V

February 19, 1882

The number of uniformed coppers patrolling the immense hall of the Depot had led me to the assumption that our ruse was up before it’d even began. But as Barrie and I moved through the people coming and going in all directions, with the telescopic roof overhead rolled back to accept the constant traffic of airships, the wintry air causing our breath to turn gold under the glow of steam chandeliers, I realized we were invisible to the metropolitan police—just two well-dressed gentlemen with reasonable luggage, making for the lifting apparatuses without any undue caution or alarm. Addison had been right: they were looking for an escaped convict, someone manic and destitute—or at the very least, the thick-headed brutes had seemed to only focus their attention on men commuting alone.

When we reached the fifth level, where the Ora Continental ship bound for San Francisco was docked and boarding passengers, I shifted my sight to study the surrounding magic. The glittering tendrils continued to light up Barrie at my side. They wove around a crewmember overhead, who hung from a steam-pneumatic grappling hook as he performed his routine double check of the steam-filled canvas. More magic glowed around a mother and her daughter presenting their first-class tickets ahead of us. I peered around them in line, toward a man farther down the dock with his back to me who appeared to be studying those boarding through the third-class ramp. I nearly second-guessed myself, but when his partner turned to face our general direction….

“FBMS,” I murmured, tugging the brim of my flat cap lower.

Barrie stiffened at my side but asked calmly, “Where?”

“Third class. Special Agent Watson is the caster. Special Agent Plunket is his bruiser—the woman with short hair looking this way.”

“I see her,” Barrie said. “The caster hasn’t sensed you, though.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Watson’s a strong level three.”

“Does the FBMS not hire agents who can sense magic signatures like you can?” Barrie murmured as he fetched his ticket from his coat pocket.

Sense? If he only knew.

“It’s not a typical skill, Doctor.”

“Are they the only agents here?”

“It appears so,” I murmured. “I suspect more teams have been directed to the piers. More likely a fugitive would be among cargo airships than pleasure cruisers.”

“A valid point.”

“Tickets, gentlemen,” said the crewman at the ramp. He accepted both our papers, studied the information briefly, then smiled and said, “Welcome aboard, Dr. Barrie, Mr. Ackerman. Your sleeper is number three, and the first-class dining car can be found toward the bow.”

Barrie thanked the crewman and stepped onto the gangway with the confidence of a man who’d been about luxury a time or two. I took a breath and followed a few steps behind, the enclosed glass and brass and silver of the airship’s gondola catching the final rays of the setting sun. As I reached the entrance, I glanced over my shoulder.

Rachel Plunket, who in my absence had obviously been found innocent of any involvement in Henry Bligh’s underground doings and assigned a new partner, was striding along the deck in her men’s trousers and shoes, quickly approaching the first-class gangway.

I ducked inside and pressed myself to the bulkhead just to the right. If there was one agent at the New York field office who had legitimate reason to despise me, it was Plunket. I had had her arrested and seen to her partner’s… removal. If Moore or D.C. felt she’d had even an iota of knowledge regarding Bligh’s gangster activity… well…. I was certain her every action was still being heavily scrutinized regardless. I leaned to the window on my right and peeked out. Plunket was standing several feet away from the crewman who’d been checking tickets but was now moving up the gangway in preparation of taking off. Her winter coat was unbuttoned, so when Plunket put her hands on her hips, I could see the handle of the axe she kept buckled to her waist.

She was staring at the gondola windows.

And even at a distance, our eyes locked.

Agent Watson was moving to join her as the last of third class had boarded. He called something, and she looked at him, back to me, and then she shook her head. Plunket motioned for Watson to follow, and they walked along the dock toward the bank of lifting apparatuses.

“The hell…,” I whispered, then startled as the crewman who’d just entered began to crank a set of very loud gears that retracted the gangway. I didn’t move from the window until the door had been locked and my safety all but confirmed.

Plunket saw me. Recognized me. Christ Almighty, why had she lied to Watson when he’d clearly been asking if she’d seen something? She had nothing to gain by letting me escape the city. As I walked through the passageways toward the private rooms, I considered what I knew of Plunket that could shine light on the decision she’d made, but I couldn’t come up with anything beyond, perhaps in her mind, it was as simple as good riddance and now I was California’s problem. I opened the door to sleeper number three, and I must have had a look about myself, because Barrie’s voice immediately filtered in.

“Is everything okay?”

I raised my head and smiled politely, automatically. “Yes, of course.”

