"That's state senator Percival Gaylord," I informed Robert quietly. My elder, sadly narrow-minded brother Frederick, was also a member of the California senate. Since I had been forced to listen to him gush ad infinitum about Gaylord, whom, for reasons best known to himself, had become Frederick's mentor, I'd been more than a little surprised to learn he would be present tonight. What would my brother think, I wondered, if he knew his revered adviser was taking part in a séance?

"That's the senator's wife, Maurilla Gaylord, seated to his left," I went on in a hushed whisper.

Robert gave a derisive grunt, then nodded toward the young man seated to Mrs. Gaylord's left. "What about the boy? He looks too young to be taken in by this spirit nonsense."

Unobtrusively, I peered down at Samuel's notes which I'd placed in my lap. My brother's horrible handwriting and the dim light made them difficult to read. Yet because of the young man's age, there could hardly be a mistake.

"That must be Nicholas Bramwell," I told my companion. "He's the younger son of Edgar Bramwell, you know the San Francisco contractor. Samuel says he recently graduated from Yale University's School of Law. That must be his mother, Philippa Bramwell, seated to his left."

I nodded toward a plump, middle-aged woman stylishly dressed in a burgundy silk gown, the long cuirasse bodice decorated with narrow satin stripes that gleamed in the candlelight as her breath moved in and out of her ample bosom. Atop her perfectly-coiffed brown hair, perched a small but elaborate burgundy hat, trimmed in feathers, jewels and the same satin material.

"The elderly widow next to her is Mrs. Theodora Reade. Apparently, she and Mrs. Bramwell are devotees of spiritualism and rarely miss one of these events."

"Then we have Yelena, Madame Karpova's daughter," Robert murmured, admiring the lovely, dark-haired girl sitting to Madame Karpova's right. "By the silly look on the Bramwell boy's face, he's clearly taken a fancy to the lass."

I had also noticed the admiring looks the young man was bestowing upon the medium's daughter. Although Yelena pretended to be unaware of young Bramwell's attention, the occasional sidelong glances she gave him from beneath long, thick black lashes told me she was very conscious of him indeed.

Seated directly to Madame Karpova's left was another unlikely attendee: Lieutenant Frank Ahern of the San Francisco police department. Ahern was a short, rather burly middle-aged Irishman with a ruddy, good-natured face, and sandy-colored hair liberally sprinkled with grey. His eyes were a vivid blue, and seemed to gleam with ill-disguised skepticism as he regarded the Russian clairvoyant. To his left was his wife, Nora, a small, pleasant-looking woman who was watching Madame Karpova with single-minded intensity.

"By the horn spoons!" Robert exclaimed after I'd identified the Aherns, his so-called whisper loud enough for Madame Karpova's penetrating eyes to fasten on us in silent disapproval. "A state senator and a police lieutenant. You'd think they'd be the first ones to escort this Karpova woman and her bag of tricks out of town."

 "Shh," I hissed, as other faces at the table frowned in our direction.

With a final, disapproving glare at Robert and myself, Madame Karpova's attention went to her brother. In that same ponderous pace, Dmitry Serkov extinguished the last candle - save for the white pillar positioned in the middle of our table - then once again took his seat between Robert and Mrs. Ahern. The light cast by this sole remaining candle barely penetrated beyond the twelve of us, leaving the rest of the room in virtual darkness.

Madame Karpova cleared her throat and solemnly announced that we were ready to begin. "I would ask each of you to relax and concentrate on the entity you wish to contact," she instructed. "Please remember, once I have entered into a trance I will be in an altered state, delicately balanced between this world and the next. While I am out of my body, it is vital that no one make any sudden sounds or movements, or attempt to-"

Her words abruptly cut off as the dining room door swung open with a bang, and the room was vividly lit by another flash of lightning. Startled, we all turned to see a large man standing framed in the doorway. At least I supposed the intruder was comprised of flesh and blood. In truth, he was so bizarrely dressed in a long black cape and matching cowl pulled low over his eyes, that for a wild moment I thought he might actually be one of Madame Karpova's spirits.

Since he was only illuminated for a fleeting moment, I had to question whether the figure had truly been there at all. But when a second bolt of lightning quickly followed the first, I knew the stranger had been no figment of my imagination.

With a muttered oath, Lieutenant Ahern rose halfway out of his chair. By the light of the table's flickering candle, I could see that his expression was a cross between anger and barely suppressed fear.

"Darien Moss!" the police lieutenant hissed. "What in the name of all the saints are you doing here?"

For a long moment the stranger didn't move. Then, as if he were the long awaited guest of honor, he threw back his rain-soaked cowl and walked boldly into the room. To my left, Senator Gaylord cursed softly, and his wife stifled a gasp. At the other end of the table I saw Madame Karpova's body stiffen, while a look of outright malevolence crossed her brother Dmitry Serkov's scarred face.

"Who's Darien Moss?" Robert asked in a whisper I was sure could be heard around the room.

"He's that nasty tell-all reporter from The San Francisco Informer," I told him with distaste.

Robert chuckled. "You mean the one who called you a silly, empty-headed society girl, pretending to be an attorney, when she should have been home playing with her dolls?"

I was not pleased by the humor in his tone. "Yes, that one," I answered tightly.

As if he had overheard our conversation - which he very well might have, given Robert's version of a whisper - Darien Moss glanced in our direction.

"Ah, Miss Woolson. Fancy finding you here. Does this mean you've given up your-" He gave a rude chuckle, "law practice in favor of more esoteric pursuits?"

The reporter was not only insulting, but his high-pitched voice had an annoying whine to it. Considering the man's venomous pen, it seemed distinctly ill-suited to his persona. I was trying to come up with a stinging rejoinder, when I realized the man's small gray eyes had already moved farther down the table.

"Well, well. Senator Gaylord, and Lieutenant Ahern. I hardly expected to see two of our city's most noted public servants seeking advice from the spirit world." Both men turned red in the face, but Moss gave them no chance to object.

"Mrs. Bramwell," he said, nodding his head at the woman sitting bolt upright in her chair, a disapproving frown on her haughty face. "I should have known that San Francisco Society would be represented at this little soiree. I suppose an empty mind must find something to fill the void, no matter how ludicrous."

The matron's green eyes turned hard as nails as she fixed the reporter with an icy glare. A satisfied smile curled the corners of Moss's mouth, as if pleased that his barb had once again found its mark, and he turned to the young man seated to the woman's right.

"And this must be your younger son," he said in that thin, strident voice. "Janus, is it? No, sorry, I believe I have the boy confused with a god from Roman mythology." For some reason he seemed to find this mistake strangely amusing. "Ah, yes, I remember now, it's Nicholas. I heard you'd passed the Bar, young man. I'm sure your father will find your legal expertise a valuable asset to his company." His smile turned nasty. "Given his penchant for cutting corners and padding his pockets on certain government projects."

Heat rushed up Nicholas Bramwell's neck, suffusing his face a dark red. He was halfway out of his chair before Philippa Bramwell took hold of his arm and forced him back down.