SOJOURN
by Jana G. Oliver
“The greatness of
Evil lies in its awful accuracy. Without that deadly talent for being in the
right place at the right time, Evil must suffer defeat.
For
unlike its opposite, Good, Evil is allowed no human failings, no miscalculations.
Evil must be perfect…or depend upon the imperfections of others.”—The Outer
Limits
CHAPTER ONE
The
sky was falling.
Pumice
stones rained in a dissonant curtain, shattering roof tiles and clattering in
the courtyards. An amphora near Jacynda Lassiter’s feet exploded. Crimson wine
splashed her pure-white stola, cascading onto the ornate tiles. She braced
herself in the doorway as an earth tremor rocked the walls of the villa, her
eyes flooding from the scorching stench of sulfur.
She
wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “Alfred Bartlesby?” The academic didn’t acknowledge her, his pale, bald head bent over a
table illuminated by the anemic light of a half-dozen oil lamps. He huddled
over a mound of papyrus scrolls, seemingly oblivious to Vesuvius’ rage.
“Bartlesby?”
she called again.
Cynda turned at the sound of a
choked sob. A terrified girl, infant in arms, fled along the street.
Cynda
shivered at the sight. They were racing toward their graves. There was no
sanctuary to be found here. The once-thriving
metropolis of
Her
distraction had cost valuable time. “Bartlesby?” she called again, taking a few
steps forward. The academic still ignored her, murmuring to himself as he
furiously inscribed notes. One of the lamps guttered and died, but he didn’t notice.
“Hey!”
she shouted. “The bus is leaving!”
Bartlesby
glanced up, surprised to see her. “Ah, well, actually, I would like to stay a
while longer.” He pointed at the papers in front of him. “I have a bit more
work to do.”
“Not
an option,” she called over the sound of the pounding stones on the roof. Ash
filtered downward from the ceiling, from every crack and crevice, cloaking them
in a fine layer.
“I
paid extra to stay until the last moment,” Bartlesby protested.
Cynda
swore under her breath. This one was a linguist. He’d
be hard to budge. She opened the case of the golden pocket watch nestled in her
palm. The time interface’s digital display hovered in the murky air above the
watch.
“It
is the last minute, Mr. Bartlesby. You are about to become a permanent fixture
of the Pompeian landscape.”
His
eyes widened. “So soon?” Still he made no effort to rise.
Exasperated,
she grabbed the academic’s pudgy arm, hauling him off the low stool. He juggled
his scrolls, grasping them to his chest while stammering protests. A parchment
tumbled out of his fingers as they reached the door. He bent to collect it.
The
digital display flashed bright red.
Time
Incursion Warning!
Cynda
leaned out into the street and stared up at the boiling mountain. An unearthly
roar split the air, nearly deafening her. Death surged toward them—an
impenetrable wall of superheated material, the pyroclastic flow that would
entomb the city for sixteen hundred years.
“Oh,
my God.” Cynda’s hand shook so violently, it took her two attempts to perform
the required maneuver to initiate the transfer—wind the watch stem four times
forward, two back, three forward, one back. A hum emanated from the device, barely
audible over the cacophony of destruction.
The
holographic clock wavered in the murky air, counting the seconds until the
transfer.
3…2…1…
Cynda
closed her eyes and prayed as the characteristic halo encompassed them. A
moment before they shifted into the future, blistering heat shrouded them. In
the distance, she heard the agonized screams of those who had no means of
escape.
2057 A.D.
Time Immersion
Corporation
Cynda bit her lip in frustration,
waiting in the penitent posture until
the disorientation lessened. Apparently, Bartlesby forgot that part of his
pre-transfer briefing as he struggled to his sandaled feet. He was back on his
knees in an instant, retching.
