Page 58 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
THERE HAD BEENa brief, preternaturally calm moment before all hell had broken loose in which Alice had locked eyes with her sister for the first time in over twelve years.
Alice had expected the theater to be bright and clean, but when they had entered, they were met instead with dimmed lamps throwing dramatic shadows on the dark walls. It felt more like a performance than a medical experiment.
It had all happened so fast; first she and Mary-Ruth were on one side of the door, holding their breath, and then they were pushing through, an eruption of male voices greeting them. She’d known that their presence in a medical theater would have raised a few brows at least, but she had not been prepared for utter chaos that two women could cause simply with their entrance.
“Out!” The man in the white apron was propping up an unconscious Tabby with one arm, and gesturing wildly at them with the other. The feeling of pure hot anger came flooding back to her, the way she used to feel when she shielded Tabby from one of their aunt’s stinging blows.
Mary-Ruth had broken free of the doctor and was tugging her arm. “We don’t leave under any circumstances,” she hissed. “This may be our only chance.”
She didn’t need to convince Alice; there was no way that she would let Tabby out of her sight now that she’d found her again.
The other man, the one who had been watching from the side, turned toward her. He had cold blue eyes and an angular face that radiated arrogance and contempt. It could only be Mr. Whitby.
As soon as those eyes locked on her, he went pale, as if he had seen a ghost. Then he was striding toward them, up through the wooden balcony seats. “No! They do not leave.” He motioned to a man, and before she knew what was happening, the door was being closed behind them.
Alice threw a look at Mary-Ruth, panicked. But in the short time of their acquaintance, she should have learned that Mary-Ruth was tougher than her tall, slender figure and delicate features belied.
“I am sure these esteemed gentlemen do not want to be party to kidnapping,” Mary-Ruth said.
Mr. Whitby smiled, a surprisingly charming and genuine smile. “These esteemed gentlemen understand that scientific advancement sometimes demands extreme measures.”
The men in question seemed intrigued and a little nonplussed, but hardly shocked or outraged. Did they not understand just what they were witnessing? “Mr. Whitby and this—” she gestured at the man in the white apron “—thisdoctorare holding my sister against her will, using her for grotesque experiments!”
She waited for the men in the audience to object, to spring into action, but if they were concerned with the ethical ramifications of what was happening, no one said anything. Mr. Whitby threw a look at the doctor, some silent signal passing between them.
A moment later the man in the white apron was taking Alice by the arm, and tugging her toward the auditorium floor. She dug in her heels, but it was no use. From behind her she could hear Mary-Ruth’s vain protests.
All those years ago Alice had left her little sister cold and alone, sitting on the steps of a church in an unfamiliar city. She’d done it because she’d thought it was the only way to keep her safe, to protect her. But now, as she gazed helpless at Tabby’s limp form, she knew with a heart-wrenching certainty that she had been wrong. They should have stayed together, no matter what.
“Remove her,” Mr. Whitby ordered with a nod toward Mary-Ruth. “Somewhere she can’t cause any trouble. And send for the police—Sergeant Hodsdon will take care of this. He’s one of ours.”
Alice watched helplessly as Mary-Ruth was roughly escorted from the auditorium. She wanted to go after her, but Mary-Ruth would be all right. It was Tabby who needed her now the most.
The men took their seats again. Normalcy returned, as if they were simply attending the most mundane of lectures, and two women hadn’t just barged in, another drugged before their eyes.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Mr. Whitby was saying. “Unfortunately, as our subject had to be subdued with the use of drugs, we will not be able to continue with her.”
An older man with full white side-whiskers and a long, austere face stood up with the help of a cane. “How long will you continue to delay? It’s been nearly fifteen years, and I expect to see some return on my investment before I find myself on the slab.”
A few other men murmured and nodded their agreement.
So the audience was more concerned with money than the well-being of a young woman. Alice’s heart sank even further; no one here would help them.
Mr. Whitby held up a hand to silence them. He may have been an evil man, but he had a commanding presence and knew just the right words to say to calm his wary investors. “Gentlemen, I understand your frustration, and I share in it. But as is the nature of this kind of work, we are beholden to the whims of nature and womankind. Fortunately, we may yet see a demonstration today.”
It took Alice a moment to realize just what he meant as all gazes shifted to her.
“Miss Bellefonte, perhaps you do not remember me,” he said as he forcibly guided her to a seat on the auditorium floor. “But I remember you.”
Alice stilled, taken off guard. She did remember him. He had worn a beard then, and in her child’s eye he had appeared almost larger than life. But she would have recognized that slippery-smooth voice anywhere. It had been the voice that had ordered her out of the carriage after she had been snatched from the Boston street. It was the voice that had demanded that she speak to the dead, and then had berated her in disgust when she could not. That voice had haunted her for years, and now here he was, in the flesh.
If Tabby had not been sitting mere feet away, prostrate and vulnerable, and the door not sealed, Alice would have given him a sharp kick where it hurt the most, and bolted. But she would not leave without her sister, so she allowed herself to be roughly handled and seated.
“I also remember that you do not possess the same gift as your sister,” he continued. “Pity.” He leaned against the marble slab where the corpse still lay, and crossed his arms. “I did always wonder if perhaps you simply needed some motivation in finding your powers.”
Alice had never been able to harness her second sight, not the way Tabby had been able to harness her clairvoyance, but then again, she had never really tried. She’d allowed the future to come to her in flashes, dreams, and that had been enough. But Mr. Whitby didn’t know about her second sight, and probably didn’t care. He wanted her to speak with the dead, as Tabby did.
When Mr. Whitby turned around, he was brandishing a menacing silver instrument. “We all of us contain a great reserve of power, yet most of us will go through life without ever trying to mine that reserve. Perhaps we all have something of your sister’s gift, but have just not yet learned how to access it. Perhaps we are all of us conduits to the great beyond.” He paused, clearly moved by his own words. “Miss Bellefonte, this is my gift to you—the motivation to find within yourself the extraordinary gift that you have heretofore taken for granted.”
