The Eterna Solution

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “There are only so many body parts anyone should have to consider in so many days, but if we delay, they’ll worry for us.”

  “You’re very brave, Miss Everhart,” Spire said quietly. Rose turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

  “You say that because I should have a lady’s ‘delicate sensibilities’?”

  “No,” Spire said matter-of-factly, “I say that because in Tourney’s cellar I turned my head and vomited. You did not. And here, again, you managed to keep an impressive calm. My stomach simply nearly couldn’t abide it.”

  At this, Rose couldn’t help but laugh. A truth deepened within her, the delicate opening of a hardy flower; when Harold Spire was at her side, she felt she could endure anything. She was not melancholic by nature, but next to him, she was fearless and content. Until this point in her life, she had been a solitary soul, so this revelation was profound.

  “You delight me, Mr. Spire,” Rose said as they left the bridge and turned onto Broadway.

  Spire seemed surprised by this, his scowl softening in pleasure. “Do I?”

  “You do. I find you to be … my favorite company.”

  “That is … high praise.”

  Neither was prone to giving or receiving compliments, making their exchanges stilted, but their sentiments were no less genuine for being awkward.

  “This work, it taxes the spirit,” Rose added, “but I find it to be less so, with you beside me. I hope I—”

  “You are the only thing that has made life bearable in quite some time,” Spire replied hastily, as if that bold declaration had been bubbling up behind a dam, aching to burst forth.

  Rose’s cheeks colored. Glancing at him, she found his cheeks were as bright as hers. The small gestures and hints she had perceived in the past month were not wishful thinking, then. He cared for her. Their affection was mutual and growing.

  She could feel his gaze upon her and wondered what he would say next. But this was not the time for sentiment. Or was it? She spoke.

  “As we have agreed to wait a bit to share the latest dreadful turn with our American colleagues, unsettled stomach or no, would this be a bad time to ask if you’d care to have a drink at Delmonico’s?”

  “You’re full of good ideas, Miss Everhart,” Spire replied. She smiled.

  They picked up their pace a bit, or perhaps they merely accounted for the spring in their steps.

  “You should call me Rose, Mr. Spire,” she said quietly.

  “Harold then, Rose. It’s time…” He offered his arm. She took it.

  As they walked past newspaper buildings and fine municipal halls, Rose felt that the gas lamps burned brighter and the sky turned a richer shade of purple twilight.… New York was now magical.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  When Clara woke, after what her mantel clock told her was twelve hours, her first thought was of Rupert. She listened for him but the town house was silent.

  Once she changed out of the clothes she’d been deposited in for a fresh day dress in a dusky rose hue with an embroidered shawl, she went to check on him, but he was nowhere to be found in the house.

  She suspected the senator was already at a legislative office near City Hall, determining what lawmakers in the city were doing about the strange goings-on. Knocking on his door, she found it open and the bed made, confirming that she’d missed him, and reminding her how much she liked seeing him in the morning and before she went to bed. A twinge of desire shot through her as she envisioned a future of such greetings and partings, of waking up and going to sleep together …

  She peered into the open door of his study, and a note on his desk confirmed her suspicions.

  My dear,

  Out with government associates to get a read on the needs of the city and Washington. You know dealing with politicians is worse than herding cats, it will take a good part of the day, but Lord Black will entertain you. Enjoy the park.

  XO, Rupert

  She ran her hand over the smooth surface of his desk fondly, smiling at the daguerreotype of her he kept in a silver frame facing his chair, her heart full to bursting.

  She stood on the floor they shared, their set of rooms a hallway apart, she looked around at all the fine wood, the plush carpeting and pleasant furnishings, she wandered back into her room of gauzy lace curtains and beautiful porcelain things and yes, it was good to be home, but none of it meant anything if her anchor wasn’t there to share it, to bring her surroundings to life.

