Page 56 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
“Go find Mary-Ruth and take her to that address.” He was entrusting Tabby’s well-being—and possibly life—to two young women who would have no one to protect them, no one to fall back on should anything go wrong. The police certainly couldn’t be trusted.
As if reading his thoughts, Alice drew herself up and gave him the same obstinate tilt of her chin that Tabby so often employed. “She’s my sister, and I assure you that no one will fight for her harder than I will.”
The past months should have taught Caleb that there were so many more things beyond his control than he would have ever thought possible as a young man of wealth. It was a hard lesson to learn, and one that he had to learn over and over. More than anything he wanted to be able to go to her, to make things right. He nodded reluctantly and then, on impulse, gave Alice a kiss on the cheek. “I know.”
31
IN WHICH THE DEAD DANCE.
WITH A MANon each elbow, Tabby was escorted into the auditorium, the reassuring weight of the mirror reminding her with every step that her nightmare would be over soon. They led her up the same back steps Tabby had taken that fateful day when she had gone to the library, only one floor below. They must not have wanted to risk taking her up the main stairs where she might try to escape, or plead with a passerby for help. Tabby stifled a bitter laugh; they might have known by now that she was completely and utterly broken. She would not try to escape even if they left her alone in the middle of a busy road.
After the first few interviews Mr. Whitby and Dr. Jameson conducted with her, Tabby was allowed to sit in a chair with no restraints. But today it was back to the table like the first time. They had given her a drink, told her that it would relax her and make her more receptive to messages from the other side. Tabby drifted in and out of consciousness, whatever had been in her drink making her drowsy and sluggish.
Her palms were clammy, her mouth dry as cotton. A fly was trapped somewhere in the room, its nervous buzzing an incessant assault on her ears. The silk dress with its cotton underpinnings felt like burlap against her skin, every breath painful and labored. Everything felt at once magnified, yet impossibly far away and distant.
The sound of feet shuffling in and excited murmurs filled the small theater with echoes. It appeared there would be an audience. Did these men have no shame? They might have unearthed corpses under the cover of night, but they were brazen in their experiments, treating them like nothing more than the removal of an appendix or extraction of a bad tooth.
Mr. Whitby was addressing his fellow members of the society, making expansive hand gestures and pontificating about the noble pursuit of eternal life. He was more animated than she had ever seen him before. It was only a matter of time before she would be expected to perform her party trick, and memories of sitting in her aunt’s parlor with sweaty palms and a pit of dread in her stomach came storming back.
Eventually the sound of wheels rolling on wood cut through the taut silence of the theater. Lifting her head as much as her restraints would allow, Tabby caught a glimpse of a gurney being pushed by Dr. Ferris. A sheet covered the gurney, but Tabby could make out the outline of a body beneath it, and despite the stale, antiseptic air, a shiver ran down her spine.
“Now, Miss Bellefonte,” said Dr. Jameson, coming into view. “We only have a few preparations to complete, and then we’ll be needing your services. Is there anything I can fetch for you to make the process smoother? Anything that will help facilitate contact?”
He sounded as if he were hosting a dinner party and she was simply his esteemed guest. Tabby stared up at the thin face and brown beard to see if he was joking, but she was met with only a probing gaze. When she didn’t say anything, he gave a sigh and shook his head. “It’s unfortunate that such an ability should be bestowed on someone of the weaker sex, though I suppose the female’s sensitive nature is what makes them more conducive to receiving communication from the other side.”
It had been years since Tabby indulged in missing her mother, but she missed her now with a longing that shot through her body like hungry fire. Even Eli seemed distant, like he belonged to a life lived long ago. What she wouldn’t give to be far away from this cold, sterile place, and back in the cemetery with the familiar headstones and the sounds of the city, Eli singing a hymn under his breath as he weeded.
Someone had wheeled the gurney so close to her that she could smell the faint scent of lime and decay. The sheet had been removed, revealing the prostrate body of a woman, and a wave of nausea came over Tabby.
