Aether Spirit

by Cecilia Dominic

  “Wait, earlier today you were saying you didn’t want me to use my methods on the soldiers because they’re too risky, but this seems even more so than talking to them and helping them visualize pleasant things. Even minor hypnosis.”

  Dammit, she had a point. Chad reminded himself to not fall into the trap of hoping the Eros Element could help her, if she was willing to try.

  “Then I’ll let you try your method first,” he conceded. “And if it doesn’t help, we may have to do something else. The United States is in danger of splitting into two countries if we don’t have a decisive victory soon, and that means millions will be doomed to stay slaves.”

  “Slavery is a horrible thing,” Claire agreed. “But so is having thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of young men and boys mowed down on the battlefield with a single weapon wielded by one person. And then what happens beyond this war, assuming the weapon works and you win? You know it won’t stop here. American allies will get hold of it, and then they’ll inevitably turn on each other as they jockey for power, and then soon there will be no one left but women, old men, and children. Or worse, it will be turned on civilians.”

  Chad tried to keep the exasperation from his tone. “And for that vague possibility, it’s worth it to you for millions of people to remain enslaved? If the Confederacy is allowed to continue, so will the slave trade. You’re advocating for a different kind of hell.” He stopped short of reminding her that should Fort Daniels be captured and he be taken prisoner, he would likely end up enslaved on some plantation after having been sold for a very high price. She didn’t care for him to that extent anymore.

  “There has to be another way,” she said, but she didn’t argue his point.

  Chad took one of her hands and pressed it in his to stop its trembling. The poor girl would have nightmares, but he had to do something to make her see reason. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Patrick’s aether weapon, either, but he didn’t know how else they could end the war. He hoped her treatment method would work in restoring the soldiers with battle hysteria to their full capabilities. If not…

  “Let’s do a little experiment,” he said. “Come with me tomorrow to the contraband camp.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Isn’t it frowned upon to do studies on disadvantaged people?”

  “Because it will make the plight of these poor people real to you.”

  She snatched her hand back and stood. “You’re accusing me of insensitivity. That’s not fair. I do feel that slavery is bad.”

  “But it’s not real to you. Think of it as having all the information before you form your opinion.”

  “Very well.” She walked to the door. “Now, er, would one of you walk me back to the general’s house, please?”

  Chad stood to follow her, but Patrick put a heavy hand on his shoulder before he could step forward.

  “You’ve said enough,” Patrick told him. “I’ll take her.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Fort Daniels, 24 February 1871

  Claire and Patrick didn’t converse as he walked her back to the general’s house. He only said a quick goodbye and remained outside as she used her key to go in the front door. She said goodnight and slipped inside, where savory odors of onion, beef, and rosemary drew her into the kitchen. A loaf of bread sat on the table, and Mrs. Soper stood at the stove and stirred something in a large pot. Claire braced herself, not sure what, if any, trouble she’d be in for coming in so late to dinner. Her mother and aunt had kept to a strict “kitchen closed after seven” policy.

  “There you are!” Mrs. Soper turned and gave Claire a bright white smile that melted her anxiety like a pat of butter on a hot biscuit. The woman wasn’t angry. In fact, Mrs. Soper was happy to see her, and more than that, emanated the feeling of wanting to take care of her. Claire tried to hold her tears of relief back, but the tension of the day, and especially that of arguing with Radcliffe, wanted to be released, and her eyes squeezed the hot water out no matter how hard she blinked. She tried to rub her eyes without looking like she was crying.

  “Now, then, what’s all this fuss about?”

  Strong but gentle hands guided Claire to the kitchen table and pressed a piece of cloth into her hands. Right, a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “Thank you,” Claire said. “I don’t know what came over me. And I’m sorry for coming in so late.”

  “Stew’s only going to get better with more simmering, so don’t you worry about it. If you can wait a while longer, Major Longchamp is coming, and we can all eat together.”

  “That would be lovely,” Claire told her, although the thought of the strange man being there made her want to flee. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Well, aren’t you a sweet child? You can slice the bread for me. Go ahead and try a bit with this honey butter to make sure it’s all right.” She handed Claire a knife and with a wink, turned back to the stove, for which Claire was glad because more tears flowed.

  She didn’t know why her heart felt like the meat that was breaking apart into tender bits in the stew. She barely knew Radcliffe—why should his opinion of her matter so much? She’d been insulted and hurt that he assumed she didn’t care about slavery, and she felt the fear behind his words.

  Maybe that was why she was so sore about the conversation. He had been partially right, and she didn’t like being wrong. She had been insensitive. Add that to her fainting like one of Charcot’s hysterics in his office earlier, and he must have a lovely opinion of her.

  “Girl, your feelings are going back and forth like a debutante with two rich suitors,” Mrs. Soper said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  The kitchen was pleasantly warm, and cutting the bread took some effort, but not enough for the heat that diffused through Claire’s neck and cheeks. Sometimes she hated that part of being a redhead. “I’ve been an idiot,” she said.

