by Hester Fox
Alice spat on the floor. “You’re pathetic,” she ground out.
“I’m prepared to make amends, but I have to know for certain before I do that you are truly innocent. I cannot have something else on my conscience.” He hesitated. “Did you kill Rose Hammond?”
“On my honor, I did not,” Caleb said, before adding: “I think we both know that it was Whitby.”
Billy gave a slow, heavy nod. “With this kind of work, you develop a sense for these things. You want to believe that the charming and the wealthy are above such barbarity, but often they are the ones hiding the darkest sins. I saw Whitby watch as that doctor strapped her to the table. I should have known that they wouldn’t be true to their word, but I so badly wanted to believe that their goal was admirable.” He looked up at Caleb. “We played cards together, and I came to think of us as something like friends. You betrayed that trust, but whether it makes me a fool or not, I believe you.”
Caleb’s heart raced, went light, and felt as if it might fly away from him. He wouldn’t have to go back to prison. He wouldn’t hang for a murder he didn’t commit, and Rose would finally have justice.
Billy must have seen the hope on his face, because he shook his head. “I can’t let you go. Even if you are innocent of the murder, you still escaped custody. That’s a serious crime in and of itself. I can’t expect that they will be so lax as to overlook my letting you go a second time.”
“But Tabby—” Caleb started, only for Billy to stop him.
“I am giving you her whereabouts in exchange for your freedom.” Billy took out a leaf of paper and scrawled something on it before handing it to Alice. “Take this and find her before something terrible happens to her.” He turned back to Caleb. “But I cannot let you go, and I think you know that.”
Well, what had Caleb expected? That he would waltz in, apologize for escaping, and then go on his merry way? Given what he knew about Billy’s involvement in the scheme, Caleb would be well within his rights to threaten him right back. But was it worth risking any harm coming to Tabby? Reluctantly, he turned to Alice, took her by the shoulders, and looked straight into her clear eyes.
“Go find Mary-Ruth and take her to that address.” He was entrusting Tabby’s well-being—and possibly life—to two young women who would have no one to protect them, no one to fall back on should anything go wrong. The police certainly couldn’t be trusted.
As if reading his thoughts, Alice drew herself up and gave him the same obstinate tilt of her chin that Tabby so often employed. “She’s my sister, and I assure you that no one will fight for her harder than I will.”
The past months should have taught Caleb that there were so many more things beyond his control than he would have ever thought possible as a young man of wealth. It was a hard lesson to learn, and one that he had to learn over and over. More than anything he wanted to be able to go to her, to make things right. He nodded reluctantly and then, on impulse, gave Alice a kiss on the cheek. “I know.”
31
IN WHICH THE DEAD DANCE.
WITH A MAN on each elbow, Tabby was escorted into the auditorium, the reassuring weight of the mirror reminding her with every step that her nightmare would be over soon. They led her up the same back steps Tabby had taken that fateful day when she had gone to the library, only one floor below. They must not have wanted to risk taking her up the main stairs where she might try to escape, or plead with a passerby for help. Tabby stifled a bitter laugh; they might have known by now that she was completely and utterly broken. She would not try to escape even if they left her alone in the middle of a busy road.
After the first few interviews Mr. Whitby and Dr. Jameson conducted with her, Tabby was allowed to sit in a chair with no restraints. But today it was back to the table like the first time. They had given her a drink, told her that it would relax her and make her more receptive to messages from the other side. Tabby drifted in and out of consciousness, whatever had been in her drink making her drowsy and sluggish.
Her palms were clammy, her mouth dry as cotton. A fly was trapped somewhere in the room, its nervous buzzing an incessant assault on her ears. The silk dress with its cotton underpinnings felt like burlap against her skin, every breath painful and labored. Everything felt at once magnified, yet impossibly far away and distant.
