“A Second Glance” by Emma Rice

By Emma Rice Lady Giselle surveyed the ballroom from her vantage point behind a curtain on the upper hallway, putting off the moment she’d actually have to walk down the sweeping staircase. The high-ceilinged room was decorated beautifully, with rich red velvet curtains held back by golden ribbons. The massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling had been lit so that the crystals sparkled across the room and sent tiny lights dancing over the buffet tables, silver trays laden with sculpted food. Flowers beamed from every available surface. The floor had been polished to a shine and the shoes of the dancers slid almost silently across, brightly colored skirts swirling. The company, however, pulsed dully in their surroundings, smiling vaguely at each other with dazed—or simply bored—expressions, ignoring the dancing silver-robed people.

“How soporific does it look tonight?” A whispering voice asked. Giselle didn’t need to look at her friend to know that her pointed nose would be scrunched and her eyes rolled back into her face. “I wouldn’t even need a pillow.” She’d given her governess carte blanche to write the invitations for her birthday party, but she hadn’t given a thought to the consequences.

“The mind doctor isn’t here?” Marie asked, her normally shining face looking a little strained.

“Of course he is,” Gisele grouched, crossing her arms over her chest. Her jewel-studded corset scratched at the soft underside of her arms. “Miss Rightly insists that he is good for me to talk to. Though with his knowledge of such an esoteric subject, he is of little interest to me.”

“Judgment of character was never quite Miss Rightly’s forte,” Marie answered, stealing a bit of cheese from a passing server on his way from the kitchens. His blank expression never faltered. “You can only blame yourself for letting her manage the invitations.” Giselle bit back an argument as she noticed two women start up the stairs. She buried herself behind a curtain as they swept by, arms

linked, murmuring to each other something about “not quite right with the girl.” “Do you think they’re talking about me?” She asked thoughtfully once the voices had faded.

“Let them,” Marie said, licking pear juice from her fingertips. “People will go to inordinate lengths to avoid admitting their errors in judgment.” “I suppose,” Giselle hummed. “But anyway, about Miss Rightly— “Don’t start,” Giselle snapped. “I’ll talk to her the next time my parents return. They can fire her; I haven’t the authority yet.” “I was going to say,” Marie said crossly, wrinkling her delicate eyebrows. “You should be proud of the way you have turned out, though, with such atrocious tutoring.” “This is true,” Giselle reasoned. “I wish she’d listen to me as much as my parents do.” “Or pretend to,” Marie pointed out. Giselle glared at her. “They listen to me most of the time.” They simply struggled with comprehension. Suddenly cold, she tucked one end of the curtain over her shoulder for a bit of warmth.

“It’s because they believe you to be mad,” Marie stated definitively. Giselle whirled on her angrily, but Marie stalled her with a finger. “You’ve said it yourself.” Giselle stared at her for a moment, then tucked herself back under the curtain defiantly. “You’re as bad as the rest of them.” A passing servant slowed, looking at her the same way he might if she’d suddenly sprouted an extra dozen heads. She lifted a hand haughtily and the servant continued down the hall. Giselle crept forward just enough to look at the ballroom again. A particularly cadaverous man was talking to her tutor, the mind doctor who Miss Rightly insisted she meet. She wondered if he was terrified out of his wits of the formidable woman or if it was merely the lighting that made him look so pale.

“I wonder if anyone would notice if I simply did not attend this party,” she mused, mostly to herself.

Marie peered over her shoulder at the people beneath. “I don’t think the event entitled ‘Lady Giselle’s Sixteenth Birthday’ is particularly nebulous, dear friend.” “I suppose it isn’t,” Giselle murmured, straightening her skirts. “Wish me luck.”

“What was that, miss?” Another servant, one of Miss Rightly’s spies, was staring at her quite oddly. How much had he heard her say?

“It had nothing to do with you,” she said breezily, sailing by him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marie wink at her before disappearing. She stopped at the top of the stairs, subtly spreading her skirts to either side of her. Everyone who had been milling about paused to look at her, except for the people in silver. She never understood why they didn’t feel the need to adhere to social customs like the others. Perhaps it was because they hadn’t been invited in the first place. The musicians in the corner stopped the music as she looked over at them, pausing with anyone else who’d taken a moment to recognize her presence. With Miss Rightly’s eternal gaze scouring her for a single misstep, she descended the stairs slowly, coming to stop at the base. A young, sallow man held his arm out to her and she rested two fingers upon it. That ritual complete, the rest of the room returned to milling about as usual. She tried her best not to sigh out loud, but the sentiment must have shone on her face anyway, as Miss Rightly’s expression tightened alarmingly.

“Is it true,” the young man murmured into her ear as he took her hand gently in his clammy one, “that you can converse with the dead?”

She gave him her best vague smile. “Can’t anyone?”