Aether Spirit

by Cecilia Dominic

  “You’re very welcome, my dear. Those of us who take care of others need to stick together.”

  She recognized there was more to his words, but she didn’t ask further. After the medical world of the neuroticists in Europe and the focus on empiricism to the exclusion of everything else she’d encountered in Philadelphia, the acknowledgment and acceptance of what she could do felt like being dropped into a pot of warm honey—comforting and sweet, but also disorienting.

  “We’ll put you in the general’s daughter’s bedroom,” Mrs. Soper said. “Follow me, and I’ll show you and give you the key.”

  “Won’t she need it?” Claire asked, thinking of the current general. She thought she’d been briefed that he wasn’t married, but he could have been widowed. She followed Mrs. Soper up the main stairs and to a hallway with two bedrooms on each side.

  “Lord, no, child, she’s dead. Killed with the wave of consumption that went through in ’63. But don’t worry—she wasn’t here, so the room is clean. Other people have stayed in there without catching a thing.”

  “Oh, how tragic! Where was she?”

  “She was with her mama in California.” The housemistress lowered her voice. “The general sent his family as far away from the fighting—and other things—as he could, and they thought the California air would be good for her. But she’s buried here in the family plot out back.”

  She opened the door and led Claire into a large room with yellow flower-patterned wallpaper, a four-poster bed with white curtains, and white-painted furniture. It resembled Claire’s bedroom at home—bright, virginal, and innocent. She put a hand to her heart, which gave a dull thud. She felt like she knew the girl, that she could have shared a similar fate, a young death, had it not been for the doctors in Boston and Paris.

  “Are there pictures of her?” she asked.

  “Somewhere. The general don’t like to be reminded of what he lost.”

  “And the mother?”

  “Died soon after the daughter, of a broken heart, they said, but I think she got the illness. That was before they proved it was catching. That Doctor Radcliffe is smart, wanting to isolate the boy who was dumped here. He came with a cloud around him, and it don’t bode good for anyone.”

  “What do you mean?” Claire asked. It was odd to hear such things stated directly.

  Mrs. Soper shook her head. “Ain’t none of my business. I’m just a cook and housekeeper. Now here’s the key, and that other one is to let you into the house. Come get lunch, and then we’ll see about getting you moved in.”

  Claire took the keys, which had been threaded on a ribbon. She put them around her neck and tucked them into her bodice, and Mrs. Soper nodded.

  “Good, keep ’em safe. And if you need anything, just ask. You’ve got your own bathing room, and the general had running water installed, but remember, we’re on rations. Sometimes the pipes make strange noises. If that happens, just ignore ’em or say, ‘Go away, Emma.’”

  “Emma?”

  “The general’s daughter.” Mrs. Soper waved the name away. “But there’s nothing to worry about. All the haints here are nice. Now you get freshened up, and I’ll have a plate fixed for you when you come down.”

  “Thank you.”

  I think.

  Once Mrs. Soper had left, Claire no longer felt the room to be as bright and welcoming as previously. She walked to the window and looked outside, where she saw three headstones.

  Well, Emma, I hope we don’t get too well acquainted.

  After washing her hands and face and walking into the hall, she went to pull the door, but it slammed behind her. She locked it with trembling hands.

  This might not be an improvement to my situation.

  * * * * *

  Patrick adjusted the lens in the tube leading away from the aether chamber but couldn’t get it quite right. Every time he thought he had it, it moved. He cursed under his breath at his thick fingers. The professor had had slender hands—like a girl’s, although Patrick had never had the heart to tease him about it. He missed the quirky lad and hoped he was happy digging for clues to the ancient origin of the Eros Element with his beautiful, smart wife in the sands of the Ottoman Empire.

  I’m not jealous, not one bit. Mrs. Bailey, formerly Miss McTavish, wasn’t his cup of tea, but he’d started despairing of finding someone who was. At least he wasn’t in poor Chad’s situation, with the love o’ his life right there but unable to see him for what he was or her head would explode or some such.

  No, there’d be no lass for him. He’d decided they were too much trouble, and while he liked a bit of trouble, he didn’t need any long-term. He’d just stick his nose in others’ problems when he could help, and otherwise would enjoy his bachelorhood.

  And for now, his focus would be figuring out how to solve the problems between Chadwick and Claire. If nothing else, he needed a non-sulky roommate. He thought Chad should just hook the girl up to the Aetherator or whatever he wanted to call it, zap her, and be done with it, but he could also appreciate Chad’s caution. He’d seen how the professor had almost been destroyed by melancholia from exposure to the Eros Element.

  “Hello?” The soft voice outside the workshop floated through the din of sounds from outside and cut through the chattering thoughts that always seemed to accompany Patrick.

  “Aye?” he called. “Come in!”

  Claire McPhee pushed the door aside and walked in, her eyes wide. In time past, she would have stridden in confidently, familiar with every piece of equipment. Today she entered timidly, and she fixated on the glowing aether disk in its glass chamber.

  “What is it?”