The sound of feet shuffling in and excited murmurs filled the small theater with echoes. It appeared there would be an audience. Did these men have no shame? They might have unearthed corpses under the cover of night, but they were brazen in their experiments, treating them like nothing more than the removal of an appendix or extraction of a bad tooth.
Mr. Whitby was addressing his fellow members of the society, making expansive hand gestures and pontificating about the noble pursuit of eternal life. He was more animated than she had ever seen him before. It was only a matter of time before she would be expected to perform her party trick, and memories of sitting in her aunt’s parlor with sweaty palms and a pit of dread in her stomach came storming back.
Eventually the sound of wheels rolling on wood cut through the taut silence of the theater. Lifting her head as much as her restraints would allow, Tabby caught a glimpse of a gurney being pushed by Dr. Ferris. A sheet covered the gurney, but Tabby could make out the outline of a body beneath it, and despite the stale, antiseptic air, a shiver ran down her spine.
“Now, Miss Bellefonte,” said Dr. Jameson, coming into view. “We only have a few preparations to complete, and then we’ll be needing your services. Is there anything I can fetch for you to make the process smoother? Anything that will help facilitate contact?”
He sounded as if he were hosting a dinner party and she was simply his esteemed guest. Tabby stared up at the thin face and brown beard to see if he was joking, but she was met with only a probing gaze. When she didn’t say anything, he gave a sigh and shook his head. “It’s unfortunate that such an ability should be bestowed on someone of the weaker sex, though I suppose the female’s sensitive nature is what makes them more conducive to receiving communication from the other side.”
It had been years since Tabby indulged in missing her mother, but she missed her now with a longing that shot through her body like hungry fire. Even Eli seemed distant, like he belonged to a life lived long ago. What she wouldn’t give to be far away from this cold, sterile place, and back in the cemetery with the familiar headstones and the sounds of the city, Eli singing a hymn under his breath as he weeded.
Someone had wheeled the gurney so close to her that she could smell the faint scent of lime and decay. The sheet had been removed, revealing the prostrate body of a woman, and a wave of nausea came over Tabby.
The way Tabby saw it, she had two options.
One: Lie. Tell them it didn’t work. How would they know if she had opened her mind or not? She could simply say she had and that no communication had come through. Perhaps she could lie about what the spirit said, tell them just what they wanted to hear. But what exactly did they want to hear?
Two: be a good girl and open her mind, faithfully relaying everything the spirit said, thus helping Mr. Whitby reach his abhorrent goal.
As far as options went, they weren’t ideal. She felt a surge of protectiveness for the spirit of the dead woman. How would she reassure this poor spirit that she would be all right? Would she be all right? Or were Whitby and Jameson damning her to some kind of unspeakable hell? In the previous experiments, Tabby had simply had to open her mind and make contact. There had never been a corpse in the room. She thought of Mr. Graham’s dying words, and fought another wave of nausea at the memory of bodies dancing with electricity.
A hush fell over the small assembly, and Tabby had to squint against the blinding light that suddenly shone in her face. Dr. Jameson cleared his throat and thanked Mr. Whitby for his opening words before launching into his own speech.
“Today we are gathered here to witness
a new stage in the cycle of life. We are familiar with birth, with death, and now we seek to understand rebirth. I know that there is frustration at the perceived lack of progress, but I would be remiss in not pointing out that there is no such thing as a wasted experiment. Every experiment that we ran in the past that did not give us our desired outcome led us one step closer to this day.” He gestured to Tabby. “But we now have a valuable new tool that will bring us even further in our search. Will we see the spark of life rekindled today? It is possible, but not likely. Again, I urge patience and to remember that the scientific process is a slow, methodical one, as it should be.”
He sounded so reasonable, so logical. Tabby wished she could see the faces of the men in the audience, see how they reacted. How long had these experiments been going on? How many people in Boston were privy to the grotesque pageantries played out in this theater?
