If the maids were daunted by an unexpected crowd, they did not show it; likely daunted by little, considering the lady of the house and her compatriots underwent rather ungodly circumstances time and time again. When Evelyn inquired about the status of her husband, she was told he would be held late by a Metropolitan Museum function and she chuckled, saying that was for the best. She turned to Spire.
“Like you, my good man, my husband isn’t one for ghost stories. Thankfully he cares for me enough to overlook the constant one I keep living.” She smiled and this actually got a bit of a laugh out of Spire.
Once the company had all settled into Evelyn Northe-Stewart’s fine parlor, all were soon armed with delicate, gilt-trimmed cups of fine bone china, filled with a rich, hot tea to banish the chill of death. There was blessed silence for a while.
However, Spire, ever the consummate policeman, could not stray from duty.
“I again can’t help but wonder if the displays we have seen to today are merely distractions from other dealings going on in the city,” Spire began carefully. “Will matters come to a head in your capital as they did in ours? While I’m hardly clairvoyant, I’m rarely wrong when it comes to such things.
“Considering these spectacles we dealt with today—well,” Spire continued, “I cannot, for the life of me, see how anyone might profit from them, but they might gain time from keeping us busy while infiltrating hearts of commerce and your capital, just as Moriel wished to take down Parliament. Your mesmerism of Congress was a start, but I am certain there is more to do there to maintain protections.”
“Likely so,” Senator Bishop replied. “I’ll wire each of my most trusted Washington contacts in the morning. In the meantime we must keep fighting these battles when they arise and rest when we can, but let us not think the resurrectionist terrors are all that is in play.”
“For my part,” Spire began, “Miss Everhart and I will investigate the postbox from the Columbia billet and Edison’s plant. Of course, we must consider the docks. Apex is still in operation; a business in body parts. The Master’s Society heir, if there is one, is whoever is running Apex.”
Effie took her brother’s hand and volunteered. “We’ll be active at the docks,” she said wearily. “I know what to say and what to look for. I’ll make sure Franklin knows, too.”
“Thank you,” Bishop and Spire chorused.
“From what we understand of the reanimate,” Bishop said, “there would have been a great deal of energy created and expended to make those dead rise in the first place, presumably electricity from the display dynamo Columbia received. Is one Edison dynamo that powerful?”
“The war of the currents rages between Edison and Westinghouse,” Evelyn said. “It is a war Mr. Edison is shrewd and ruthless enough to most certainly win. Whole blocks downtown have become a playground for his Pearl Street plant. He’s likely to court every college or other institution where he might expand.”
“Then I’ll make inquiries in this war,” Spire said, setting down his cup on the silver tea tray and standing, smoothing his brown waistcoat. “Thank you for the tea, it was bolstering. But while I might not have much light left, these things thrive in darkness. Progress can yet be made. I’ve been cooped up on a ship for too many days, I’m far too glad to have my feet back under me again to stop now.”
“No, Mr. Spire, if you please, did you not advocate rest?” Evelyn stood in protest.
“You were tireless on our soil, we’ll be the same on yours,” Spire declared. There was no arguing with the man.
Clara watched Rose glide to his side as he rose to his feet. Those two were connected in partnership in the way she and Bishop were, an effortless pair. Their connected movement was like an equation, a chain reaction creating the next step. The corners of Spire’s characteristic frown curled upward as she joined him, reflecting his quiet pleasure.
“As we’ll already be downtown, we’ll return to our safe house,” he added. “Thank goodness for government embassies and their amenities. We’ve all a bit of settling back in to attend to. Shall we rendezvous here in due time?”
Evelyn nodded. “I’m always happy to host.”
“Thank you for everything,” Spire stated.
Rose offered the same, turning to Clara. “We’ll not be far from you if you need anything.”
“The very same, my dear,” Clara said with a wave as the two strode out the door in tandem.
