“It is naught but physics. I do not understand it. Not completely. Yet, I know it is true. Parlor trick though it is, the science of it is compelling, is it not? Something so hard, so durable that it might not be fractured by a hammer’s blow would disintegrate to powder by a single snip at the neck?”
“Very like the human body, I daresay. Tough and sturdy, yet so very fragile that a single knife-blow to the neck might destroy it.”
Strong, fragile. The hardness of bone, enough to support the body, yet brittle enough to break with a direct blow. Yet the organs, fragile for the filigree of vessels running through and between: liver to spleen to heart to lung, soft and placid but a powerful engine. The lungs. That was the key to taming this dragon.
“My lady Caitrin, yes! Thank you! Of course! It is brilliant!” An idea, unrelated on its face, but inspired. Brilliant. He must set to work. Immediately.
CHICAGO, PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 25
Anne readied the small examining room for her new patient—her only patient. Two days later, she was still shaken by her experience at the glass museum; the tips of her fingers still tingled, peculiar and electric. As if they’d connected in some way, she and Gaelan, through glass. She swore she’d seen him, heard his voice, the most fleeting moment. Intellectually, it was her grief and nothing more. Gaelan was dead. Just bloody get on with it!
The girl—Erin—and her father were due any minute. The large examination room, provided by Alcott’s money and contacts, was a physician’s—a geneticist’s—dream. But she could not afford to be lulled by magically arranged office suites and high-tech medical toys.
Erin Alcott was the innocent here, the victim of a horrific disease. Whatever the father’s ambitions, the girl could not be blamed. And if Anne could save her life, the lives of others stricken with GPC? So be it.
She turned down Alcott’s offer of a hotel suite at the Four Seasons as a bit too chummy, even if more convenient than commuting to and from Simon’s house some thirty miles up the coast. If the consult went on too long, Anne would well afford a room at her own expense. If she found herself too drawn in, all she need do is imagine his friends at the Galahad Society and their vampiric methods to remain forever young.
As for the fresh approach to the case Anne promised, it was at best a fantasy. GPC was neither curable nor treatable no matter how many pharmaceutical companies Alcott acquired, or how many genetic disease specialists he’d enticed into questing for this particular grail. She understood the allure of it. A cure for GPC? That would be a lifetime’s enduring achievement for anyone in her field. A breakthrough to trigger other, bigger, innovations in treating short telomere diseases. A Nobel wasn’t an impossibility either. Not for puzzling out this one.
Her office windows offered a glorious view of Navy Pier. The Ferris wheel with its garish spokes and neon lights dominated the scene. But it was the glass museum beneath she could not stop thinking about. It hadn’t occurred to her that Gaelan had a life—a full life—more than a century ago. An artist? A master glassmaker? Had he known Tiffany personally? Worked alongside him? How she would love to ask him about life . . . real life . . . in other ages. But he was gone.
Erin Alcott was dropped off by a young woman precisely at ten o’clock. The girl was a bit of a shock. Inquisitive and clever beyond her eight years, but why not? Her father was a certified genius. The Edison of our time—at least that’s what his website touted. Had Gaelan met Thomas Edison in 1893 at the World’s Fair?
Erin was decidedly unsentimental for such a young kid. She was well versed in every bit of what Anne could only assume was the standard physical examination she’d undergone dozens of times, from dozens of doctors.
“My dad doesn’t want me to die, but he doesn’t want anyone to die. Ever.”
“Ever? We all die at some time. Okay, sweetheart, make a good fist for me.”
Erin pumped her hand. “I’m gonna die sooner than most. Like Mom. But Dad says it’s not gonna happen. I’ll never die. Ever. He promises. But I don’t believe him.”
And well you shouldn’t! What sort of bollocks was he feeding the girl? She ignored the comment. “No need to pump. I’ve got your vein. Hold the fist, though. Well, we’ll see about that. I can’t make any promises, but—”
“They all say that. You know, you’re not the first doctor my dad’s taken me to.”
