The Eterna Solution

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  I’m sorry, Clara …

  She sucked in a sharp breath, involuntarily uttering a thin, wretched cry.

  Rose pressed a hand into the knot of corset laces at the small of her back, reminding her to breathe again and with regularity. Evelyn, hearing the sound, came near, looked at the message, and loosed a pained sigh.

  “Sorry for what, Franklin?” Clara asked the text. “Sorry for what?!”

  She felt herself sinking toward the desk chair. Rose grabbed her, brushing away a cluster of brown palm leaves from the seat before she could collapse on them.

  Seeking an inner lighthouse of hope or ingenuity, Clara found she had no such lit tower within her by which to navigate her way out of horror; she was left with only tempestuous sea and jagged rocks. Even Rose in this moment, keeping hold of her hand, couldn’t drag her away from the murky water, her heart a dark depth.

  He was sorry for something he had done, would yet do. The scrawling scratch was the same on the desk as it had been on the floorboards of the office. It was him. He was tainted. He was sorry. Some part of him still knew that much.… Clara bit down on her lip hard to keep from crying. It would do no good.

  “I’m trying to make sense of the plants,” Black called, and this brought Clara to the active moment, desperate to seize on useful clues.

  If Franklin had taken to the ideas of natural Warding, he had misinterpreted them. Strewn about the room were disheveled, dead bouquets that looked as if they had been dipped in browning fluids or made brittle by acids.

  “What exactly turned the poor man, I wonder,” Black mused, frowning at an unpleasant clump of nettles.

  “He was such a good soul,” Clara replied, feeling small and defeated.

  “I don’t know. Chemicals? Exposure to an operative? He’s undertaken some missions privately, that must be when it happened.”

  “You must not blame yourself, dear,” Evelyn said, seemingly all too aware of her precarious emotional state. “There is only so much any one of us can do to protect our teammates and friends.”

  Clara couldn’t stop staring at her name, wishing she had Franklin’s ability to touch an item or surface and dial back the clock. She would be able to see precisely where she had gone wrong, when Franklin had become lost.

  Black returned to Clara’s side.

  “Each of these plants has had something sour done to it,” he explained. “In some cases they’ve been dipped in resin or tar, or perhaps blood. In some cases they were blanched by something astringent. Damaging their natural chemistries and, I would imagine, inverting their properties as well.”

  “A Society specialty,” Evelyn commented. “Overturning, inverting, perverting…” She closed her eyes and cocked her head to the side, listening. After a moment, she looked at Clara and shook her head. “The spirits don’t even know what to say,” she continued. “All they seem able to manage is … protect.”

  “Tell them we’re trying,” Clara nearly growled.

  Black moved to the desk to look at the carved message. Directly below the words lay one parched, floral branch. Running one shaking hand through his platinum hair, Black pointed at the branch, his words tinged with worry.

  “That is a breed of lily,” he said. “Many such flowers are, to use their Latin name, of the Columbianum species. Considering the sacred, life-giving meaning associated with many lilies, and the Latin root, I believe…”

  “District of Columbia. He’s going after Rupert,” Clara cried. “We have to get to Washington. Now.”

  “Clara, your health—”

  “If all of us go, together, I’ll be fine,” she said, her voice growing shrill as her words tumbled over each other. “If I seize along the way, at least we’ll be en route. If no one wishes to accompany me, I’ll go alone and take my chances.” She burst into tears, her shoulders bowing in pain, body trembling from the aftershocks of the twin seizures of earlier.

  Immediately Rose embraced her.

  “I’m sorry,” Clara sobbed. “I—”

  “Don’t apologize, Clara. You know we will do anything for Rupert,” Evelyn said.

  “I do understand,” Rose assured quietly. “I would feel the same way.”

  Clara assumed Rose was thinking what might happen if Mr. Spire was in danger. Empathy was a vital asset in their team.

  It was unlike Clara to be so revelatory of any emotion, and while she hated being seen like this, rubbed entirely raw, there should be no shame in admitting just how terrified she was at the possibility of losing what was most important to her. After Louis, she doubted she could survive another loss of such magnitude and keep her wits.

