A Summoning of Souls. Leanna Renee Hieber

Gran, thank you.” Eve accepted her help to the compartment and sunk onto a cushioned bench. Gran slid the wooden doors with etched-glass flourishes closed and took a seat opposite.

      Gran had the gentlest, most sensible way of explaining the next course of action. Eve might be the leader of the recently founded Ghost Precinct, but when Gran decided to give orders, Eve knew better than to disobey. Even if Gran might not have been granted the ability to see and hear spirits in the same constant, consistent way Eve was, her instincts were preternatural, her resources vast, and her experience lifelong.

      As the train began rolling south, Eve stared out the curtained window and closed her eyes, the flash of bright sun through trees making her dizzy. Clara was right; it was prime light for a migraine if she wasn’t careful.

      She wished more than anything that when she got back, Jacob Horowitz would be awaiting her in Gran’s parlor. Just seeing his handsome face, all striking angles until he offered a radiant smile, put her at ease. He was such a comfort. Her mind and heart reached out for him.

      “Would you like me to call for the detective, then, your sweetheart?” Gran asked casually.

      Eve’s eyes shot open to behold Gran staring at her with maternal warmth. That was the trouble with being close to talented psychics: keeping secrets was difficult.

      “Good God, was my mind really that loud about it?”

      “Yes, sorry, I thought you’d actually spoken it.” Gran laughed. “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous—”

      “Actually then, yes.” Eve sighed. “When we return, once I’ve spoken to the girls, I should invite him for the lesson. He should know I sleepwalked again. I will need all my close associates to help me be responsible for my own whereabouts. How embarrassing.”

      “May I ask a question that I believe will affect your protections?”

      “Yes…”

      “Is he still courting you as a ruse to keep your and his parents from arranging unwanted marriages? Or have you indeed stopped fooling yourself that you don’t care for him?” Gran asked. Eve sat back against the cushion of the carriage, frowning. “Again,” Gran continued, “I don’t mean to be presumptuous. What you say will remain confidential between us. But if your heart is tied to his, it may be used against you. We need to be aware of any vulnerability that may be exploited.”

      Eve blinked. Her breath caught in her throat. “He…would be used against me?”

      “Much as I was used against you,” Gran said gravely, referencing the abduction at the beginning of this whole, entwined, and complicated case. “I don’t want to worry you, but I can’t ignore my instincts. He needs to look out for himself as much as for you.”

      Eve sighed. It was almost too much to bear. When she and Gran had first dreamed up the Ghost Precinct, back when a seemingly unrelated sequence of details that several ghosts were fixated on—clothes, appointments, ledgers, property—ended up leading to the resolution of two unsolved murder cases, the spirit world had made their usefulness clear. All she had to do was listen, the spirits said, and their worlds would better balance the scales of justice.

      That she and her loved ones could become embroiled in danger, the target of violence and deception, hadn’t occurred to her. The awesome weight of responsibility fell heavy on shoulders that were too young to feel so weary.

      She let the beauty of the surroundings comfort her, giving the great city ahead some of her worry, letting New York fritter her anxiety away in the course of its waking, bustling pace.

      As they wound further south along the picturesque bend of the Hudson River, the distance between towns closed and the density grew until church spires and beaux arts rafters multiplied and coalesced in a blur of stories and ever-climbing structures testing the limits of architectural technology.

      The city had changed so much in her nineteen years that she could hardly keep up. New buildings were springing up all along the distance between Sleepy Hollow and the northern reaches of what was now New York City, the five-borough consolidation having gone into effect the previous year. Trees were giving way to taller stories, new Bronx housing developments in brick and sandstone, fitted with exterior grandeur even if their interiors were less so.

      And yet, undeveloped swaths lay between, New York ever a patchwork quilt of people, economies, architecture, disparate styles and languages, visible between shop signs, audible in shouts of delivery and connection, the world coming together in one city—not to melt away but to add another layer. New York was a never-static geographic, geomorphic wonder. Eve wondered how the spirits managed to sort it all out and not go mad from the pace of change as they remained distinct products of their ages.

      There they all were: ghosts floating along in their greyscale glory, all in various states of intensity, some in sharp focus, others blurry, deepening the sense of time and change as their appearance and fashion were as varied as the personal stories Eve could only guess at. The dead wafted along their spectral paths, tethered to the living or to a place they loved, or to something still left undone, each with a different movement and motivation.

      Between patches of buildings and population lay the incredible Hudson River Valley beyond: the backdrop of great scope and captivating heart, a magical place that made Washington Irving invent worlds here. But none of Irving’s fanciful Knickerbocker notions or historical revisionism was a lie when it came to the beauty of the winding river or New Jersey’s dramatic cliffs. Nature’s grander scale offered Eve necessary perspective; her enemy was one small man who wanted to make himself far bigger. The whole world, and its spectral echo, was open for her to counter him.

      Encouragingly, ghosts turned as she passed, nodding their heads. She’d set to rest many of late. Her service to spirits that had been silenced and desecrated had earned her a deal of respect in the realm that had once made her feel henpecked and assaulted. Becoming their champion had saved many souls. Finding purpose in this mission had saved Eve from being broken by youthful melancholy during spectral onslaught.

      Elevated rail lines screeched overhead, and the clatter of carriages merging into a widening lane provided a cacophony that had been so absent in the forest glade. The city was pressing, a symphonic assault on all senses, and Eve didn’t blame Mrs. Bishop for moving away from it as her own Sensitivities changed.

      After alighting at the raucous Grand Central Depot and returning via carriage with Gran to her grand Fifth Avenue townhouse, by the light of richly colored Tiffany stained glass, Eve hung her coat in the entrance hall and spoke quietly. “Let me take a moment to collect myself before I speak with the team. I’m afraid they won’t trust me after this, not after a second time,” she said ruefully. “A leader can’t be so unreliable and unpredictable as this.…” She turned toward the stairs.

      “Take your time. They’ll still trust you. No one is perfect. And…”—Gran came close and cupped Eve by the neck, looking into her eyes—“perhaps I didn’t do you any favors as you grew up, telling you that you were the most talented medium I’d ever known. Perhaps I gave you an unrealistic expectation of yourself. The level of your gifts doesn’t mean you’re infallible. Certainly not invincible.”

      Eve nodded, but the sentiment didn’t make her feel better or more confident.

      She turned at the top of the carpeted stairs and down the wood-paneled hall to a boudoir at the end of the upstairs hall designated hers when she was a child: decorated in a calming green spectrum of emerald brocades, ornate, floral, flocked wallpaper, and mint damask.

      Glancing at the vanity mirror, she noted the grass stains on her dress from her stumbles by the archway. Feeling like a scattered mess didn’t mean she needed to look the part.

      Standing vigil in the corner of the mahogany wardrobe were a few staples Gran kept fresh for her, and she changed into a simple charcoal-grey linen walking dress with black ribbon trim, pausing to sit at the vanity table and adjust her thick black locks. Her generally sickly looking complexion had taken on more color these days since knowing Detective Horowitz. Just being near him brought