Aether Spirit

Chapter 1-3

“You seem perturbed,” Patrick O’Connell said to Chad that night as they ate in the mess hall. “A waste of good food, you are. Missing the French siege diet and Ottoman spice?” He held up a beer-braised sausage on a fork, and a strand of onion dripped juice on to his arm. The Irishman licked his hairy wrist.

“And you seem to have lost any refinement you may have gained in our travels.”

But Chad was relieved that Patrick’s humor had returned, especially since Paris. Patrick had always been more of a doer than a traveler or thinker, and he was happiest in his workshop.

“You’re grumpy tonight.”

Chadwick shrugged.

“There’s the difference between us, my friend. I don’t let gun problems ruin my appetite.” His eyebrow wiggle confirmed the double entendre. “Not that I have any.”

“You’re stretching with that one.” Chad shook his head and pushed the greasy food around on his plate. It was fine, better than he’d expected when he arrived. The speed with which his superiors had summoned him back to the front had surprised him. But then, he’d lost track of the news in besieged Paris, and the situation in the States was becoming desperate. Public opinion was for halting the war effort and negotiating with the rebels.

In other words, against the continued sacrifice of sons who had barely been out of diapers when the war began and the guaranteed spinsterhood of a generation of daughters.

Like Claire.

No matter where his thoughts started, they returned to her unexpected arrival.

“Rough day,” he said.

Patrick’s face fell into serious planes. “Did you lose a patient? If so, I apologize for my insensitivity. Sometimes I do forget we’re back in this hell.”

“Thanks, but no apology needed. In fact, quite the opposite. I found someone.”

Patrick put his fork back on his plate. “Claire?” He said her name in tones that sounded like a prayer or that he spoke of the star of a ghost story of long ago.

“The same. She just walked into Distillery Hospital, shook out her umbrella, and…”

“And?”

“And didn’t recognize me.” Now the food on his plate made his stomach clench—or maybe it had been the loss of hope that she would recognize him—but either way, he was done. He pushed his plate away. “No sign at all, not even the barest flicker.”

“That’s not surprising considering she didn’t seem to see me in Vienna.”

“Yes, the damn neuroticists did their job too well burying the accident so far in her memory that she doesn’t remember anything about it. Or me.”

Patrick scooted Chad’s plate closer to him. “You’re not finishing this?” It was a vaguely hopeful question.

“No, I’m not.” He sighed. “Tell me about your gun problems.”

Patrick lowered his voice. “Well, there’s this w***e… All right, nothing like that. That weapon is working just fine. I’m having trouble with La Reine. While the professor and I managed to corral the aether into a form we could use to light the stage at the Bohème, concentrating it to the point of aiming it as a weapon is eluding me. I haven’t found the right material for the lens.”

“That’s unfortunate, especially since it’s kept you from working on our other aim.”

“Aether as a healing medium? How much more do you need? The preliminary experiments with the girl in Paris went well enough.”

“Yes, but she was newly shocked and not physically injured. I dare not try it on Claire or the soldiers until I’ve refined the process, but I haven’t had the time with us being so shorthanded.”

Patrick’s green eyes widened, and his brows crawled up his forehead. “There she is.”

Chad looked over his shoulder and saw Claire carrying a tray from the kitchen. The rain had plastered her one stray strand to her cheek, and water speckled her glasses. She approached the nurses, who turned their backs on her and spread out so there was no room for her at their table. The medical apprentices ignored her, as did the soldiers who were well enough to eat in the mess hall.

“Hey, that ain’t right,” Patrick drawled in a pretty good imitation of the Confeds.

“Where did a boy from Ireland learn a horrid expression like that? You sound like one of the prisoners. Wait, what are you doing?”

But it was too late. Even if she hadn’t seen them—unlikely considering Patrick’s flame-orange hair and beard—the Irishman made sure she’d notice them. He stood and waved his arms.

“Hey you, girl with the glasses, come sit with us!”

Claire’s face lit with relief, and Chad closed his eyes. I’ve missed that smile. When he opened them, he saw she stood by their table, her brows drawn down in hesitation. Chad gestured for her to join them.

“Thank you,” she said and set her tray beside Patrick’s. “Word gets around fast.”

“Not fast enough.” Patrick took her hand and kissed it before taking his seat again. “I had no idea our camp had been graced with such beauty.”

Chad shook his head while studying Claire’s reaction. Patrick was laying it on thick, but as with Chad, she demonstrated no sign of recognizing the Irishman either from life before the accident or from when Patrick had asked her for directions in Vienna.

“And brains,” Chad added. “This is Doctor Claire McPhee. She’s a neuroticist from the University of Pennsylvania. She’s going to try to help our wounded soldiers get their heads on straight while their bodies heal.”

“Oh, a neuroticist.” Patrick covered his mouth. “I’ll be careful what I say around you, then.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “And now I’ve diagnosed you with a bad case of unoriginality. It’s quite rude considering we haven’t been introduced.”

“You’ve wounded me.” Patrick pretended she had just bayoneted him. “I’m Civilian Engineer Patrick O’Connell, tinkerer and designer of weapons.”

Claire’s eyes unfocused, and she pressed her right temple. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding as though she was speaking from inside a dream. “I get these headaches. I knew a tinkerer once. Or an inventor. There are lots of McPhees in Boston.”

Chad rubbed his jaw to keep it from dropping. She didn’t remember her own father?

“We tinkerers are a good sort,” Patrick agreed with a glance at Chad. “I take it you know Doctor Radcliffe?”

“We’ve met.” She gave Chad a wry smile. “I hope your day got better.”

“Nah, he’s still sulking,” Patrick said. “Where did you train?”

Chad tried to kick Patrick under the table. He didn’t want to force Claire into more memory than she was ready for.

“I worked with Doctor Charcot in France, then trained with the neuroticists in Vienna, and then I returned to the States to the neurology department at the University of Pennsylvania. I’m working on a grant.”

“Charcot, eh?” Patrick steepled his fingers. “That’s the hypnosis guy, right?”

“Yes, and the Vienna neuroticists are working on a new theory of hysteria and other mental problems, particularly judicious use of electricity, which has been shown effective for melancholia but not nervous hysteria.”

“How did you get involved with them?” Chad asked to keep her talking. He had known vaguely what she’d done in Europe, but if she was going to work with his patients—and if he was going to help her—he needed to find out more. Having Patrick there was the perfect buffer. Her animated expressions and gestures dragged him into the past, when he was the focus of her attention, but seeing her gloved hands reminded him of the scars underneath.

“Well, they don’t have a high opinion of us supposedly ‘weaker s*x,’” Claire admitted. “I was first a patient of theirs, and luckily I managed to impress them enough that they kept me on.”

Patrick nodded. “And they think getting experienced soldiers back on the field by soothing their mental anguish is going to break the war’s years-long stalemate and preserve the union. We’ll see who makes a breakthrough first, you with your neuroticist theories or me with my weapon project.”

“Deal,” she said and shook his hand. “You’ll have to tell me about it.”

“It’s top secret,” Chad told her.

“But then how will I know if he won?”

“The war will be over, of course,” Patrick said. “After one final battle.”

“And what is the prize?”

Now Patrick looked at Chad. “We’ll let the good Doctor Radcliffe decide.”

Chad stood, exhausted by the day and the mental challenge of trying to dig for information without revealing too much. “If you two will excuse me, I have to round one more time before bed.” He willed it not to, but his hand found the small ruby ring in his pocket.