When she finally stood, the ‘tourist’,
as the customers were euphemistically called, was out of the time pod and
teetering toward the Arrivals Lounge, flanked by two customer service reps. One
toted his stack of papyrus, nodding her head in agreement while Bartlesby
babbled incoherently, windmilling his arms to indicate explosions. A trail of
ash cascaded from his stola. In his wake, one of the DomoBots tidied up the
mess with electronic expertise.
Cynda was in no hurry to climb out of
the time pod. Every Time Rover had a personal ritual to reorient to the Now.
Some recited off-color nursery rhymes, others counted back from one hundred
until they felt their brain cells stabilize. Cynda’s trick involved wedging
herself in the door of the garlic-shaped time pod and inventorying the
chronsole room: the ‘Reorientation to Place’ technique.
She began her mental checklist. Corporate
cobalt decor—check. High ceilings—check. Ergo chairs and desks—check. Bored
employees—check. Low thrum of technology just one notch above my tolerance
level—check.
Concerned eyes peered over the top of
the chronsole counter.
“Hey!” Ralph called in greeting. That’s why she’d gotten out of
“Hey,” she responded in a dry whisper.
Clearing her throat made no difference—most of Vesuvius still seemed lodged
there.
Her first few steps out of the pod
would have made a drunk proud. Until she put chocolate into her system, her
equilibrium would be on the fritz, along with her sense of humor. PTS––Post
Transfer Syndrome. It beat PMS hands down.
Behind her, the pod door closed and
went into what they jokingly called ‘Spin Dry’: a maintenance cycle that
reminded her of one of those old front-loading washing machines.
She halted at the chronsole desk and
leaned on the nano-laminate top. It was currently a fetching shade of blue. At
the beginning of each hour, it shifted color to add visual excitement to the
work environment. In Cynda’s opinion, it failed miserably.
“Hey,” Ralph repeated, his glasses
reflecting the overhead lights. Most folks had their eyesight corrected by an OpticBot, but not Ralph. He said the glasses made a
statement.
Without prompting, he pushed a candy
bar across the counter, one of the vintage kind with
loads of sugar and preservatives. No high-protein, high-energy wallpaper bricks
for her. Peeling off the wrapper with all the finesse of a gorilla, she
demolished the first bar. Her hands continued to shake. He thoughtfully
liberated the second candy bar, eyes blinking rapidly to overcome the stench of
sulfur that seemed to envelope her. Wisely, he didn’t
comment.
Her mouth half-full of chocolate, she
demanded, “Why in the hell are we cutting these so close? Why couldn’t I have snagged him a couple days earlier? If the
transfer hadn’t worked…” She trailed off, attempting to short-circuit the
profound tremor running the length of her body. The jump from
Ralph looked genuinely chagrined. “I
guess marketing is trying to make up last quarter’s shortfall. The longer the
tourist is on site, the more money. It’s all a matter of economics—at least
from TIC’s point of view.”
“Economics? Do they have any idea how
those people died?” she demanded, the image of the young girl cradling the
child replaying in her mind.
“No, they probably don’t. Marketing’s
never been real strong on reality.” Ralph lowered his voice. “I’m really sorry,
Cyn. I wouldn’t have made you go that close to the
end. I’d have fudged the time.”
Her anger melted. It wasn’t
right for her to chew on him. Ralph always looked out for her. They’d been buddies ever since he’d beaned
her over the head with an alphabet block in pre-school and she’d promptly
retaliated with a toy truck. They’d both been sent
home with notes to their respective parents. From that moment on, they were joined at the hip. Lovers came and went, but Ralph was
a constant.
“All we need is for one of these guys
to croak and—”
He touched her arm, and she fell
silent. A statuesque blonde customer rep was exiting the Departures Lounge,
guiding a middle-aged couple toward one of the time pods.
“You’ll see, Marjorie, it’ll be fun,”
the man said, tucking a hip flask into the pocket of his voluminous raccoon
coat. The woman shook her head in dismay, apparently not as keen about the
upcoming adventure as her husband. The rep ushered
them inside the pod and encouraged them to relax.
