“All this would have likely happened whether you were there or no,” Evelyn stated. “There is an escalation at work.”
“Still…” Bishop trailed off ruefully. Clara recognized the self-censure.
“Let’s not blame or regret,” Clara said gently. “We’re alive, thanks be to God.”
“Yes,” Bishop murmured, bestowing another kiss on her head. “Thanks be to God.”
By this point the rest of the team had encircled them, once again attracting the attention of others. Bishop recovered himself, gently stepping back from Clara to address his company.
Rarely at a loss, Bishop loudly welcomed the company to his “personal tour of the Executive grounds.” This seemed to settle any lingering curiosity over their odd coterie. Bishop led them around to the rear of the famed edifice, where signs of construction were evident.
“I’m surprised you’ve not seen Mr. Fordham,” Spire commented. “We assumed you were his target. Given when we assume he left New York, he would have reached you long since. If not you, then what?” Here Spire paused. “However, it is good to see you well, old chap,” Spire added, as if he suddenly realized niceties sometimes were, actually, nice.
“And all of you,” Bishop returned, keeping his hand on Clara’s elbow, refusing to break contact. The simple tether eased so many of her bruises and sharp pains.
“What building is this?” Rose asked, gesturing before her to the large, stately building and evident construction around it.
“This, friends, is the Executive Mansion,” Bishop explained. “Some will say the White House, or, if you’re snide, the ‘Presidential Palace.’ Where our president lives while in office.” Here, Bishop almost sounded nervous. Clara looked up at him, hearing the subtle shift in his voice. “The building is under present renovation.”
“Perhaps new technologies?” Spire queried. His unspoken point was clear: The building was more vulnerable to corruption than usual.
“That’s what we must determine,” Bishop replied. “The president thought he saw shadows here. I haven’t been admitted in to speak with him. I don’t have full clearance to all government buildings and my mesmerism only goes so far.”
“How long can you be seen giving us a ‘tour’?” Spire asked.
“Long enough for an external search,” Bishop replied. Everyone focused on their surroundings with an immediate, intense scrutiny.
Rose was already studying any disruption in the grounds where the landscape architects were arranging nature to their bidding. Spire was looking at the structure itself. Lord Black was noting every plant.
Evelyn and Miss Knight stood several yards apart from each other, eyes closed, inspecting psychically and asking for spirits to offer up information. Clara suddenly wished Mosley were present to listen for current misplaced or other issues only his ears could detect.
No, she reminded herself, not only his ears. She listened, too. Clara closed her eyes, listening. There was strange, grating whine. A dissonant note. A clear danger.
“I cannot detect any signs of disturbance on the ground level,” Spire reported.
“There’s nothing off outside. But inside,” Evelyn stated, squinting at the foundations. Miss Knight nodded in agreement.
“There is a dissonant, raw, scratching note,” Clara said to Bishop. “Lately, that has meant disaster,” she said blankly. “Why are you nervous about President Arthur? What are you afraid to say? We must be entirely forthcoming with one another,” she pressed.
Bishop sighed. “I’ve been unable to access him. I’m admittedly worried as one of his aides confessed to me he hasn’t seen him all day. I don’t believe him to be an unpredictable man. This could be a crisis, especially considering—”
“Garfield,” Spire interrupted. “I was telling Rose I think all of your security in Washington is woefully lax. Forgive me for saying so.”
“No, agreed,” Bishop replied. “We may find the Secret Service becoming stronger still, when all is said and done. I admit, as the legislator responsible for the Eterna Commission, devised for the purposes of supporting the presidency, I feel more responsible for all of this than I can explain.”
“As do I,” Clara said, still keeping close to him, his vibrant presence like a fire she could warm her aching bones beside.
“Arthur is your vice president ascended to president, yes?” Spire asked. Bishop nodded. “Who becomes president if something happens to Arthur?”
Bishop swallowed. “There is no official line of succession after.”
