Aether Spirit

by Cecilia Dominic

  I did it! Claire the hysteric was going to become Doctor McPhee. She could leave that part of her life behind her and start her new one, thanks to a sympathetic ear in the school administration, whom Claire had come to find had a daughter in treatment in Paris. Claire was a symbol of hope to all parents whose children languished in asylums that their fates could change, that they could be healed and go on to lives of normalcy and distinction.

  Or maybe Martine had bent an ear or two for her. His parents gave a lot of money to the school. Claire wrinkled her nose. She didn’t want to think that she’d needed someone to advocate for her, but she was a woman in a man’s profession. Or she would be. The joy at her accomplishment faded under the clouds of doubt in her own merit.

  “Excuse me, Miss?” The gentleman Claire had almost run into had an Irish accent and the red hair and beard to match, but he had a friendly smile as he tipped his hat.

  Claire blinked herself back to the present. She needed to pay attention to where she was going, not brood over the discouraging situation of being a female with ambition but limited opportunities.

  The young man looked at her expectantly, and she rubbed her temple to still the throbbing needle of pain that lodged there. It must be time for new glasses, or else she’d merely exhausted herself with all the reading and research she’d been doing.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  He requested directions to a commonly visited tourist destination and melted into the crowd after she obliged him. He joined another man, shorter but still with good stature, who turned to look over his shoulder at her, but someone walked between them before she saw his face, and then they were lost.

  Claire didn’t trust her memory, but she could have sworn the redheaded man looked familiar, and the other man’s gray eyes…

  Claire blinked, and she found herself not in Vienna on a warm spring day, but on a military base in Tennessee on a chilly late winter one. She shivered and pulled her cloak around her.

  “Sandwich?” Chadwick Radcliffe asked and handed her a paper-wrapped square.

  “Thank you.” She placed it on her lap and held it there with both hands. Her mind whirred like a clockwork toy. The redheaded man in Vienna had looked an awful lot like Patrick O’Connell, and the man he was with was of the same height and build as Radcliffe. Had they been there?

  “What did you remember?” Radcliffe asked. “And please eat something. I don’t want you fainting from hunger.”

  Claire unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite without tasting it. She played the scene over and over in her mind, but she couldn’t convince herself it had been O’Connell. The coincidence was just too great, and she had thought he looked familiar. How was that possible if she’d never met him? Had she seen him or encountered him in Boston?

  “I’m still sorting it out.” She rubbed her aching temple and took a bite of her sandwich. When she had chewed and swallowed, she asked, “Have the two of you been to Vienna in the past year?”

  They exchanged glances.

  “Yes,” Radcliffe said. “Last spring. We had a long leave since there hadn’t been any fighting in over a year and decided to go since neither of us had been.”

  She turned to O’Connell and asked, “Did you speak to me? Ask directions to Saint Stephen’s Cathedral?”

  He shrugged but wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I talked to lots of people, so it’s possible. Our guidebooks were shite.”

  Instead of being angry at the obvious lie, she was intrigued by his reticence. Most people when faced with such a happenstance would readily admit it, and then they would laugh about a shared experience and the unexpectedness of encountering each other again on the other side of the globe in a tiny place. They’d comment on what a small world it was and then feel comforted that there was some sort of connection, especially in the chaos of a war zone.

  These two men acted from fear, but of what?

  Of hurting me. She put it all together—their looks and comments and body language. They were kind, chivalrous gentlemen, but they acted from something more. Had she known them in her past? Bryce was forbidden to talk to her about the two years before her accident, which, she inferred, must have been when she knew them.

  The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that there must have been some previous acquaintance or even a more intimate relationship. It would explain her attraction to Radcliffe and the way her blocks kicked in whenever one of them acted familiar with the other.

  She would write to her brother, whom she had only seen briefly since being home, for a tense family dinner, before he went back to his apprenticeship in Washington.

  An uncomfortable silence stretched among the trio. Claire couldn’t help but notice the ruins of the workshop. She’d been unaware when Radcliffe—no, Chadwick, and damn the little devil that stuck a hot poker into her temple when she thought his name—had brought her here.

  “Is it bad?” she asked. “Inside, I mean. Was there much damage?”

  “Aye,” O’Connell said. “Everything was lost. Even the glass globe with the aether in it was shattered.”

  “What happened to the aether?” Claire asked. It had been such a happy little—well, she wasn’t sure what—but it had projected emotion to her. She hoped it hadn’t been hurt.

  “What do you mean?” O’Connell asked.

  “Where did it go?”

  “Back to where it came from, I suppose. It’s not there now.”

  “We don’t know that much about it,” Radcliffe said, “but since it’s the substance light passes through, I suppose it dissipated back to its pre-stabilized state.”

  The night she escaped from the General’s House was still foggy in Claire’s mind, but she recalled seeing a glow like from the aether light the passage. That might have been after the workshop had been destroyed. Had it come to guide her? But then where had it gone? Had it waited to dissipate until after it helped her?