His speech concluded, Dr. Jameson bowed to light applause. Tabby twisted her neck to the side so that the corpse on the gurney filled her vision. Though the deep lines etched around the woman’s eyes and mouth spoke of a hard life, she was not old, perhaps thirty at most. She was covered by a sheet up to her neck, but in a dramatic flourish, Dr. Jameson flicked it down, revealing her bare chest. Tabby closed her eyes, unwilling to partake in the titillating spectacle that drew murmurs from the audience of men.
He spoke as he moved about the corpse, applying all manner of clamps and wires to the cold, hard flesh. When he was finished, he called for absolute quiet from the audience. “Now, Miss Bellefonte. I am going to ask you some questions about the woman beside you, just to establish that you’re truly in possession of the abilities attributed to you. If you answer these to satisfaction, I will remove the bindings and you may sit in a chair, or however is most conducive to you.”
She would cooperate, for now. She did not believe that anything she did would actually help them achieve their goal of reanimation. How could it? Taking a deep breath, she focused her intention, and tried not to think about the men leaning forward in their seats to watch her. She would pretend she was on the church steps as she had so many other times, the reassuring nocturnal sounds of Boston around her. Grudgingly, she gave a small nod.
“Good. Now, tell me the name of the woman beside you.”
It was not easy to clear her mind, to make it an open vessel, not when her heart was pounding with fear and there were dozens of men watching her. But if she was going to do this, she was going to do it right, for the sake of the poor woman beside her.
Closing her eyes, Tabby let go. Let go of the tension in her body, let go of the fear and worry swirling in her mind, let go of the hatred and anger she had for these men. Gradually, the glare of the kerosene lamps dimmed to nothing, and the stifling blackness encroached on the corners of her mind. When she could no longer hear the coughing and shifting of the audience, Tabby reached out through the darkness.
Hello? My name is Tabby, and I know you must be very frightened right now, but I must speak to you. I promise to do everything in my power to help you, whether that is relaying any messages you may have, or helping you find peace.
There was no response. Please, Tabby tried again, tell me your name.
She waited. Still nothing. Perhaps the spirit had moved on, far beyond the reach of even Tabby’s abilities. What would Dr. Jameson do if she was unable to provide answers to his questions?
Just when she thought the darkness would suffocate her, the smallest of stirrings blew through the ether, and before her stood a woman, not naked and stiff and covered in wires, but unmistakably the same fair-haired woman as on the gurney.
The woman looked at her with dark, bottomless eyes. Why do you call me? Where am I?
Tabby might have told her that she was in an operating theater, that she was the unwitting subject of a dreadful experiment, but she could not risk frightening her off.
You have passed on, Tabby said gently. I have called you back to the in-between place so that I might speak with you.
A taut, nervous smile spread over the woman’s colorless lips, even as her eyes dilated with panic. You must be mistaken. I am simply sleeping. Surely you can see my two little babies that I tucked into bed so sweetly last night? Surely you can see how they wake and stir and look for their mama? I was only feeling so tired that I had to lie down and rest. It is only for a little while, and then I will wake up and rock my babies in my lap and sing them their favorite songs.
Tabby winced. The dead who knew not that they were dead were the hardest to speak to. They were ever hopeful, though hope could quickly turn to desperation. Of course. You are right, I must be mistaken, Tabby said in soothing, placating tones. But please, what is your name?
I am Nancy Doyle, wife of Peter Doyle. I live above a dry goods shop in the West End, and I am twenty-eight years old. Her voice was hollow. I don’t see why you need to know this, though. The spirit looked about her at the dark void. This is truly the strangest dream, she mused. I can almost feel the cold upon my skin as if I walked through a frigid winter’s night.
Tabby bowed her head in thanks and prepared to return to the land of the living. Thank you. I may have yet more questions to ask you when I return.
The spirit’s eyes went wild as she stretched out a skeletal arm toward Tabby. Wait! Where are you going? Please, don’t leave me in this dark place!
Tabby pushed aside her guilt. If she had not been doing this for Mr. Whitby, she would have taken her time, soothed and assured the woman. I will come back. I promise.