I took in the details of the room, noting the private luxuries offered to the first class were a far cry from the shared sleepers and water closets of second class that I used to travel by when dispatched on jobs outside of the city. There were large chairs on both the left and right, cushioned and upholstered in a bright, emerald-green velvet, and sleeping compartments directly above, the beds already made up of several layers of quality sheets and quilts in more green, gold, and royal purple. The sleeper had stained-glass windows, steam-powered lamps in a warm tungsten, and just beyond the beds was the open door to a water closet—indoor plumbing and steam radiators included.

“This is very nice,” I said, setting my carpet bag on the floor beside the chair on the right side of the room.

“I’m an unenthusiastic traveler,” Barrie explained. “If comfort is an option, I’ll opt for it.” He made a vague motion with one hand and asked, “Would you like to join me in the dining car for supper?”

The locks keeping the airship docked released with half a dozen simultaneous hisses of steam, and the Ora Continental began to float upward to exit out of the telescopic roof.

We were officially underway.

I removed my cap and hung it from a hook. “I’d like to lie down.” Reluctantly, I added, “I’m still not feeling quite myself.”

“Of course. Sleep first, and a hearty meal tomorrow.” Barrie smiled, offered an uncharacteristic wink, and said, “Doctor’s orders.”

 

 

I had fallen asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, and with the many comforts extended to passengers with heavy purses, I slept soundly and uninterrupted throughout the entire night and late into the next day. Presumably, Barrie had returned to the sleeper after his dinner, but I hadn’t heard him. Nor did I wake in the morning when he would have been seeing to washing and grooming and dressing for the day. What woke me from nearly twenty hours of the most sublime sleep I’d had in possibly my entire life was the hiss of steam and the release of dock locks. Again. And then I acknowledged the audible growls of hunger emanating from my stomach and the painful distress my bladder was in, and concluded we were departing from the one scheduled stopover—Dodge City, Kansas.

I climbed down from the bunk and took my time in the water closet, cleaning and shaving with hot water and complimentary soap, before I dressed in fresh clothes from my bag, collected my cap, and left the sleeper. I walked along the mahogany and gilded passageway of other sleeper rooms before reaching the parlor. A dozen cushioned armchairs lined the grand windows, allowing passengers unfettered views of the sunrises, sunsets, and distant landscapes below. Several of the seats were occupied, but Barrie wasn’t among them, so I continued on until I stepped into the beautiful dining room. Tables were set with fine linens, china, and crystal, and a multitude of wonderful aromas wafted from the kitchen beyond. I approached Barrie, who sat alone midway in the room, staring out the window beside his table.

He glanced up at my approach and offered a warm smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you. I thought to have a meal brought to the sleeper for you.”

“That’s very kind. But I can do with a bit of polite company if this seat isn’t taken,” I replied, touching the back of the chair across from the doctor.

“Please,” Barrie said gayly, motioning for me to sit. He slid a menu across the tabletop. “I’ve only just ordered.”

I set my cap in my lap, studied the options for a moment, and when a waiter appeared to pour us water, I included my choice of roasted pheasant with currant jelly, mashed potatoes, and mince pie.

Barrie added two glasses of claret wine to the order, and when we were left alone, asked, “How do you feel?”

“A great deal better. Thank you.” I ran my fingertips back and forth across the tabletop, but my scarred skin didn’t pick up the sensation of high-quality cloth. Quietly, almost shamefully, I heard myself say, “Blackwell’s feels like a nightmare I’ve woken from but still haven’t been able to interpret.”

“I’m very sorry you were confined,” Barrie said.

“It wasn’t your doing.”

“No, but you deserve an apology. You’ve served the FBMS loyally, from what I can tell, and yet… they opted to believe an untrue narrative that you were mad.”

It was difficult for me to hold eye contact with Barrie, and it was due to any number of reasons. Shame, certainly. He had first known me as a good lawman, and the next time our paths crossed, I was covered in filth, restrained, and he was made to believe I was insane, even if Barrie hadn’t known the FBMS were the ones who concocted that lie. Embarrassment, of course. Even at my best, physically, I was hardly much to look at. Undressing in front of Gunner that first time in Arizona had been nearly unbearable, and I hadn’t been half-starved and black-and-blue—and that’s what Barrie had seen of me at Pilly’s. And of course, there was the matter of him knowing my tendencies. I hadn’t shied away from the truth, had in fact been rather brutal in my honesty. But being able to admit a dark secret wasn’t the same as loving said secret. I was still scared of my inclinations—scared of the danger it presented, scared of the happiness so many men like me failed to find in their lifetime, scared of being judged, of being thought of cruelly… of so many things.

