After propping up my plate, Geist leads me to his photographic archives kept in the bottom drawer of the secretary in his darkroom.

Some of his models are posed. Others wear thick cloaks or the diaphanous gowns of angels. There are hazy, chain-dragging apparitions and crisply focused, hooded specters. Many models point into a far-flung distance. Several times I recognize Viviette.

“An ideal model,” Geist acknowledges. “She can turn still as a Greek urn for minutes on a stretch, and she never complains. An unearthly quality, wouldn’t you agree? I can never predict how she’ll hold the light. Go on, take some.” He hands me a small stack of photographs. “I have many copies.”

I accept his offering, but I feel uneasy all the same. Any business that looks to profit from death just couldn’t be entirely honorable. When I mention that I’d like to see what Locke has brought back from his travels, Geist agrees with reluctance.

In the foyer he unbuckles the satchel and pulls out a heavy stack of glass plates. “As I’d feared. The images are cracked, scratched, chipped. Some are ruined altogether.”

“The surfaces are dirty,” I notice. “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

“These are ambrotypes. Underdeveloped negatives. To be seen, they need to be mounted on a black background. But indeed they are dirty. Locke used a portable darkroom, and he often worked out in the field. Not the most sanitized conditions. Let’s take these to the pantry. I shall see about restoring them at a later time.”

Entering, I see that Geist has converted his pantry into a storage room of prints and files, with shelves of cloudy glass beakers, labeled bromide jars, and wooden plate holders.

“Where do you keep your china? Your housekeeper must be at her wit’s end.”

“Truth be known, there is no china nor housekeeper,” Geist admits. “Though Viviette is handy at whipping up a frothy eggwhite solution for my albumen prints. She’s indispensable to me. Her illness has created a void in my work.”

“I hope she’s better soon.”

Geist’s hands close into tight fists. “And I hope the scalawag who’s got her into such a fix will make an honest woman of her,” he says. “If this is indeed what she wants. Whatever the solution, I’m hopeful that she’ll return to work as soon as possible. Make no mistake, it is Viviette who has the touch. She is indispensable to my practice.” And while I am surprised by all this news, I have no doubt that Geist’s agitation is sincere.

When we revisit the darkroom, I prickle with anticipation. “I’m a ghost,” I say softly.

“Indeed. But we print in the other room, in as much sunlight as we can find.” And now I am introduced to the printing process as Geist places the plate and a sheet of paper into a wooden printing frame. “Come with me.”

Back through to the dining room, Geist draws the curtain and sets the frame in the windowsill to absorb the wash of beryl-yellow sun peeking from behind the winter clouds.

“We must wait another five minutes for the image to print onto the paper. After toning and fixing, it will turn a rich shade, something between chocolate and eggplant.” But Geist’s energy is gone. His face sinks like a misbegotten soufflé as he checks the frame. “Alas, thus far the print and negative are alike as a pair of kidneys. For a moment I’d suspected we might have had another Du Keating on our hands.”

“Du Keating?”

“A story for another time.”

“Please, tell it now. I want to hear.” I can’t leave, not now, with nothing to show for my visit but my plain and ordinary likeness.

Geist has been eagle-eyed on my print image, but I sense that he doesn’t find what he wants. His gaze flicks up to hold mine through the darkness. “For that sort of story we’ll need my fire and my scotch. And then, Miss Lovell, you must go. It’s not appropriate for a young lady to be out and about so late.”

I touch the edges of the print. “May I take this when it’s dried?” Though the picture doesn’t flatter me, I like that I am posed alone. No Aunt Clara simpering at my elbow.

“With my blessing.”

Out of the darkroom, I see through the window that snow is beginning to fall. It’s getting late, but the idea of returning to Pritchett House after this afternoon of magic depresses me. Only Mavis knows where I am and had agreed to fib that I’m in bed with a sick headache, should anyone inquire.

In his sitting room, Geist prods at the logs with his toaster iron then pours himself a scotch and offers me a glass of apple brandy, which I take.

The liquid rolls warm down my throat and erases the sticky tang of photographic chemicals that had been lingering in my nose and lungs.

Geist takes the tumbler of scotch and then settles deep into his wingback chair. As if he wants to surround himself in light and comfort before he lets his mind move backward into darker matters.


19.