Author's Note: This the complete story, "Miracles," exploring the unanswered questions and story "holes" around "Commeth the Archer," S9 finale. What happened behind and between the scenes? This started as a series of vignettes from differing points of view: Eva Pearce (Descent into Hell), Dr. Isaac Tash (Miracles No. 1), Inspector Thomas Brackenreid (Two from No. 4), Julia Ogden (Guardian Angel) and William Murdoch (Jairus's Daughter), and I have sewn them together for a single story with multiple, overlapping points of view. The chapters have been broken down differently in his version and there is a prescient prologue… (so0me dialogue taken from the episode) Thank you Maureen Jennings and the show writers for allowing us to play in your world. Enjoy the prelude to Season 10!

MIRACLES: JAIRUS'S DAUGHTER

"Be not afraid, only believe." Mark 5:36

Prologue

PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL:

Excerpts, clinical process recording notes with commentary

Monday October 13, Wednesday October 22, 1902

Office of Dr. Julia Ogden

Toronto Asylum

Monday October 13, 1902

W: "What is it with murderers wanting to kiss me?" Interesting choice of opening question, [W-]. Why indeed?

And what prompted him to ask that in this way? In another context, and with a smile, his question would have been funny. However, I knew he was dead serious. He wanted to explore the connection between two murderers, James Gillies and Eva Pearce with himself, for a clue to break the case and help him catch Miss Pearce, now (theoretically) on the run.

I adopted a neutral demeanor since he was asking for my professional assistance and objectivity. I was probably the last person he should be consulting on this in particular, considering I am [related to him]. I eventually agreed that, in this case, discussing with others was going to be impossible. He trusted me, so I acquiesced. I kept my voice low and calm, and my body still despite the pain in my wrist.

I responded:"That was no dream this time, [W-], Eva Pearce made a direct threat to you. Tell me more about your question. What is your concern?"

[W-] shifted position and made a face before speaking, indicating nervousness. I have noticed this unconscious habit before. He is more likely to betray this behavior around me, however, indicating trust. Perhaps I can catalogue them for future reference? I might get a monograph out of it…

W: "I do not understand their behavior. It is irrational to risk recapture and incarceration by coming back-why not take advantage of the escape and flee as fast and far away as possible? I understand the motives for most crimes. James Gillies and Eva Pearce made it personal on a whole other level, and I don't know why."

I responded: "What do you think?"

W: "It can't be as simple as revenge, I suppose." [W-] thought a moment. He tends to take time before speaking, thinking it through? Or dodging?

W: "You told me that knowing more about the victims of crimes can provide information on catching the criminals. I have collected more than one nemesis, if you will. Why? Even the fictional Sherlock Holmes only had one. Simple revenge would be shooting me from a distance and ending my life, not torturing me. The machinations are confusing and dramatic. Too much like an opera."

Or Penny-dreadful. He does like things logical, neat and tidy; when they are not he gets…itchy.

I responded: "Go on."

W: "I must have attracted them – something about me got them obsessed with me." He has a way about him when he is thinking—I have seen so many times before—middle-distance gaze is part of it.

W:"But what? And how can I stop that from happening? And why, for heaven's sake, did they both kiss me?" He clearly found the notion distasteful. He was nearly always self-contained but not always completely self-aware. He also does not seem to appreciate how physically attractive he actually is, but then again, I am aware of my own bias in the matter.

I responded:"Think about it [W-]. The persona you present to the world is direct, pleasant yet restrained, upright, intelligent, logical, and relatively unemotional. You keep your own counsel, as it were. Only give the smallest clues away. That lets anyone read their own desires between the lines."

I responded:"How did that make you feel when they kissed you?"

Despite my best efforts at stillness, I had to adjust in my seat to take pressure off a bruise. [W-] admitting to his feelings was still somewhat foreign territory for him. I wondered what he would say and waited.

W: "Invaded. Angry. Confused. Disgusted." He said this firmly. Good—no equivocation.

