The Eterna Solution

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  When she entered her boudoir after a late breakfast, she gasped. The most beautiful bouquet awaited her on her writing desk. The flowers were red roses, signifying the heart, or love; they were surrounded, bolstered, by sprigs of black poplar, standing for courage. Accompanying them was a note from Lord Black.

  For the heart of our operation, a dose of courage … On the vanity rested a corsage of small white roses, Clara’s favorite flower, a message of worth and worthiness. Beside them sat another surprise, a small jewelry box. Opening it, she found peridot earrings set into a small rose pattern with silver stems and leaves. Bishop had been listening the night prior, when she’d mentioned wearing her favorite green silk gown to the event. His note, written in his neat, careful penmanship, read:

  I could not let Lord Black outdo me. You are the most important treasure I have. I wish to be forever worthy of you. Your Bishop.

  A flow of sudden, happy tears as she put these gifts on with trembling hands and the sentiment they enflamed in her made the Ward in the small vial sitting against her vanity frame shimmer with renewed capability.

  She stared in the mirror and promised the woman staring back at her she would not seize like the last time she’d worn this dress … the night she met Louis. The gown had needed repair and cleaning, which she’d done, then put it in the back of her closet owing to a complicated tangle of emotions. But now she could face it again, and once she’d coiled her hair into a braided crown atop her head, she felt regal.

  It had been her favorite dress, peridot green like her new earrings—and still accented her lines and angles attractively. The wide, doubled skirts were bustled generously, the lines of the dress were accented in golden ribbon trim and glass beads, and a billowing sweep of ruffled satin combined with the fitted bodice to reveal collarbones and décolletage. Around her neck she placed a set of small pearls that had been a gift from Bishop when she had finished her formal education. Beneath the bodice she kept, as always, the protective carved bird Louis had given her in the early days of their courtship. It was an effective talisman, and their company needed as much armor as possible.

  The last accessory: a Ward. She tucked the contents of a downtown-based Ward into an embroidered handkerchief, charging the protection with a small prayer and a frisson of her own energy, and placed it against Louis’s bird pendant pinned inside the dress. At this connection, the air directly around her seemed to warm.

  Placing a matching peridot capelet over her shoulders, she slipped on her cream satin gloves, picked up a beaded bag filled with ritual supplies, and was on her way.

  She descended to the ground floor, where Harper clucked and hovered over her for a bit, clipping a few loose threads with embroidery scissors, Clara rolling her eyes in playful exasperation.

  “Fred Bixby dropped a note by earlier this morning,” the housekeeper stated. “I didn’t want to wake you. He and Effie are with their grandmother, who took a decided turn for the worse, so they extend their apologies for missing the ceremony. The senator is already there in preparation.”

  “Understood, thank you.” Clara made for the door but Harper’s hand stopped her.

  The housekeeper looked her up and down, adjusting the lace bonnet over her head as she couldn’t seem to keep busy hands from fussing over things. “Beautiful. May it be your turn next.”

  Clara sighed, her cheeks coloring. “You, too? Lavinia insinuated the same thing when asking Bishop to be the one to walk her down the aisle. Said he’d be next and then the girl had the cheek to wink at me. A conspiracy, I tell you.”

  They’d never been pressured before. Perhaps the unmistakable way they now looked at one another gave friends and associates presumptive permission. Still, she didn’t like the intrusion of expectations, nosing around intimacy, no matter what society stressed was proper or had a time line.

  The Trinity bells tolled four and Clara took her leave.

  Entering the wrought-iron gates of the church grounds after a short walk, staring up at the spires of the beautiful brownstone chapel in high Gothic style, its golden stained-glass windows glowing from within, she could feel the spirit of the building itself, as if it were a ghost, trying to rise above the recent horrors on its grounds. This building, this plot, had meant so much to her and to Eterna, she felt it was a character in and of itself; quiet sacred ground surrounded by frenetic Manhattan, it was a precious place and needed renewed protection.