Once they had exited, Lord Black, who had been watching Spire with a mixture of pride and exhaustion, commented:
“Good man. Hiring him was the best decision I ever made,” he exclaimed. The nobleman rose to his feet and took a few paces about the room.
Black was struck by something, looking out the window. “Is that your great, famed Central Park there, across the street?” he asked excitedly.
“Yes,” Clara replied, sharing the beaming smile he turned upon her.
At this, his entrancing eyes danced. “Miss Templeton, if we’ve a spare moment, would you mind showing me your magnificent park?” He turned to Bishop. “With, of course, your permission, Senator. Though you know I am devoted to my Francis and am of no concern.”
Clara turned to Bishop with a smile, daring to draw back the curtain of her emotions. “My dear senator is not a jealous man. He knows, now, where my heart lies.”
At this, Bishop actually blushed.
Clara swiftly took the pressure off Rupert from having to respond, turning back to Black. “I’d be honored to escort you, milord,” she added. “But may I ask why you’re curious? You’ve the air of someone hoping for more than a tourist experience.”
Something about what Clara had seen him do in Columbia strummed the telling, internal lyre of her instincts and she knew, with a knowledge that was very old indeed, that a trip to the park wasn’t merely about a nice stroll. Entering the park would be about power and she wanted him to say so.
“As we talk about protections,” Black replied, “I want you to understand mine.”
“Wonderful,” Clara replied. “Let’s do so in the morning. May we meet here, Evelyn?”
The medium nodded. “I remain your home away from home.”
The assembled company, exhaustion setting in all around, rose to be on their way with pleasantries and embraces all around.
Bishop turned to Clara with an inviting smile, holding out his arm for her. On the carriage ride downtown, Clara allowed her facade to fall and leaned against him fully, no longer hiding her aching exhaustion. Folding an arm around her, he kissed the crown of her head in a benediction. It was as if this were a spell, and she fell into a deep sleep.
She did not remember being carried inside, or up to her room, until she stirred there in the middle of the night, realizing she remained fully dressed but was tucked gently under her covers. There, she smiled and thanked heavens for heart and home.
CHAPTER
SIX
Rose and Spire took an East Side trolley car downtown with the aim of at least taking stock of Edison’s plant, to see what it was doing after hours, conveniently near their safe house for their well-earned collapse afterward. After they’d ridden in comfortable quiet for some time, Rose couldn’t hold back a thought.
“May I speak boldly about a difficult subject, Mr. Spire?”
“Of course.”
“Lord Black once told me that he’d chosen us for Omega because our having each lost a parent to murder made for a better-prepared, dauntless team. Do you think he was right? Are we better able to face the strange unknown because we have survived formative horror? And did that steel us enough or should we be armored even more?”
Spire set his jaw. “He said something similar to me, early on. At the time I thought he was being flippant, but now, I think he was speaking honestly. Were I some innocent lamb pitted against such lightless forces as those we face, for I do feel the evil Moriel has wrought, even if I don’t see the demons, I doubt I’d have the strength to face the work.”
“
I empathize and agree,” Rose replied.
“Perhaps,” Spire continued thoughtfully, “the righteous fury of our youth might be as much a protective Ward for us as any of Miss Templeton’s vials. To each their own magic, I suppose.” He smiled as the trolley came to its downtown stop.
They alighted near their Whitehall Street safe house and strolled east along Pearl Street, the riverfront busy at all hours, toward the large brick building with cast-iron pillars that was the home of Thomas Edison’s infamous dynamos, lit brightly, garishly, with electric lights along its facade, a buzzing advertisement against the darkening sky.
“Jumbos” one through nine had only recently begun generating their massive amounts of voltage at the tip of the island. These new engines powered and fueled restless, sleepless Manhattan Island and its endless hunger for commerce and capital. Even from the opposite end of the block one could hear the great, whirring hum of turbines, the intense hissing of boilers. Rose could feel vibrations over her skin and below the soles of her boots. Stopping before the four-story structure had her feeling like she stood on a hornets’ nest.
