The Hawthorne Sitting

The windows are never opened, not even in summer. The air sits thick in the parlour, candle smoke and a faint iron tang clinging to the back of the throat. Nothing moves unless she allows it to. Across from her, Thomas Hawthorne sits where he was placed, shoulders held tight beneath his coat. The necklace rests between them, its red stones catching the low light. He has polished it.

“You asked for her,” Elara Bellamy says, already reaching for the necklace. The clasp is still warm when she lifts it. By the time it settles against her throat, the room has changed, the air pressing closer around them.

Thomas watches, lips parting, then closing again. When the change comes, it is slight — a pause in her breath, a soft slackening — and then it settles properly, behind her eyes. He leans forward despite himself. “Please,” he says, the word catching. “Let me speak to her.”

Elara lifts her hand, stopping him where he sits. The chain shifts against her skin, the red stones darkening in the shadow of her throat. When she looks at him, there is patience there, waiting, weighing.

Then, a voice forms, unfamiliar in its shape.

“Hello.”