  Clara found Reverend Blessing outside, not far from Alexander Hamilton’s grave, which was marked by a stately obelisk. Mr. Stevens was at his side in shirtsleeves, suspenders, and trousers with slightly grass-stained knees. Burlap and paper mounds were heaped about—packages containing the ashes and bone fragments that were to be laid to rest in strategic places about the churchyard.

  Mr. Stevens greeted Clara warmly and complimented her on how lovely she looked. Though she’d directly helped save him from certain death, the wonder and reverence with which he regarded her remained a bit disconcerting.

  He proudly showed her the small, fired clay tags he’d attached to each package. Some bore a person’s name, others just a word.

  “Whatever Mrs. Northe-Stewart told us of name or quality,” Mr. Stevens explained of the demarcations. “I fired these tags in a small makeshift kiln. I think it will help.”

  “It most certainly will, Mr. Stevens. Lest this plot become a potter’s field without any names or religious affiliations, I think this will go great lengths toward peace.”

  With another wide smile he rushed back to helping the reverend.

  Clara noticed that the packages here had small crosses on them, meaning what Evelyn and Knight had been able to glean from the spirits’ wishes about where they might wish to rest. She saw no Stars of David, meaning those remains had likely been transferred to Reverend Blessing’s rabbi friend Holzman for interring, their allied stand against persecution, discrimination, and slavery running as deep as their blood was red.

  “Thank you for your tireless work, gentlemen,” Clara said earnestly. “I’m going in to examine the interior.”

  In the stately sanctuary, Clara overheard Bishop reassuring the deacon that Evelyn Northe-Stewart, a significant patron of the church—and this was no lie—had funded additional grounds restoration before the ceremony. The deacon seemed concerned that he hadn’t had the wedding on his calendar; this worry was eased, calmly and quietly, by the senator’s mesmeric powers. When Bishop noticed Clara down the long wooden aisle, his eyes widened and he put his hand to his heart.

  She smiled, put two fingers to her lips to indicate a kiss, and left him to his work, ducking into the shadows at the fore of the chapel to examine what interior Warding had been done.

  A thought had her turning back to Bishop: What about Franklin? Had he heard from him? Surely Blessing and Stevens would have welcomed the help outside. Yes, he was exhausted and had been taxed to illness by recent events, but it was odd for such a core Eterna Commission employee to miss the wedding of a woman whom she knew he considered a dear friend. Unease gnawed at her nerves until she displaced the feeling, as she could afford nothing but strength and vigilance here, with some room for happiness.

  A hired florist had provided black tulle and varying white flowers drizzled with black paint. Lord Black was personally accomplishing the decor, making sure every placement had meaning behind its beauty. As Clara approached, he was adding a palm frond and bouquets to the end of each pew, creating a lovely line up the aisle toward the pair of large silver vases, exploding with the same arrangement, on the altar.

  As he’d promised, Stevens supplied a case of Wards in a box on a rear pew. Clara picked them up and brought them to Lord Black, who was, like Mr. Stevens, in shirtsleeves, having draped his striped blue and white coat over a pew. “Will it disrupt you if I add Wards to these aisle decorations?”

  “Not at all, it’s the perfect addition,” Black replied.

  “With a bit of ritual around it?” she asked, producing a small few twists
of sage from her drawstring bag of supplies.

  Lord Black smiled. “As my soul knows you from ancient days, Clara, there would be nothing more fitting for us than performing rituals side by side. Well, if we were in a stone circle, perhaps—” He grinned and looked up at the graceful stone arcs of the chapel. “—but arches and crosses will do.”

  She chuckled softly, delighting in him, sure he was right. Her instincts regarding the Warding, perhaps why she’d taken to it so strongly, were as familiar as it was ancient.

  Methodically Clara inserted the small glass vials into the tulle bows of the aisle bouquets, then lit each one. They flared bright and then went into a low smolder, small tendrils of smoke lifting up like incense. She set a match to the thin twists of sage as well, then held them before her in the air and moved them to draw a cross, a pentagram, a Star of David, and a crescent with the smoke. Gliding around the small chapel, almost dancing, she turned to honor the four cardinal directions and imagined that the beautiful Gothic building was alive and helping them in their task.

