Page 57 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
She waited. Still nothing. Perhaps the spirit had moved on, far beyond the reach of even Tabby’s abilities. What would Dr. Jameson do if she was unable to provide answers to his questions?
Just when she thought the darkness would suffocate her, the smallest of stirrings blew through the ether, and before her stood a woman, not naked and stiff and covered in wires, but unmistakably the same fair-haired woman as on the gurney.
The woman looked at her with dark, bottomless eyes.Why do you call me? Where am I?
Tabby might have told her that she was in an operating theater, that she was the unwitting subject of a dreadful experiment, but she could not risk frightening her off.
You have passed on, Tabby said gently.I have called you back to the in-between place so that I might speak with you.
A taut, nervous smile spread over the woman’s colorless lips, even as her eyes dilated with panic.You must be mistaken. I am simply sleeping. Surely you can see my two little babies that I tucked into bed so sweetly last night? Surely you can see how they wake and stir and look for their mama? I was only feeling so tired that I had to lie down and rest. It is only for a little while, and then I will wake up and rock my babies in my lap and sing them their favorite songs.
Tabby winced. The dead who knew not that they were dead were the hardest to speak to. They were ever hopeful, though hope could quickly turn to desperation.Of course.You are right, I must be mistaken, Tabby said in soothing, placating tones.But please, what is your name?
I am Nancy Doyle, wife of Peter Doyle. I live above a dry goods shop in the West End, and I am twenty-eight years old.Her voice was hollow.I don’t see why you need to know this, though.The spirit looked about her at the dark void.This is truly the strangest dream, she mused.I can almost feel the cold upon my skin as if I walked through a frigid winter’s night.
Tabby bowed her head in thanks and prepared to return to the land of the living.Thank you. I may have yet more questions to ask you when I return.
The spirit’s eyes went wild as she stretched out a skeletal arm toward Tabby.Wait! Where are you going? Please, don’t leave me in this dark place!
Tabby pushed aside her guilt. If she had not been doing this for Mr. Whitby, she would have taken her time, soothed and assured the woman.I will come back. I promise.
The darkness receded, and with it, the terrified face of the woman, her echoing pleas. Opening her eyes, Tabby found Dr. Jameson staring down at her with a mixture of wonder and impatience. She hated giving him what he wanted.
“Well?” he asked. “What is her name?”
“Her name is Nancy Doyle. She has—had—two children, and lived above a dry goods shop in the West End.”
A gasp rippled through the audience and even Dr. Jameson looked fleetingly surprised before his expression changed to one of smug satisfaction. “Very good, Miss Bellefonte. Now,” he said, extending a hand, “would you care to have a seat?”
Tabby hesitated. She fingered the mirror shard through her skirt, the promise of release only a quick cut away. She could go now, join Nancy on the other side and never look back. She could join Rose, and finally be reunited with her mother and father. Dr. Jameson had his back to her as he pulled out a chair, and Mr. Whitby was speaking with Dr. Ferris. She flexed her fingers. All it would take was one quick motion and she would have it in her hand. But she thought of the frightened woman wandering the darkness, and with a sinking feeling, she knew that she could not run until she had seen this through. Mute, she nodded.
Mr. Whitby faced the audience. “You have seen that she is indeed able to establish contact with the spirit of the deceased. Now we will introduce a current of electricity to the corpse, bringing about a marriage of the flesh and the spirit, reunited again.”
As Dr. Jameson helped her to a seated a position, a wave of dizziness went through her at being upright. From her new vantage point, she could see the faces of the men in the audience, a homogenous sea of pale skin and dark suits.
“Miss Cooke, this time when you make contact, it is imperative that you call the spirit back. She must return to her body. When the moment is right, we will start her heart. Convince her to manifest herself once again in her mortal shell.”
Tabby did not think that it would be so simple, prayed that it would not be so simple, but once more she steeled herself and entered the ether. She had never been quite sure how time worked in this in-between space, and didn’t know if Nancy had thought her gone for a few moments, hours, days, or some other measure of time entirely. But no sooner had she slipped all the way under than a commotion in the theater yanked her back to the here and now.
There was something happening at the door, causing a great amount of excitement in the audience. “Excuse me,” Dr. Jameson said, rushing forward, “this is a closed theater. You must be a student of mine, or a member of the club.” His face grew red as he saw just who was at the door. “And there arecertainlyno ladies allowed.”
At this, Tabby sat forward and followed Dr. Jameson’s line of sight to where a flustered man in a white apron was trying to hold back two women from entering. All she could see of the second woman was a glimpse of a brown plaid skirt, but she immediately recognized Mary-Ruth, and she caught her breath. Was she dreaming? Was this some cruel effect of the draught they had given her?
“I’ll take care of this,” Dr. Ferris said, striding to the door. “Begin the current. I don’t want any more delays.”
“Tabby!” Mary-Ruth cried as she struggled to twist free of Mr. Whitby’s grip.
Tabby’s heart at once leapt in joy at seeing her friend, and recoiled at the same time. “Mary-Ruth?” she croaked before finding her voice. “You shouldn’t be here! Go!”
The audience was on their feet, the corpse beside her jerking and dancing like a limp marionette. This had to be some sort of hallucination, a terrible dream.
“Let go of me!” Mary-Ruth said, swatting away Dr. Ferris. “Tabby, come with us!”
The mirror forgotten, Tabby struggled to force her sluggish legs to move. But no sooner than she was out of her seat than Dr. Jameson was lunging toward her, a balled-up rag in his hand. He caught her by the waist and, despite her struggles, pressed the cloth against her mouth. Her head went light and just before the world went completely black, she could have sworn that she saw her sister’s face.
32
IN WHICH THE FUTURE COMES TO PASS.