“You’ll be at your destination
shortly,” the rep said with practiced ease.
“I have motion sickness,” the woman
warned.
“Not a problem. No motion involved.”
Ralph and Cynda traded looks. This lady was in for a helluva surprise. “A forty-story plunge
down a drainpipe” was how one Rover described it. Oddly enough, the length of
the drop didn’t seem to change no matter how much time
you covered; just one long drop, followed by a very sudden stop.
The rep tapped her high heels over to
deliver the Time Order and a warm smile to Ralph. She leaned against the
chronsole, her well-rounded bottom jutting in the air. It was too perfect—no
doubt the latest in posterior implants. Perky one day, sultry the next. You
decided what you wanted your butt to look like, and the implant changed to
match your expectations. From what Cynda heard, they cost a fortune.
Apparently, customer reps made more than Rovers.
“Hi, Ralph,” the blonde
said, her voice low and full of promise.
His eyes twinkled. “Hi there. Are we
still on for dinner?”
She beamed. “Sure are. And dessert, I
hope.”
“Always dessert,” Ralph replied.
Cynda noshed her way through another
candy bar, watching the pair with amusement. For some reason, Ralph’s silver-streaked
ponytail and oval, Teddy-Roosevelt glasses simply mesmerized young women. It
never made sense, but the beneficiary accepted he was a skirt magnet. Last
week, it had been a brunette in accounting. Today, it
was Miss Well-Rounded Caboose in the nostalgia heels.
The blonde
threw Cynda a sidelong glance. With a decided sniff, she returned to business.
“The Hartmans are scheduled for 1925
“Roaring Twenties Chicago,” Ralph said,
inserting the nano-drive containing the Time Order into his terminal. His
fingers flew over the touchscreen as the entries scrolled in the air. Studying
the order, he observed, “A seven-dayer. Big bucks for
that.”
“It’s their thirty-fifth wedding
anniversary,” the rep replied. “Mr. Hartman wants to give his wife something
special and then write a few ‘man on the scene’ articles for Roaring ’20s
Retro Magazine.”
Ralph raised an eyebrow, double-checked
his entries and announced, “Ready.”
The rep nodded her approval. “Go for
it.” He hesitated, looking around. “Which Rover’s handling the Outbound?”
“No one.”
Ralph shot Cynda a quick look. “They’re
flying solo?”
“New policy,” the rep replied. “Unless
it’s a dangerous locale, no need for an Insertion Escort.”
“
A noncommittal shrug from the rep. “You
know Corporate.”
Ralph muttered under his breath as he
keyed in the approval code. The pod door closed automatically. A few seconds
later, the couple haloed their way into the past. The vid-monitor didn’t transmit Mrs. Hartman’s final words, but her wide
eyes and quaking hand at her mouth delivered the message effectively enough.
“Incoming,” Ralph said, waggling an
eyebrow. A moment later, a reassuring “Chron Transfer Complete” emanated from
the computer speaker. The blonde tromped off, her
heels making a racket. Her fanny wiggled unnaturally in time with her strides.
“No Outbound Rover?” Cynda muttered.
“This isn’t a good sign, Ralph.”
“Time to polish the old vid-résumé, I
think.”
Cynda bent over the chronsole and
smirked. “I see you’re working your way through the customer rep-tile
pool,” she chided, indicating the retreating blonde.
“Be nice. She’s a blast.”
“Oh, I bet. You just like her designa-tush.”
“Hey, you’re not the only one to get
time lag, you know,” Ralph protested. “Since I don’t like chocolate, sex is the
best way to cure it.”
“Nonsense. All you chron-ops get are
hangnails.”
Ralph frowned and promptly retaliated.
“You have another assignment.”
“What? You’ve gotta
to be kidding me!” Cynda’s eyes danced around the room, hunting for the boss.
“Where is that moron?”
