The Eterna Solution

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “A loving point of pride and thus a shield,” Clara agreed. Then her stomach clenched and she furrowed her brow. “Congress notwithstanding, those native to this continent have their own customs and beliefs, and considering everything the government has done, it would be a further imposition if the white man were to tell them how to protect themselves. They need a Ward against our people as much as anything.”

  “Colonial powers become pathological,” Black said with a sigh. “I know all too well. I have tried to dissuade Her Majesty from overreach, but she seems rather more enchanted by the brass band symphony of manifest destiny.”

  Clara nodded. “It keeps me up at night, really, that there seems to be an utter inability to coexist. That violence and seizure is simply what human beings do. That doesn’t sit with me. With any of me that has ever been.”

  “We have to do our best within a broken world,” Lord Black said quietly, lifting Clara’s downcast head with a gentle finger to her chin. “I have to reassure myself of that, every single day. We must be healers in a universe of ills.”

  This rallied Clara. Lord Black and Rupert Bishop were two sides of a bolstering coin.

  “I’ll have to remember that phrase, Edward, about being a healer; that will be very helpful when I feel helpless.”

  “How can we feel helpless when we are surrounded by so many talented people?” he declared.

  “How indeed,” Clara mused.

  “You know, speaking of weddings and talented people, when will you and the senator, finally, make honest lovers of each other?” Lord Black asked.

  It was Clara’s turn to gasp. She sputtered, “But, we … haven’t…”

  “Oh, Clara Templeton, come now. I’m not a prude, now don’t you be!” Black exclaimed as they turned a curve in the perimeter of the pond. “I don’t care what you have or haven’t done together and that is truly none of my business, but my goodness does that man love you. He oozes it. It would be sickening if he weren’t such a wonderful soul and if you weren’t worthy of such adulation.”

  Clara’s blush flared right up to the rose behind her ear.

  “I see I’ve made you speechless,” Black said with another of his contagious grins. “I’ll make note of that, as nothing else seems to have that effect. Now.” He held out his arm again. She took it with a nervous chuckle. “Come, show me more wonders of this vast, beauteous temple!”

  * * *

  Returning to bid adieu to Evelyn after traversing most of the eastern half of the park, Clara was told at the door that there was someone awaiting her in the parlor, and Lord Black was shown to the library to join Evelyn for tea.

  In Evelyn’s lavish parlor Clara was delighted to find a familiar figure dressed in layers of black lace and crepe, head covered in a tulle veil.

  “Lavinia Kent, I’ve been wondering where you were since our return!” Clara exclaimed, running to embrace her dearest friend, the guardian of the stairs at the Eterna offices.

  The young woman’s black garb did not signify mourning; it was simply her way, every day. If anyone could be said to be the living embodiment of a Gothic novel, it was Lavinia Kent and her fiancé, Nathaniel Veil, who made his living as a performer of Gothic texts reinterpreted for the stage. Now Lavinia lifted the tulle, revealing a few shocks of red hair pinned beneath her hat.

  “I’m sorry, Clara,” she began in a bit of a rush, “I had it in my head that you didn’t arrive until today. I know you wired the office … I’ve been … overwhelmed by what’s been happening.”

  “I’m sure,” Clara said gently. “I’m sorry to have left you to it.”

  “Nothing for you to be sorry about, but I will be frank with you. I’m not comfortable being the only woman around. I love the boys, truly, but I need a respite. The reverend, Fred, Franklin, and Mr. Stevens have done wonderful work with the Wards and in aiding those who were discomfited by what happened at Trinity churchyard and the goings-on around Columbia. However none of them are any good at expressing their own emotions and I just can’t do all the feeling for them. Or explain what they’re feeling to them. After a while, it’s a positively vampiric drain!”

  Clara laughed as she embraced her friend, whose keenly empathic nature was one of her greatest strengths. “I know. And I’m sorry,” Clara said, kissing her on the temple. “If there had been a way to set another strong woman at your side—”

  “At another time, I’d have had Natalie. But seeing as how Lady Denbury now has little Eve, how could I in good conscience bring any of these troubles to her doorstep? Not when she’s so worried about the pall Jonathon can’t seem to shake.”