  “Was a man involved?” Mrs. Soper sat at the table with Claire and accepted a piece of freshly cut bread. “If so, he’s the one more likely to have been stupid.”

  “Yes, but it was my fault, and how could you tell what I was feeling?” Major Longchamp’s words from when he introduced her to Mrs. Soper came back to her—“She’s one of us.”

  “That’s what I was hoping to talk about when he got here,” Mrs. Soper said. “Just finish cutting that bread, but pay attention to what you’re doing so you don’t lose a finger.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Claire did as she was told and focused on the bread. She thought about trying to sense Mrs. Soper’s feelings, but she allowed the woman her privacy. She did try to reel in her own.

  Heavy footsteps in the hall preceded Major Longchamp’s entrance.

  “Ah, Doctor McPhee, I was hoping you’d join us,” he said when he saw her.

  She moved to rise, but he gestured for her to remain where she was.

  “No need to get up. We usually eat in here, anyway. The dining room is too stuffy for the likes of me.”

  Then he did something shocking—he bussed Mrs. Soper on the cheek. She shook her head and brandished the spoon at him.

  “Now we both know there’s nothing like that,” she said. “Sit down, stop trying to make trouble, and I’ll give you some stew.”

  He took the seat next to Claire’s and said in a stage whisper, “Don’t cross her when she’s in a mood. Trust me on this one.”

  Claire nodded, not sure what to say. She felt she was simultaneously part of and watching a strange play, but she didn’t know the lines or the directions.

  “Claire, would you set the table?” Mrs. Soper asked. “Knives and forks are in the drawer by the sink.”

  Claire did as she was asked. The older woman using her given name didn’t bother her. There was much less pressure in being Claire than Doctor McPhee.

  Mrs. Soper set down three bowls of stew and thre
e smaller bowls of some sort of steamed green. “Now if this is too much for you, don’t be shy about saying so. I heard you had some trouble today.”

  Claire took her place and inhaled the wonderful aromas. Somehow it didn’t surprise her that the other woman knew what had happened to her. She guessed Mrs. Soper had eyes and ears all over the base.

  “I’m fine now, mostly,” Claire said. “I don’t know why being here is setting off the hypnotic suggestions like it is. As far as I know, I’ve never been to Tennessee before.”

  “Is it blocking you from doing what you need to do?” Longchamp asked.

  Claire noted his choice of words—blocking rather than keeping. Might as well ask now when I have the opportunity. “I’m not sure what you mean, Major. Does it have something to do with what you told Mrs. Soper when you brought me here, that I’m one of you? Or how you told me you needed to make sure I would keep your secret?”

  “This one’s clever,” Longchamp said.

  “Either that or you’ve no idea how to be subtle,” Mrs. Soper replied.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

  “No trouble at all,” Longchamp told her. “And by one of us, I meant that you can sense certain things about people that others can’t. I’m sure it helps with what you do.”

  “How can you tell?” Claire asked. “Is it something about how I look?”

  “No, it’s not so obvious, although people with red hair seem to have more of that kind of gift.” Longchamp blew on a spoonful of stew. “It’s just something you can sense if you know how.”

  “Oh?” Claire wanted to ask if what he was talking about only happened in women and men who liked men, but she didn’t want to get that personal, at least not with him at that moment.

  “Mrs. Soper is the best one to explain,” he said. “She did that for me.”

  “Dennis,” the woman in question said. “The child is worn out, can’t you tell? She doesn’t need to talk about why she’s here.”

  Claire swallowed the last bite she’d taken a little too quickly and coughed before saying, “I’m here to help the soldiers to heal from their battle hysteria.”

  “I’m not talking about your official orders.”

  “She’s not,” Major Longchamp agreed. “She’s talking about the orders from…” He pointed up.

  “The ceiling?” The more she ate, the sleepier Claire got. None of this made sense, and there was a sort of nudge in her brain from one of the blocks she had.

  “Lord, no, child,” Mrs. Soper said. “You need to get to bed. Finish your dinner, and I’ll draw a bath for you.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry, we can talk more about this tomorrow.”

  “Stop apologizing.” Major Longchamp admonished her with a wave of his spoon. “We need more like you here, but we don’t want to overwhelm you. Get a good night’s sleep and try not to do anything that will trigger your own hysteria.”

  How did he know—? Claire only nodded like the obedient girl her mother thought she was. She’d figure it out the next day.

  Soon enough she was tucked into bed, but just as she was about to drift into sleep, a voice asked, “What is that awful noise?”

  * * * * *

  Chad tried to busy himself by straightening up the remaining mess from Claire’s accident with the boxes. What had led her into the workshop? He’d known her to get into scrapes, but trespassing, even motivated by curiosity, wasn’t her style.

  But then, what was her style nowadays? He had to keep reminding himself he didn’t know her anymore, not really. When they talked, they fell into a comfortable old pattern until she argued with something he said. That brought up a different question—had she previously kept her opinion on matters they disagreed on to herself?

  “Did you deliver her safely?” Chad asked when Patrick returned.

