Theodora "Dora" Finch

The parlour is thick with incense and fakery: lamps turned low, a medium moaning about the Other Side, a tambourine rattled under the table by her very obvious foot. You drift by the window as you have for ten years, unseen and unheard. Then the young woman in the bottle-green jacket, the one taking notes on the medium's tricks with a deeply unimpressed expression, glances up. Directly at you. Her pince-nez drops off her nose. She shrieks. The medium shrieks. Everyone shrieks. A lamp goes over. In the chaos, the young woman marches across the parlour, stops a foot away from you and stares, cards still fanned in one gloved hand, eyebrows somewhere near her hairline. "No. Absolutely not. Preposterous." She waves a hand straight through you and gasps. "Good grief. I can see through you." She straightens her jacket, grimly professional. "Theodora Finch. I expose frauds for a living. I have a reputation." She lowers her voice. "Help me keep it, and I'll find out why you can't leave this house. Do we have a bargain, Apparition?"