I was too agitated to undress or to sleep, although I needed rest before Christina and I began our search the next day. And I felt bothered, chased by something. There was something that I wasn’t comprehending—something I was missing. I walked to the closet to look at Mother’s portrait again, and I stared at it in the darkness.
What are you trying to tell me? I thought once again as I stared at her. What do I need to know? I would have given anything to have her with me, to enlighten me. As I stood there, I wondered if she had loved Gabriel even in spite of his instabilities. Yet unlike Gabriel, William had seemed to be faithful to me when we were together. Christina herself believed that his feelings for me were sincere. My heart felt painfully torn.
And then, the vision slammed over me, but this one felt frustratingly short. I saw her—the hazelnut-haired creature from my first vision. She was swimming, her movements wild, heedless, her webbed fingers and long claws stretched out far before her in the dark greenish waters. I saw the glint of a thick gold bracelet on her serpent wrist, tight against the scales. Then I gasped as the shroud of bubbles surrounding her cleared and I saw, across her back, the Conclave symbol. It was not small as theirs had been—the creature’s tattoo was larger, covering her entire back.
Then everything darkened.
No. No. I struggled to retain the vision. I opened my eyes and saw my mother’s portrait.
Who is this creature?
Who is she?
What is Mother trying to tell me?
Then I was back, in the vision, and I saw him. William. He was dead, his bloodied corpse on a floor somewhere.
I panicked, felt dizzied. No, he wasn’t dead! I saw his chest heave very slightly with raspy breaths. My mind strained to see him—this vision was less clear than the others. My heart pounded. No. No. I tried to still my panic, the waves of helplessness that I felt. Focus, Abbie. William’s body lay on a marble floor somewhere, and the place was only dimly lit, resembling a grotto; I saw marble columns, torches, candlelight. I heard a great roar from somewhere. A hiss.
My mind reached, arched, to focus upon William—his face was bleeding. He had a gash, a terrible wound in his chest. His clothes were torn, ripped all over. And he had a chain tied around his neck, bolted into a marble column or wall behind him.
Where was he? I had never seen this strange place before.
William! It sounded like a scream in my head. Then the vision was snatched from me. Taken away too soon, before I could get a good picture of his whereabouts. All I knew was that he was being held. And he was hurt badly.
Also, the lamia. Was she real? She had that tattoo on her back. Was she somehow a member of the Conclave? Max had lied to me about my mother—he never told me that he’d poisoned her, or that he’d saved my life so that I might someday replace her as their female member. What else did I not know of the Conclave? What other monstrosities had they committed? What other secrets had they harbored?
Max. What did Max have to do with all of this? I paced in my room. At this point, everyone in the house was asleep. I heard the grandfather clock chime eleven o’clock.
I needed more information—to re-enter the dream. If Max had sent me the vision, he wasn’t finished, and my mind was too distraught to summon it again myself. I tried, perspiring at the effort. I stared at the lamia portrait again and tried to lose myself in my thoughts, but my heart kept pounding. I was too worried for the psychic part of my mind to work.
What could I do? I couldn’t get that image of William out of my mind—wounded, seemingly close to death. I felt stricken. I needed to open my mind again.
Simon. An idea materialized in my mind, and I peeked out my bedroom door. The hall was dark and quiet. Richard was gone until morning; Ellen was probably asleep in the servant quarters, and she was so much less attentive than our butler.
Eighteen
When I reached Simon’s house, I saw that most of the lights were out. Suspecting the Simon would be up late, studying or reading, I tossed rocks at the panes of his study window until I saw the drawn curtain ripple. When he opened the door, I saw even in the darkness that his eyes were bloodshot. And disapproving. But he was also still fully dressed, so I knew I had not woken him.
“Abbie, are you aware of how extraordinarily dangerous it is for you to be walking about at night? Particularly given our present circumstances.”
Indeed, I was very aware of the danger, and also of the impropriety of this—showing up at the St. John house so late at night. However, the idea that had come to me in my room … I couldn’t let it go.
Nonetheless, I must have looked stricken, because Simon’s disapproval melted as he ushered me through the door.
“What has happened, Abbie?” he asked quietly as we stood in the dark foyer and he took my coat and gloves.
“I’ll tell you momentarily. Your family is all away?” I whispered.
“Yes, and the servants are all asleep or gone for the night.”
In what seemed like one breath, I told him about Christina’s visit, about how she hadn’t seen William in three weeks.
Simon’s ice-blue eyes flickered, and he sighed. “I know you think highly of William, Abbie, but he’s probably—”
“He’s hurt. I just saw him.”
Simon looked bewildered.
“That’s why I came here to talk to you tonight, Simon. We need to get to him. Would you please help me?”
“Abbie … ” Simon began.
“Might we go to your study?” I asked quickly, already ahead of him on the stairs. Even with his family out of town, I felt more comfortable having this conversation in the privacy of his study.
