The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #1) Read Online Free

mantelpiece when we entered
the drawing room. A small frown darkened his brow. "A handsome pair. Your
parents?"
    "Our
mother," I said, "and Celia's father."
    "Ah,"
he said as if that satisfied his curiosity. I could only guess what had piqued
his interest. Most likely it was my skin tone, so dusky next to Celia's
paleness, and the fact I looked nothing at all like either of the people in the
pictures he held.
    Celia sighed and
sat on the sofa, spreading her skirt to cover as much of the threadbare fabric
as possible, as was her habit when we had company. "Really, Emily,"
she muttered under her breath.
    The ghost's gaze
darted around the room. "Is there no image of your father here?"
    "My father?"
I said for Celia's benefit. "No."
    She narrowed her
gaze at me and gave a slight shake of her head as if to say not now. It
was a well-chewed bone of contention between us. She insisted I call our
mother's husband, Celia's father, Papa as she did. She in turn always referred
to him as " Our father" and even Mama when she was alive had
called him "Your Papa" when speaking of him to either one of us.
    Despite the fact
he'd died over a year before I was born.
    I knew he
couldn't possibly be my real father but I had long ago accepted he was the closest
I'd get to one. Mama had refused to discuss the matter of my paternity despite
my repeated questions. Not even Celia cared to talk about it, but I wasn't entirely
sure she knew who my father was anyway. She had only been sixteen when I was
born, and it was unlikely Mama had confided in her. It must have been terribly
scandalous at the time, and explained why we never spoke to any of our
relations and had few friends.
    Although I
accepted I may never know, a part of me still burned to learn the truth. I'd
even tried to summon Mama's ghost once after her death to ask, but she'd not
appeared.
    "Mr. Beaufort,"
I said, shaking off the melancholy that usually descended upon me when thinking
of my father.
    "Call me Jacob,"
he said. "I think we can dispense with formalities considering the
circumstances, not to mention my attire."
    "Of course."
I tried to smile politely but I fear it looked as awkward as I felt. His attire
was not something to be dismissed casually. It was what he happened to be
wearing when he died. Mr. Wiggam must have died wearing his formal dinner suit
but it seemed Mr. Beaufort—Jacob—had been somewhat more casually dressed. It's
the reason why I'll never sleep naked.
    "What's he
saying?" Celia asked, linking her hands on her lap.
    "That we're
to call him Jacob," I said.
    "I see. Jacob,
do you think you could hold something so I know where you are? The daguerreotype
of our father will do."
    I rolled my
eyes. There she goes again— our father indeed.
    "That's
better," she said when Jacob obliged by picking up the wooden frame. "Now,
please sit." He sat in the armchair which matched the sofa, right down to
the faded upholstery. "Who do you wish us to contact?"
    "Contact?"
Jacob said.
    "She means
which of your loved ones do you want to communicate with," I said. "We
can establish a meeting and you can tell them anything you wish, or ask a
question. It'll give you peace," I said when he looked at me askance. "And
help you cross over. Into the Otherworld." Good lord, he must be a fresh
one. But he didn’t look in the least frightened or wary as most newly deceased do.
    "For a
small fee," Celia added. "To be paid by your loved one of course."
    "You have
the wrong idea," he said, putting up his free hand. It was broad and
long-fingered with scrapes and bruises on the knuckles, which struck me as odd.
They looked fresh. He must have got them just before he died. So what was a
handsome man with an aristocratic accent doing brawling with his bare knuckles?
"I'm not here to contact anyone."
    Bella entered at
that moment carrying a tray of tea things. I had to lean to one side to see past
her rather prominent rear as she bent over to set the tray on the table. I
forked my brows at