Whitechapel, the East End, London
The evening’s séance was going well.
Aife Andraste sat at the head of a table, arms outstretched, hands clutched in the sweaty fingers of the punters to either side of her and her head thrown back, the raw stuff of the spirit world rising from her open mouth like smoke from an opium pipe. Some people called it ‘spiritual energy’ or ‘ectenic force’, but to Andraste it was just ‘ectoplasm’. That was what her partner’s books called it, and it sounded suitably...