“I’m aware. And you know more about GPC than some of my colleagues. Bit of a pinch here. Sorry.” Anne inserted the butterfly catheter into Erin’s arm, observing the burgundy blood fill the Vacutainer. “One more tube and we’re . . . done.”
She handed the girl gauze to hold over the insertion point and covered it with a Band-Aid.
“No superhero bandages?”
“I can order some, if you’d like.”
“Nah. That’s okay. The docs are always trying to make me like them. Superhero bandages seem to be the favorite way. As if it’ll rub off on me. Pretty stupid, huh?”
“I’ve got lollies. Fun flavors, perfect for summer.”
Erin smiled. “Blueberry?”
Anne produced a box of lollipops from her messenger bag. “Take your choice. Two if you’d like.”
The girl had some of the symptoms, but not severe to an untrained eye. She’d been diagnosed at seven years, so it had been a year. She had patches of a lacy rash on her upper torso, and perhaps some hair loss, along with the signature deteriorated fingernails.
The door opened. “Is she ready to go?”
“Mr. Alcott. Yes. I’m glad you’ve fetched her. I have one or two questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Erin, would you mind having a seat in the waiting room?”
“I’d rather hear.”
Anne glanced at Alcott, who shrugged.
Anne looked from father to daughter, deciding not to make an issue of it. “Okay. Your wife. You say she’d been diagnosed with GPC?”
“Yeah. Symptoms started in her early forties.”
“How did she die?”
“The GPC.” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know where you’re going with this.”
“Bear with me. People who acquire GPC have variable symptoms, and they often grow more severe in subsequent generations. Your wife didn’t show signs until early middle age. Your daughter at seven. Cause of death might be any number of things resulting from the mutation that causes the disease but doesn’t cause death on its own. What was the official cause of death?”
“Leukemia.”
Anne nodded tightly, briefly glancing at Erin, who flicked her eyes toward Anne before biting off a corner of her lollypop.
Anne returned her attention toward Alcott, clearing her throat. “Your mother-in-law, was she ill? I doubt she would have been diagnosed, but do you know anything about . . . was she . . .”
“She died while my wife was in grad school. Before we met. It’s in the history. Didn’t you read it among the buried hundreds of pages in her file?”
“Of course I have. I wanted to hear it from you. It does all fit.”
“So now what?”
“Now I do my tests, study her genetic makeup.” She glanced at Erin, uncomfortable to go on with the caveat that she was unlikely to come up with anything that the several doctors had not already thought of. “She definitely shows symptoms of GPC, but you already knew that. I will run the diagnostic tests, run her blood through the gene sequencer, and we shall see.”
“And a treatment?”
Anne shook her head, uneasy to say it in front of the girl, who was now observing the exchange with the intensity of a tennis umpire. “Let’s see what the tests say, and take it from there, shall we?”
“What if I tell you I may be able to acquire something that will make your job easier—and more?”
“You’ve granted me a veritable molecular biologist’s Christmas wish list. I don’t see what else—”
“You will.” A self-satisfied smile crossed his face. “Hey, we’re going
to take a trip up to the zoo. Care to join us?”
Not a chance in hell. “Nope. Got work to do. Besides which, I am terribly far behind in closing out the affairs of a recently departed relative, so I will have to take a pass. Might I speak with you alone? For just a moment. Erin, would you mind going into the waiting room? Your dad will be out in just a minute.”
Anne watched the girl leave, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Alcott, you do your daughter no good to tell her she will live, not to mention ‘forever.’ It’s irresponsible—”
“She’s a kid.”
