most unprofessional reaction, in my opinion.
Having dropped the corpse of her husband at
her feet, the late Lady Gorey advanced down the
table toward Miss Basilio. One could not doubt
she had something other in mind than a fond
reunion between acquaintances.
Miss Basilio's nerve broke in the face of this
development, and she rushed out of the parlor,
scattering jet beads in her wake.
The ghost followed.
I wrenched my hand out of the cold clutch of
the sorcerer.
Miss Basilio and the late Lady Gorey were just
vanishing out into the night as I pushed my way
through the parlor and out into the storefront.
I had seen a very practical collection of ghost
bottles for sale, and only my interest in the
séance had stopped me from pausing to
examine them on my way in. Now I
ducked behind the counter.
The ghost bottles on offer were
of the cheapest manufacture, good
only for catching the wispy presences of ghosts. Lady Gorey was obviously very much more... corporeal.
Someone touched my elbow, and
I whirled. It was J.W. Wells, appearing
slightly recovered.
"Please, allow me to be of assistance," he said.
"Miss… ah…?"
"Philomena Dashwood." It was not at all
the proper way to introduce oneself, but the
circumstances allowed for some brevity of
etiquette, I suppose.
"Miss Dashwood, please allow me to be of
assistance."
I was dubious, but thereupon he took his keys
and opened a fancy cabinet to recover one of the
better bottles.
"Thank you," I said, accepting it. It was of thick
glass, and the sealing apparatus attached to the
neck was comfortingly solid.
"I believe you will find that particular ghost
has become quite inconveniently solid. Too solid
to pass the neck of this bottle. She will perhaps
require some assistance on your part to become
ethereal once more."
That was something I had not considered. I
stuffed the bottle into my reticule, and headed for
the door.
"In addition to selling by the individual bottle,
Miss Dashwood," he called after me, "I make a
significant reduction on taking a quantity!"
I came outside with my bottle just in time to
see Miss Basilio seated in a hansom cab, with
the late Lady Gorey climbing in after her, racing
down the street in my direction.
I was very glad then that I had worn sensible
footwear, for I judged if I made a mighty
leap as it came alongside, I could catch
the door and pull myself inside. I
timed it most carefully, and I am
convinced I would have made a
perfectly executed jump if not for
one thing.
Right at the apex of my leap, a
pair of arms came around me in a
most familiar fashion and pulled me
back down to earth. I vigorously employed
my elbows, but I am not certain my efforts were as
fully felt as I would have wished them.
In any case, I was quickly released. It was
a young man who had caught me, perhaps a
gentleman by his dress. He possessed a particular
expression of stupidity. "Are you all right, Missus?
You were nearly struck by that cab!"
I despise wrong addresses of title; it is no little
matter to me. I gave the interfering man a stern
glance and a verbal correction: “Miss.”
A true gentleman would have felt the barb
most severely. And then, as another hansom
cab conveniently appeared, I seized upon it and
commanded the cabbie to follow the runaway horses.
As my cab pulled up beside, I took the