Chapter 1
The parlor was tomblike in stillness and silence. The only light and movement came from the candle centered on the table, the tiny beacon that kept the room from being tomblike in darkness, as well. The small but tenacious flame cast long shadows that twitched on the pale faces of those seated around the table. All in attendance refrained from moving or speaking but the air thrummed with their excitement and anticipation, topped off with a healthy dose of fear. It was as though the deathly silence of the room would usher in the dead themselves, accustomed to the darkness and stillness of their graves as they were. It was as though the living were immersing themselves in the silent, cold realm of the dead by approximating it in this parlor. It was as though the conditions were such that at any moment, the planes of the living and the dead would converge at that very table.
It was utter bollocks.
What a waste of a fine, crisp October day, Charles thought, to be sitting around a depressing little table with his mother, along with some friends of hers, some neighbors, and a couple of fraudsters conducting a seance. A seance, of all things to be doing. Charles, as a man of science, refused to be seduced by such silliness. He was, after all, a contemporary of Charles Darwin.
Well, perhaps he was a bit too young to be considered a contemporary of Darwin, strictly speaking, if he was being honest. He had only been a child when Darwin's great book on the mechanism of evolution was published, but little Charles had delighted to hear his father speak of biology and natural history. Other children might have asked to hear bedtime stories about dragons and fairies, but Charles loved to hear stories of the great fossil lizards and Neanderthal man, and had always dreamed of the day he might take his place at Oxford to continue the onward march of scientific discovery. There was an elegance to the natural world that made the pretense of the supernatural seem vulgar by comparison. So how tedious it was to return home from Oxford for a weekend to help his mother entertain guests, not with talk of Mendel’s rather underappreciated work or even the poetry of Tennyson, but with this farce.
He played along with these fancies for the sake of being a good sport, of course. But if sport was all it was, perhaps he could use his abilities to make it a bit more entertaining. On his own time he had been working on using his powers without his hands. Would a seance not be the opportune moment to put his newly practiced skills to the test? Entering someone's mind to speak through them might be amusing. He would see to it that his subject would remember nothing of what happened, but the fraudsters would get a well-deserved shock when confronted with a phenomenon they themselves had not orchestrated, and it would be a wonderful show for the rest of the attendees.
Or perhaps he could go directly into the mind of the so-called medium. He would assure her that he, the seemingly vengeful spirit, meant her no true harm, but instead he might demand some absurd task to make amends for the lies she had perpetrated. He could ask her to sing her best Isolde, then sit back and enjoy the caterwauling. He suppressed a chuckle at the thought and began preparing a script in his mind. The more outlandish his story, the more hilarious the reaction would be. Perhaps he would begin with some Shakespeare. He could play the role of the elder Hamlet, line for line, and see if she caught on. She seemed an intelligent woman, even if she was a charlatan; Charles was confident she would see the joke, if she could keep her wits about her.
His musings ground to a halt when the candlestick at the center of the table began to levitate.
Charles blinked. Well, that was different.
The medium's invocations faltered, but she intoned, as steadily as she could manage, "The spirit is with us today!" Charles stared at the candlestick, baffled. No strings that he could see. Perhaps a very strong magnet? But where, and wielded by whom? Not the medium, he could tell that much. He glanced around the table. All eyes were fixed on the candlestick, most with awe and a few with fear, but one pair was fixed a bit more intently than the rest.
Erik Lehnsherr stared at the candlestick with a look of supreme concentration and a well-nigh imperceptible mischievous quirk of the lips.
Impressive. Very, very impressive. Charles suppressed the urge to cry out “Ha!” aloud. Perhaps his newly cultivated hands-free powers could be better used by reaching out to this newly-discovered kindred spirit: "Hullo, is that you?"
The candlestick fell to the table with a clatter, teetering precariously but settling upright, the flame flickering before making a robust recovery. Lehnsherr had gone pale, his eyes darting from face to face. "No, no, don't stop, that was brilliant! It's just me. Charles - er, Master Xavier. Hello. Over here, across the table?" Amid the chaos and murmur of the shaken attendees, Lehnsherr's eyes found his. Charles bit down an inappropriate grin that was threatening to spread across his face. He could hear that Lehnsherr was wondering how it was that Charles could speak to him inside his head. "Quite easily, I can explain another time. What else can you make move?"
Erik smirked. Charles suddenly caught a bit of a thought that he wasn't sure he was meant to overhear - "your bed?" - and blushed at the thought, which came with the unbidden image of a wrought iron headboard slamming against the wall, his own hands clutching its bars. Charles' pants suddenly felt a bit more snug, and he was uncomfortably aware of the ladies' hands he was holding. While Lehnsherr was a handsome man, and Charles had a weakness for handsome men, he was certain this particular image was not of his own making. So he and Erik, the rogue, had that in common as well.