“I thought you weren’t involved with the Galahad—”
“I’m not. Did she say something about . . . ? I’m not. And that’s quite a leap. What exactly did she say to you?” Alcott walked to the window, looking down onto the street. “Nice view. I mean . . . who’s to say? Someday. You know I’m right. Your work . . . your colleagues . . . are proving it more each day. That’s all those guys in Galahad are looking for. And I’m not involved with them. Not really. A donation. Sizable, yeah, but . . . And who could blame me given . . . Hey, if they can help unlock the cure to Erin’s . . . disease . . . save a lot of kids, why not? There’s no price tag on the sort of anguish . . .” He gestured toward the door. “Given the circumstances, I do have an interest in anything they discover along the way, and why not? My kid’s going to die, just like her mother. Unless—”
Anne had no response. She was torn. Erin’s test results would be back in two days, she would write up her findings and turn her over to an American doctor—and be done with Preston Alcott. Desperate father or not, he made her bloody uncomfortable. “I will ring you as soon as I have her test results.”
Alcott nodded and, and without another word, left her alone in the exam room. Anne blew out a breath as she heard the elevator ding. With the entire afternoon to herself, and all of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile to explore, there was only one place she had any interest in visiting.
It was a longer walk to the glass museum than she’d remembered from the other day. Half a mile to the pier and another mile down to its end and the museum, past kiosk vendors, tall ships and excursion boat tours, inviting restaurants, and The Chicago Shakespeare Company and its futuristic glass-windowed complex. Finally, down the stairs and beneath the Great Hall, she arrived. The museum was a contrast to the touristy scene above; besides the bored-looking attendant, Anne was alone.
“Excuse me. Have you a guide brochure for the museum?”
“Not yet. Being produced. Museum’s only been open a few months, you know.”
“I did not. Do you mind if I ask you a question or two?”
“Nope. You’d probably be better off to do what most folks do. Look it up on the website. Quicker—and better information than I have. Probably why the guide book isn’t a big priority.”
Anne still could not wrap her mind around believing those panels had been created by Gaelan. If he hadn’t, the inscriptions, the designs, would have been an incredible coincidence, emphasis on incredible. What was it that Einstein had said? Coincidence was God’s way of remaining anonymous. If God existed. Big if.
“Fair enough. I have a question about the large panels suspended from the ceiling. Did Tiffany create them all?”
“Nope. He had people working for him, far as I know, back in New York, I think. Can’t imagine one man making all of these alone, could you?”
“I suppose not. What do you know about that one in particular?” She pointed to the labyrinth panel.
“No clue. Does have a sort of different look than some of the others, more iridescence to it? A sort of symmetry, I guess you’d say. Same with that one over there.” She pointed to the Diana’s Tree panel, also signed “G.E.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Oh. Do you know the name of the artist who designed those two unique pieces?”
“G.E., whoever that was. I don’t know. Tiffany had a lot of people in his glass factory from what I understand, which isn’t much. For all I know G.E. made the glass and someone else, maybe Tiffany himself, created the panel. I really have no idea. Like I said. Google it, and maybe you’ll find out more.”
Anne dragged a stool to the Diana’s Tree panel and sat. Looking over her shoulder, to see the guard otherwise occupied, and ignoring the “Do not touch!” signs, Anne placed her palm on the glass, waiting for . . . something. But nothing. Cool, smooth glass and no more than that. Half an hour, pausing only when the guard looked her way in the otherwise empty museum. Nothing. And what the hell did she expect? The prickling in her fingers to return? To see a fleeting image of him? Hear his voice as a ghostlike echo haunting her like a phantom?
Disappointed and feeling quite foolish, she left, wondering if she might find something more at Gaelan’s—evidence to confirm, if only to herself, that he was the artist “G.E.”
The flat had been freed of its abandoned opium den aroma. Still, it could do with a bit more airing out. She opened the windows again and began searching for whatever the bloody hell she was searching for. He lived his life in and among books—why not start there?
A large art-print catalog, The Works of Louis Comfort Tiffany, was shelved in the bottom corner of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It had been well read; sticky notes of varying colors poked out between the pages of the heavy volume. As she thumbed through it on Gaelan’s desk, Anne recognized several of the museum panels, each marked with an asterisk.
Receipts and letters attesting to authenticity, matched to photographs of several of the works she’d seen in the museum display, were scattered among the disaster of folders and papers piled everywhere. So, he’d been in the market for Tiffany’s work, searching for it.