“Referring to our fearless leader as a
moron, though technically correct, is probably not a
good career move,” Ralph advised. He conscientiously opened another candy
wrapper and handed over the contents.
She shook her head, waving the candy
bar in her agitation. “I’m not going anywhere. TIC owes me eight days off. I’ve
just set a new world’s record for time leaps.”
“Actually, not. I believe that Harter
Defoe did that in––”
“I don’t need a walking encyclopedia. I’m going to get this settled and go home. I need some…down
time.” She blinked, but it did no good. It looked as if someone had stuck a
crimson filter in front of her eyes. The chocolate wasn’t
having the desired effect against the time lag.
Ralph’s mouth twitched into a slow,
libidinous grin. “Down time?”
She refused to be
baited. “Where is our fearless leader?”
“Thad’s gone for the day. Meeting at
Corporate.” Ralph pushed a pulsating hot pink nano-drive across the counter and
pointed toward the Rover’s locker room. “Hie thee
hence. I don’t want you busting my eardrums when you find out where you’re
going.”
Hot pink?
“An Overdue? Where?”
Instead of answering her, he logged
himself out and rose from his chair. A young man stood nearby, digital
clipboard in hand. The next shift had arrived.
“Where?” Cynda demanded, reluctant to
claim the nano-drive and obligate herself.
Ralph pointedly ignored her. Addressing
his replacement, he said, “Five out today. One Overdue. Cynda’s handling that.”
Before she could complain, he pushed the hot pink time bomb closer toward her
and commanded, “Away, loud strumpet.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I could refuse
this, you know. I have enough seniority.”
“You could,” Ralph said. They both
knew she wouldn’t. He donned a set of vintage headphones,
adjusting them on his ears. Classic Led Zeppelin wafted around him. Waving, he
hiked toward the double doors at the far end of the “Be sure to say hello to Oscar for me,”
he called right before the doors thudded behind him. “Oscar?” Cynda repeated. “Oscar who?” The next shift’s chron-op plopped in
the chair, executing a sunny smile in her direction. He looked all of twelve.
Her mind rummaged for his name. Bewildered, she scooped up the drive
and headed for the closest empty desk. Jamming the drive into a port, she
fidgeted as the information materialized at eye level. Retrieval
Order––Overdue Tourist Location: Date:
August 25, 1888 A.D. Time Grid:
Late Victorian Wardrobe Code: LVL1888F––Class
4 Due: August 21, 1888 A.D. “1888? Oscar…Wilde.” Oh, damn.
“Thad, you son of a…” Cynda let the
oath trail off, realizing it was wasted. He knew she loathed Victorian London,
rated it right up there with Tourist Name:
Michael A. Turner Profession:
Professor of Sociology Age:
57 Last Known
Location: A. Phillip’s
Boarding House Address: Special Instructions: Insert Rover on
8/24/88 for retrieval. She checked the time date again. TIC
was cutting it close––no one was allowed in To escape the smiling child at the
chronsole, Cynda carried the nano-drive to the locker room. Flipping the drive
into her locker, she peeled off the stola. As she prepared to toss it in the
recycling basket, she spied the scorch marks. A shudder coursed through her. “Too damned close.” To get her mind off
the near-fatal encounter, she selected her favorite peach body wash. After a moment’s thought, she slung it back in the locker. Given
where she was headed, a shower was a complete waste of
time. After a moment, she picked it up again. There was one more stop to make
before she headed to The door chimed as Cynda entered the
deli, a quaint holdover from when restaurant owners actually welcomed each
customer in person. She loved Eli’s Deli for many reasons, all of them having
to do with lack of technology. At other delis, you placed your order using your
Personal Security Interface (PSI) as the link. The order was ready when you walked
inside the door, the cost auto-debited from your bank account, and the caloric
intake added to your nutritional database. No need to talk a
real person. Which is why she adored Eli’s; they
still relied on the personal touch. Cynda savored the ability to order her food
from a human being, not the PSI on her wrist or a gleaming Server-Bot with a
false smile and a paper hat. “Hello, beautiful!” Eli called from
behind the counter. Another reason she loved this place.