  The thought gave her a shiver, and she drew her cloak around her. They really didn’t know much about it, but if it had acted with volition, not just emotion…

  “When will you be isolating it again?” she asked. “I’d like to see it.”

  “You had an interesting effect on it,” O’Connell agreed. “I have more equipment coming in, hopefully soon. Major Longchamp asked me what I needed.”

  Claire finished her sandwich and stood. “Thank you for lunch, gentlemen, but I have something I need to attend to before I return to work. Doctor Radcliffe, I’ll see you at the hospital.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I have to write a letter to my brother. There are some things I need to ask him.”

  Radcliffe frowned. “Like what?”

  “That is none of your business. Good afternoon.” She walked off with what she hoped was a haughty air in spite of a pebble having gotten caught in her shoe at her ankle. There was no such thing as a haughty hobble, but she hoped she accomplished something. Perhaps the knowledge that she sought information elsewhere would make Radcliffe or O’Connell tell her what she needed to know. She needed to prove to them she could handle it.

  But could she?

  * * * * *

  “We have to do something,” Chad told Patrick after Claire stalked off.

  Or limped. She walked like she had something in her shoe, but she wouldn’t stop to get it out until she was out of sight. She’d always been like that, preferring to preserve the feel of a moment rather than let her clumsiness get in the way. Of course it rarely worked out like that, but she could try. He shook his head. His silly, stubborn, feisty Claire.

  God, I still love her.

  And he did. He wanted to go to her, kiss the worry line from her brow, and tell her everything. Tell her how they had been engaged once. That they had been in the mad kind of love that only happens once in a lifetime. That they had been ripped ap
art by a stupid accident that had maimed her and had led to her memories of him being stolen. He leaned forward in preparation for shifting his weight to his feet and running after her, but Patrick put a hand on his arm and stopped him.

  “Patience,” Patrick said. “You can’t just go spewing everything. She’s getting closer to the truth, but it’s costing her. Didn’t you see her rubbing her temples?” He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifted in admiration. “She’s a tough one, your Claire, but you can’t go blasting through her blocks. It may damage her less to chip away at them.”

  Chad noticed his words—damage her less. He slumped back. “You’re right, as always. If I don’t handle this right, I could cause permanent harm. What do we do? What do I do?”

  He knew the answer, but it concerned him.

  “You have to convince her to use the Eros Element.”

  Chad groaned. “Fate has truly conspired against me. My device was destroyed, and if she writes to her brother and hears back from him before I can get the parts to rebuild it…” The slowness of the base post office might be an advantage in this case unless the parts for the device arrived simultaneously with the letter.

  “And that’s why it’s good you have me.” Patrick grinned widely now. “You know how I said Longchamp asked what equipment I would need? I asked for the components necessary to rebuild your device, but with more precision as to where you can apply the Eros.”

  Chad would have been angry at Patrick’s presumption if he hadn’t been so relieved. Patrick was right—he needed to move forward with his own experimentation, and before Aidan could respond to Claire. He’d always had a cautious relationship with Claire’s brother, who was happy Chad was a doctor and unhappy that he was a half Negro.

  A young guard approached them. “Doctor Radcliffe? Mister O’Connell? The general has arrived on base and wants to see you. They’re in Major Longchamp’s office.”

  “Ah, it’s a sign.” Patrick stood and held out his hand to help Chad up. “Here’s hoping he’s arrived with the supply wagon.”

  “It’s doubtful he has what we need unless they had the components in town. But even if your device parts aren’t with him, we need more laudanum and morphine at the hospital.”

  Which was another mystery—where had it all gone? Even with the added demands of the attack, they should have had plenty. Did they have an addict on their staff? It wasn’t uncommon, but he’d been alert for signs of addiction, or he’d thought he was.

  Chad stood and followed Patrick out of the yard behind what was left of the workshop. His brain teased him that it was all connected, but he couldn’t quite grasp how.

  First things first—deal with the general and our lack of progress on the aether weapon…

  “Oh, Doctor Radcliffe!” One of the nurses from the hospital caught up to him.

  “Is there an emergency?”

  She shook her head. “No, just a message for you from Ward B.” She handed him a slip of paper, then curtsied and hurried away.

  Chad opened the slip of paper and grinned. “Well, this is good news.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute with the general.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fort Daniels, 27 February 1871

  When Claire arrived at her quarters, she remembered she didn’t have pen, paper, or anything else with which to write a letter.

  And that means I’ll have to face Major Longchamp. At least I can press him for some answers. And I need to visit Mrs. Soper too. Perhaps I’ll do that after my afternoon shift at the hospital.

  She checked the time—just long enough to catch Longchamp in his office before her lunch break was over. She cursed her brain and the blocks that had been placed there. They were interfering with what she needed to do, and she was coming to resent them rather than appreciate the protective influence they supposedly had.

  One more reason to get rid of them. But how? I can only push them so far.

  With her plan firmly in place, she removed the pebble from her shoe and was on her way out again when Calla caught up to her.

  “Have you heard, Miss Claire, er, Doctor McPhee, that the general has arrived on base?”

