Something is wrong.
Dr Morrison Hedwith hurls the flask against his workshop wall in disgust. It’s an action out of keeping with his usually calm demeanor but, yet again, the preparation has eluded him. Something is wrong with it. Yet again. Something is missing. This time, the liquid has thickened down to a viscous, rubbery fluid, not at all suitable for the experiment. Not at all. He’s spent days waiting for a suitable result – days of precise, fastidious labor – and for nothing. Instead of a dry, metallic powder, ready for mixing with the other elements, he has nothing but a sludgy mess. Another wretched failure. More wasted time that he can little spare.
As if on cue, he feels a twisting in his guts, a cramp that makes him lean over, holding his belly. His forehead breaks out in sweat even in the cool basement laboratory where he works. He rests his head on the rough wood of his workbench, tries to concentrate on the muted sounds of the footsteps moving quietly above him. One of the Wood twins is ringing up a last customer, from the muffled ding of the big brass register that looms over the shop’s counter. A shout brings what can only be Mr Twist, judging from the low scrape of a dragging leg on the floorboards overhead, called to assist with loading a purchase as the shop readies to close.
The basement feels hot and close with the pain in his guts; the sweat beads on his forehead and runs down his ribs, held tight with his elbows. The stink of chemicals in the alembic and the warm, sulfurous smell of the furnace on which it sits rises sharp in his nostrils. For a hot moment he thinks he’s going to lose his guts; he presses his skull tighter to the rough surface of the table, feels a throbbing behind his eyes.
“Is it bad, sweetheart?” he hears from somewhere behind him. “Are you in difficulties?”
He can only groan and make the semblance of a nod, pivoting his head slightly on the table. Dr Hedwith feels long, bony hands stroking his shoulders, slowly following the path of his upper arms down towards his pinched elbows.
“Oh, my dear,” Annabelle says, “my poor dear.”
Morrison says nothing, just concentrates on keeping his gorge down. The cramp in his belly is loosening slightly, but he still feels fevered and sick. The point of his wife’s sharp chin presses into the crease of his neck and shoulder.
“Is there anything I can do, dear?” Annabelle asks in a soft voice. “A cool cloth, perhaps?” When Morrison doesn’t respond, she says, “Some of the Sagwa, then?”
Morrison twists away from her, straightening up slowly, feeling the knots in his guts unwinding somewhat. He concentrates on the movement of his fists clenching and then relaxing, willing his twisting muscles to loosen from the neck down. Taking a cloth from his workbench, he sniffs it and then, judging it safe, wipes his sweaty brow and face. Exhaling slowly, he turns back to his wife, fashioning the juddery semblance of a smile.
“Thank you, my dear,” he says, “I’m fine now. Truly. A small episode, nothing more. Something I ate, I’m sure.” He wipes his brow again. As he does, Annabelle steps towards him, folding her long, narrow form around him, her skinny arms clamping around his ribs, hugging him tightly. Even through the crinkling, heavy folds of her stiff dark dress he can feel her skeleton pressing against him, unnerving him.
Despite the fact that she is no beauty, and that they are childless, Annabelle is a good wife to him, as these things are measured. Her family money has built this laboratory and largely funds his researches, of course, after his earlier financial setbacks in London. The Hedwith Apothecary Emporium covers its costs and provides a bit of profit but, given his substantial research expenses, he needs the extra Alberton income. Morrison has no interest in children or fatherhood, per se, but he vaguely wishes that they were blessed with a baby or two, he and Annabelle, if only to give his wife something else to do with her time. Afford a bit more privacy to his own. She has her work with the Temperance Union, of course, and the other charitable and social endeavors with which women of her class and station pass their time but, still, sometimes, it must not be enough to fill her days, given her regular appearances in his laboratory. He doesn’t like her down here, interrupting his research.
Morrison gives his wife a vague pat along the small of her back, imagining that he can feel her bones rattling around under her skin, her ribs clacking like marimba bars. “Thank you, my dear,” he murmurs, trying to get her off him, as he hates being touched, as a general rule. His wife’s incessant grasping is something of a trial to him. “Do you have a meeting today, then?”
Annabelle slowly unwinds herself from her husband, straightening and nodding severely. “Yes, Morrison, I do,” she says. “We have a gathering of the Calvary Committee later this evening. That is the reason why I am down here: there is an upcoming auction to raise funds for the new church building and I was hoping we could commit some cases of the Sagwa and some of the other products to the cause. Yes?”
“Certainly, my love, certainly,” Hedwith says, simply wanting to get his wife out of his laboratory so he can resume work and study what had gone wrong with this latest preparation. “As much as you like, just tell one of the Woods and have the man set it all aside in the storeroom. As much as you need.” Morrison could care less about stock and inventory and such things. That is a matter for clerks; let them sort it out. Really, Annabelle should have just gone to the Wood brothers directly and not bothered him with these trivial matters.