Eli was in his mid-sixties and learned the business from his father and
grandfather, both named Eli Greenwald. She’d dubbed
him E3, and he liked it. “The usual?” he asked, eyeing her
closely. “No, I think I’ll have the…” She stared
up at the chalkboard listing the day’s special. “I’ll have the tuna salad on
whole wheat, please. And a couple extra kosher pickle spears.” She pushed her
auto-cooled lunch tote across the counter and they traded looks. “Fish on wheat, hold mayo, extra
mustard and lettuce, two spears, coming up,” he intoned, giving her a wink.
Scooping up her lunch tote, he vanished into the kitchen to collect the pickles
while his daughter made the sandwich at a nearby worktable. Every sandwich was made by hand. Eli swore he could tell if a Bot made his
food, though she thought that might be a bit of an exaggeration. Cynda waved her left hand near the
register interface. The cost of the meal vanished from her bank account while
the calories were added to her Daily Intake Record for
insurance purposes. The register interface beeped. “Recommend extra mayo and cheese to
increase overall body mass,” it said. “Deny,” she said. “Recommend double chocolate milkshake
to increase caloric—” “Deny,” she said, frowning. “Recommend—” “Override.” The thing beeped and stopped bugging
her. Thin was her thing; it was just what the parental DNA had provided.
Perfect for being a Rover. Less weight reduced the time lag and the cost of
transfers. Unfortunately, the insurance companies didn’t
see it that way. Leaning against the counter, Cynda
resisted the urge to drum her fingers. Other customers picked up their
sandwiches and left. She made sure to look nonchalant, or at least as mellow as
one could when committing a criminal act. Word was you got five years for the
first conviction, and the numbers piled up with each subsequent brush with the
law. She was courting a jail sentence because of the tomato seeds she’d hidden in the bottom of her lunch tote. It was Blair’s fault. Her wild-haired
brother had somehow talked their parents into jumping ship—going Off-Grid, as
it was called. Now they were stuck out there.
Because of him they had no health insurance, no
guarantee that next year’s crop would thrive and they’d have enough to eat, no
PSI units, none of the supposed perks of being part of society. They were now persona
non grata. Because of Blair’s boneheaded
defiance, she risked everything to smuggle seeds to her parents. Seeds were money to an Off-Gridder. The non-genetically modified varieties were rare,
and easily a quarter of Cynda’s paycheck went into each packet. Once her
parents had their own supply, her father would be able to establish his medical
practice, no matter how rudimentary it might be, and that would generate
income. Until that day, she would break the law. If it all fell apart, she’d be
the one doing the jail time while Blair played farmer and ranted against the
evils of society. “Creep,” she muttered. “I should have
drowned you when I had the chance.” Her eyes slipped over the few patrons
dining in. Nobody seemed out of place, but then a Gov agent wouldn’t.