  “Yes, but she didn’t say much, just goodnight. I could tell she was upset. Did you have to be such a daft ass?”

  “I’m sorry,” Chad said and sat on the bench they had both occupied earlier. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and fingers steepled.

  “You don’t need to tell me that.” Patrick picked up her half-empty mug and dumped the contents into a drain just outside the door. His quick movements showed how irritated he was. “I’d ask what’s gotten into you, but I think I know. Whether it’s her or not, you’re not being your usual rational self. Did you forget we’re in the middle of a war?”

  “No.” Chad put his head in his hands. Her clean scent still lingered in the air. He wanted her to be healthy. He wanted this war to be over, but not in a way that would endanger millions of lives.

  Patrick picked up the padlock and opened and shut it a couple of times. “Wait a second. This shouldn’t open like this without the key. What happened to it?”

  Patrick handed it to Chad, who also manipulated it open and shut without unlocking it.

  “Well, now we know how she got in,” Patrick said. “But why?”

  A tingling at the back of his neck made Chad look back to where the Eros Element glowed in its glass sphere. “I don’t know. You had more experience with the strangeness of the E.E. in Paris.”

  “Aye, but it never did anything like what it did with her. Did you see that glow?”

  “Yes.” Chad walked to the glass sphere and put his fingers on it like she had. Nothing happened. “What did she do differently? She said she felt heat too. That’s one step closer to what the professor is trying to do.”

  Patrick clapped him on the shoulder. “As hard as it is for you to be a civil human being around her, you’re going to have to work with Claire. Not let your feelings get in the way.”

  Chad thought the aether disk brightened for just a moment at the mention of her name, but it resumed its regular appearance so quickly, he wasn’t sure what he’d seen.

  “Do you think it’s safe for her?”

  “Are you really concerned for her or for yourself?”

  Chad covered the sphere with its sheet. “Both. I remember how melancholic the professor got. What if it did something like that to her? I can’t lose her again.”

  “You don’t have her to lose. Just let her do her job and help us as she will. She’ll be fine. Now leave me alone so I can get some work done. You’re going to be useless the rest of the night.”

  Chad walked back to the barracks alone. He wished he could be so confident, but something just didn’t add up.

  He couldn’t ponder the matter for too long, however. A shell flew over his head and exploded behind the building in front of him. He darted back into the workshop.

  “Patrick, get your gear and come to the hospital. The base is under attack!”

  * * * * *

  Claire sat straight up when she heard a voice ask, “What is that awful noise?” She looked around but couldn’t see anything amiss in the room. A whine in her ears made her press her fingers to them.

  “Is someone there?” she asked. Her hands shook, but she finally lit the lamp on the bedside table. The cheerful yellow decor struck her as jaundiced, not happy, and she tried not to let her mind stray to the fact that the room had belonged to a young woman who died.

  No, her mind was going to think those spooky thoughts no matter how hard she tried not to have them. Claire thought about what to do. Disturb Mrs. Soper in her room? With what? A strange voice asking a question that might have been Claire dreaming, although she was fairly certain she hadn’t been asleep. She turned the switch on the side of the lamp to douse the light and curled up on her side. She was almost asleep when the voice woke her again.

  “The noise, Miss. Don’t you hear it? It’s coming closer!” A hand shook Claire by the shoulder, and through her nightgown, its fingers felt like icy death.

  Claire scrambled away from it and over the side of the bed with a thud. She cou
ldn’t recall how later, but she made it into the hallway and stood—with her robe and shoes on—face-to-face with Mrs. Soper.

  “Thank goodness you’re awake!” She grabbed Claire’s hand. “We need to get to the back of the base, quick. We’re under attack, and their shells don’t go that far. Or they won’t unless they surround us, but our boys won’t let that happen.”

  Claire blinked the fog from her brain. A low rumble like that of thunder turned into a screeching and an explosion nearby. The entire house shook, and tinkling told Claire it had been close enough to shatter the windows.

  “They’re attacking us? In the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, and we’re going after them right back. Don’t you worry. Our boys’ll get them.”

  “Are you sure we can make it to the back of the base?” Another explosion nearby made Claire clutch the banister so she wouldn’t fall down the stairs.

  Mrs. Soper gestured for Claire to follow her. “There’s a tunnel. The general had it built so his family would be safe when this happened. We’ll end up in the hospital.”

  Claire nearly stopped. She was in her nightclothes, for goodness’ sake. But she didn’t have much of a choice. Being fully dressed wouldn’t help her if she ended up dead.

  “Hurry, Miss.” The voice was at Claire’s elbow now. “Hurry, or the Rebs’ll get you.”

  “Do you hear that?” Claire whispered to Mrs. Soper, who led her by the hand across the living room.

  “Yes, and just be glad she likes you. Others haven’t been so lucky.”

  Her words gave Claire as many goose bumps as the ghost had, but she had no choice but to follow and hope the spirit would continue to be helpful. They ended up in a broom closet with a false back that Mrs. Soper made open by tugging on a mop.

  “There’s a torch just inside. I’ll come behind you and close the door.”