  Patrick threw a cloth over it. “Nothin’ for ye to worry about. What can I do fer ye?” He thickened his brogue rather than suppressing it as he was wont to do. Chad had warned him to try not to trigger any memories. It felt strange to play-act with this girl—no, woman—he used to know so well.

  “I need help moving my things from the women’s quarters to the general’s house.” She looked at the cloth-covered glass globe but didn’t say anything more about it. What had happened to the girl who delighted in odd things, whose curiosity was as insatiable as Chad’s? Patrick could see why Chad was so melancholic about her—whatever they had done in Europe had removed a piece of the girl’s spirit as well as her memory.

  “I can handle that, but I need a favor first. Can you hold this while I tighten these screws so it’ll stay in place?”

  She rubbed her right temple, but she nodded. “I’m happy to help. Do I need to remove my gloves?”

  “It’s small and slippery, so I’d say yes.”

  “I warn you, the sight isn’t pretty.”

  “You could have a witch’s claws, and it wouldn’t matter to me if you could get the job done.”

  She nodded and removed her gloves. Scars wound over her hands in an almost Celtic knot pattern. He remembered how pretty her hands had looked when Chad had slid the little ruby ring on her third finger all those many years ago.

  “Steamcart accident,” she said. “Apparently I held up my hands to protect my face. I don’t remember it.”

  He did, though. He remembered searching in the ditch between the road and the park until he found where she’d been thrown. Then there was the confused way she’d looked up into his face, the question of what had happened to her, and why did her hands burn so? The memory of it almost broke his heart for Chad again.

  “It doesn’t matter. How’s your dexterity?”

  “Fine. I’ve done plenty of exercises to ensure the scar tissue wouldn’t impact my mobility.”

  “Good. Now hold this here.”

  She did, and he finally got the lens secured in place. Once she removed her hand from the device and replaced her gloves, she rubbed her temples, her brows drawn together.

  “Head hurting again?” he aske
d.

  “Yes, but I don’t know why. It seems that this shouldn’t bring back memories that have been removed, but I can’t say for certain.” She shrugged with a rueful grin. “I don’t remember.”

  He offered his arm, and they walked into the sunlight. “Are you sure this is the right place for you?” he asked. “It seems you’re fighting things that aren’t there.”

  She shrugged. “I believe there’s a reason for everything, including for me to be here. It’s silly, but—”

  “But?”

  She ducked her head. “Never mind, it’s ridiculous.”

  “There’s no such thing as ridiculous, at least not among friends.”

  “Thank you,” she told him. “I could use some friends right now.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about Perkins. He’s just insecure because he wasn’t chosen as medical chief in spite of how obvious it is that Chad is a better doctor and administrator than he is. So what’s ridiculous?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” she said, parroting his words with a sly smile that reminded him of the Claire he used to know. “Tell me what you know about the good Doctor Radcliffe.”

  “And why are you curious about him?”

  “If I’m going to be working for him, I need to be prepared. Is he as moody as he seems?”

  “Lass, you don’t know the half of it.”

  * * * * *

  Distillery Hospital, 24 February 1871

  Chad looked down at the telegrams that had been waiting for him on his desk that morning. His neck and shoulders hurt, partially from shoving Perkins the day before but also from the tension that had followed him from his quick dinner in the mess hall to his room to sleep. Word of his shameful behavior had gotten out, and he was thankful he had Patrick with him. He found himself to be relieved that Claire hadn’t joined them, but also strangely missing her, both the quick-witted girl she’d been and now the smart, competent woman she was.

  With a shake of his head—as if that would dislodge the memories of her lips under his and her waist beneath his hands—he turned his attention to the first yellowed envelope. Both were clipped to a handwritten note that read, “Sorry, found these in the mail stuck to something else. Probably from last week.—P.Q.” Telegrams had gone missing for periods of time before, but Percy, the fort’s postmaster, didn’t seem too worried about them as long as the dispatches from Washington came through.

  “Brilliant,” Chad muttered and opened the one that looked older. It was an official communication from General Morley.

  Sending new doc to help mental wounds. CM has my approval.

  Well, at least that was settled in case anyone objected to Claire’s being there. It would have been nice to have some warning, but perhaps it was better this way. Obsessing about it beforehand wouldn’t have helped the situation, although if he’d been prepared, perhaps he wouldn’t have been such an ass. He opened the second telegram. It was a note from Mrs. Iris Bailey, one of the friends he’d left behind in the Ottoman Empire.

  Major excavation breakthrough. Sending letter later. Tell P hello & will send progress details re AF soon. IMB

  He smiled at her signature. She wouldn’t completely relinquish her maiden name of McTavish, she’d told him, both because it helped her in the archaeology community and because she wanted to honor the memory of her late father.

  AF—that would be Apollo’s Flame, the weapon supposedly discovered by the Ottomans, but destroyed in a temple granary fire. She must have found the key to the manuscript, or at least be getting close to finding it.

  That gave him pause. He wanted the Eros Element form of aether to be used for healing, not as a weapon. Would it be worth the thousands of lives it would cost to end this war? Thousands more, that was?