She had to figure her PSI interface would be mum about that, as well. The
security geeks would know how to block that information. The PSI was great for
scoping out your fellow citizens, but it seemed mute when it came to the Powers
That Be. She heard the double doors open behind
her and Eli reappeared, lunch tote in hand. He placed the wrapped sandwich
inside and handed over the tote with a smile. “I picked the crispest pickles for
you,” Eli said. “Thanks, E3. I appreciate it. Yours are
always the best.” Turning, she caught sight of a man
paying a bit too much attention. She knew it wasn’t
her figure. Ralph had once described her as a pipe cleaner with boobs. Bluffing, Cynda took her sandwich to a
nearby Designated Green Space. The ordinances allowed you to eat in a DGS,
providing you weren’t there longer than thirty
minutes: a rule designed to prevent vagrancy. Stay over the half-an-hour limit,
and one of the black and white CopBots would order you to move on. Settling on one of the ergo benches,
she unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. A satisfied sigh came unbidden;
Eli’s creations were always heaven. A few benches away, the man who’d been watching her in the deli took a seat, licking a
vanilla ice cream cone. A check of the PSI unit on her wrist told Cynda he was
37, single and worked for a mortgage company. On the Social Compatibility
Scale, he rated 8.7 out of 10. Not
likely. The chickens were coming home to roost
sooner than she’d hoped. The trip to Victorian London
took on a new urgency. Maybe the heat would die down while she was gone. If
not, she and Eli would be sharing the same cellblock at the Correction
Facility. She wondered if E3’s wife would be able to smuggle in some dill
pickles every now and then. CHAPTER TWO Monday, 24 September, 1888 Pressing the coins into the hansom
driver’s rough hand, Alastair shook his head at the question. “No, you do not
need to wait.” “As you wish, sir,” the jarvey replied,
touching his battered cap in respect. He jiggled the reins, and the cab
clattered down the street. Alastair watched it turn the corner as he dropped
the remaining coins into his pocket. He regretted spending the money, but he’d run late at the hospital, forcing him to secure a ride
to Marylebone. Flipping open his pocket watch revealed
it was three minutes until five. He would be on time. Alastair released a deep sigh as he
mounted the stairs to the house. It was a three-story, white stone affair with
a glowing gas lamp at the front door. It spoke of money, but then Lord Wescomb
was a well-regarded barrister and came from landed gentry. He could easily have
afforded a house in Knightsbridge or Alastair turned toward the clean and
well-lit street. He’d once lived in a place like this,
free of worry, free to spend a few coins on a cab journey. All that lay in the
past now. After another deep breath, he knocked
on the carved oak door. The maid promptly answered. “Doctor Alastair Montrose to see Lord
and Lady Wescomb, at their request,” he said politely. Summoned to their
presence was more like it. The note he’d received,
while cordial, did not allow him the option to decline. “This way, Doctor,” the maid replied. Alastair stepped inside, glancing about
as inconspicuously as possible. The carpets proved richly hued and the walls
were of the finest hardwood. The delicate scent of flowers caught his nose. He
found the source; an elegant lead crystal vase filled with an abundance of
colorful blooms. Chagrined, he realized the maid waited. He removed his coat and hat, passing them to
her. She hung them on a hall tree, exhibiting a calm demeanor he wished he
could borrow. Perhaps the
Wescombs wish to donate to the clinic. His mind
immediately discarded that fanciful notion. This summons was something else
altogether. Alastair took time to straighten his
tie and jacket in the hall mirror, smoothing his hair and moustache. He looked
as presentable as a young physician might, given his
reduced circumstances. He’d made a point of wearing
his best suit and polishing his shoes. A downward glance revealed they’d survived the journey in tolerable shape. “They’re in his lordship’s study,” the maid advised, gesturing down the long hall. When they reached their destination,
Alastair hesitated at the study door, as if retreat remained an option. Inside,
he heard the reassuring sounds of a crackling fire and low voices. The maid gave him an inquisitive look. He nodded for her to
proceed. She knocked and was readily granted entrance. The room proved surprisingly intimate,
with tall bookshelves on three walls and a massive hearth on the fourth. Lady
Sephora Wescomb sat in a brocade chair near the stone fireplace, her
intelligent eyes observing him with a hawk’s intensity. Her silvered hair
glinted in the gaslight in contrast to her deep-purple gown. It was cut in the latest fashion, with black lace at the bosom
and at the cuffs. Her husband, Lord Wescomb, leaned back in a heavily padded
chair with a faint look of amusement, adjusting his embroidered waistcoat over
a slight paunch. Alastair delivered a nod in his lordship’s direction and it was returned. He followed suit with the lady
of the house. “Come in, Doctor,” Lady Sephora
commanded, executing a graceful gesture toward a chair set equidistant between
herself and her husband. “Thank you, Lady Wescomb,” Alastair
replied as the maid closed the door behind him. “You haven’t changed a bit, young man,”
Lord Wescomb observed with a bemused chuckle. “Thank you, my lord.” Alastair settled
into the chair, ill at ease. A glass of sherry rested on a walnut table near
his elbow. He reached for the liquor and sipped, waiting for his hosts to open
the conversation. Lady Sephora’s form abruptly shifted,
strawberry-blonde tresses replacing the silver, her matronly figure exchanged
for a girlish shape. Wescomb altered as well, his hair now dark and his face
thin. Indeed, the pair now appeared as they might have two decades earlier. “Are you not going en mirage?”