  Rupert was home. Everything else was a shell. She had never felt that so clearly or deeply. It was freeing in its own way, terrifying in another; to need someone so much. A vulnerable port for an independent soul to have docked in. She descended to the dining room in hopes of a large breakfast.

  While their housekeeper, Harper, was out at the market procuring fresh food, she’d left a note, too, lest Clara feel abandoned, and set out a spread of bread, butter and jam, and, most importantly, a pot of still-warm coffee. Clara ravenously partook of two cups of the expensive stuff Bishop kept on hand just for her, and most of the loaf of bread.

  While intelligent, Clara simply wasn’t as swift in the morning as she’d like, especially if having seized or narrowly avoided it. Coffee allowed the wide net of her paranormal mind to narrow into sharper measure, and she simply didn’t know what civilization had done without it.

  Looking out the window, she saw that the sky was slightly gray but that the October day was pleasant enough, built for strolling. “Now, Lord Black, talk to me of your magic…” she murmured, and was off.

  * * *

  Lord Black awaited her in Evelyn’s parlor, having donned a waistcoat and ascot in shades of bright blue that matched the layered blue piping on the tailored lines of his gray suit.

  “Why, don’t you look dapper as ever!” she exclaimed. What, on others, would look ostentatious, on Lord Black appeared simply celebratory, as if his every day was a holiday.

  “I had a feeling you’d sleep in, and good, you needed it. This allowed me time to go shopping and it was divine,” he exclaimed, smoothing his new satin waistcoat. “Our Evelyn and Knight are off on their own adventure. Knight insisted on meeting Madame Blavatsky, and Evelyn felt passionately about obliging.”

  Clara chuckled. “Ah! Won’t those two be a sight to see?” Clara had a feeling that the preeminent psychic, founder of the Theosophical Society and fascinating eccentric, would absolutely adore Miss Knight and fold her immediately into her circle. Evelyn and Clara had always kept a polite distance; it was safest that way.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind if we declined the invitation,” Black said.

  “Ah, no, Blavatsky is an engaging, wonderful character in her own right, but I confess I find her somewhat exhausting,” Clara confessed. “The park is exactly what we need.”

  Lord Black held out his arm for Clara and she took it happily. Lord Black, a perfect gentleman, treated Clara as a person of great worth, his opinion unaffected by her gifts, her epilepsy, her remaining unmarried at her age, or her devotion to her work.

  In turn, she felt nothing but warmth for him and the man he loved, and she dearly appreciated how the nobleman used his position to help those around him live their best lives. He was one of those people who seemed like a higher being bid walk among mortals.

  They had to wait for a break in the steady stream of fine, two-horse carriages that were clopping up Fifth Avenue before they could cross into the park.

  The eight hundred and thirty-two acres of Central Park belonged, as its visionary designers had hoped, to all the people of New York City, and countless numbers were out enjoying it.

  Clara led Lord Black through winding paths to Bethesda Terrace, the crown jewel of the park, ruled by the Angel of the Waters and her fountain, and further into the interior of its carefully planned wildness. The “park of a thousand parks,” as it had been called, evoked a gasp from Black the moment they turned a corner and saw a new, sweeping vista unfold, one picturesque setting
after another.

  A staggering amount of flora had been planted in this place during the park’s long construction, over a million trees of over six hundred different varieties, placed in soil that had once been quite swampy and unremarkable, the water table now rerouted into gorgeous ponds and reflective surfaces.

  At Clara’s side, Lord Black looked at the innumerable plant life. The last of the fall colors cast the whole vast, layered array in shades of yellow, orange, red, deepening brown, and the stalwart evergreen.

  After only two decades, the park was already a haven. Inside, there was a distinct difference of temperature, a palpable change in the scent and quality of the air. The effect was energizing.

  “You know, Miss Templeton,” Lord Black began.

  “Clara please, milord, after all we’ve been through,” she said, interrupting him with a gentle smile.