  Black flanked Clara opposite Rose, asking quietly, “Clara dear, let us alert the senator. Did he not say he would await word from us?”

  “Yes, I must wire him,” Clara said quickly, pulling herself together, tamping down on the panic that bit at every nerve, patting her tear-stained face with her fingertips as she’d been too rushed at the house to procure a handkerchief.

  “But … Edward … where can we wire from?” she asked the nobleman. “We are wholly breached.”

  “Train station,” Spire offered from the landing, having heard at least part of their conversation. He descended at a clip, Knight gliding behind him in her elaborate costume.

  “Perfect,” Black replied. “I’ll wire our Washington embassy to have refreshments, fresh linens, and changes for us. We should not stop for amenities but travel direct.”

  “Thank you, you are ever the gentleman and our foremost resource,” Clara said, allowing both for Evelyn and Rose to hold a bit of her weight a moment as she shifted forward to walk again, her muscles having clenched in painful stiffness.

  They’d done the same harried rush to get onto the steamboat across the Atlantic. Evil didn’t wait for a prepared itinerary and well-packed trunks.

  Here the fair-headed lord, his undaunted qualities never so valued as now, turned further into Clara’s view, leaning forward and speaking near her ear: “Before we board, give me a few minutes at the florist, I’ll be able to create a few bouquets suited for cleansing and Warding tasks, antithesis to these dead branches.”

  “Of course, thank you,” Clara replied warmly. In these dark hours she could not help but thank God for such fellow travelers as these. “What did you find upstairs, Mr. Spire?” she asked as they all moved toward the front door.

  “Troubling signs,” he replied grimly. “Three small black boxes of the same provenance as that of the booster station, lying empty in the upstairs hallway. Blood trails in the washroom. Bottles of embalming fluids on the shelves.”

  Clara put a hand to her mouth and leaned on Rose as Spire continued, “It does appear that Mr. Fordham has participated in that ugly business of augmenting the mechanical lines.”

  Clara screwed her face up. “This isn’t him, it’s—”

  “We know, Clara. He’s been corrupted, clearly, by chemical or coercion,” Rose assured. “And we’ll find him alive, and we’ll cure him.”

  The group wasted no time in darting to the Fulton Ferry’s edge, but as there was not another scheduled departure for another half hour, Lord Black paid a small boat handsomely for their own private crossing in the immediate.

  “Milord, your resources,” Clara said in awe.

  “Thank goodness you’ve a branch of my British bank in this city! I replenished myself on day one,” he said with a smile. “Prepared for anything.”

  “Your generosity is such a balm,” Clara continued. “I confess, spoiled as I am by my Rupert, I’m not always used to men of your station being so selfless.”

  Black shrugged and replied with good-natured earnestness. “I was put on this earth to be a loving, peaceful soul and to do less harm in the world than good. I believe our work is doing good, and thusly, by all of our work, so is my purpose magnified.”

  “The heavens are well pleased with you, milord,” Evelyn murmured.

  Once back across to Manhattan, they crammed inside the sa
me wide carriage as had taken them down, Evelyn’s driver a silent, patient man who was well paid and adored the lady of the house. At Grand Central, Evelyn took a turn, paying for everyone’s tickets and securing a private compartment. Black and Clara sent their telegrams before His Lordship went in search of the plants he needed.

  Lord Black bought at the very least one of every flower and fern variety within, to the young shopkeeper’s great delight.

  As their team boarded, Lord Black’s arms were as full of flowers as if he were an altar to Demeter. In their compartment, furnished with divans, cushioned chairs, and a dining room set in the middle, he set them gently down on the lace-covered table and rummaged through the mass to extract a bouquet of small white flowers. Untying the bunch, he plucked at the blossoms and leaves, carefully disentangling them, working with a gentleness that spoke of solemn respect. As he separated them, he handed a white and green sprig to each of his compatriots.

