spotted a weird black shape dart across the room. It
leapt onto the windowsill where eerie moonlight bathed it in
surreal bluish hues. When it meowed to be let out through the
casement window left slightly ajar, she laughed at herself. This
was no ghost moggie…Ghost?
Bien sur !
She was about to set the cat
free and then go directly to Madame Moghra’s bedroom when she heard
the door to the passage open and close and decided to stay put on
the floor. A tilt of her head gave her a reasonable view of the
room through the gaps in the hanging ghosts.
The cat meowed louder and the
person who had entered the room shuffled to the window to let it
out. The ghost shrouds seemed to sough and sigh at the passing.
Moonlight caught the figure full on the face and for one horrible
moment the spooky immobility of that pale face framed in the
gloaming marsh light made the visage look slightly mad. It was the
brooding magic lantern expert, Mr Ffrench. He opened the casement
window using one hand and watched as the cat leapt out. The draught
from the open window endowed the shrouds with a life of their own
causing them to waft to and fro like ghosts. Real ghosts! He did
not bother to secure the window, most likely thinking it might help
the ammonia fumes escape or possibly he was thinking of the cat. In
his other hand was a bottle of lurid green liquid. The Countess
watched, horrified, as he tilted back his pale head and took a
gulp, winced, shivered, stiffened, and then took another swig
straight from the bottle. The Countess gasped, leapt to her feet
and battled her way through the hanging ghosts.
“Give that to me!” She wrenched
the bottle of green stuff out of his hands.
“What the hell! Where did you
spring from?”
“Never mind that! You cannot
drink this stuff!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s poison!”
“So?” He looked past her
shoulder as though expecting more apparitions to emerge from behind
the ghost shrouds. “If I choose to drink poison, that’s my choice,
surely? Maybe you should try it! Go ahead! Try it!”
She would not be goaded by the
disturbed young man and averted her face.
“One swig won’t hurt,” he
persisted. “The little green fairy might be a godsend. You’ll sleep
like a baby.”
“The little green fairy?” She
checked the label on the bottle and kicked herself. “Absinthe!”
A convulsive, mocking laugh
erupted from his throat. “What else!” He laughed again, spitefully
and sarcastically, snatching back the bottle. “What did you think
it was? Oh, don’t bother answering. What are you doing down here
anyway?”
Feeling suddenly stupid, she
snatched the bottle back and took a gulp. What a night! She’d
developed a taste for absinthe in Melbourne after the death of her
aunt. There were several things about the death that troubled her.
She couldn’t put her finger on them and turned to the green fairy
for enlightenment but all the fee-fey-fairy did was cloud her
judgement. Jack did not discourage her dependence, in fact, it
seemed to amuse him. She had acquired a taste for it before she
realized how addictive it was. It was addictive still. She took
another gulp.
“Looking for ghosts,” she
said.
His next laugh was less
sarcastic but still mocking. “Well,” he said, gesturing with both
hands, “you struck it lucky! Here be ghosts!”
She took another gulp. “Why so
many?”
He gave a lazy shrug of his
shoulders. “Why not?”
She gazed at the floating
shrouds, took another swig of wormwood to aid imagination then
handed back the bottle and tried to reason, but her conjecture was
really nothing more than a wild stab in the dark. “This is your
domain, your little workshop. You’re creating these ghosts. You’re
experimenting, working out how to perfect the images.”
“They’re already perfect,” he
boasted, meeting her gaze for the first time.
“Then why make so many?” she
challenged, looking him in the eye, and seeing once again the empty
ache of the
leapt onto the windowsill where eerie moonlight bathed it in
surreal bluish hues. When it meowed to be let out through the
casement window left slightly ajar, she laughed at herself. This
was no ghost moggie…Ghost?
Bien sur !
She was about to set the cat
free and then go directly to Madame Moghra’s bedroom when she heard
the door to the passage open and close and decided to stay put on
the floor. A tilt of her head gave her a reasonable view of the
room through the gaps in the hanging ghosts.
The cat meowed louder and the
person who had entered the room shuffled to the window to let it
out. The ghost shrouds seemed to sough and sigh at the passing.
Moonlight caught the figure full on the face and for one horrible
moment the spooky immobility of that pale face framed in the
gloaming marsh light made the visage look slightly mad. It was the
brooding magic lantern expert, Mr Ffrench. He opened the casement
window using one hand and watched as the cat leapt out. The draught
from the open window endowed the shrouds with a life of their own
causing them to waft to and fro like ghosts. Real ghosts! He did
not bother to secure the window, most likely thinking it might help
the ammonia fumes escape or possibly he was thinking of the cat. In
his other hand was a bottle of lurid green liquid. The Countess
watched, horrified, as he tilted back his pale head and took a
gulp, winced, shivered, stiffened, and then took another swig
straight from the bottle. The Countess gasped, leapt to her feet
and battled her way through the hanging ghosts.
“Give that to me!” She wrenched
the bottle of green stuff out of his hands.
“What the hell! Where did you
spring from?”
“Never mind that! You cannot
drink this stuff!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s poison!”
“So?” He looked past her
shoulder as though expecting more apparitions to emerge from behind
the ghost shrouds. “If I choose to drink poison, that’s my choice,
surely? Maybe you should try it! Go ahead! Try it!”
She would not be goaded by the
disturbed young man and averted her face.
“One swig won’t hurt,” he
persisted. “The little green fairy might be a godsend. You’ll sleep
like a baby.”
“The little green fairy?” She
checked the label on the bottle and kicked herself. “Absinthe!”
A convulsive, mocking laugh
erupted from his throat. “What else!” He laughed again, spitefully
and sarcastically, snatching back the bottle. “What did you think
it was? Oh, don’t bother answering. What are you doing down here
anyway?”
Feeling suddenly stupid, she
snatched the bottle back and took a gulp. What a night! She’d
developed a taste for absinthe in Melbourne after the death of her
aunt. There were several things about the death that troubled her.
She couldn’t put her finger on them and turned to the green fairy
for enlightenment but all the fee-fey-fairy did was cloud her
judgement. Jack did not discourage her dependence, in fact, it
seemed to amuse him. She had acquired a taste for it before she
realized how addictive it was. It was addictive still. She took
another gulp.
“Looking for ghosts,” she
said.
His next laugh was less
sarcastic but still mocking. “Well,” he said, gesturing with both
hands, “you struck it lucky! Here be ghosts!”
She took another gulp. “Why so
many?”
He gave a lazy shrug of his
shoulders. “Why not?”
She gazed at the floating
shrouds, took another swig of wormwood to aid imagination then
handed back the bottle and tried to reason, but her conjecture was
really nothing more than a wild stab in the dark. “This is your
domain, your little workshop. You’re creating these ghosts. You’re
experimenting, working out how to perfect the images.”
“They’re already perfect,” he
boasted, meeting her gaze for the first time.
“Then why make so many?” she
challenged, looking him in the eye, and seeing once again the empty
ache of the
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