  “Edward, then, if you will. I’m very glad to have you all to myself for a bit.”

  There was a wide, nearly childlike grin on his face and Clara felt the keen force of this kindred spirit. He had been part of her family in a former life, and that sense memory underlay their current friendship. Clara was flooded with an overwhelming feeling of comfort that was difficult to put into words.

  “Are you getting the sense we’ve done this before, you and I?” he asked with a delightful youthfulness that might have been positively intoxicating if not for her love for Bishop—and Edward’s for his dear Francis, whom they’d left behind in London.

  “I am, quite strongly.” She stared at the aristocrat. “I don’t have the specific sense of a sibling like I do with Rose, but you were very close to me, at least once.”

  “I am glad you feel the same,” Black said. “Bodies get sorted into one of what society sees as only two categories, building distinct prisons for them both. The soul is not so codified. Especially not an old soul, one that’s been everything the human experience can offer. For old souls, identity remains far more fluid.”

  “Absolutely,” Clara agreed, relieved that someone could understand the many different versions of her soul she saw stretched out before her, understanding life as containing multitudes.

  They turned a winding corner into a stretch where trees arched branches over them like a clerestory walk. Black took a deep breath.

  “This, Clara. This is heaven.”

  “You’re such a metropolitan soul, Edward. Who unmistakably brightens beneath leaves, and leaves grow green when near you. There’s a bit of fae to you,” Clara stated.

  “In more ways than one,” he said, arching one eyebrow, and Clara laughed. “I’ve a way with plants,” he declared.

  “I know, I watched you gathering leaves and flowers at Columbia, placing them with careful deliberation on the bodies. I then understood why you keep all those small pots of ivy in your Knightsbridge home; why your garden is so lush and filled with such diversity of species. You speak their language.”

  “I’m what one might call a green witch, though the term takes on pejorative qualities depending on who wields or answers to it.”

  “Botany is one of the world’s most important sciences,” Clara continued eagerly. “As a child, I spent hours poring over books on the natural world. My parents, may they rest in peace, demanded that any child of an unnatural man-made city be mindful of the natural cities, every tree and every different clime having its own metropolis of organisms.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Lord Black strayed off the winding path to bend over a peach-colored rosebush in raucous fall bloom. A branch near the bottom of the shrub had been nearly severed by some passing creature or person. Breaking it free, he offered Clara the stem, bursting with a delicate blossom. Clara was moved by his desire to gather only that which would have withered if left alone.

  “To counter the hysteria of Victorian secrecy, our century has created something wonderfully resourceful,” Black began. “The language of flowers. I speak in this language as often as I can. What am I saying to you now?” he asked. She took the sprig and studied it for a moment before tucking it behind her ear.

  “Seeing as how you have presented me with a peach rose in full bloom, with a leaf attached,” Clara replied, “this color of rose symbolizes immortality and modesty. The first speaks of our commission’s original aim, the latter speaks of the humility we must maintain in moving forward with new information, tending to the sanctity of our souls. With the addition of the leaf, perhaps you remind me to remain hopeful in dark times?”

  “Indeed, Clara. Precisely so. You speak my language fluently…”

  “Why then, as a practitioner of green craft, did I see no flowers inside your home?”

  Here Lord Black pouted. “On account of my poor Francis. He happens to be terribly allergic to pollen and he’s far less handsome with a red nose.”

  Clara chuckled. “That is a most unfortunate ailment, the poor dear. But why were you not more open about this particular discipline during the Warding process in England? You would have been vital to the recipe in those vials!”

  “Oh, I was quite involved,” Black assured her. “It was simply a secret between Dr. Zhavia and me. There was dried Hedera helix in each of those vials, Knight’s Cross ivy, lovingly raised in my home. It represented the beauty of green, faithful England, a verdant knight fighting for her in the darkest hours.”

  “Wonderful,” Clara exclaimed. “What a blessing indeed. But I wish you hadn’t hidden your talents from me. It’s a relief to know. Now you make more sense.”

