“R," Elizabeth breathed. "For what? Rheumatism? Retinue? Richard the Third?"The planchette continued to move, torward the O."Romantic? It's going to tell us our husband's name! Or else...rotund." She paused. "Is it calling us fat?"W."Someone's going to have a row?”

“Oh Crap," Connor muttered. "She's going Darth Vader on us.”

“We have the same symptoms as tuberculosis, especially in the eyes of the Romantic Poets. Pale, tired, coughing up blood.”“That’s romantic?”I had to smile. “Romantic with a capital ‘R.’ You know, like Byron and Coleridge.”He gave a mock shudder. “Please, stop. I barely passed English Lit.”I snorted. “I didn’t have that option. One of my aunts took Byron as a lover.”“Get out.”“Seriously. It makes Lucy insanely jealous.”“That girl is . . .”“My best friend,” I filled in sternly.“I was only going to say she’s unique.”

“Nice dress. Can you breathe in that thing?”I smoothed the front of my dress. “It would be much more fun to wear if it wasn’t what I was going to be buried in.”“You are not going to be buried.” He paused, lifted the clothes up suspiciously.“Vampires don’t bury their victims,” he added distractedly.“Hey, looking for comfort here.”

“It wasn't my most fashionable dress, but anyone who called for me at nine o-clock in the bloody morning would have to take what he was given.”

“Hart and Hope,” I muttered. “If you’re going to name your kids like that, of course they’re going to think they live in a comic book.”

“Traveling all alone,are you?" One of them asked with what could be described only as a leer worthy of any penny dreadful.Blast."Let me pass," I demanded. Where the devil was everyone?"There's a toll,love," he insisted. "Didn't you know?"We were well hidden by the luggage and a shroud of steam,thick as London fog. The third boy looked uncomfortable, as if he wanted to stop his companions but didn't know how. Fat lot of good his squirming would do me."Give us a kiss,then.”