  “Lily of the valley,” Black explained, “signifies ‘a return of happiness’ and that is most certainly what we need. It is also a relative of the soiled blooms we saw below the terrible declaration that drew us here. As the Society so loves inversion, so will we invert their dying rot with the powers of fresh, verdant, living tokens. Place this offering somewhere meaningful on your person, please. Let no bit of life go without celebration.”

  “Amen,” Evelyn murmured.

  “These can serve as makeshift Wards until we have a chance to make some,” Black said. “Charge them up with the brightness of your wonderful souls, my friends.”

  Seemingly overcome by the wealth of flowers spread across the table, Miss Knight held her hands above the fragrant offering, as if praying over them or perhaps, drinking in their lush effect.

  Spire accepted the sprig Lord Black offered him without argument. He knew when to pick his battles, and Clara could see the man considering that there was sense in all this. Every counterbalance they had made against the Society thus far had been granted some measure of success.

  As the train screamed a whistle and jolted into motion, the travelers seated themselves on the compartment’s wide, velvet-padded benches.

  The hypnotic motion of the train urged Clara’s body to calm. Her muscles began, finally, to unclench. She intended to distract herself during the journey by attempting to refine her newly honed awareness of the sounds of energies, learning to untie the knots of steel and Earth.

  Sliding back the damask curtains of the train-car windows, she pressed her ear to the vibrating glass, trying to blunt the fangs of her terror. What if she found her beloved Bishop too late? It would be another lifetime—if they were granted such a chance again—before they could affirm what had become so precious between them.

  Evelyn had seated herself beside Clara. At length the younger woman turned to her and whispered, “Can you feel him? I’m trying to sense him, but it’s harder now, I don’t trust my own sensitivities when it comes to him anymore…”

  “Love gets in the way,” Evelyn murmured. “Don’t worry. I can feel him,” she assured.

  But Evelyn could feel ghosts, too. Clara knew she couldn’t always make the distinction.

  Rose sat very close to Mr. Spire. The other half of her compass magnetized to Bishop, always tied but never so much as now. They had to make it through this whole. Their team all had its pairs and alliances across so many lines. Their team was a network of compasses, all trying to point to a peaceful north. She tried to hear, to feel the sound, holding the vibration in her heart to strengthen her own channel, for she was the compass needle never so much as now.

  Exhausted, Clara nodded off. She was roused as the train screeched to a sudden halt. They were at no station; instead they had come to a stop in the midst of a vast field of tall, swampy grass and nothingness under a bright, moonlit sky.

  Spire stepped out of the compartment to investigate and soon returned carrying one of those horrid black boxes. There was a rotting finger inside.

  “The conductor says we missed a switch and have to back up,” he explained. “It won’t take long. I walked with him and found this beside the switch point.”

  Lord Black approached Spire and set a few flower buds into the box.

  “If you want to say any prayers, do it now,” Spire said, drawing a box of matches from his pocket.

  Clara, Evelyn, and Rose held hands and murmured prayers; Miss Knight chose to withdraw into a meditative state. Spire opened the window, holding the box out in the air. Black lit a match and handed it to Spire, who traced the flame around the top of the nasty device. Once it was burning brightly, he dropped it onto the rocks that formed the track bed.

  The train whistle screamed. The car jolted into reverse for a few minutes before going forward again at a new angle.

  Despite their worries and a few more delays along the tracks, the company managed some fitful sleep until the conductor cried “Washington” by morning.

  Since each rail company had its own depot in Washington, the station was not as hectic as Grand Central, but the Pennsylvania Railroad operated a grand enough edifice of soaring archways and glass between riveted steel. Its well-dressed denizens moved with a slower, more deliberate pace than Clara was used to in New York.

  “How tainted is this station?” Miss Knight asked Clara and Evelyn as they disembarked. She screwed up her lovely face, trying to ascertain the damage herself.

  “We can’t worry about that now, we’ll have to come back to see to it,” Clara said, smoothing her hair, tying the cloak about her neck, and striding through clouds of steam toward many doors and an impressive line of waiting carriages beyond.

  They proceeded to Bishop’s standard lodgings when in the capital, the luxuriant Willard Hotel, within view of Pennsylvania Avenue and the Executive Mansion. As they checked in, Clara asked about Senator Bishop.