The his face flushed, a general indication of emotion for him—could be anger or embarrassment.

I waited for more, letting the silence lengthen. He would not like it when he got there, I guessed. Pressing an advantage he believed to be unwanted was an unnatural inclination for him, and to be on the receiving end of one even more so.

W: "I also felt out of control, and to be honest, frightened." Excellent! Right into primal emotional territory

I responded: "And how does that make you feel now?"He was disconcerted, but had, after all, asked for this consultation.

W: "Powerless….I feel utterly powerless." He was surprised and sat up. "They both wanted power over me, didn't they?" He felt on firmer ground all of a sudden. "But to what end?"

I responded: "William, what do they accomplish if you are rendered powerless?"

W: "I will not be as capable of catching them and bringing them to justice, and by laying the seeds of self-doubt, it damages my ability to do my job as a whole-they win even if they are caught. And they enjoy another's suffering for the gratification of putting them through it. That's it, isn't it?!" He was talking more rapidly now. Good!I wanted him to keep going with the flow of thoughts.

I saw he was starting to feel relieved. It is always a good sign when the analysand loosens up and talks freely.

I responded:"Yes, [W-] they are both manipulative narcissists. If they undermine your sensibilities, you are at a disadvantage. In their minds, they thought they knew you, and moreover, thought they knew you better than you know yourself. Mr. Gillies and Miss Pearce projected their own fantasies onto you, made up a story about you, created a connection that does not actually exist, and then acted upon it." [W-] needs facts to process material/information properly.

Never underestimate the power of a fantasy, especially in a disturbed mind… for instance the attack on me in Ward –C, or the minds of writers, I suppose….

W: "But, Julia, why kiss me? That seems to imply a…er…sexual motive also."

Oh, dear. He is in deep now. How will he take this part when it all finally sinks in? I believe he is quite comfortable in his own masculinity—he has a healthy ego and does not generally feel threatened. His sexual comfort has expanded as well- he has come a long way in this regard since I have known him.

I responded: "What answer comes to you?"

W: "So, more than just trying to throw me off…more than just power or sadism. They felt a sexual connection also? But I never….." He stopped abruptly, and his eye widened in a stress reaction. He knows the inexorable pull of desire, and of fantasy. No wonder that where his thoughts were going stopped him cold. He would have catalogues his behaviors and interactions to see if he had been the one to be inappropriate. He always tries to take responsibility.

I responded:"No [W-], you did not give them an invitation to focus on you. The obsession is in the person who is obsessed, not in the object of the obsession. Their ideas about you are much more about them than about you. You had no actual relationship with them. No mutual one at least, beyond your professional duty to apprehend them…." I offered him more facts.

[W-]'s face flushed again here.

I responded:"You offered them a blank canvas upon which to paint their image of who they wanted you to be. I think you provided a kind of intellectual challenge to Gillies. He believed you matched him in cleverness. I believe, perhaps, he wanted to see himself as Moriarty to your Holmes. I also think he never acknowledged his own homosexuality underlying his choices. By kissing you before he jumped over the bridge he revealed himself—not just to you, but to himself."

[W-] is familiar now with Herr Doktor Freud's theories on psycho-sexual development. Since his own psychological development is relatively mature, it is hard for him to understand or relate to someone else who uses more pathological or neurotic defenses. If anything, [W-] psychological defenses are the epitome of psychological maturity. Suppression and sublimation, or tolerance are the ones he will use when pressed. The only time he was probably pulled, temporarily, into neuroticism was regarding me…

W: "And Eva Pearce?" He was even more alert because Miss Pearce was the current threat.

I responded: "What do you believe?"

W: "She knew, somehow, that my subconscious desired her, and is angry that I did not overtly respond to her?" He made it a question, still struggling with accepting it or seeking validation?

