"And what, pray tell, is that?"
For a split second, Mrs. Clairmont seemed to have a flicker of awareness but then shrugged and waved her fingers dismissively. Molly blinked a few times at the specter of her digits undulating in the air. They seemed to go in and out of focus. She shook her head. She felt a bit off. Perhaps she was tired. A faint fog clouded her mind.
Mary yawned. "Mm, Lord, this is taking forever! How long have we been here? I could take a nap."
Molly peered all the way over to where Greg Lestrade leaned against the far wall. His arms were crossed and his chin nearly resting on his chest. He, like everyone else, seemed nearly ready to turn in for the night. It was at that moment that the door slammed open next to the Inspector which caused him to jump sideways. Dr. Watson awoke with a start and nearly fell from his chair. At first, Molly couldn't see who was keen to make such a dramatic entrance, but in the darkness of the hall outside the room, something moved. Then, voluminous dark skirts appeared and the black-clad figure of a woman struck a silhouette in the door frame. What followed was the most unnatural of movements as she jerked forward and shifted fully into view.
The woman's bright eyes rimmed in thick, dark shadow were one of the first details that came into sharp focus. They darted back and forth, taking in the room above warm, brown skin and a smattering of freckles. For the most fleeting of instants, Molly was the subject of an intent, dark gaze. Full lips painted the colour of blue-black Corvina grapes plumped momentarily, then a smile spread across the woman's face and she hiked her brows. Her gaze quickly caressed the rest of the room's occupants before landing on Sherlock Holmes.
"Ooh, a proper skeptic in our midst," she remarked. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, how are you this fine night?"
Molly leaned forward in her seat. She had never heard a creole accent before and it was a bit mesmerizing, like listening to a dance of words.
"Bored," Holmes replied as he leaned back.
If the woman was annoyed at all by his retort, she did not show it. "Oh, yes, so tedious, mm? Especially when there are other things you would rather be doing?"
Like the snap of a tea towel, her eyes flicked to Molly again. Molly looked quickly to Holmes at the opposite end from her as he adjusted himself in his seat. Dr. Watson blinked several times in confusion with a question on his lips.
"Miss Donovan," Mrs. Clairmont cut in, "you see, we are all rather anxious to get started."
"Of course, but you appreciate that timing is everything in these matters, no? The spirits must be comfortable. I cannot persuade them to do anything they do not wish to do."
Holmes laughed sardonically. "Can you not? I thought that was why you were hired."
Miss Donovan smirked and jauntily stepped forwards to claim her seat at the head of the table. She raised a hand, wiggled her fingers and two ladies dressed in black appeared on either side of her like graceful birds. On her left a taller woman of possibly Tibetan or Mongolian descent with ginger hair carried a flask. To her right, a smaller, Indian woman with raven tresses that fell in soft waves to her waist and a signature red Bindi on her forehead set a pile of folded black cloth on the table.
"Come, all, be seated!" Miss Donovan commanded. "I need every chair occupied. The hour winds down. Our bride passes through the ether at this time. We must draw her out."
Lestrade lurched off the wall and hurried to take a seat. His eyes were glued to the enigmatic figure of Miss Donovan as he plopped down, he stared at her as if he had encountered a deity. Mary took a seat next to her husband while Molly slipped into the last vacant chair on the other side of Holmes. Miss Donovan's red-haired assistant poured liquid from the flask into a metal bowl in the middle of the table and with a flourish, struck a match and tossed it in. With a pop and a poof, flames sprung up from the liquid and continued to burn a sickly blue.
"Quiet now, everyone," Miss Donovan closed her eyes and held up her hands. "Quiet now, she comes!"
"Good Lord," Holmes muttered. "This is ridiculous."
Miss Donovan's eyes flashed open. "I said, quiet!"