Spire frowned. If he planned to make a remark about the superiority of the English system he kept it to himself. “Well. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, then.”
“This afternoon’s event, inside, for government officials, is our best chance,” Bishop explained. “Mr. Spire, if you and Black could accompany me to the door, Reverend Blessing knows some of the help so he has cover in the building’s inner workings. I feel confident if I’m inside I can find Mr. Arthur and get to the bottom of this.”
“And the rest of us?” Clara pressed, an edge to her voice.
He turned to her ruefully. “You and the ladies will have to sit this one out, my dear, I’m sorry, it’s a gentlemen-only affair and my mesmerism mustn’t be spread too thin.”
Clara scowled, withdrawing from his side, folding her arms. “Unacceptable,” she countered.
“My powers of suggestion, like your own sensitivities, have limits, Clara. I chafe at the division of the sexes here, exactly as you do, but I dare not be too interesting or attention-stealing, and you are both. We don’t know what all will be asked of us today and beyond,” Bishop said.
Clara gritted her teeth. She remembered that Louis declared her a psychically “loud” presence. She’d best not set off any further alarm bells right upon arrival.
“We’ll be there to support you however you need, Senator,” Spire stated.
Lord Black, sensing the extreme tension, changed the subject. “I have a suggestion for the landscapers—there are numerous plants and shrubs that might be more…” He chose his words to reflect practicality above magic and spiritual meaning. “Hardy. Better investments.”
“Make a list if you would. I’ll be sure it gets into the designers’ hands and add enough mesmerism to enforce the plantings,” Bishop promised. Black beamed. “And I will say that on an individual basis, the few senators I’ve harangued seem amenable to states adopting their own trees and flowers as Warding measures. I’ll have to mesmerize the house again for maximum assurance. States’ rights mean any measure would be a gradual adoption.”
“I studied a map of the core of D.C. on the train here,” Spire said. “If the rails are subject to the same … pollution as the electrical grid was in New York, you’d best have inspectors take to each of the railways’ depots.”
“Agreed,” Bishop replied as they turned around the exterior of the west wing. “Representative Brown has been extremely helpful, and has been making sets of Wards for personal and building use. When I said I’d likely have company, he promised he’d send a set to the Willard, look for them and have them on hand.”
“How much time do I have before the next reception?” Spire asked. “I’d like to let the police precinct here know about Mr. Fordham, and about Celeste, any of the details that might be similar to New York, have them ready to evacuate any problematic areas.”
“You’ve three hours or so until I need you back here,” Bishop replied. “But don’t breathe a word about the Summoned, or any worry for the president.”
“You think I would warn fellow police officers about demons?” Spire asked with an arched eyebrow.
“Right,” Bishop said with a mordant chuckle.
“We’ll need their help and I’d like them on my side from the start,” Spire said. “Point me to the precinct.”
“I suggest you speak with the sergeant of the Capitol Police inside the Capitol building itself, ask them if they’ve seen or noticed anything unusual,” Bish
op said, gesturing toward the white-domed building rising above the tree line a mile and a half away. “The building has been recently electrified. If they believe you and your badge, you could ask to see the generators, see if anything has been co-opted down below. Feel free to drop my name but I don’t know if it will open any doors, as you can imagine they’re hard to persuade.”
“I’ll do my best,” Spire stated, off in the direction of the grand complex immediately. Rose seemed torn, looking at Clara, then after the retreating Spire.
“We can’t let anyone go alone, right?” Clara said, gesturing after Spire. “Come back for afternoon tea at the Willard, please, when you’re done,” she added. Rose nodded and ran after him.
Spire paused, hearing her running footsteps, and smiled over his shoulder as he continued. When they reached the road, Spire helped Rose up into a waiting carriage stationed there for the express purpose of making visitor rounds to buildings of note.
That happiness of a perfect partnership, even when attending to harrowing duties, was moving to see.