I responded:"That is part of it. She also believed no man would, or could, ever turn her down, and that all men will act on aroused passions. That, after all was her forte—to make men unable to command themselves. But you were—are—impervious to her, sorely damaging her ego. This is intolerable to her. She will try to use it in some way, some manipulation. She is obsessed with you because you are impervious and unattainable."

W: "So, how to I stop that?" he demanded, opening his hands.

[W-] always wants a concrete problem to solve, the hand gesture reinforces this—he is unconsciously trying to do something to fix this.

I responded:"Oh, William, you cannot stop what someone else thinks or feels." And of all people, he should know how impossible it is to derail someone's emotions.

I responded:"You will have to accept you are powerless over that. Eva Pearce will expect to use some aspect of your personality against yourself—to put you in a double bind of some kind, or use your reflexive habits to trap you. Or try to split you from me to keep you unstable. Your reaction to what she does tells you more about you than about her."

I needed to tread carefully here to allow him to fully open up and get to the heart of the matter.

I responded: "[W-], please lie back down, close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Empty your mind." I saw him settle back down and do as I asked.

I responded: After a few breaths, I asked him again,"What do you believe? What is there in common between your actions in response to theirs?"

W: "Miss Pearce said I chose her over you, and in a sense I did….more interested in catching her than thinking about your welfare. I ran after her when I saw her flee. She taunted me with that." I think he is ashamed of this.

I responded: "Yes, William, go on…"

W: "I jumped in the river after Gillies, even when George warned me away from doing so…Even when I warned Gillies he would likely die if he jumped. Gillies said he had nothing to live for…but…I went off the bridge too."

He paused and tried to catch my eye, wanting support again? Validation? As his [s-] or as his analyst? This is why we do not practice on our loved ones.

W: "I did have something to live for -you…us." I saw it take him a while to calm himself again. "I went after him because he was getting away and I did not want him to get away. It was my duty to stop him," He went rigid at that thought. "And I needed to see him ended, for me to believe we were safe… I asked you at the river where I was pulled out- what you would have done in similar circumstances. But you would have done something different, wouldn't you?"

I made sure not to respond, not to insert myself. I have never disclosed what I would have done—and I am quite unlikely ever to do so…

W: "Is that what she will use against me? That I am predictable in that way?" He kept looking at me; for confirmation? I did not react. He stopped and then started again.

I responded. "What do you think?" It really is that simple—just keep asking that same question often enough and you find out the real truth.

W: "Yes, and I think that is what is about me that attracted them. That I do not give up until I get to the truth, sometimes no matter the cost. That I cannot help myself—like a hound that sees a rabbit…." The look on his face shifted again. I saw the emotions take turns across his face. I also felt a gut reaction—isn't this is exactly what I find so attractive about him as well….?

W: "Also that I can be unbending…and that is also the truth, isn't it?" He sat up slowly, uncurled and flexed his hands, another unconscious sign.

There it is….That must have been difficult for him—but I must say he took it well.

I responded: "You are in fact predictable. We all are. It is human nature. She is a master manipulator who exploits weaknesses to her advantage. However, for all her innuendo and comments, she really does not know you. And she does not know that she does not really know you. That is her flaw. Her obsession with you is a weakness you can exploit."

He seemed both encouraged by that, and suspicious about what that would mean.

I responded: "[W-], don't forget, you knew James Gillies well enough to know he was going to kill his hostage anyway. You turned his predictability against him." I kept my voice firm so as not to betray any anxiety.

I responded: "William—I am going to be the bait again, whether or not you and I want it so. Because your obsession is with me. I stood between Gillies and you and I stand between Eva and you. The way to her gratification is to torture you by separating you from me. Every sadistic fantasy she has is likely building towards that end."

W: "So, how do I get the power back?" Very good William!He was working this out now.

I responded: "By not doing what is expected, at least not when it comes to her."

Wednesday October 22, 1902

I responded: "So, William, did he try and kiss you too?"