The darkness receded, and with it, the terrified face of the woman, her echoing pleas. Opening her eyes, Tabby found Dr. Jameson staring down at her with a mixture of wonder and impatience. She hated giving him what he wanted.
“Well?” he asked. “What is her name?”
“Her name is Nancy Doyle. She has—had—two children, and lived above a dry goods shop in the West End.”
A gasp rippled through the audience and even Dr. Jameson looked fleetingly surprised before his expression changed to one of smug satisfaction. “Very good, Miss Bellefonte. Now,” he said, extending a hand, “would you care to have a seat?”
Tabby hesitated. She fingered the mirror shard through her skirt, the promise of release only a quick cut away. She could go now, join Nancy on the other side and never look back. She could join Rose, and finally be reunited with her mother and father. Dr. Jameson had his back to her as he pulled out a chair, and Mr. Whitby was speaking with Dr. Ferris. She flexed her fingers. All it would take was one quick motion and she would have it in her hand. But she thought of the frightened woman wandering the darkness, and with a sinking feeling, she knew that she could not run until she had seen this through. Mute, she nodded.
Mr. Whitby faced the audience. “You have seen that she is indeed able to establish contact with the spirit of the deceased. Now we will introduce a current of electricity to the corpse, bringing about a marriage of the flesh and the spirit, reunited again.”
As Dr. Jameson helped her to a seated a position, a wave of dizziness went through her at being upright. From her new vantage point, she could see the faces of the men in the audience, a homogenous sea of pale skin and dark suits.
“Miss Cooke, this time when you make contact, it is imperative that you call the spirit back. She must return to her body. When the moment is right, we will start her heart. Convince her to manifest herself once again in her mortal shell.”
Tabby did not think that it would be so simple, prayed that it would not be so simple, but once more she steeled herself and entered the ether. She had never been quite sure how time worked in this in-between space, and didn’t know if Nancy had thought her gone for a few moments, hours, days, or some other measure of time entirely. But no sooner had she slipped all the way under than a commotion in the theater yanked her back to the here and now.
There was something happening at the door, causing a great amo
unt of excitement in the audience. “Excuse me,” Dr. Jameson said, rushing forward, “this is a closed theater. You must be a student of mine, or a member of the club.” His face grew red as he saw just who was at the door. “And there are certainly no ladies allowed.”
At this, Tabby sat forward and followed Dr. Jameson’s line of sight to where a flustered man in a white apron was trying to hold back two women from entering. All she could see of the second woman was a glimpse of a brown plaid skirt, but she immediately recognized Mary-Ruth, and she caught her breath. Was she dreaming? Was this some cruel effect of the draught they had given her?
“I’ll take care of this,” Dr. Ferris said, striding to the door. “Begin the current. I don’t want any more delays.”
“Tabby!” Mary-Ruth cried as she struggled to twist free of Mr. Whitby’s grip.
Tabby’s heart at once leapt in joy at seeing her friend, and recoiled at the same time. “Mary-Ruth?” she croaked before finding her voice. “You shouldn’t be here! Go!”
The audience was on their feet, the corpse beside her jerking and dancing like a limp marionette. This had to be some sort of hallucination, a terrible dream.
“Let go of me!” Mary-Ruth said, swatting away Dr. Ferris. “Tabby, come with us!”
The mirror forgotten, Tabby struggled to force her sluggish legs to move. But no sooner than she was out of her seat than Dr. Jameson was lunging toward her, a balled-up rag in his hand. He caught her by the waist and, despite her struggles, pressed the cloth against her mouth. Her head went light and just before the world went completely black, she could have sworn that she saw her sister’s face.
32
IN WHICH THE FUTURE COMES TO PASS.
THERE HAD BEEN a brief, preternaturally calm moment before all hell had broken loose in which Alice had locked eyes with her sister for the first time in over twelve years.