The way Tabby saw it, she had two options.
One: Lie. Tell them it didn’t work. How would they know if she had opened her mind or not? She could simply say she had and that no communication had come through. Perhaps she could lie about what the spirit said, tell them just what they wanted to hear. But what exactlydidthey want to hear?
Two: be a good girl and open her mind, faithfully relaying everything the spirit said, thus helping Mr. Whitby reach his abhorrent goal.
As far as options went, they weren’t ideal. She felt a surge of protectiveness for the spirit of the dead woman. How would she reassure this poor spirit that she would be all right?Wouldshe be all right? Or were Whitby and Jameson damning her to some kind of unspeakable hell? In the previous experiments, Tabby had simply had to open her mind and make contact. There had never been a corpse in the room. She thought of Mr. Graham’s dying words, and fought another wave of nausea at the memory of bodies dancing with electricity.
A hush fell over the small assembly, and Tabby had to squint against the blinding light that suddenly shone in her face. Dr. Jameson cleared his throat and thanked Mr. Whitby for his opening words before launching into his own speech.
“Today we are gathered here to witness a new stage in the cycle of life. We are familiar with birth, with death, and now we seek to understandrebirth. I know that there is frustration at the perceived lack of progress, but I would be remiss in not pointing out that there is no such thing as a wasted experiment. Every experiment that we ran in the past that did not give us our desired outcome led us one step closer to this day.” He gestured to Tabby. “But we now have a valuable new tool that will bring us even further in our search. Will we see the spark of life rekindled today? It is possible, but not likely. Again, I urge patience and to remember that the scientific process is a slow, methodical one, as it should be.”
He sounded so reasonable, so logical. Tabby wished she could see the faces of the men in the audience, see how they reacted. How long had these experiments been going on? How many people in Boston were privy to the grotesque pageantries played out in this theater?
His speech concluded, Dr. Jameson bowed to light applause. Tabby twisted her neck to the side so that the corpse on the gurney filled her vision. Though the deep lines etched around the woman’s eyes and mouth spoke of a hard life, she was not old, perhaps thirty at most. She was covered by a sheet up to her neck, but in a dramatic flourish, Dr. Jameson flicked it down, revealing her bare chest. Tabby closed her eyes, unwilling to partake in the titillating spectacle that drew murmurs from the audience of men.
He spoke as he moved about the corpse, applying all manner of clamps and wires to the cold, hard flesh. When he was finished, he called for absolute quiet from the audience. “Now, Miss Bellefonte. I am going to ask you some questions about the woman beside you, just to establish that you’re truly in possession of the abilities attributed to you. If you answer these to satisfaction, I will remove the bindings and you may sit in a chair, or however is most conducive to you.”
She would cooperate, for now. She did not believe that anything she did would actually help them achieve their goal of reanimation. How could it? Taking a deep breath, she focused her intention, and tried not to think about the men leaning forward in their seats to watch her. She would pretend she was on the church steps as she had so many other times, the reassuring nocturnal sounds of Boston around her. Grudgingly, she gave a small nod.
“Good. Now, tell me the name of the woman beside you.”
It was not easy to clear her mind, to make it an open vessel, not when her heart was pounding with fear and there were dozens of men watching her. But if she was going to do this, she was going to do it right, for the sake of the poor woman beside her.
Closing her eyes, Tabby let go. Let go of the tension in her body, let go of the fear and worry swirling in her mind, let go of the hatred and anger she had for these men. Gradually, the glare of the kerosene lamps dimmed to nothing, and the stifling blackness encroached on the corners of her mind. When she could no longer hear the coughing and shifting of the audience, Tabby reached out through the darkness.
Hello? My name is Tabby, and I know you must be very frightened right now, but I must speak to you. I promise to do everything in my power to help you, whether that is relaying any messages you may have, or helping you find peace.
There was no response.Please, Tabby tried again,tell me your name.