I supposed I should not have, but I could not help laughing at his outraged expression. He tried to explain his encounter with Terrence Meyers and the resolution of his case, but seemed he was failing to do so effectively.

W: "Julia that is… that is…." He was unhappy that his I saw humor where he was not sure there was much. He tried to remain stern-visaged and disapproving, but my laughter and the absurdity was starting to infect him too.

W: "Julia, it is not even remotely funny! Terrence Meyers interfered with my investigation, tried to sabotage my relationship with the inspector, and damaged my reputation…that high-handed, smug…" He almost said bastard, before recalling he was with me. His natural inclination is to never swear, but to be honourable and mild, thoughtful and conscientious. He still winces when the inspector launches a ripe quip!

I responded: "Bastard. Yes, [W-], he is that. But never the less it seems you have collected yet another nemesis. He certainly fits the psychological portrait: he is amoral, ruthless, and self-serving for all he claims to be operating for the greater good." Exactly the antithesis of his personal character.

Note: Is that confirmation of opposites attracting? Must do more research here as well.

I responded:"You know, you also turned that against him. He views you as a worthy opponent and for him to think he owes you, motivated him to agree to your request. I think it is brilliant that you got him to search for and possibly neutralize Miss Pearce for us. It will take someone as subtle and devious as he is to find her, and Terrence Meyers is very capable of cold calculation and manipulation."

W: "You forgot mendacity." He scowled for emphasis.

I responded: "The best part is that Miss Pearce will never see that coming. Mr. Meyers is more manipulative than even she is—she will have met her match in him, I'll wager. She will never expect you to take a back seat. It is completely unlike you to give up control like that…you have successfully attacked her weakness."

W: "Yes, I thought that was clever too. Inspector Brackenreid inspired me. So, you approve?"

I responded: "Yes, I think so. I really am glad you got Mr. Meyers to do something about Miss Pearce. Did you know that I was actually considering buying a hand gun and learning to shoot it?"

W: "What? Why?" William was taken aback, the startled look on his face betraying him.

I responded:"Oh, William, I am never going to be a victim again, I refuse. We are partners working this threat together and I will defend myself and you by any means necessary. That is something else Miss Pearce does not understand."

-from Analysand

# # #

Chapter 1

SOME SUNDAY MORNING

Winter 1903

p. 76 ***E. D. P. ***

Dear Diary:

My ears are still ringing-but, oh that was so worth it!

Nothing in my life up to this point, was as thrilling and satisfying as THAT sound. No conquest, no LOVER ever took me to such immediate heights of ecstasy. I trembled, my heart thudding in my chest in triumph, beholding the sight in front of me.

So much blood… simply WONDERFUL!

She came to the door totally unaware and carelessly opened it right up, wrinkling patrician displeasure down her long, pale nose when no cart and tray magically appeared in the hallway bearing breakfast for such a fine lady of leisure. A dowdy, flat chested stick she is, hardly a female curve on her… how pathetically unattractive in the morning light! Really, what an absolute fright! Some people should know better than to show their face without hair & makeup in place, especially when they are getting OLDER? Didn't her mother ever teach her anything about keeping a man?

And what a dull-witted, gawping expression on her face as I raised the pistol and fired! Thenshe noticed me…. Oh YES! I saw that perfect moment of recognition I relish—that point when the other person actually sees me for the first time, when the whole world tilts & they are too late to stop the slide. I saw it in HER - the sharp stab of failure & pure terror in her eyes, giving me such delicious pleasure to know I put it there. Failure because she was stupid enough to think she could ever predict me, ever escape me; fear because she was powerless & knew she was going to DIE at my hands! I took great delight in making sure she knew it was ME.I was getting revenge on her & Iwas going to WIN!

I was so giddy my finger kept pulling the trigger twice more for good measure.