But I think what I found most difficult about meeting Barrie’s gaze was the absolute intensity of his eyes. A hazel with such a spark, such a light—like stars in a desert night sky. They had a concentration to them that left me with no doubt that Barrie was well versed in the study of human emotion. In a sense, they reminded me very much of Gunner’s eyes—beautiful but shrewd. Barrie’s expressions might have suggested a sense of naïveté, but his eyes said otherwise.

“You never told me why you were in New York City,” I stated into the lull.

“I’m on a lecture tour.”

I glanced up.

“I suspect you’re quite adept at calling out bunkum when you hear it.”

“I am.”

Barrie laughed under his breath. “It’s your stare—a man who’s heard it all and has time for none of it.” He paused when the waiter dropped off our wine, took a sip from his glass, then said again, “I’m on a lecture tour.”

“A lecture at Blackwell’s?”

Barrie set the glass aside. “Yes and no. I’m researching the extent of aether’s healing properties in medicine.”

I tried some of the wine and asked warily, “At whose expense?”

“That’s the thing,” Barrie said with a smile. “Currently it’s up to the physician to cast aether if they wish to incorporate it into their method of healing.”

“And aether is too demanding in its energy level to be of much use beyond healing superficial wounds. You shouldn’t even be considering research or experimentation into something further, Doctor.”

“There’s been no harm in it.”

“Yet.”

Barrie’s smile steadily grew. “Some of us are a touch more skilled than superficial wounds.” He inclined his head in the direction of my left hand resting on the tabletop. “May I see how your hands have healed?”

I leaned back in my chair and put them both in my lap.

“Okay. I get it. You’re a very private man and my prodding is unwelcome.” Barrie took another sip of wine. “I’m researching methods in which to use aether that won’t overtax a physician, when medicine alone won’t save the patient. I’ve had some promising results with syrups and tablets thus far—”

“That’s illegal,” I pointed out, and my mind went to the warehouse on the corner of Bayard and Mulberry—Warner’s Quality Medicinal Remedies—where Carl Higgins mixed illegally imported aether into a simple syrup to sell under the table to the upper-class women of the city.

“Yes, but—”

“It’s illegal for good reason,” I interrupted again. “When casters and architects learned how to manipulate aether in ’71, it opened a door that should have remained closed. It’s allowed the nonmagically inclined of society to take advantage of a spell they don’t understand.”

Warily, Barrie said, “Aether is being added to medicine.”

“But not exclusively. It’s also utilized for weapons,” I corrected. “Its use in tangible items was key to unlocking how to manipulate other elemental spells and… and there are also the ethical concerns,” I reprimanded, and clearly, I wasn’t finished with warning Barrie of what a profoundly dangerous path he was on, even if he thought it was for the greater good. “Medications spiked with aether and being sold aren’t regulated by the FBMS or overseen by doctors. They can kill people if the spell is cast incorrectly. Never mind what is arguably the biggest danger: aether medicine might not put a strain on the physician, but what about the caster who infused it? Someone has to perform the spell, and if this medication is sold at drug counters, becomes a daily demand by society, who does it fall on to fulfill the need? The magic community. It’s a swift and dangerous path to abusing casters and forcing them to perform against their will.”

“This is obviously a sensitive topic for you.”

I snorted. “Obviously….” I looked away and studied a shower of falling stars out the window.

Our meals arrived, and an uncomfortable and incomplete silence fell over the table. I ate a few bites of the pheasant and currant, and the rich game bird mixed with the sweet-tart jelly was absolutely delectable. I was hyperaware of my table manners this time, and in order to pace myself, reluctantly said to Barrie, “You still haven’t explained why you were visiting Blackwell’s.”

Barrie stopped cutting his veal and stared at me with those bright eyes. “A doctor at Bellevue had asked me a question I hadn’t considered: Could my theories be applied to not only the physical aches, but the mental as well? And would it make a difference whether the mental patient was magically inclined themselves? So I requested a visit to Blackwell’s, which Dr. Ashland approved. The moment I’d stepped foot on the island, he wanted to show you off.”

“Like a trophy.”

“Yes.” Barrie glanced around the dining room before leaning forward and saying in a low voice, “Everyone in our community knows the name Simon Fitzgerald. I hardly believed Ashland—everyone thought you died in the Great Rebellion.”

I nodded mutely.