  Spiritual matters were intimate, and as souls representing a wide spectrum would gather under these Gothic eaves this night, Clara wanted to respect a range of belief and identity as best she could. If the Society did not discriminate in its perversions, she would not discriminate in her protections.

  The Trinity bells tolled again. All would soon be under way.

  * * *

  Spire, dressed in the nicest suit and frock coat he’d ever been in, courtesy of Lord Black, held open the plain, heavy, military-grade metal door of the three-storied British diplomatic safe house tucked into shadows of taller buildings on Whitehall Street.

  Rose thanked him as she brushed past his arm, dressed in a lavender silk dress with fitted bodice that, while modest in its lace neckline and pearl-buttoned collar, had a few too many ruffled layers for her taste; as much a piece of finery as she was comfortable in. The British team, having boarded for New York unprepared, had given Black their measurements, and a wardrobe was there awaiting them in the safe house, details having been wired to his favorite tailor, who was only too happy to oblige one of his best customers. This delighted Miss Knight most, who was unabashedly eager for new gowns, but Spire and Rose would have preferred to wear their own clothes of muted colors and simpler fabrics, more sturdy and made for work.

  They descended the stoop from the side of the brick building that seemed a basic warehouse, an incongruous look, as such nicely dressed persons seemed better suited to descend from a Vanderbilt mansion. Both of them were adjusting, shifting the tight lines of their finery around their middle and shoulders, making sure they’d clasped all the right panels and buttons. After a moment of this mutual fussing, Rose glanced at Spire and they shared a little laugh.

  Once they were strolling northward on Broadway, the island’s most arterial road, Spire spoke. “I shudder to think what we’re in for tonight.” When Rose raised an eyebrow, he clarified: “Please understand, the groom, Nathaniel Veil, is a sensitive subject with my father, who calls him a ‘childe imitator’ in all manner of the Gothic arts. From what I understand, Veil is the better performer. I’m sure my father was terrible to him, even though he was the boy’s idol.”

  “Well, the young man does not suffer from a lack of devotees,” Rose stated. “He has a society of fanatical followers, Her Majesty’s Association of Melancholy Bastards.”

  At this, Spire genuinely laughed. “As much as I detest the Gothic, being raised in the tradition,” Spire said, “I can’t seem to escape it. It is the tale in which I must be told, it would seem my doom.”

  Rose chuckled. “That sounds a very Gothic thing to say. I hope it is not as dire as all that.”

  “Leave that to the biographers,” Spire said with exaggerated weariness. Rose’s chuckle became a laugh.

  Spire held the gate for her as he had the door. She again brushed his arm, unintentionally but it was not to be mistaken. There was some part of her, clearly, that wished to be close to him and for that wish to be known. Neither made comment as they stepped under the church eaves.

  “Mr. Spire, Miss Everhart.” Clara Templeton approached them at the door with a warm greeting. The green and gold of her gown made her eyes of matching hues look positively supernatural in the glow of the bright gaslight at the door. “So good of you to come.” She held out cream-satin-gloved hands in gentle supplication. “Might I put you right to work?”

  “Of course,” Rose replied.

  “I need your keen eyes,” Clara continued. “Before the space fills we need to make sure nothing within this space is tainted. You come from an Anglican tradition and this church, while Episcopalian, descends from that tradition. Before any of Nathaniel Veil’s ‘association’ will enter, we must be sure nothing is out of place or disturbed. It was never fully examined by those of us trained in these matters after the initial unrest of the graves, I don’t want to take any chances.

  “Evelyn is to give the final appraisal, as she is Episcopalian and may recognize if something inside is ‘off’ in the way that only her denomination might notice,” Clara explained. “I was raised in far less decorated Quaker spaces.”

  “But we know ‘off’ when we see it at this point,” Spire muttered.

  “Indeed,” Clara said. “The clergy of Trinity maintains that the sanctuary within remained undisturbed during the shifting and exhumations of some of the graves, but as the Society’s tradition was to overturn sacred practices of all kinds to glean the power of their inverse, I don’t feel combing it with detective’s eyes can be overdone.”

  “You’ll never hear me argue that,” Spire replied.