The only, slightest, hitch in my plan was that My William was in the room with her instead of at Mass where he belonged. Why was he not at Church? I was just standing there for a moment gloating, when I was taken by awkward surprise. He raced out of the doorway & fell to his knees next to her… as if he actually cared about her. What was he DOING there? How did he misread my message to him…the Sweet William flowers on his dinner tray Saturday night? My heart stopped for a moment when he looked right at me, his gorgeous brown eyes taking me in, disguised as I was in a maid's uniform. Then he asked for help! My help!

That was a close call.

I have always been a master at giving others what they wanted to see, wanted to hear. I have been a mimic since I was small & I used to make my mother laugh when I pretended to be someone else…at least she used to laugh before the BASTARD…...

I can change my appearance, attitude, my face even, just by the smallest margin—a gesture, a slant of my head, fling of my shawl, the setting of my mouth & then…. I am someone else. In a hotel that was SO easy. Servants are anonymous & invisible…no one makes eye contact with them & the toffs treat them if they are completely interchangeable…Ideal for my purposes, so dressed as one I could slip around anywhere I wanted. If I looked familiar to anyone at all it was because it was me who handed out newspapers yesterday, brought up linen the day before, head demurely down with a smart curtsey while taking the role so completely & seamlessly I blended into the anaglyptic-pasted wall.

But when My William took the newspaper yesterday it was very different: I just knew he sensed it was me! A subtle nod, the way he said "thank you" just for my ears, placing the penny just so in my palm, all the while keeping up a distracted pretense for an audience of passersby in the hallway… It sent a shockwave through me, confirming everything I suspected: He has been merely WAITING to be rescued from her clutches. It was the signal he would be ready!

When he sent me to summon help, I realize he was PROTECTING me, giving misdirection away from me as a suspect. What a clever man! My William…such a good actor! I have seen him before, pretending to be upset or annoyed, or pretending to be calm and mild. I always knew he was capable of putting on an act—how else could he have fooled so many people into not seeing the REAL MAN underneath? The man I KNOW is there?

And who would think the young woman flying down the stairs had a small pistol in her pocket, & had done the deed? I even put my hand across my face in mock horror, opening my big eyes so wide as my feet trotted quickly away, looking for all the world as if I would pass out from being overwrought when what I really needed was to hide my excited giggle.

As soon as I got to the tradesman's entrance, I pressed my back gratefully against the wall & could laugh out loud in glee. In no time I was out the door, sliding a coat over my uniform & exchanging the maid's bun and cap for my own hair and hat, free to stroll down the lane at my leisure. Extraordinary!

Some part of me knew from the first moment I saw William that he was special. I cannot really explain it—I felt a jolt in me, so intense that I did not immediately understand what it meant, other than leaving me breathless & confused. I had never been confused before by my feelings about a man, any man. MEN are not very complicated & after all they are my specialty. Men are really so easy when you think about it: even the so called best of them are vain, insecure, & greedy. I lure them in, I entice, I seduce, & I flatter or simper, whatever is necessary. Once aroused, I have them: they react in such predicable ways… & anyone who is predictable can be manipulated-don't they know that? It is simple, really, but hard to do very well. And I do it so very, very well.

I can always tell when a man desires me. I can take a man to his limits, have him beg for release & give or withhold what he thinks he can no longer live without, in exchange for whatever I want. I learned long ago that it never pays to actually let them have me… I have known that since I turned the tables on that BASTARD when I was twelve & it has usually given me a life of luxury…That is once I figured out that a rich man was as easy a target as a poor one—easier perhaps since the rich ones get over-confident & complacent. I read their secrets. I know them better than they know themselves—their weaknesses, their desires ...the ones they whisper only to themselves in their dreams, especially the ones they hide from their so-called friends and bland families... I know what they genuinely crave, particularly the things they try to hide from themselves… I read all about it in those dull and boring psychology books when I was in the asylum, to see if there was something new I needed to know. All rubbish and overblown, I tell you. Why so many big words for something so elemental as sexual desire?