She tried to imagine any scenario in which it was possible that Gaelan had been the anonymous museum benefactor. The wildest of thoughts. But was it really? Preserving the works created for the 1893 exhibition, especially if he . . . ? Where the hell would he have obtained the funds to . . . ?
The books. Of course. That collection must be worth a not-insignificant fortune. Sell a few, trade another few . . . maybe a crowdfunding campaign to boot . . . He might easily have done it, and anonymously, too. Simon had thought Gaelan was destitute, but clearly, he was not. By far.
Call it curiosity, but Anne was keen to uncover everything she could find. No, this was more than curiosity—she was obsessing over this Tiffany glass thing. She knew why. The distraction kept her from thinking of Alcott, of her future . . . of what the bloody hell Gaelan was doing in his lab . . .
Perhaps she might find something more in Simon’s papers . . . his diary, some note he’d made about what Gaelan had been up to in the latter part of the nineteenth century. Already, she’d discovered they’d remained in contact despite years they did not see each other at all. There must be some reference. Somewhere.
By the time she opened the door to Simon’s house, Anne was exhausted. Mrs. O’Malley had left her a delicious casserole in the oven. Perfect; she was also famished.
Three hours later, searching through dusty, yellowed diaries, she located a relevant entry.
11 September 1891
Finally, I heard today from Erceldoune after five years’ silence. He’s had no luck, even nearly fifty years hence, in locating that damnable book of his, and has, he insists, given it up. Gone, he said, for good. Time to move on. I can never accept that. For to do so would mean to give up all hope of ending this earthly existence so I might be reunited with my beloved Sophia.
Erceldoune has apparently taken up residence in New York City, where he says he will stay for now. He does not believe enough time has yet passed to return to Britain, absurd as it may be. I think it is rather more he cannot face Eleanor, long since married to a cousin of the queen’s, and with children and grandchildren, his own descendants amongst them.
He has apparently found employment in glassmaking of all things. Yes, I recall his abilities in this realm. That odd inoculation device of his own design he’d given
me during that horrid illness of ’26. I’d never seen anything of its like before then. It was then he’d told me he also crafted his own glassware. Indeed, I employed him many a time afterwards to create glass vessels for my own laboratory as well.
I am happy for him, that he has found a trade that utilizes his unique and substantial gifts. He tells me he has made the acquaintance of a Mr. Louis Comfort Tiffany, a pastor of all things, introduced through a fellow Englishman—a Mr. Arthur Nash of the Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company.
Another entry, and she was certain.
2 January 1894
Erceldoune has sent to me and by extension, Eleanor and my niece Ariadne, greetings from New York, where he is still in residence and working at his art. No luck in locating that book. And yes, I know he has all but given up the chase. He was more excited than I have ever known him to be and chatted on and on about the World’s Fair—the Columbian Exposition in Chicago last year. He aims one day to relocate there; he likes it better, he says, than New York. He went on and on about meeting a Nicola Tesla, a physicist and engineer, whom he insists will be one of the brightest lights of the coming century. He shall ignite the world in ways we cannot yet understand, he believes.
He was quite pleased to have three glass panels exhibited at the exposition, including one he dedicated to my sister and their daughter, Ariadne. But he went on and on about this Tesla chap, who, he insists, understands the power of glass and of chemistry, that the two together fused and lit afire are a force that cannot be beaten. He spoke of Mr. Tesla’s tubes filled with elemental gases, which created colored lights, the likes of which he’d never seen. More than ever, he says, he believes there is a transcendent harmony in the excitation of the chemical atoms, music that goes beyond our hearing and creates an indefinable power that he does not understand, yet is certain exists, connecting all things, seen and merely perceived.
Anne understood exactly what Gaelan meant, even if Simon did not—or could not. With absolute certainty. That was the energy experienced down to her fingers in that exhibit when she touched that panel made by Gaelan’s own hand. A connection, a tangible spark of electricity—indefinable, but undeniably real, connecting them in an indefinable way.
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