Clara turned to Bishop and refused to hide the pain in her eyes. He couldn’t take her with him for the most critical night of this next phase, and she hated the world that considered her less, a world that separated them, never so much as now.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Washington was perhaps more divided by gender, race, and class than anywhere Clara had yet been. There were spaces women simply did not go. The goings-on of the rest of the day were for the gentlemen.
The ladies could have played tourist, seen art and other grand monuments, but none had the strength, the energy, or the inclination after the past week.
Clara, Evelyn, and Knight, situated in a large multiple-bedroom-and-bath suite, simply tended to themselves, which was admittedly a nice change, taking the time to clean, brush, and reset mussed hair, and to lounge in a scented bath, Clara adding a cup of Epsom salts to help her sore body. Humanizing things they’d let go in the past hectic days were attended to.
They changed into robes while their clothes were laundered. There were fresh, basic shirtwaists and skirts left for them thanks to Lord Black’s consulate, and they gave their measurements to the Willard tailor for adjustments. Knight sent for an aquamarine silk evening gown instead, citing that her gifts were “simply useless in plain linen.”
Clara took the liberty of sending Rose’s garments on for her, as she was not yet returned from the Capitol and might not be for some time. Once Clara had changed into the crisp white shirtwaist with a lace collar and a cornflower blue skirt, she responded to a knock at the main door of the suite.
“Package for Miss Templeton,” came a voice from the other side of the door. Clara opened it.
“That’s me,” she replied.
“From Representative Brown,” the dark-haired maid in a starched uniform said, bobbing her head and holding out a box. Across the top was writ in Latin that Clara easily understood as:
For Protection.
In neat script below, the kindly man had added, Welcome back to Washington, Miss Templeton.
Wards.
“Thank you!” Clara exclaimed. As the door closed behind her, she swept into the parlor of the suite, where Evelyn and Knight sat with tea and District newspapers. Washington had not, it seemed, dealt with the outpouring of supernatural phenomena other cities had. Not yet.
“Bishop’s dear friend Mr. Brown had local Wards sent over to us.”
“Ah, good Mr. Brown!” Evelyn exclaimed. “Brown is one of Rupert’s oldest, most trusted friends,” she explained to Knight, who was braiding long black hair while staring in a mirror.
“He’s the first associate Rupert sent a Ward recipe to, once we realized the worth of Louis’s material,” Clara continued. “Well before Rupert tried to mesmerize Congress to implement Warding, Brown was already creating these. I have to think it’s why the District has fared better so far. Come on then, put one on your person,” Clara bid, handing two to Evelyn and setting two on the vanity before Knight.
They were all in small bottles with cork stoppers. Clara poured the contents of two into a handkerchief and tucked it against her bosom to rest at the drawstring of her chemise; there the beat of her heart would charge that Ward as if she’d lit it. She placed others in her reticule and the other women did the same. Clara placed a few bottles on top of Rose’s things so she wouldn’t miss them either.
Eterna was, in its way, trying to do what it had been intended for. Protection at the highest levels of government, so the country would never be as rocked as it was when Lincoln was killed. That Garfield was taken down so relatively soon thereafter was a saddening, frustrating blow to the commission.
Clara so dearly wished they could have put these sorts of protections in place before the devastating effects of another assassination within their lifetime, the event having filled the whole team with a sense of forlorn failure. But the Wards, at least, were a push back against evil, even if it wasn’t able to stop a bullet or reverse its damage.
Pressing the Ward against her heart, feeling the magical poultice heat up as if it were a living organism, she tried to reach out tendrils of her sensitivities, feeling for Bishop in the cacophonous realm of psychic navigation. If she could not be with him physically, she would try to hone her talents to be with him spiritually.
Knowing he was outside the Executive Mansion, or just having entered into it, she felt a pang of “what if” … and wasn’t sure if the existential query was his or hers. She could feel a sort of boyhood wonder overtake him as he crossed the threshold of the “palace.”