Only I can give men what they truly want, all the while they know nothing about the real me, never care probably, so wrapped up in their selfishness. Serves them right! None of THEM ever picked up on the sheer contempt I have for the silly sods, to be lead around by their pricks….So if they are foolish how is that my fault? If they wanted to keep their money…. or their lives… they should have been more careful. They were just begging for what I have, begging to give things to me—How can I refuse?

But MY William! Ah, he was different somehow. He was never so OBVIOUS as the others. He seemed to challenge me, match wits with me. ME! It was thrilling. I never had that happen to me before— I never felt, well…I never felt anything at all, before. A man might be pleasant or dull, physically attractive or grotesque-it was all the same to me. I was never interested in them, never dreamed about them, was never…aroused by any of them in the slightest, although I can give a good show. I enjoyed the game & the power.

It never occurred to me I might actually want one…

Until I met My William. He is utterly unlike any man I ever met—so serious, so focused, so buttoned up on the outside. While I am irresistible to men, I found William irresistible to me, while he pretended to be uninterested. I am not sure if it was the first time he looked deeply into my eyes, pushing me so intensely & forcefully that I started to wonder. When we first sparred across that table in the police station, had our back and forth exchange...well it was so surprising to me, so exhilarating! He actually saw ME! Shocking! I dreamed about it for weeks afterwards.

And oh…he tried to hide it, probably as overwhelmed as I was by the magnitude of our attraction. No real man likes to be out of control, at least not at first. Until he gets used to it… As a gentleman, William cannot give into his feelings so easily, & certainly not with that harpy of a wife around. She must have neutered him somehow, my poor lamb… a Pale Ice Queen keeping a robust King in check. There is no other explanation. All that vibrant masculinity, broad shoulders, trim waist & hips, chiseled face—his eyes! All going to waste on a cold, dispassionate fish. If he was happy with her, enjoying the marriage bed as he should, she would have been pregnant long ago. I suspect he is bored with her tepid personality, trapped in a loveless, passionless existence. Or, perhaps she is barren as well as unable to satisfy him...

She probably never even allowed the marriage to be consummated—why else would he need to adopt a child? She hurt him, hurt my William when he had to give up that child, that sweet little boy, Roland. What can he do? A Catholic may not divorce. But a widower can remarry…

That's when I knew I had to act. To SAVE him!

Just the way I KNEW he protected me today because he has protected me before. Of course, it took me a while to figure it out, like one of those puzzles he likes to solve. I had to turn it over in my mind a hundred times before I got it right… For instance when he cleared me in Jake Barker's murder, or when he had his Inspector steer that Eaton pup away from me…. It was only later I realized that was just my William's way of saving me for himself. And when my attorney pointed out to the crown prosecutor the evidence against me in Worthington's death was all circumstantial, it occurred to me my William might have withheld just a little something…. He was saving me again.

The clincher was at the asylum. He acknowledged our connection: "Miss Pearce, I know that you are as sane as I am. No need to try to convince me otherwise." I remember what he said exactly. He said we were the SAME. And then he chose me over her—ran after me like a hound on a hare. Then we kissed for the very first time! Oh! My mouth tingled, my lips burned! I nearly swooned. He must have felt it too, how could he not? Destiny brought is together. Then my William let me go for the third time, and sacrificed himself by going back to her so I could be on my way... what a brave and selfless thing for him to do for me…. How often did he dream of me, of my kiss?

Oh, how many years I wasted before putting it all together. The wait is almost over!