When we entered, I sat down on a plain, wine-colored settee near his desk. After shutting the door, Simon seated himself beside me; he was patient, but unreadable as always. The light in the room, from a single reading lamp on his desk, shone dim and seemed to accentuate his handsome paleness. Remembering his bloodshot eyes, I thought about how many hours he must be working at the hospital daily, now, during William’s absence. I noticed several books on his desk, and pages and pages of notes. Simon must work or study every second of his life.
I told him about the vision—about how I had to get to William but I didn’t know where he was. And how, when I had focused and concentrated, I could not re-enter the vision. Then, summoning my strength, I looked Simon in the eyes and said, “Hypnotize me.”
“No.” His reply came out firm, without hesitation. This was what I had feared.
“But you must. It is the only way … ”
“I cannot do that to you, Abbie.”
“Simon, you know much about the mind, do you not? You never questioned my sanity when I began having the visions last year, when I felt uneasy discussing them with anyone other than you.” I lowered my voice, looked away. “Even with William.”
As he glanced down at the carpet, uneasy, I leveled my gaze at him. “You have hypnotized before,” I continued. “I have seen you do it in the hospital. You would not endanger any of our patients. I know that about you. Therefore, there cannot be a risk.”
“There could be.” Simon stood and began pacing, then walked behind his desk and looked at me in the glow of the lamplight. “That is why I refuse to perform the procedure upon you.”
I wasn’t about to give up. “But I sat in my bedroom only moments ago, perspiring, trying to force another vision. All my efforts were futile. I think I was too agitated. Hypnosis might be a way to open up my mind.”
Simon stopped pacing, but said nothing.
“Please, Simon.” I cringed as I heard my desperate whisper.
He leaned forward across his desk, his knuckles white upon the oak surface. “As you know, I use hypnosis as therapy. I have studied it. It puts the patient into a somnambulant state—essentially, the mind functions as if one is sleepwalking. Once there, the mental sense
s are heightened and the nervous system is suppressed. The mind is highly suggestible. Usually, physicians employing the method make suggestions to the patient—to stop drinking, or in a mental illness case such as monomania, to quit obsessing about an object or issue. I have used hypnosis to treat alcoholism, monomania, and even nymphomania. But most of the patients I treat are hysterical—not in control of their capacities, anyway. There is no risk of peeling away their conscious faculties because they’re so weakened anyway. You, on the other hand—”
“But I want this, Simon. Doesn’t my will matter at all?”
“It does help in the matter—a patient who believes in the process and submits to it is usually more successful, but I have worries.”
“What?” I asked. I was alarmed, hearing the clock tick away and knowing that every moment we debated this was another moment preventing me from finding William’s whereabouts.
“I have never used it, or heard of using hypnosis, on a psychic patient; I have never used it to enhance psychic abilities. I am concerned about how it might affect you.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are two issues to consider. One, that Max might be sending you false visions.”
“I have already considered this,” I said quickly, cutting him off. “But the stakes are too high for me not to believe him. William might die. Furthermore, all of my visions last autumn were true.”
“Secondly,” Simon continued as if he had not heard me. He came around from the desk and sat beside me. In an oddly intimate gesture, he pushed a lock of hair away from my face. “Memories, thoughts that you might not like, could surface. Become real to you.”
“What are you saying?”
“Abbie … after learning the truth that night at the Conclave’s house, that Max killed your mother, you have had to re-remember her sudden illness as not simply illness, but as murder. You have undoubtedly had to ‘rewrite’ those last days in your mind. Max was there in Dublin during those last days, probably watching you.”
“I have thought some about those days … ” I heard my voice trail off. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my facial muscles composed. Roddy, his death, my rescuer—who I now knew was Max—carrying me home after I’d nearly drowned … Max was the person I’d heard arguing with my mother while I struggled to regain consciousness. He had saved me even as the poison ravaged my mother’s body. And I had lost my friend, my dear friend, Roddy. I had hardly allowed myself to think of that day since coming to London. It had been a chapter closed, sealed away in my mind. Now, fear seized me as I thought that I might somehow revisit it—be brought to that nightmare’s threshold. But nonetheless, William needed me, and although I couldn’t imagine a future with him, I knew that I wanted him to be safe.
Simon paused, then pressed on, gently. “What I am saying is that hypnosis does not come without its risks. Very real risks, Abbie.” He cleared his throat a bit. “I do not want to harm you.”
William. Saving William was paramount. I could not focus upon my own hurts and traumas.
Simon was quiet. I knew he thought William was a sloth, unstable. And I saw, in the layers of Simon’s expression even in the study’s shadows, how Simon still felt about me.
I felt my heart flutter a little.
“But, Simon, if I’m strong enough to handle even those memories, then it is a possibility that hypnosis might heighten my psychic abilities.”
He paused. Shrugged. Then Simon’s expression became agitated, and I saw his eyes rest for a moment upon the ivory elephant on the bookcase. “I’m simply warning you that it could have unanticipated results. I have seen … inexplicable things in the past. There is much we still do not understand about hypnosis, and I feel it is best to be cautious.”
My heart thumped. What was he talking about? What had he seen?