Lady Sephora’s voice matched her youthful appearance. Alastair shook his head. “No, thank
you. I have no need to do so.” The moment after he spoke, he inwardly grimaced.
He’d foolishly reminded his hosts of his aberrant
behavior. “Surely you go en mirage on
occasion,” she said. “No, I don’t.” The Wescombs traded looks. “Not at
all?” Lady Sephora pressed, adopting a puzzled tone. Alastair felt the trap closing. “No.” The low sigh from his hostess sounded like a reproof. In contrast, Lord Wescomb’s
face gained a slight smile. “You always were a maverick,” he said.
From his lordship’s mouth, it sounded like a blessing. “I am not like the others, my lord.” “In that you are wrong,” Wescomb
retorted, his voice changing timbre in an instant. “You are more one of us than
you wish to believe.” Alastair drained the liquor, set the
delicate crystal glass on the table and rose, knowing he risked angering his
hosts with such an abrupt departure. “Thank you for the sherry. If that is
all, I must––” “Please, Doctor,” Lady Sephora urged, gesturing toward the empty chair. “Don’t make
a scene. We are merely concerned for your health.” “I appreciate your concern; however, I
cannot live as you prescribe. I do not wish to embrace this…transitory existence
you so readily cultivate.” An awkward moment ensued; the urge to
flee barely held in check by the social graces. Alastair stared into the fire,
debating his next move. The gaslights on either side of the mantel hissed into
the silence. “I understand you no longer practice
with Dr. Hanson in Sensing a merciful shift of topic,
Alastair returned to his seat. He elected not to ask how his host knew about
his change of venue. Apparently, the Transitive community paid more attention
to him than he cared to admit. “Yes, there have been changes in my
professional life. I now practice at the “I see. Do you enjoy your work at the
clinic?” Wescomb asked, leaning forward in his chair. Alastair gave a faint smile.
“Infinitely so. The conditions are of the most primitive nature, and the people
of the lowest sort, but they are grateful for any help they receive. They have
so little.” “Indeed.” “When did you begin your work in
Whitechapel?” Lady Sephora asked. The relevance of the question puzzled
Alastair. “In mid-July.” “I understand that Dr. Hanson was quite
displeased with you,” Wescomb said. “We disagreed as to which patients I
should treat.” “What I heard about that young boy was
true, then?” Wescomb asked. Alastair shifted uncomfortably,
adjusting his jacket. What was the purpose of this close questioning? “Dr.
Hanson refused to allow me to treat the injured boy in the surgery. He didn’t
want our patients to think we attended those of the lesser classes, as
he put it.” Alastair’s jaw tightened at the memory of their argument. “We have been to the “They want for the most basic
necessities,” Alastair said. “What of Hanson’s daughter, Evelyn? Are
you still engaged?” Wescomb asked out of the blue. The query snapped Alastair back to the
moment. He noted the pair switched back and forth, as if this had been rehearsed. “We have broken our engagement. Evelyn
has requested that I no longer see her. She cannot fathom why I wish to treat
the poor. She deems it a waste of my talent.” “Not surprising,” Wescomb huffed.