# # #

LATE SUNDAY MORNING

Toronto General Hospital

William Murdoch was staring so intently at the swinging double doors, alert for any indication the grim business was successfully concluded, that he never saw Constable Henry Higgins approaching down the long hospital corridor. He looked up, startled and uncomprehending when the young man tapped him on the shoulder and coughed nervously, then thrust a paper-wrapped bundle at him. The disturbance only briefly caught his attention before his eyes riveted themselves again on the plain doors, beyond which lay his injured wife, Julia, at the mercy of God and her doctors. His hands automatically accepted the parcel, and he forced himself to mumble a vague "Thank you, Henry," through a tight jaw, having no idea what he was giving thanks for. He'd given up pacing and tried to sit down, but was unable to quiet his body or mind, finding himself leaping up whenever he saw a shadow from under the door or glimpsed movement through the small windows, all the while trying to check the time, patting his vest for his watch out of habit and repeatedly finding neither vest nor timepiece. Awareness that none of it was helping did not quell his fears or prevent him from another round of the same manoeuvers. Saying the Rosary gave him only the briefest respite. He was feeling massively out of control in the most unpleasant sort of way imaginable, so he clung to the comfort and familiarity of prayer when he could bend his mind to it.

He tuned the constable out again, set the bundle beside him on the hard bench to look at the doors, once more willing himself to be able to see through them to know what was happening in the surgical theatre beyond, from which he'd been forcefully rejected. He became annoyed when Higgins tapped him again and motioned to the package. "What have you, Henry?" William made himself ask, encompassing everything and nothing in the question. He had no interest in anything except Julia's condition.

"Sir, your clothing…er… a suit. The Inspector sent me over with your extra set of clothing from the Station House, he umm…thought you might need them." The young man appeared embarrassed, which brought William to realize he was, after all, still in a set of blue pyjamas smeared with his wife's blood, in a public hallway. He looked at his hands. An orderly gave him a wet cloth to wipe off most of the gore, but some still stained around his nails. He picked at the rusty marks distractedly.

"What time is it, Henry?" William guessed it has been an hour or more since Julia had arrived at the hospital. He paid no attention to the chill in the hall or the looks of pity from passers-by while he waited. He also paid no attention to the idea he really should wait elsewhere, planting himself firmly to resist being moved along out of the public's view.

"I make it about eleven-fifteen. The inspector and George are….."

William gasped in alarm, cutting Henry off. He had no idea it had been that long! Subjectively it felt like forever, with time crawling by in agonizing slowness, but he assumed it was only his distress that made it seem so. Quick surgeries were the norm for practical purposes—the vagaries of anesthesia and blood loss being the major rationales. If Julia was still in surgery that could not be a good sign. His chest clenched and he felt his skin prickle and become clammy despite the cold air and his under-dressed condition. He closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself and send a silent prayer for strength. He then made his way over to the door and peered in, noticing that the procedure was still underway—no one was cleaning up. He did not want to move from this spot, but on the other hand getting properly dressed might make receiving, whatever the outcome, more bearable. He looked at Henry, who was making every effort to look anywhere but back in his direction. William supposed he did appear ridiculous, and Henry was trying for unusual discretion. He cleared his throat. "Henry, thank you. I will go change. Will you please wait here for me? And come get me if…"

"Of course sir. At once," Henry answered immediately. Satisfied, William gathered his belongings and made off towards an empty water-closet a kind nurse directed him to, after tossing a washrag and towel on top of the bundle. He got hurriedly dressed in the rumpled suit, thankful for his leather grooming kit wrapped inside the clothing. In front of the small mirror, William ran a comb through his dark hair and gave up on getting his chin scraped any better. He barely recognized himself—face puffy, brown eyes gritty and bloodshot. The cold water washed away only the outer dirt and sweat, not his shock. A few hours ago he was happily in bed enjoying the afterglow of marital relations and the delicious expectation of making love again to his wife later on, joking together, agreeing on their future home and family. Everything was perfect, absolutely perfect! Perfect between him and Julia, going well at work for them both, financially stable, socially contented…a future laid out for them along a path that only required them to walk it…

Then out of nowhere: Three loud bangs still echoed sharply in his head. Three shots and Julia's whimper of pain and thud as she hit the floor; the shooter simply vanishing. No one but a chambermaid and other residents in the hallway where she fell… His hands gripped the porcelain washbowl in dread, cold seeping into his gut. Julia is healthy, strong, she had to pull through. Dear Lord! What is taking so long? The very idea of losing Julia was impossible, so he forbid himself from entertaining the notion, locking his mind and his intentions on her recovery, trying to stop his nervous system from betraying him.