A hiss sliced the air somewhere behind Molly, followed by a sputtering poof. Then, it seemed every other candle in the room flashed and flared and flamed out with loud pops until the only light remaining was from the bowl of burning liquid. Someone let out a surprised squeal. Molly attempted to glean who had contributed to the fracas but the faces around the table fluttered in and out of focus. Again, her vision wavered.
Miss Donovan and her assistants began to chant in a different language. Their voices filled the room. Underneath it all, the beginnings of a bone-chilling moan formed. A plaintive, hollow wail grew louder and louder until the one could barely discern the women's intonations. There seemed to be no source from which the cry originated, it just existed all around them. Molly glanced fretfully at Holmes. He studied the scene with a wary glint in his slanted eyes but did not seem as concerned as everyone else watching the spectacle unfold. Mary was completely delighted. Both Dr. Watson and Greg's mouths were hanging open. The entire Clairmont family appeared horrified.
"She is almost here," Miss Donovan exclaimed with a fierce determination. "I must cross to the other side to bring her forth!"
Unexpectedly, Miss Donovan jumped up from her chair and stomped across the table, rattling the candlesticks and bowl of blue flame. She stopped directly in front of Holmes who had to crane his neck up to keep eye contact, then slunk to her knees. Her hands gesticulated towards him like snakes rising up to strike.
"Our bride is most anxious to meet you, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured.
Suddenly, her assistants swung the black cloth up and shrouded Miss Donovan. She rose up like smoke curling towards the ceiling underneath the draped fabric. For a moment, her swaddled body towered above them all and then, in an instant, the sheets collapsed to a heap on the table. Someone screamed. A whoosh of hair hit Molly's face just as the room plunged into darkness and she realized Miss Donovan had disappeared before their very eyes. Molly's whole body stiffened as her muscles tightened in fear. Goose bumps prickled every inch of her exposed flesh. In the dark, the table jostled, a chair scraped across the boards and people shuffled around as if engaged in small skirmishes. Then the floor shook as something very large fell. Molly heard what sounded like a more urgent struggle and a man grunting. Her first thought was for her detective.
"Holmes," she rasped as she pushed aside her chair and felt her way towards him, "Holmes!"
"Stay where you are, Hooper," he responded quietly before raising his voice. "Everyone, stay where you are!"
She froze just as a light flickered and once again, the bowl in the center of the table was alight with blue flames. Everyone in the room stilled in a ring of ghostly pale faces with mouths agape as they gazed upon a lone figure dressed entirely in white seemingly floating just above the table.
"My God!" Dr. Watson whispered as he turned a horrified gaze to the phantom. "It cannot be true."
Mrs. Clairmont shrieked and collapsed. Her daughters rushed to tend to her. Soundlessly, the apparition turned, drifted down off the table and moved swiftly towards the open door at the far end of the room. Molly's stomach lurched at the sight. Her light-headedness from earlier began to completely cloud her mind. Her vision blurred and her eyes twitched and switched as she tried to watch the figure retreat.
"Lestrade! Watson!" Holmes shouted as he pushed his chair back and scrambled over the table. "Do not let her leave!"
Molly moved back and out of his way as he rushed to follow the bride. However, her head swam violently like the sloshing of storm waves and black spots erupted before her eyes. Suddenly, her strength disintegrated within her as if her core were a pile of sand being blown away by a relentless wind. She shrank to the floor and ended up on her side struggling to stay alert. Vomit rose in her throat as another wave of nausea hit.
"Hooper?" A deep voiced called from above.
"Holmes," she replied weakly as he kneeled beside her. "I am s-sorry. I feel . . . ill."
She felt a hand on her head, then she was hoisted up in strong arms against a hard chest.
"Forgive me, I have just now realized what is happening," he muttered. "Stay with me. I will get you out of here."
Molly closed her eyes and melted against his robust form. He shook her gently as he made his way through the room.
"Stay with me," he whispered raggedly. "That is an order, Hooper."
"H-How many times," she swallowed, "d-do I have remind you that I am n-not yours to command?"
Holmes' arms constricted. "Until it is factual."