  But what would it cost for them to come to a truce? Millions still in slavery with not even the barest of protections that had been enacted during the war. His mother had been a free woman, but his grandmother had not, and he remembered enough stories to know he would always be at risk of being kidnapped and sold to a plantation. With his medical skill set, he’d fetch a high price.

  As per usual when his thoughts caught up with him, they were interrupted by a knock at the door. This time he looked up with a grateful smile. He didn’t need to worry about what hadn’t happened yet.

  “Oh, hello, Cl—er—Doctor McPhee.”

  “Good morning, Doctor Radcliffe.” She wore a gray work skirt and a white blouse under a blue apron. Although it had become the custom for women not to wear gloves inside the fort—they were an expensive supply to keep on hand and got in the way or stiffened with drying blood when worn during emergencies—she kept hers on. Seeing them reminded him of her past and her likely embarrassment about her scars. They were also his shame since he could have prevented them. He wanted to kiss them and tell her they made her more beautiful because of what she’d survived, but he shoved his thoughts in a more professional direction.

  “I trust you’re settled in?”

  “Yes. My room at the general’s house is very comfortable. Thank you for arranging it for me.”

  “You can give Major Longchamp the credit. He seems to have taken a liking to you, which is good.”

  “Yes, and Mrs. Soper is lovely, although she seems determined to fatten me up.”

  “You look fine the way you are.” Although, now that she mentioned it, she did look somewhat thin and wan.

  Her neck and cheeks flushed a rosy red, and she looked away. “Have you determined which patients could benefit from my expertise?”

  He liked how she stayed focused on work, and he was sorry to have made her uncomfortable. “Forgive me, I forgot myself. I’m sure Mrs. Soper has your best interest at heart, as do I.” Now he was just digging himself an even deeper hole, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I thought I would let you look at some of the charts, and we can both determine where would be best for you to start.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “We’ll be reviewing charts together?”

  He would like to tell her he didn’t mean to be an ass about it, but he simultaneously wanted to be close to her and stay as far away from her as possible.

  The priority is the soldiers, he reminded himself.

  “Tell me more about the treatment you’re proposing,” he said.

  Chapter Six

  Distillery Hospital, 24 February 1871

  Claire took a deep breath. This was it, her chance to impress Doctor Chadwick Radcliffe and justify her presence at the hospital, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She shut it and swallowed, but her tongue felt too big for the space between her teeth. His momentary shyness and stumbling over his implied impropriety had felt familiar.

  “Are you all right, Doctor McPhee?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Just thirsty, I suppose.” She shrugged. “Breakfast was saltier than I’m used to.” She put a hand over her stomach, which had felt unsettled since she walked into the office.

  “Yes, they’re a big fan of their bacon here.” He picked up one of the charts. “Let’s get back to your mission. You said you’re on a grant to study a therapeutic technique based on what you learned in Europe. You want to help soldiers who have been injured in combat, but focus on those with battle-induced hysteria symptoms.”

  “Yes.” She traced the buttons of her left glove, feeling their smoothness under her kid-gloved fingertips, but her hand trembled. One of the mother-of-pearl disks came off and fell to the floor with a clatter that was too loud for such a small object. Neither of them said anything, just waited for it to roll to a stop.

  “You’ve lost a button,” he said. “I’m afraid Major Longchamp doesn’t have a requisition form for fancy kid gloves.”

  “I’ll find it later. I’m sure Mrs. Soper will lend me a needle and some thread to reattach it.”

  “He
re.” He bent and retrieved the button from where it landed by his foot. He handed it to her, and she noticed how he was careful not to touch her.

  “Thank you.” She smiled around the disappointment that welled up in her chest. This was a professional relationship in spite of her feeling oddly comfortable in his company. The interruption had given her the chance to gather her thoughts, and her mind clicked along again with what she’d been trying to say. “I feel I’m up to the challenge of implementing the treatment protocol, but I thought my subjects would be older.”

  “Right, and I don’t want them to be harmed further.”

  “But this technique shouldn’t harm them. I’m only going to be inducing a state where they feel they are back home so they will be comforted, and their minds can heal. Then they can talk through what’s troubling them in a place of comfort.”

  A grimace passed over his face. “And you’re sure that they come from comfortable homes? You do recognize that many of these boys, especially the younger ones, ran away and joined the army for a host of reasons. Many of them were abused. Or stifled.”

  She couldn’t read the intense look in his eyes. It seemed he was hinting something at her in spite of trying not to. “If not their home, then somewhere else they found peace in their previous lives. Everyone had somewhere or someone that gave them that feeling.”

  If only I could remember who that was for me.

  “One would assume, but that’s not a guarantee. Who is that for you, Doctor McPhee?” The slight curve to his lips said he enjoyed challenging her.

  She tried to return the smile but found an unexpected tightness in her throat. “I don’t know. I had someone, I think, but they’re lost to whatever the doctors in Paris had to do to my memory.”

  “And can you guarantee that you won’t accidentally hurt these boys worse?”

  She wanted to say yes, but she refused to lie to him. “I don’t know.”

  He made a derisive sound. “Those techniques you learned in Europe seem to have worked well for you. You get a headache when you’re reminded of anything that has to do with the accident. It seems like you haven’t healed, only avoided.”