Several stacks thrusting into the sky poured steam and smoke into industrially ashen clouds. Though they stood near the confluence of the Hudson and East Rivers, with the sea just beyond, there was nothing refreshing in the air. Instead, the scent of oil was thick in Rose’s nose, nearly prompting her to gag and cough.
The edifice had several front doors, all of which proved to be locked. This was no surprise, as this was not an office, exactly, nor were they within traditional business hours, but there were silhouettes within; an occasional workman moved around the dynamos, like a bee around monstrous flowers. Edison was known to keep certain things hidden or off limits to the general public. Locating what seemed to be a doorbell, Spire pressed the button; he and Rose heard a ringing sound within.
There was no answer.
“No one will answer the door at night, you’ve got to have a key,” came a voice from behind them. “I used to have one, but they changed the locks.”
They turned to find a small man staring at them with sparking eyes. Mosley.
“Hello, Mr. Mosley,” Rose said, trying not to appear as nervous as he made her. “What brings you here tonight?”
He narrowed his eyes at Rose. “You already know I live on this block. I keep an eye on the plant.”
“On behalf of Edison’s Company?” Spire asked.
Mosley snorted. “No, our association ended some time ago.”
“Better to understand the war of the currents, then?” Spire posited.
Mosley laughed hollowly. “If only they’d all destroy one another in the process.” Rose opened her mouth to query further but then thought better of it; she didn’t want to stoke the man’s bitterness. “No,” Mosley continued, “I’m here to listen. Things are even more discordant. The grid is expanding, but it’s taking on a terrible noise.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Spire replied.
“Come back in the morning. There’s something I want to show you. Meet here and then we’ll walk. You’ll want to see what’s happening,” Mosley stated before disappearing around the corner of the building. A streetlamp across the street guttered and the glass of its globe cracked along the side in the shape of a lightning bolt.
“I think we’re done for the day,” Rose murmured. “Let’s not press our luck. We’ve earned that rest you spoke of,” she said, and Spire did not fight her.
Knight and Black had arrived ahead of them; their doors were closed but low light spilled out from underneath. Rose and Spire moved so as not to be disturbing presences. It was important for all members of their team to have their moments alone. Especially, Rose was learning, if they were prone to sensitivities, as everything was simply louder.…
A letter lay on the console table addressed to Mr. Blakeley in Knight’s hand. Seeing it, Rose felt a pang for their missing compatriots, the late Mr. Wilson and those who had remained in England, Blakeley and Adira Wilson. It was for the best that they stayed; someone needed to keep tabs on what had been only so recently settled, and it wouldn’t be fair to bring Adira back here in her grief.
“Good night, Miss Everhart,” Spire called softly as he moved to close his own door.
“Good night, Mr. Spire,” she murmured, turning away to take stock of this plain, drab place and try to rally hope and strength.
* * *
They tried the Edison plant again in the morning, and Spire kept ringing the buzzer until someone answered. A bespectacled, ginger-haired man, perspiring and harried, answered the door.
“Hello there,” Spire said jovially the moment the door was open, the greeting uttered in a far more robust manner than was his custom.
“How may I help you, sir?” the man said, adding, “My apologies, but we’re not open for tours.”
“I’m just in from Mother England, my boy”—Rose nearly broke into laughter at a phrase she hadn’t heard Spire ever utter—“and I’m looking to snap up some valuable Manhattan property, but only near places that have access to your incredible current!” He chortled and Rose had to keep from raising an eyebrow. “Do you have a map I can peruse, noting the present reach of your electrical grid? I’m eager to become a customer. And if I like what I see, perhaps a true patron of your endeavors.”
The man’s expression shifted, becoming more welcoming. “By all means, sir. Mr. Volpe, at your service,” he said, bowing slightly and admitting them to the premises. He turned deferentially to Rose, who offered a snooty upper-class expression, deliberately offsetting Spire’s forced cheer. “Madame,” he said with a nod.
“Tom Hamilton,” Spire said, “and my sister.”