  The old clerk, looking at the name Clara signed and then up at her, grinned.

  “Well I’ll be, Clara Templeton. It’s been years!” the man exclaimed. “Glad to see you back, my dear. No, I haven’t seen the senator since he dropped his bags off.”

  “Do you know if he would have received my wire?” Clara asked.

  The clerk glanced below the counter and pulled out a Western Union envelope marked Bishop. “No, I’m afraid he hasn’t. But…” The clerk pulled out another envelope below. “Ah! It seems you’ve been anticipated.” He handed over an envelope marked For My Dear Clara Templeton Should She Arrive Searching For Me.

  Clara laughed, feeling tears itch her eyes. Tearing open the paper, she read:

  My Beloved,

  If instinct serves correctly, you’ll come for me before I’ve wired you. Since I know there’s no stopping you, find me at either the offices of the Episcopal Church, Representative Brown’s office, the Executive Mansion itself, or the morning reception out front I plan to attend. Until soon, Bishop.

  Clara gestured to her company to follow her out onto the wide Willard porch, a landing where dignitaries liked to smoke and drink, studying the Executive Mansion before them as if their scrutiny might change policy. For some of them, if they threw enough money into their cause, it might.

  “That’s the reception Bishop meant.” Clara gestured ahead to milling, well-dressed folks on the lawn as the sun crested onto the reception. “Can we get in?”

  Knight grinned and took Lord Black’s arm. “Leave that to us,” she said, and strode off, Black skipping a step to keep up without being dragged.

  Sure enough, Knight used charm and psychic persuasion, and Black’s diplomatic papers didn’t hurt. Spire didn’t even have to show his badge, though Clara overheard him remark to Rose that security was too lax here and what was wrong with them, Garfield having been shot so recently.

  Soon their company joined the lawn party and Clara had to keep herself from running through the crowd. Her hawk-like gaze found Bishop with preternatural speed; even in a sea of top hats and black coats, she could pick out his silhouette.

  “Ru
pert!” she nearly screamed, rushing to him, not caring who saw or if she might cause intrigue or scandal. Throwing her arms around him, she let her tears flow.

  “My dear! You must have gotten my note,” he exclaimed. In the next instant he grabbed her by the arms and stepped back to take a good look at her. “What on earth has happened?” He gingerly touched her cheek; the gesture hurt, likely a bruise she hadn’t bothered to notice. Clara leaned against him, and he welcomed her nearness; this alone helped ease her sore muscles.

  “Your dear girl has been through hell and back, my friend,” Evelyn said—she had been only a step behind Clara even during the younger woman’s mad dash. “There were attacks and grim revelations yesterday. We’re here to warn and protect you.”

  “What now?” Bishop asked, drawing Clara and Evelyn away from the crowd, many of whom had turned to watch them with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. Clara squinted back tears. Crying in a public space, in front of Bishop’s colleagues, would not do.

  “The house is gone,” Clara choked, looking away in shame. “There was a fire. There was corridor of Summoned coming into my room,” she added in a whisper. “I’m so sorry, I had only a moment to think…” She looked down, tears inevitably falling on the grass. Bishop enfolded her in an embrace.

  “Oh, my dear, my dear…” He kissed her on the crown of the braid she’d haphazardly set on the train. “It’s all right, you’re safe and that is all that matters.” He held her tighter.

  “That’s exactly what I told her,” Evelyn added. “Harper is fine, and there may be objects salvageable, we honestly haven’t had time to check. It was one crisis after another, and now we are here.”

  “Franklin has been turned,” Clara blurted from under his arm. “He tainted the offices. That’s where I went for safety, after the fire, and then Rose and I almost died there, too,” she murmured. Scenes from the horror flashed again in her mind and made her feel sick to her stomach. “Have you seen Franklin?”

  “That’s all so terrible, but no,” Bishop said, shocked. “I’m so sorry … I should never have left you!” the senator exclaimed, lifting a covetous hand to cup her neck, gently turning her to kiss her forehead. “I’m so sorry…” His voice was suddenly small, terrified.