My stomach is turning flips. "I think so." Mademoiselle LeFarge shushes us. Elizabeth and Cecily eye us suspiciously. Onstage, Madame Romanoff asks for one last candidate. Like a shot, Felicity is out of her seat, pulling me up by the arm.

"Oh, please, madame," she says, sounding as if she's on the verge of tears when she's really fighting back waves of laughter. "My friend is far too modest to ask for your help. Could you please help a girl reach her dear, departed mother, Mrs. Sarah Rees-Toome?"

There is a chorus of murmurs and gasps. Every bit of breath has been knocked from me. "That was unnecessary," I hiss.

"You want it to be believable, don't you ? Besides, you might get something in the bargain up there."

"Girls, sit down at once!" Mademoiselle LeFarge pulls hard on my skirt, trying to anchor me to my seat. But it's no use. Felicity's plea has struck a chord with Madame Romanoff. Two of her men are at my side, showing me down the aisle. I don't know whether to kill Felicity or thank her. Perhaps there is a way to contact my mother as well. My palms go sweaty with the thought that in just a few moments, I may speak with my mother againeven if I have to do it through a medium and the spirit of Sarah Rees-Toome.

As I mount the small stage, I can hear the rustle of programs, the insect buzzing of whispers mixing with the sighs of the disappointed whose chance to contact the dead is gone, usurped by a red-haired girl whose green eyes are wild with hope.

Madame Romanoff bids me sit. There is an open pocket watch on the table showing the time to be 9:48. She reaches across the table to cradle my hand in both of hers. "Dear child, you have suffered greatly, I fear. We must all help this young lady find her beloved mother. Let us all close our eyes and concentrate for the aid of this young girl. Now, what is the name of the dearly departed?"

Virginia Doyle. Virginia Doyle . My throat is parched and tight as I say, "Sarah Rees- Toome."

Madame Romanoff swirls her fingers over the glass ball and drops her voice into a lower register. "I call now on the spirit of Sarah Rees-Toome, beloved mother. There is one who wishes to contact you. One who needs your presence here."

For a moment, I half expect to hear Sarah tell me to shove off, leave her alone, stop pretending I know her. But mostly, I'm hoping that it will be my mother's voice I hear next, laughing at my duplicity, forgiving me for everything, even this bit of trickery.

Across the table, Madame Romanoffs deep growl grows sweet as prayer song. "Darling, is that you? Oh, how I've missed you so."

It's only now that I realize how I've been holding my breath, hoping for a chance, waiting for a miracle. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, and I can't help calling out to her.

"Mother? Is that you?" "Yes, darling, it's me, your loving mother." There are a few sniffles from the audience. My mother would never say something so coddling. I throw out a lie to see if it comes back to me.

"Mother, do you miss our home in Surrey terribly much? The rosebushes out back by the little cupid?"

I'm begging for her to say, "Gemma, have you gone a bit simple, dear?" Something. Anything. But not this.

"Oh, I can see it even now, my darling. The green of Surrey. The roses in our wonderful garden. But do not miss me too much, my child. I shall see you again one day."

The crowd sniffles and sighs in sentimental approval even as the lie turns sour in my gut. Madame Romanoff is nothing more than an actress. She's pretending to be my mother, someone named Sarah Rees-Toome who lives in a cottage with a cupid out back, when my own mother was Virginia Doyle, a woman who never once set foot in Surrey. I'd like to show Madame Romanoff a taste of what it's really like on that other side, where spirits are not happy to see you. I don't realize that I'm holding Madame Romanoffs hand with all my strength, because there's a sudden flare of light, like the world opening up, and I'm falling into that tunnel again, my rage pulling me down fast.

But this time, I'm not alone.

Somehow, I've managed to bring Madame Romanoff along, as I almost did with Pippa. I haven't the vaguest idea how it's happened, but here she is, bold as day, screaming her head off.

"Bloody 'ell! Where am I?" Madame Romanoff is Russian all right, by way of Bow's bells. "Wot kind of devil are you?"

I can't answer her. I'm struck dumb. We're in a dark, misty forestone I recognize from my dreams. It has to be the same misty woods Mary Dowd wrote about. I've done it. I'm in the realms. And they are as real as the screaming little thief next to me.