“Evelyn always struck me as quite shallow. I said the same to Sephora after the
first time I met her.” Lady Sephora nodded. “Which I believe
was the first time we met you, Doctor. At the Endicotts’
party. You and Evelyn never seemed to be a matched set, if you follow my meaning.” Alastair opened his mouth to protest, then abandoned the effort. They were correct, though it
stung to admit it. Evelyn heeded her father in all things, even the matter of a
potential husband. Alastair’s eyes drifted to his hostess. Sephora Wescomb was the converse of young Evelyn; she
valued her independence and exercised her brilliant mind regularly, much to the
annoyance of most males. Lord Wescomb seemed to comprehend that his wife was as
rare as a clear day in “Are you courting someone at present?”
the lady asked after a diminutive sip of sherry. That was over the mark. “Is there some
reason I’m here?” Alastair asked, chafing to be away from the probing
questions. Wescomb replied, “We’ve been instructed
to make these inquiries, Doctor.” “By The Conclave?” A brusque nod. “There are rare few of
our kind that do not go en mirage, and The Conclave wishes to ascertain
your mental health. It is not regarded as wholesome to avoid our true natures.” “I am not unbalanced, if that is your
concern.” “Perhaps not yet. Still, you live
outside the rules, and especially during this time it is dangerous to do so,”
Wescomb advised. “I remain circumspect. I don’t flaunt
myself like Keats.” Wescomb quickly nodded in agreement.
“Keats does have his fun, but be assured that at present,
all are under orders to appear as pedestrian as our fellow citizens. What with
these unseemly murders in the “Then how does my behavior present a
problem?” “Our particular endowment must be
exercised or it will run amok,” the lady cautioned. Alastair shook his head. “It never has
with me. I have control of it.” Lady Sephora’s expression grew stern.
“So you have said in the past, and I must admit you have mastered your need to
go en mirage quite well. However, even the best of us will
eventually succumb––” Alastair rose abruptly. “I resent the
implication that I cannot keep myself in check.” Wescomb rose as well, and his voice
took on a hard edge. “If my good lady and I are unable to overcome
this…predilection, then why do you believe you are so invincible?” “With all due respect, Lord Wescomb, I
just am. May I now be excused?” His hosts studied each other until Lady
Sephora gave a resigned nod. “Please be cautious, Doctor. Many eyes
are upon you,” she said. “As always, my lady,” he replied with
open discontent. Without further pleasantries, he departed the room at a brisk
march. Brushing aside the maid’s assistance at the
front door, Alastair collected his coat and hat and exited onto the street.
Twilight hung in the air. The street’s deepening shadows matched his mood. Inside the study, Wescomb sank into his
chair with a long exhalation. “The boy is riding for a fall, I think. No one is
capable of denying our legacy. He is a fool to think he can.” His wife rose and closed the door in a
rustle of silk. “He’ll learn it soon enough.” “What will The Conclave do?” Wescomb
asked. “I am not sure,” she said. “They are so
skittish at present. Knowing they have a rogue, even one as well mannered as
Alastair, may cause them to react irrationally. They are most adamant that our
young doctor be held accountable for his unhealthy behavior.” “Let us hope this The lady’s
face grew thoughtful as she returned to her chair. “And that the fiend is not
one of ours.” Wescomb shook his head vigorously.
“Good God, Sephora, I really can’t believe––” “It does not matter what either of us
believes, John! It’s what The Conclave presumes. If
they are convinced that Alastair is behind this butchery…” Silence descended as each mulled the
implications. Wescomb poured himself another glass of sherry. His wife held out
hers, and he performed the honors. She studied the amber liquor. “We must
pray for Alastair’s future…and his sanity,” she said softly. Wescomb nodded solemnly. They drained
their drinks. After only a moment’s hesitation, both hurled the crystal into
the blazing fireplace. The remnants of the alcohol flared brilliantly, and then
vanished in the flames.