  “I hope he’s doing better now that he’s home.”

  “I’m sure. I haven’t seen him, I plan on giving space. But I do know Natalie and Eve do wonders for him. They reverse all the lines on his beautiful face, take the dark circles from his eyes and replace their hollows with joyful twinkle,” she said, enjoying a bit of poetry in regard to friends who had all seen death together and fought the reaper with their brave, bare young hands.

  “I am so glad to hear that,” Clara replied. “I’m racked with guilt bringing Jonathon back into this.”

  “It wasn’t you! It was finding out Moriel wasn’t actually killed,” Lavinia spat. “I only wish I could have seen him go up in flames in person, or delivered that blow myself. But I digress. I’m here to … ask your counsel.”

  “Anything, my dear.”

  “I’ve been spending every moment I can with Nathaniel. He is in New York for the foreseeable future,” Lavinia said excitedly.

  “Well I should hope so, he is still your fiancé, isn’t he?” Clara said sharply. Lavinia held up her hand to show the black pearl of her engagement ring, set firmly on her finger.

  “I know everything going on is, well, devastating, and that we have to fight against any last shred of the Society at all costs, but I was thinking…” She bit her lip.

  “Go on, love,” Clara urged, pouring her friend a cup of tea from the samovar. Lavinia fiddled with it a bit, then took a single sip before setting it aside.

  “Her Majesty’s Association of Melancholy Bastards, you know, our little fraternity,” she said with a smile as Clara nodded, “well, a lot of our members have been deeply upset by what is going on. One would think a group that wears all black and celebrates the supernatural would rejoice, but actually it is quite the opposite. And of course these events are not joyous, not celebrations but desecrations.

  “Our group is so sensitive. Not all are Sensitive, mind you, but many have some gifts, latent or awake, that take quite the toll. They’re such delicate souls that I fear for some of their lives. You know how hard Nathaniel fights to prevent suicide, it’s his personal mission.”

  “I can imagine, and, of course, I understand.”

  “So Nathaniel and I were talking about what we could do. He could perform, of course, but he … well … he’s ready to marry me and he thought inviting all our members to a huge, theatrical, elaborate wedding would turn the emotional tide. What do you think?”

  “I think that is brilliant!” Clara exclaimed.

  “It isn’t that I don’t think the supernatural terrorism isn’t of utmost importance—”

  “Darling, no, it’s brilliant. May I tell our friends?”

  Lavinia nodded eagerly, allowing herself to beam, and bounced a bit on the divan, no longer holding back her excitement.

  Clara opened the parlor door and called for Evelyn and Lord Black, who were in the library.

  “Lord Black, overseer of England’s Omega department; may I introduce Lavinia Kent, our Eterna gatekeeper and the fiancée of one of your famed countrymen, the legendary Nathaniel Veil.”

  “I loved Beyond the Veil!” Black cried. “Genius! His Castle of Otronto bit was my favorite, but I loved the Poe set to music. Do give him my regards!” he said, kissing her outstretched hand.

  “I shall, Lord Black, thank you and welcome to our city.”

  “My dear Vin wants
to help turn the tide of this city’s supreme melancholy. She and Nathaniel would like to make their wedding a lavish public affair. One we could heartily Ward. What do you think?”

  “Of course!” Evelyn exclaimed.

  Clara turned to Lord Black. “You know the wonderful thing about weddings?”

  He raised an eyebrow. She continued, “We can utilize a lot of flowers!”

  “Brilliant!” Black exclaimed. He turned to Evelyn. “My dear, would you mind terribly if your home was turned into a bit of a makeshift nursery in the immediate future?”

  The grandly elegant woman shrugged. “Be my guest. My gentle husband will much prefer a room full of flowers to one of ghosts.”

  Lavinia smiled, having gained a team of assistants.

  An additional instinct struck Clara. “Have you thought about where you would like to hold the ceremony? Because I’ve an idea.”

