In the morning, Anise visited a man known for his extensive archive of newspapers. Owen Kingsley had kept every newspaper from every day since he was a boy - nearly fifty years' worth. He would put them in albums in his home, a box for every year. And, to make things more amazing, he had a photographic memory and could recall the day that certain news was printed. If anyone would know of this Nicholas Pierson, he would.
The only problem with going to see Mr. Kingsley was that he was, to say the least, an eccentric man. He was not himself gifted with powers of the supernatural, but was fascinated by them and, so, treated the girls like extremely intelligent lab rats. He studied them whenever he could and had asked several times to let him experiment on them. They always refused him, politely but fearfully.
"Nicholas Pierson?" he repeated. After a moment, a look of knowing crossed his face. "Ah, yes. November 16th, 1847, I'm fairly certain. Let me find it."
The girls followed him to the study where he kept his boxes. Each box was labeled on all sides with the year, and a slips of paper with a tab separated the months. In a moment, he had the paper in his hands.
"Here we are. Nicholas Pierson, 25. He was a shady fellow. Lived in Ireland. Bad times, they were, but he apparently was untouched by the famine. Some claimed that he was the one who cursed the fields. Police had to keep locals from dancing on his grave, it seems."
"May I see it?" Anise requested.
"Gloves first."
That was another of his quirks. No one was allowed to touch his papers or books without gloves. His point to collecting it was preservation. What would happen if they were damaged and posterity didn't know what happened? How would they think of us? Mr. Kingsley was always thinking of the future he would never live to see.
"I would also like to see the paper from two days ago, if I may," she added. "I need to do some comparison."
Anise tugged on her gloves and took the papers, sitting down in the stiff chair by the unlit fireplace. There were several references to alleged his use of black magic, but no account of how he died, which was odd. He had come to England shortly before his death and stayed with a Mr. and Mrs. George Allard.
She then looked at the more recent paper. The names George and Abigail Allard were listed among those murdered at the séance and, in fact, they had been the ones hosting the event. There was also an obituary for them, which stated that they were survived by a single daughter, Cynthia.
"We should call on her," Senna suggested.
"We?"
It surprised Anise. The curse of Senna's gift was her near inability to leave the house. If she did, she would be thrust into a chaotic environment of thousands of thoughts and feelings. She hadn't been out of the house for more than a few minutes since their mother's death.
"Yes. I want to feel what she knows. They were her parents, after all. Grief can open a person to be more easily read."