While they had never discussed it, Clara had often wondered if Bishop had ever considered running for president. But the obstacles were obvious.
A Quaker president? Not in her lifetime, she doubted. They were too sensible. Pacifist abolitionist suffragists … the bulk of the states and ever-usurping territories seemed to cherish warfare, seizure and inequality a bit too much for a man like Bishop, a stalwart Republican with progressive ideals, to ascend beyond his senatorial sphere.
That he’d remained in office for so much of his life was a wonder. He happened to be very good at his job and very good at being the level, gamesome head in a room full of tempers at critical junctures. And, for what it was worth, he could not be bought or bribed. This was perhaps the most important factor in his being very good at his job. He did it, rather than parroting another platform, obstructing one, or bending on lobbyist marionette strings.
Lobbyist. That was what she’d be for the rest of the day, Clara thought bitterly; the origin of the word. Relegated to reception areas, hoping for a passing moment with a lawmaker deigning to rub elbows …
As the women descended for a late lunch, Clara passed through the Willard lobby, busy and brimming with the most expensive fabrics swishing about luxurious furnishings and innumerable crystals. Accents from around the country and indeed the world created a unique aural tapestry, sounds bouncing off marble and mahogany. Clara tried to lose herself in sounds to calm her nerves.
Down a lavish mirrored hall where chandeliers, potted palms, and hardwood paneling were reflected in endless iterations, the ladies of Eterna and Omega were ensconced in a private room with an adjoining parlor.
* * *
Spire escorted Rose back to the Willard, inquiring if the women had yet been seated for a meal. While Lord Black and Bishop were already inside the Mansion, Reverend Blessing was meeting with a member of the downstairs staff. Despite the importance of their investigation, it was embittering that Blessing’s dark skin meant his freedom was as limited as the women’s. Spire felt the same wave of anger he often felt at the closed doors between classes in England; so many iniquities dealt and opportunities missed at constant blockades.
A lobby concierge showed Spire the way to their team’s private dining room.
“At least the sergeant took you seriously,” Rose said of the encounter with the police.
“He seemed to
be well-read, aware of the issues in other cities. That he knew what had happened in London surprised me,” Spire stated.
“Washington may feel it needs to be aware of the outside world more than insular New York, which thinks it’s the center of it. No offense to our New Yorkers,” she said with a slight smile.
When Spire opened the dining room doors, his colleagues looked up at him hopefully, and he ached to see their capable, eager souls so constrained.
Spire lingered at the threshold while Rose came in and took a seat in a wingback chair.
Clara swept over to Spire and tucked two Washington Wards into his breast pocket.
“Here you are, my friend,” Clara said, patting the pocket, trying to keep a measure of good cheer amid what was evident frustration. “Fresh local protection brought to you by New York Representative Ephraim Brown, one of Bishop’s best friends and one of the only people he never has to mesmerize to do the right thing. He’s been employing the Warding strategy here since we first started using it in the city.”
“Thank you,” Spire said. He looked around at the women before him, his usually neutral face unusually expressive with concern. “Are you sure you don’t need someone to stand guard?” he asked.
The women—three clairvoyants and a code breaker par excellence—simply stared at him in silence. Rose folded her arms. Spire cleared his throat.
“Right then, I’ll see you after the reception. We’ll be sure to have a nice dinner, all of us. Take care.” He strode off.
A moment later, he reappeared.
“Do not misunderstand me. I know all of you can take care of yourselves and no offense was meant. I’m just…” Spire clenched his fists and stammered a bit. “Well … I’ve grown rather fond of you lot. And I don’t like our splitting up. Bad things happen when we do. I’m not paranoid; at this point we’ve established empirical evidence.”
Clara smiled warmly at him. “We’ll manage, Mr. Spire, as none of us are alone, nor will any of us volunteer to be, but thank you.”
The Eterna Solution Page 23