  “It depends on who will marry us. Not many priests or reverends take kindly to actors, you know. Many can’t even be buried in upstanding lots,” Lavinia replied sadly.

  “You leave that to us,” Clara demanded. “How would Trinity Church sound?”

  “The Trinity? At Wall Street?”

  Clara nodded. “It needs beauty. Love. Magic. Healing from the recent exhumations. It needs help, particularly now, and we’ll need a great deal of benedictions and positive blessings.” She turned to Evelyn, who was nodding in agreement with Clara’s logic.

  They could also carefully inter the ashes from the Columbia University bodies, then conduct a lavish Warding ceremony and put everything in better order.

  “I’ll make sure Blessing knows and I’ll talk to the diocese immediately,” Evelyn said.

  Lavinia’s eyes widened. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

  “Because it’s a dark little church in the most Gothic of styles?” Clara posited with a grin.

  “Precisely!”

  “Now that that’s settled,” Clara said, frowning as she looked out the lace-curtained window at what had turned into a rainy afternoon. “Good that we took to the park when we did, milord!”

  “Indeed,” Black said.

  “My darlings, while I am loath to leave your comforts, I have not yet checked back in at my office and I must do so.”

  “Let’s go downtown together, then,” Black said. “I must see if Everhart and Spire are on the trail of something useful.”

  “My driver will take you all where you’re needed,” Evelyn assured. “I’ll send for him.”

  Clara kissed the medium on both cheeks. “Whatever would we do without you?”

  * * *

  Soon enough Clara was walking in the familiar door of her Pearl Street offices, where she found Franklin at Lavinia’s desk. During her trip downtown she had held tightly to Lavinia’s joy, hoping she might feel something of that luxurious emotion herself when circumstances settled down. Love and care could be her new compass moorings, strengthening her actions. Despite these cheerful thoughts, uneasiness plagued her. Danger was right around the corner; she could feel it.

  Clara was glad to see that Franklin had retained the building’s two guards, who stood silent sentry just inside the entrance. She gave them a nod of greeting before crossing to the cozy nook beneath the stairs where Lavinia usually spent her daylight hours. Franklin looked a little less tired than when she had last seen him, but lost in thought.

  “Lavinia won’t be in,” Clara explained. “I see you’ve taken up her post, and wanted you to know she’ll be off for the next week, planning her wedding.”

  “Quite the timing,” he said bitterly.

  “Oh, no, we encouraged her to,” Clara countered. “She’ll be doing it at Trinity, and the preparations and the ceremony will provide cover for a whole host of Warding and smoothing out any remaining damage to the plots.”

  Franklin considered this. “Well, that’s useful then.”

  Clara ducked into the small rear kitchen, where a potbellied stove held several kettles of different sizes. Nearby was a cabinet full of china cups and saucers and canisters of various tea leaves as well as one of ground coffee. That cabinet, to Clara, was life. “Coffee or tea?” she called back to Franklin.

  “Neither,” he replied, and she could hear his tread on the stairs to their upper-floor offices.

  “Never heard you turn down a cup of pekoe in your life, but suit yourself,” she murmured, and stoked the stove to heat water for coffee.

  Minutes later she headed upstairs, gathered skirts in one hand and a teacup full of coffee in the other. She went straight to her desk, a haphazard space where files and papers seemed piled entirely out of order—but to Clara’s mind, the arrangement was entirely precise; she could tell in an instant if anyone had been rifling through. Indeed, as she looked, she could see that things had been … shifted … a bit.

  “Franklin, did you try to clean my desk again?” she asked grumpily.

  “I did,” he said, implying his defeat at the hands of almighty clutter.

  “Despite my asking you not to?”

  “Clara, mess makes me nervous. It’s been a nerve-racking time. I couldn’t help it, it was like a compulsion, but, you see, I stopped myself.” He spoke so earnestly she could only loose a good-natured laugh.

  “I’ve missed you, my friend.”

  “You have?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “Well, thank you, I’ve missed you.”

  He always seemed surprised by any actual show of affection or appreciation, a sign of his low regard for himself, something that frustrated her as much as her disorderly desk did him.