  Claire bit off the response she thought about making, that it was about damn time the general got there. She’d overheard plenty of complaints while she was at the hospital in Philadelphia that with so little direct action between the armies, the top brass often opted to stay in Washington rather than with their troops on their respective fronts.

  Instead she said, “Oh, that’s good. I suppose the attack drew him back from Washington?”

  “No, ma’am, he was already on his way.” She lowered her voice and looked from side to side. They were alone in the grand hall. “I think it has something to do with what Doctor Radcliffe and Mister O’Connell are working on.”

  The shadows seemed to darken and draw in on Claire in contrast to her memory of the bright aether orb. “And how would you know about that?”

  “On a base this small, everyone knows everything about everybody. The doctor and the tinkerer are careful what they say in front of people, but I’ve heard they had a ghost trapped in the workshop and were trying to figure out how to make it do what they wanted so they could attack the rebels with it. Private Derry said he saw it the night of the attack, and now he’s worried it’s escaped and is haunting the camp.”

  Claire wasn’t sure what to do, whether to correct the misinformation—which would betray Radcliffe’s and O’Connell’s confidence, not to mention reveal top secret information she’d been trusted with—or let it be. The general’s interest in the project meant it must be important, which would only increase the rumor mill.

  She decided she needed more information herself, but first she had to send that letter to Aidan. Perhaps if she could glean what had happened to her, she could destroy the hypnotic blocks from the backside.

  Or destroy her mind in the process, but she had to do something. The information was too tantalizingly close.

  “Do you know where I might find paper and something to write with?” she asked. She pushed aside the memory of the beautiful stationery set and fountain pen she’d brought with her, now in the ruins of the General’s House. She hoped the salvage teams would find some of her things intact, but she also knew how nice things tended to disappear the longer they were missing.

  Like my memories.

  She tried to avoid the small smile that her mental joke tried to call up. She’d inherited her dark sense of humor from her father.

  “I think Miss Lacey might lock them up to keep the kids from using all of them for their drawings.” Calla went to the desk, which had once been the barracks sergeant’s and looked through the drawers. “Nope, nothing here. You’ll have to ask Major Longchamp.”

  “And he’s probably busy with the general.”

  An odd expression flashed across Calla’s features. “Probably.”

  Claire recalled the major’s inclinations and wondered again what his relationship to the general might be. Should she go and possibly interrupt a reunion of lovers? Or was she misreading everything through the lens of her own brokenheartedness and crushed romantic dreams? She knew she’d had some silly notions at one point—most girls did—and she must have had some sort of relationship with either Radcliffe or O’Connell in the past.

  She suspected it had been Radcliffe. Otherwise, yes, he was a handsome man, but it didn’t explain the immediate attraction she’d felt and how drawn to him she still was. Plus it would explain his mixed feelings toward her—he wouldn’t do anything that could possibly hurt her, but he must still have feelings for her.

  She needed to contact Aidan to confirm their past relationship. “Well, then off to the major’s office I go. Do you need me to request anything for you or for here while I’m there?”

  “No, ma’am. Mi
ss Lacey already sent a list over.”

  “Then I’ll be on my way. Thank you for the information.”

  “Yes, ma’am, you can trust me. I can let you know what happens on base.”

  Claire had never played politics, but she could appreciate the advantage in having a set of ears where she wouldn’t be welcome, namely among the base’s support staff. Not that she was welcome among the medical staff, either, but she could do her own listening there, and she trusted Beth to keep her informed.

  “I appreciate that. And please, it’s fine to call me Claire.”

  The girl’s smile chased the shadows off. “Yes, Claire. You can count on me!”

  And now to face the general and the major.

  * * * * *

  Chad and Patrick walked to Longchamp’s office, but when they reached the square, Claire was ahead of them, and Chad put his hand on Patrick’s arm to slow him.

  “Where do you think she’s going?” he asked.

  “She had a nice writing set with her luggage,” Patrick told him. “I’m guessing she’s going for something to replace it.”

  “And how would you know what she had in her luggage?” He meant the question to come out as teasing, but he admitted to some jealousy.

  “Don’t be daft. It was the first thing she pulled out when she got to her room. I’m guessing she likes to stay connected to whoever she can.”

  “You’re probably right. I wonder if she knows General Morley is here.”

  “Even if she does, it won’t stop her.”

  Chad smiled. “No, it won’t. The girl could face down an army.”

  They followed Claire across the square. Chad was pleased to see that the base’s crews were busy working on clearing the debris from the shelling.

  “Do you know who’s clearing the General’s House mess?”

  “Aye, and I’ve already told him to look out for Claire’s things and to give me whatever he finds. He owes me a favor. Got him out of a tight situation in town a few weeks ago.”

  Chad wondered for the several hundredth time how he managed to snag such a good best friend. It briefly occurred to him that Patrick might be interested in Claire, but he knew Patrick wouldn’t interfere. Plus, Claire wasn’t the kind of woman Patrick would go for. On the rare occasion the Irishman had expressed interest in someone, it was a woman who needed rescuing in some way—not a rescuer like Claire.