  “Please understand,” the lord said, an earnestness offsetting his joie de vivre, “I have to hide so much about my life, about who I am, who I dare to love. And if I were decried as a kind of witch on top of it all?” She heard the pain in his voice and responded reassuringly.

  “I do understand, most certainly,” she said, reaching out a comforting hand. “We keep our armors, and for good reason.”

  “Please don’t tell Mr. Spire. He’s so leery of everything about our departments—I think this revelation about me would tax our burgeoning friendship.”

  Clara couldn’t help but chuckle. “I promise. And I think you’re right. However, I do think your gentle guidance on some bouquets for Miss Everhart might be a welcome service to him.”

  Lord Black gasped. “Really? Those two?”

  Clara pursed her lips. “I’d have thought it were obvious.”

  “Well, I admit, I am too protective and shortsighted when it comes to my dear Rose. But, now that you mention it, goodness, they are perfect for each other!” He grabbed Clara’s arm. “Let’s plan a wedding!”

  Clara laughed again, realizing it had been a while since she had felt so unburdened and so full of hope. This was Lord Black’s greatest power: ebullience.

  “But in all seriousness, my dear Clara,” he continued, “what I wanted to impress upon you during our stroll is something I’ve worried about for quite some time, long before these nightmares reared their heads.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The balance between the natural and the unnatural world,” Black continued. “As your parents said, I live in a very industrial city but surround myself with living things and try to create natural systems within as many spaces as possible. I have been to your country before. To this city. The balance is very off here—the only thing that has rectified the tipping scales is this park.

  “I know the planners have been passionate about it but I’m not sure anyone knows how vitally magical it is. But we might do well to consider that, to protect what is natural. Not at the cost of progress, mind you. I believe in steel and plumbing, in the possibility of electric light and the wonder of the telegraph cable. But if we do not mind our leaves, our branches and roots in equal measure…”

  “We’ll be lost,” Clara agreed. “I’m grateful for your perspective, Edward. Because I taste a sourness—a metallic bitterness in the air. If there is a rhythm to this city, it has gained a strange murmur, an off-tempo bea
t.” She thought of the visitor, of the ley lines. “Speaking of balance and forces of nature, Rose told me you met a woman named Lizzie Marlowe.”

  “You know her?” Black exclaimed. “What the devil is she? Something is either very wrong or too right about her.”

  “I can’t explain her, but she has appeared to me at irregular intervals since I was a child. I used to think I was mad, but, then, don’t all of the gifted think that at some point?” Clara gave a short, bitter laugh and continued.

  “She appeared to several of us on the ship home, and though her visit was brief, she trained me to feel a certain source. Much like latitude and longitude, there are other markers—”

  “Ley lines,” he supplied without hesitation.

  “With the principles you espouse, I’m sure you feel them far more strongly than I. She encouraged me to be aware and to find ways to amplify them.”

  “Because the industrial energy is amassing in a way that will shift the balance between man and nature,” Black said, clapping his hands together. “That is most certainly true.”

  They strolled now beside one of the park’s many beautiful ponds, passing below the hanging tendrils of a weeping willow. Black continued with contagious enthusiasm.

  “It is my strong conviction that Warding with flowers, trees, and shrubbery will be very effective in maintaining the balance—and in protecting humanity from the deleterious effects of industry, both spiritual and physical. Given this land’s many different climes and populations, it may be the most effective local Warding there is, something cross-cultural and without ties to individual faiths.”

  “That is brilliant, Lord Black,” Clara said, filled with genuine admiration for his quick mind. “I will tell Rupert to bid all his congressional colleagues institute that principle immediately.”

  “It can be a type of game,” Black suggested. “Legislatures can debate which tree or flower best represents a state and its people, put it up for a vote, and all the while it’s a statement—giving something natural a greater power, protecting the area from the encroaching unnatural offense.”