  “I expect to hear shortly from Mr. Spire and Miss Everhart. Anything in the papers?”

  “Nothing beyond the normal New York madness. Missing persons seem to be the theme.”

  “Perhaps possessed, perhaps stolen for parts.”

  “I wonder if this is what the Society wanted, this slow, subtle creep of dread and despair.”

  “Hopefully what we’re witnessing are the final pangs after Moriel’s death,” Clara assured. “If there is an American head of the Society, or Apex, we’ll find them. Or, they might find us. That actually seems to be more probable,” Clara said sadly, then rallied. “This grim stuff won’t last forever. The Society never thought they’d meet a resistance. While we have underestimated them, we’ve been underestimated, too.”

  “You’re right, as usual. My sun through dark clouds.” Franklin smiled.

  In a past life she had literally saved this man from drowning at sea during a storm; his soul seemed to remain in her charge.

  “The tag you took from Liberty’s hand,” Clara prompted. “Anything new? Anything of further psychometric value?”

  He fished in his pocket and placed the tag bearing that neatly penned Shakespearean script on his desk.

  “No, unfortunately.” Franklin shook his head, his voice sounding oddly sad and far away. “I still haven’t found it … the source,” he replied.

  “Keep looking, if you would. I’m sure it will prove useful.”

  He rose, his eyes even more distant than his voice. “Keep looking…” he echoed.

  “Yes? What about it? I mean, if you’d rather not—”

  “I’ll keep looking.” And with that, he exited promptly.

  When he set his mind to something, he wouldn’t be deterred, so she let him go his own way just as she always insisted she go hers.

  Still there was something off about him, beyond his usual melancholy. Taking steps toward the door, she thought to run after him, to ask him if he was all right, if the past weeks had actually broken his spirit, but she didn’t want to seem like she thought him too fragile. Wavering on her feet, she said a little prayer for discernment, but her instincts were an unhelpful neutral.

  But maybe her instincts and how to tune them in the city needed readjusting. She’d been away and so much had changed. Facing death and such wild displays of evil invention had aged her, the powers she’d wielded matured her talents and sensibilities. Her h
eart had broken and renewed itself all over again. Perhaps coming back to New York with a new gravity meant everyone and everything felt all the more changed for her perspective.

  She couldn’t worry about everyone’s moods any more than she’d told Lavinia not to.

  Clara considered the empty room a moment, this office her second home, the Tiffany-glass gas lamps with their flames trimmed high, casting a prismatic array of vibrant colors about the walls.

  On Bishop’s desk sat a wooden rack full of the first Wards, compiled directly from Louis’s recipe: a mixture of silt and water from the harbor, chips of bone from forgotten graves—dead whom Clara hoped to honor by incorporating them into the city’s protective barriers—and shreds of paper dollars scavenged on Wall Street, as nothing said New York like relentless, merciless money.

  The least greed could do was be turned on its axis to shield the denizens it took advantage of.

  Lighting a Ward could do her little corner of the world some good. Choosing one of the vials, she struck a match and dropped it in, saying a little prayer for the city and asking forgiveness on the city’s behalf.

  The Ward began to glow with a strange, gray light, sparked by Clara’s life force and intentions. She set it in a brass candleholder on her desk and considered the amalgam of papers and notes she had amassed through years of supernatural inquiry. Despite the battles of recent months, her deep hunger for truths, to know the unknowable, waned. Attempting to find a cure for death had led them down a dark path and destroyed many lives. Only protecting life bore any fruit.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the bell downstairs. She went to the top of the landing as the guards admitted the newcomers, whose voices Clara immediately recognized. She called down, asking them to come up.

  Moments later, Rose and Spire were seated in Clara’s office to tell her what Mosley had shown them on the bridge. Clara shuddered.

  “If this is Society business,” Clara began, “and what else would it be—one would hope there isn’t a competition of vile cults these days—they’re taking an industrial front rather than a personal one. Moriel wished to build armies of pawns. This, alternately, seems to wish to corral the progress of the machines. Why else put such fetishes onto a working mechanism?”