I felt myself, against my will, wring my hands in frustration. “Simon, as my friend, will you please help me? I don’t beg of you often, but now I am begging. If you do not hypnotize me tonight, I’ll find someone else to do it tomorrow. I must try to conjure that vision again, and I am too distressed at the moment to focus and bring it up.” I set my jaw. “You must. This is my decision now, whatever the outcome might be.”
Simon said nothing, but by his expression, I sensed that I had won.
“All right Abbie.” His voice leveled. “But you must do as I say.”
Without a word, Simon drew the drapes tighter around the window behind his desk. Then, after taking a wide candle from his desk and lighting it, he put out the lamp, leaving us in darkness except for the flicker of the candlelight.
In that moment, I suddenly felt inexplicably fearful, on the verge of this new experience. Previously, I had thought that at worst the process would not work or that I would see other visions, unhelpful visions that wouldn’t give me the information I needed to find William. But now, something instinctual, an energy that I didn’t fully understand, recoiled within me. I ignored this surge, telling myself not to be fearful. I told myself that Simon was overly cautious, that hypnosis was regularly used at Whitechapel Hospital without any “unanticipated” results.
“Look at the flame. Focus upon it. Keep your breaths regular and think of nothing other than the candle flame,” he said.
I tried, focused, watching the light flicker in the darkness. But I also felt my heart pounding, racing at the thought that if this worked, I would see William in that terrible position again. Every time I started to feel my breathing, even my system, calm down, at the very moment when I thought I could surrender, my heartbeat would leap and pound, and I was back in the room with Simon and the candle.
“It’s not working … ” I said, frustrated.
I saw relief wash across Simon’s face, and I knew that he would give up soon.
“Is there nothing else we can do?” I asked.
He sighed. “There is one other way.”
Blowing out the candle, he placed it back upon the desk. Then he knelt before me in the dark. I saw him only because of the tiny stream of moonlight seeping through the slit in the drawn curtains. “Look only into my eyes. Think of nothing else but my eye color.”
I stared, noticing in this closeness the icy depths of his eyes. They were glassy blue, with flickers of deeper whitish and turquoise hues. Simon, who always kept his eyes so veiled, was showing them to me, unabashed. I thought of the ocean—not the ocean in summer, shimmering, sun-kissed, but the ocean in winter—lovely, flicked with icy darkness, and yet gray and unyielding. I felt an almost painful hook in my heart, and soon my interest in his expression turned from curiosity to arrest as I plunged into those winter waters, surrendering myself to whatever awaited me there.
I faded away from myself, from my body, from Simon’s study, until I found myself on a speck of land, a treacherous rocky island with sharp peaks and cliffs. I felt, smelled, salty seawater. I moved, drifted phantom-like, into a crevice in one of the rocky places until I found myself in a warmer place, an unusual place—a small, dim, marble hall. The place was too dark to see well in—there were columns, the dull glint of many, many portrait frames on the walls. But the unlit torches lining the marbled walls made discerning my whereabouts difficult.
William. Where’s William? I channeled my focus, letting myself spiral deeper into the vision.
William, I’m here.
William, where are you?
Then my mind faded and sharpened again, leaving the hall for some sort of elegant bedroom illuminated only by a fireplace. In the firelight, I saw more columns, identical to the ones in the hall, more marbled walls, a large bed—the headboard made of seashells. Pale green curtains, with twists of threaded gold, draped from the high ceiling to hang long and sheer around the bed, while the bed itself remained unmade, its tossed sheets and coverlets the color of sea foam. In spite of the beauty of the place, I sensed an unpleasant dampness in the air, tinged with mil
dew along with other vague, foul odors—of acid, of rotting meat. Of blood.
Then I saw William. The enormous bed had blocked me from viewing him. As in my previous vision, he lay on the floor, the large shackle around his neck chaining him to a column near the bed as if he were an animal, a pet mastiff. My own terror and fear threatened to overwhelm me, and I had to remind myself that this was a vision—I was not there in flesh and blood and could do nothing to help him in that moment. I worked hard to suppress my emotions, fearing that if they became too strong, the vision might leave me as it had before. I saw him clearer then. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut, his lips cracked, bleeding. His dark trousers had been ripped in places and were coated almost entirely in dried black blood. His white shirt was nearly shredded, but the remaining fabric pieces were dried with both rust-brown and fresh-red blood. In horror, I saw what seemed like bite marks, deep wounds all over his chest, his neck. Some looked older, scabbed with oozing pus where infection had set in. And William, although breathing, lay quite still.
Dear God.
The vision wavered a bit, like rippling water, and then I steadied my mind.
Who did this to him?
I knew Max was somehow behind it, but those wounds, those bite marks, were deeper than a human could inflict. I thought of the lamia in my visions—because of her tattoo, I knew that she was somehow connected to the Conclave …
With great effort I calmed myself, hoping that the vision wouldn’t leave. I needed to know where this place was. Rocky islands. Cold winds. I searched my mind—this could be anywhere in the British isles. Or elsewhere.
I felt overwhelmed with frustration. Desperate. I refocused on the vision, streamlining it, trying to pull it toward me. I remembered how I had seen street names when I chased the Ripper in my attempt to save Liz and Cate, how I had recognized High Holborn the night I had saved Abberline.
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