“He was quite convinced of your supposed lunacy and wished to be part of any and all research on you.”

I picked up my napkin and pressed the linen to my mouth as the sudden urge to vomit nearly overwhelmed me.

“Ashland thought your magic is what ultimately caused your mania, so he was quite interested in whether my magic medicine could also reverse it.”

I swallowed a few times before I was confident in setting the napkin back down. I finished off my glass of water, picked up my fork and knife, and said absently, “I’m sorry I asked.”

The second pass of silence was less uneasy—just the clink and scrape of silverware on china and murmured conversations at a few occupied tables to my back.

Unprompted, Barrie said, “I was in the war.”

I raised my head.

“Seven Pines.”

“Virginia?” I asked, uncertain.

Barrie nodded. “I stayed in the state as a surgeon throughout ’62 and ’63.”

I sat at an elegant table aboard a luxury airship, swaying in sync with the gentle back and forth of the skies. But I also stood under the canvas roof of a hospital tent, gunpowder burning my eyes as I watched men carried in from the battlefield die right before me—so mangled and so bloody, no doctor could save them, no mother could identify them.

And it had been my fault.

I dropped my silverware, and it clattered to the plate as I hastily stood. “Excuse me.” I left the table, yanking my goggles from around my neck and over my eyes as I stepped through a door to the right and onto the empty promenade deck. I moved to the chest-level railing, gripped the brass tightly in both hands, and dropped my head as I took in breaths of cold night air.

The mention—the mere mention—of those days and I couldn’t breathe. A clammy sweat had broken out across my chest and underarms, and my fingers tingled almost painfully along my damaged nerves, like the blood had completely stopped pumping to my extremities. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw a different image, like those photographic negatives that’d found their way from the battlefield and into the hands of journalists. But unlike the woodblocks used by newspapers to reprint tragedy for the masses, my memories of those deaths were in full-color stereograph.

I took a slow, shaky breath. Another. And another. A dozen deep breaths later, my heart no longer felt as if it were trying to pound my rib cage to dust. I raised my head, opened my eyes, and studied the star-studded sky through my purple lenses. I straightened my posture and reveled in the cold air whipping through my hair and suit, cooling down the sickening fever that had heated my whole body.

A few minutes later, the door to my back opened, closed, and Barrie’s steps sounded against the wooden deck. He stopped beside me at the railing and offered my flat cap.

I took it, thumbed the tweed, then shoved it in my suit pocket.

“Mr. Hamilton—”

“Dr. Barrie, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather we not discuss the war.”

Barrie remained where he stood and said, with a sort of gentle authority, “I wonder if you suffer from Soldier’s Heart.”

“Are you familiar with Soldier’s Heart? They say it’s an invisible illness.”

I laughed, but it tasted as bitter as it sounded. I looked toward the sky again, so heavy with stars that it was like a sack of flour spilled across the night. A knot tightened in my throat, and I thought of my mother, who had lived in such fear of the Flour Riots of ’37 occurring a second time, that when I’d misfired a water spell as a boy—I’d had no understanding of how to control my magic!—and I’d ruined a newly purchased sack….

Smack, smack, smack.

I flinched, tugged the goggles down, and hastily wiped my face with the heel of my hand.

“Do you know this?” Barrie continued.

“It’s been suggested to me,” I said woodenly, and I caught Barrie nodding to himself from the corner of my eye.

“Why California?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve done my best to answer your questions and ask little of my own,” Barrie explained. “But I feel you ought to extend to me this one thing—why are we going to California?”

I ran fingers through my tousled hair before holding it down firmly with the palm of my hand. “While I was still employed as a special agent, a number of suspects I questioned indicated there were suspicious happenings out in California that relate to the atmospheric troubles. I left the case opened and unsolved.”

“Ah. Would that be the investigation you were working at the New Year? The one regarding Henry Bligh?”

“Yes—wait.” I finally looked at Barrie. “How did you know—?”

My attention was immediately drawn in two different directions, existing in both the physical and magical planes: Barrie opening a small wooden box in his hands, and the whir of aether ammunition being activated at my back.

A blast of blinding white light.

A shot cracking against the night.

And then Barrie jerked backward like a ragdoll. He stumbled and crashed to the deck. A red stain blossomed through the layers of clothing at his shoulder, and the box he’d dropped was open to reveal a hypodermic needle with a syringe.

I raised my hands, cast lightning, and spun on one heel—only to find myself staring down the triple barrel of a Waterbury pistol.

“Gunner?”