  * * *

  As Clara led her British partners into the dim, arched space, which was bathed in the last of the day’s golden light from the deep amber and parchment-yellow stained-glass windows on the ground and clerestory level, she saw a dramatic, black-clad figure. The groom had arrived.

  Dressed head to toe in black silk, his long black hair down around his shoulders, he was staring nervously at the altar. His black silk cape, fastened with a large silver wing clasp, cascaded down his back and rustled in the church’s drafts as if it were alive.

  “Hello, Mr. Veil,” Clara said with a wide smile. The man turned, wide, dark eyes taking her in. “Clara Templeton. We met only briefly. I work with Lavinia.” She proffered a handshake, an odd gesture when she was dressed so formally, but she wasn’t one for hand kissing, especially when working.

  Veil shook her hand eagerly.

  “Ah, yes, her secretive work!” he exclaimed. “Makes you two all the more ripe for drama in my mind, can never have enough of that.”

  “I leave all the drama to you, Mr. Veil. These are my associates, Mr. Spire and Miss Everhart.” Here the two nodded, and Clara continued, “You’ll see a few of us over the course of the night.”

  “I never say no to a larger audience.” He maintained his sharp-toothed smile, which was damnably endearing. The man positively oozed charisma, and Clara was, in that moment, so very glad he didn’t have the gift of mesmerism, as his association was devoted enough already. Any greater powers and this man could be a Gothic menace.

  Clara laughed. “It is a rite, not a show, my friend.”

  “All the world’s a stage, my dear,” he replied.

  As if to prove the point, Miss Knight swept up behind them, in an even more impossibly lavish dress than was her usual style, a brocaded satin confection of emerald and royal blue, a gilded fascinator cascading green feathers down the side of her black hair. She greeted the groom with a hearty, welcoming laugh, grabbing him by the shoulders and kissing both cheeks.

  “Nathaniel Veil,” she crowed. “My beautiful Raven is all grown up!”

  “Marguerite!” he cried, throwing his arms around her. “Why … how are you here? Please tell me the whole Cipher troupe is with you!”

  “Alas, just me; here on some … official business and thankfully your timing is perfect. Mr. Blakely and Mrs. Wilson r
emain in London on business of their own.”

  “And Reggie?”

  “I, well…” At this, Miss Knight was caught off guard, but she didn’t seem able to lie to the young man. “We lost Reginald.”

  “No … how?!”

  “An … accident on the wires, but let’s not talk about that. Do pay us all a visit when you’re back in London. It’s been ages since we all performed together, oh, Gods those wild years on the road!” The performers sighed. Knight continued, “Adira would be very glad to see you.”

  “Of course,” Veil said. “Vin and I are honeymooning in London and Paris and we’ll be sure to pay our respects.”

  Clara left Veil and Knight to chat further; good that Knight could keep him busy, and also psychically keep an ear out for disturbances.

  Moving forward to join Spire and Rose as they examined the beautifully wrought altar of carved, gilded wood, the throne-like chairs for clergy decked in rich purple velvet, Clara compared the church to the spartan Quaker meeting houses of her youth. Here were splendid, external testaments of glory, whereas her ancestors focused on internal cathedrals and contemplative silences. To each their own, she thought, provided it was for the caring benefit of all.

  “Nothing looks out of place to me thus far,” Rose offered. Evelyn joined them in silent inspection, wearing a splendid black silk gown with a purple velvet wrap. She nodded in agreement that all looked well, and that was when they heard music from the street outside, which drew them to the front of the church.

  Nathaniel Veil’s association made quite a show of their arrival. In the manner of a funeral procession, they filed down Broadway, musicians at the lead playing a morose, down-tempo dirge on French horns.

  Clara, Evelyn, Spire, and Rose took up standing positions just inside the transept, keeping an eye on the space, both inside and out.

  The moment the procession filed fully in, Trinity’s organist took to the keys and stops from his choir loft nest amid the dark wooden panels. The silver pipes of the complex instrument sent tones ringing through the small church, making the sanctuary positively vibrate. The music was recognizable immediately; even the first notes had Clara holding back a laugh.