Rose bristled a bit at “sister,” which made her realize she liked it better when they played a couple—this shifted uncomfortably within her. But Spire wore no ring today, as he usually did when they posed as married. He must not have brought one along for the ruse, or thought to have put on the detail outside. She hoped her blush at thinking too closely about the matter didn’t distract. Spire seemed not to notice, instead focusing on the entrance, and two of the great generators beyond.
Volpe bid them climb a few steps and enter into an open foyer with high ceilings befitting an industrial space, the interior painted with a neutral beige tinged with soot from the coal fires below that powered the turbines above.
The focal point of the wide-open space was the dynamos, the building’s main feature and star. Wooden stairs and landings on either side of the main floor led to the upper floors, where there were still more dynamos whirring away, Volpe explained proudly.
The behemoth things, well over the height and many times the width of a single human, were like nothing Rose had ever seen; large, circular machines with great coils and thick metal casings. The sound and vibration were so intense and all-consuming, Rose didn’t see how any of the men could handle it for hours on end.
Volpe escorted them to the side and into a wood-paneled office near the front doors. Here, he drew their attention to a large map spread out on a wooden desk. He dragged his finger along various downtown streets, tracing the pale yellow lines already drawn there.
“You are here, in the heart of it all, in district one, the square defined by Pearl, Nassau, Spruce, and Wall Streets,” he explained, running his finger along the electrified districts and where expansion was planned.
The way Volpe passed his finger along the grid was as if the man were examining and explaining anatomy. Rose thought of their eccentric Dr. Zhavia murmuring the contraction of each muscle as it led to movement. Here current was shown as winding, forking, and thrumming lines just like veins below New York’s street skin. To disrupt this burgeoning grid would be to disrupt the industrial pulse of this increasingly mechanized city.
“Your wires run underground, yes?” Spire queried.
“Yes, here in the city they have to. In other areas, such as Menlo Park, there are aboveground wires.”
“Ah
, yes, the Wizard of Menlo Park,” Rose declared. Edison’s familiar nickname was taken from the location of his studio in New Jersey.
“You don’t have trouble…” Spire began carefully, “keeping track of things, do you? Is there any errant or aberrant usage of these new dynamos? I have heard Edison will win this war of the currents with his innovative, efficient mind. Not a drop or volt of waste. At least I would hope.”
“That is most certainly true, sir!” Volpe blinked at them from behind his glasses, his eyes a bit watery. “There is no aberrant usage. All is accounted for.”
Rose could tell by the flick of his eyes to the side that this was a lie. She wondered what else he was hiding.
“Say I was to invest less in property and more in … your company,” Spire asked, “who would my fellow investors be? I’d like to see a list as I’ll want their glowing recommendations of you before I commit a pound—ah, a penny—” He chortled before continuing. “—to the cause.”
Volpe forced a smile. “While I don’t have such a list to offer you at present, I can assure you that only the best people are with us. The Morgan residence, as I’m sure you know, was our first triumph, and we’re expanding daily.”
Rose leaned in to press him, speaking as if conferring a secret, putting a hand to her pearl-buttoned collar. “Now, Mr. Volpe, I have heard concerns about singed carpets and furnishings, sometimes perhaps explosions, what do you have to say—”
“Stuff and rumors,” Volpe scoffed. “Unsubstantiated.”
“Are you sure about direct current?” Spire said, leaning in, too, so that their trio appeared almost conspiratorial. “Have you not heard alternating current might be more sustainable, safer, and better for use at a distance?”
Spire’s knowledge of this new technology surprised Rose, but she recalled him saying that he liked to learn everything he could about things he did not trust—and he had spent a good deal of the sea voyage reading.
“No,” Volpe replied simply. “I have heard no such thing nor would I entertain it.” Another lie, Rose was sure. All the ticks and nerves were there; body language its own code she enjoyed cracking. The employee continued indignantly, “Don’t listen to a word of what those raving Tesla sycophants have to say.”
The Eterna Solution Page 8