“Thank you, dear.” She leans forward. For a moment Morrison is concerned that she means to wrap herself around him again, but she merely gives him a dry kiss on the cheek. “Back to work then, doctor,” she says, smiling. When she smiles, Annabelle is almost pretty.
“Yes, dear,” Dr Hedwith says, returning the smile as best he can. “Back to work.”
Later, sitting by the fire in the parlor, Morrison broods. Annabelle will be gone for an hour or more yet, so he enjoys the brandy that Castle, his valet, had brought earlier. It’s an irritant, having to enjoy his liquor of an evening in secret, but that was just one of the things that came with his married life and, so, must be endured.
Dr Hedwith sips the brandy, relishing the hot sweetness on his tongue. He holds the glass to the light of the fire, swirling the warm amber liquid inside it, watching it catch and reflect the phlogisticated spirit of the aether. Nonsense, of course, he knows; the theory of the phlogiston, the elemental substance that existed inside all combustible bodies, had been proven obsolete for a hundred years, but it’s hard to let go of the terminology at times. And, truly, while the science has changed, the underlying feeling has not. Sipping the brandy, it’s easy to imagine the tiny particles dancing on his tongue, infusing his blood with burning potential. Brandy in firelight seems phlogisticated matter made incarnate.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Castle asks, interrupting his reverie. The man looms to the side of his chair; his broad shoulders, beady eyes, and pugilist’s twisted nose bely the surprising dexterity of the large, heavy-knuckled hands, hands that can pour a brandy, draft a schematic, or bludgeon a man with equal skill, as called upon by circumstance. Castle has been with him for many years, in several cities, as a majordomo of sorts, protector, and de facto body servant. Hedwith keeps him as close as he distances Lyman, though Rhoades has been with him much longer and is not without his own talents. It is a question of personality, of temperament. Castle’s scarred visage hides a keen mind and an aesthetic spirit, in many ways like Hedwith’s own. Castle is rarely far from his master’s side; he occupies a small set of rooms under the stairs, where he spends his free time in study.
“No, Mr Castle, that will be all, thank you. Enjoy your evening, my friend.” As the man turns to go, Morrison changes his mind. “A moment, Castle, if you would, though.” He holds the brandy to the light again, twists the glass in front of his eyes.
“Sir?” Castle, impassive as always, turns, the serving tray and brandy bottle in his hands.
Morrison pauses and is forming his thoughts, about fire and brandy and the elemental spirits, when the spasm strikes. The glass drops from his hand, spilling the expensive liquor on the rug. As he clutches his belly, his vision greying, he hopes that the stain will not be too apparent to Annabelle.
Castle moves quickly but without hurry, setting down the bottle and tray, and picking up Dr Hedwith in his arms, carrying him to the sofa with no more effort than would be required to lift a small child. Dr Hedwith’s body shivers and twitches; blood is dripping out of his nose and left ear. His eyes move rapidly from side to side, as if in a dream. Castle sits back and waits, wiping the blood from his employer with a clean handkerchief.
Several minutes later, Hedwith comes to. “Long?” he asks, weakly, looking up.
Castle shakes his head. “Not very long, sir, no. A few minutes.” He presses a hand to the doctor’s chest, preventing him from rising. “You’d better wait a few more minutes before you get up, sir.”
“No, no, I’m fine, Castle. Really. Thank you.” Hedwith tries to sit up but his vision swims and his head begins pounding, so he sits back. “Perhaps you’re right, then. Just a moment more.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll just clean up the brandy.” Castle goes down to the kitchen for a wet cloth. He knows it wouldn’t do for Mrs Hedwith or the maid to find the spill. He comes back with the rag, kneels, and begins dabbing at the spot, soaking up the liquor as best he can. There will be some smell, but perhaps it will go unnoticed. He glances over at his employer. “The episodes have been coming more frequently, sir.”
Morrison doesn’t answer. He knows that he is running out of time, that, as Castle said, the fits are coming more often and with greater intensity. He will have to act soon, with all the trouble and danger that entails, if his current experiments continue to prove flawed and fruitless. He sits quietly, holding his belly, gathering his strength as he watches Castle at his work.
“There,” Castle says, standing upright. “I think that will be fine.” He looks over. “Do you feel able to get up, sir? Mrs Hedwith will be home soon. Best she didn’t see you in this state.”
“Yes, Castle, I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment.”
Dr Hedwith lies there, going through the latest course of experiments in his pounding head, doing his best to concentrate through the pain and lingering nausea. Something is still wrong with the process, with the vital elements. Something is missing, but he’s confident that he can find the errors, fix them, if he only has more time. Just a bit more time.