The chandelier overhead began to rattle, little shimmies escalating into rapid metallic din. Everyone around the table gasped and oohed and stared at the chandelier in awe, which meant Charles did not have to worry about distracting them from his and Erik's silent communication, which their unyielding eye contact might otherwise betray.
"Brilliant. Are you telekinetic? Is that how you can do that?"
"I can move metal. And I must say that if I had the ability to get into people's minds, I would put it to far more interesting use during a seance."
"Great minds, my friend. I was just wondering what mischief I should cause. Perhaps you can advise. I was thinking perhaps I should pretend to be a spirit and chide the medium for her falseness - and I do know she's false, I can tell these things. What do you think?"
"Oh, please, do." The chandelier halted. The other participants lowered their amazed stares to level with one another's, confirming that they had all seen the same thing. The medium looked particularly shaken, and her mouth opened and closed several times before she recovered.
"Great spirit." She skillfully harnessed the uncontrollable tremor in her voice for dramatic effect. Charles had to admit her flair for theater was impressive. Only he and Erik knew that the tremor was caused by real trepidation, not by any great effort she had expended to conjure a spirit. "You who have made your presence known to us. Speak to us... speak..." Charles almost pitied her. He cast a discreet wink in Erik's direction.
"What to do next, Erik?"
"Tell her you're the ghost of Richard III, prepared to reveal the fate of your nephews."
"Delightful thought. Or, I was thinking I could play the part of Prince Albert. I could describe the Queen's predilections in salacious detail."
"Predilections of what sort, you treasonous scoundrel?" Erik was having difficulty suppressing his mischievous grin. The look on his face made Charles’ heart beat a little faster.
"Shall I make her tell you?"
"God, yes."
Charles took a deep breath and turned his focus to the medium, who had commenced a low chanting in some guttural language that Charles so strongly suspected was fake that he did not deign to use his powers to confirm his suspicions.
"Who dares disturb my eternal rest?" he thundered, silent to all but his unfortunate target, who gasped and sprang back from the table, clutching her ample bosom.
"I - I don't understand - " Attendees began to exchange nervous glances once again. Charles felt his neighbor’s grip on his own left hand constrict. She hid it well, but sitting beside her, he could feel her fear as easily as he could feel ambient heat from a furnace.
"How many spirits have spoken to you? Speak true. I will know if you are false."
"I... I have never had a spirit speak directly in my mind." Gasps and murmurs arose from the enraptured audience. "I implore you, friends, close your eyes and focus your energy! We have made contact and we must maintain a pathway for this spirit to communicate with us! Never before have I heard the words of the dead so clearly!"
Charles gave a quick glance around the table. The delight he took in toying with the medium wilted when he saw his mother's glistening eyes, fixed on the chandelier. Heedless of the medium's admonition to focus, she let her hope shine plainly through her upturned face.
Charles never had to avail himself of his abilities to understand his mother. Shame dropped over him, as heavy as the light-blocking drapes over the windows. He wet his lips, considering, before taking a breath and turning his attention back to the medium.
"Tell all who are gathered that the late master of the house wishes to send his regards, and that he often sees his wife, the woman seated directly opposite you. Tell her he always remembers her in the blue gown she wore when they attended the opera in London."
As the medium repeated his message, eliciting gasps and sniffles and a sob or two from the group, Charles met Erik’s eyes again. They were soft with concern.
"I'm sorry. I cannot do this."
"Are you all right?"
"I can explain later. Not now, my friend."
“Spirit!” cried the medium. “Spirit, what more have you to tell us?” Charles pursed his lips and blinked back the moisture that prickled at his eyes.
“Charles, are you all right?”
“Yes, I am.” He smiled a watery smile at Erik as the medium announced that the spirit had left them and their conjuring was done.
When the conductors of the seance snuffed out the candle and open the curtains, the attendees rose one by one until the only person left seated was Charles' mother, staring sullenly at a spot of table in front of her. The next door neighbor Mrs. Beaton, seasoned hostess and gentlewoman that she was, took notice of her state and began to usher the crowd into the tea room as Erik sidled up to Charles.
Charles wanted to reach out and touch his mother's face. Instead, he turned to Erik. "Another time, perhaps," he murmured. Erik considered him for a moment before nodding.
"Another time." Erik placed a light hand on Charles' elbow and steered him to the door. "But I did very much enjoy chatting. Care to resume over a brandy this evening?"