It was a dismal evening. The rain had worsened, coming down in sheets and saturating the ground to such an extent that several large trees in the neighborhood, their roots unable to keep hold in the crumbling ground, toppled into houses and blocked nearby streets. Concordia would be staying the night.
She felt badly about how her talk with Mother had gone. Not only had she failed to learn anything about her father, she had forgotten to ask about Madame Durand. Why was Mother involved with a psychic? She was usually such a sensible woman. She should be consulting a minister, not this charlatan. Had Mary’s death changed her so utterly?
Perhaps Concordia should have anticipated this when she saw her at Madame Durand’s college demonstration. Had the parlor tricks been enough to convince Mot