His emotions governed as well as he could manage, William emerged from the narrow doorway just as one of the doctors pushed through both swinging doors looking exhausted. He recalled the surgeon's name was Carlton. Although to William's estimation he seemed too young, as if he was barely out of college, the doctor was forthright and receptive to the sterilization and hand-washing William insisted upon. Dr. Carlton looked directly at William and came to the point. "Mr. Murdoch, we were able to find and remove all the bullets, and repair a small tear in her bowel. We have given her mercury for infection and laudanum for pain. She was lucky: the shots were not through and through, the only debris in the wound was from her silk and linen robes."

William felt his face re-form into a smile and his shoulders relax. When Dr. Carlton did not smile back, the sense of fear crept back in. "Doctor, what are you not saying?" He braced himself and held his breath.

Carlton came forward and put a hand on his arm. "Your wife is still in grave condition. You have to understand the procedure was unusually lengthy and there can be…complications. She remains unconscious, and we have to monitor for infection. I suggest you go to her room and we will be bringing her along. Dr. Maharris will speak with you presently."

William exhaled, hoping to tamp down the rough quaver in his voice. "Doctor, I am going to need those bullets." He saw the doctor's face register surprise and then disgust at such an outrageous request. Before there could be an argument or objection, he explained. "I am a police detective with the Toronto Constabulary. Those bullets are evidence in a crime and we will need them for examination. Please secure them, and give them to my constable." He gestured to Higgins who nodded in agreement.

There, he thought, one thing I can do something about.

# # #

LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON

William was grateful Inspector Brackenreid had already summoned a constable to stand guard outside the private room where his wife was resting; it seemed wise to assume there was still danger afoot and that protection left him free to concentrate on Julia. He brought a chair as close as possible to her bedside to hold her hand so she would know he was there the instant she awoke.

He lightly stroked her arm, gazing at her face, noticing the arch of her brow and curve of her lips, a few freckles at her temple. But this was not at all the pleasure of watching her as they lay together, her head resting on his shoulder or with blonde hair arrayed on her pillow while he kissed her gently into wakefulness. She appeared to be so uncharacteristically small and fragile, her normally fair colouring drained away, leaving her tissue-paper white. He was almost afraid to touch her for fear she would tear or shatter. William had never, ever, seen Julia in such fixed repose, as she was usually in constant motion, restless even in sleep.

He searched her face closely for any sign she was coming around. He had been so sure the transfusion would be successful, be the miracle she needed to regain her senses, that to see her so still for so long was unnerving. He imagined his life-force could revive her, and prayed God that it was going to be true. He often felt joy or contentment in the practice of his faith, and imagined that sensation flowed from him to Julia with his blood. 'You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar...' The rhythm of prayer passed the time well and he half expected her to open her blue eyes and smile at him, finishing the words of the verse. Instead, it appeared as if nothing happened. Nothing happened at all, despite the doctor's assessment that Julia's heart rate and temperature were normal again.

"I fear she may never wake." Dr. Maharris' pessimistic words landed like a gut punch and made William very angry, It was much too soon for such pronouncements, he thought. It has only been…has it been ten hours?! He looked again at Julia. Saving her life with a transfusion was not the same as a full recovery. The doctor gave no estimate at all when she would wake up, and then cautioned him on any number of complications to expect, including brain damage that could alter her mentally or physically. 'Coma,' he learned, was the proper term. In so many words, Dr. Maharris told him to accept the idea that Julia was not going to come back, that the spirit which animated her may already be gone. William refused to accept this, shedding being frightened, and embracing the anger instead.

Father Clemens' visit lifted his own spirits immensely. He arrived just as Dr. Maharris was leaving, giving William the opportunity for a pause in his vigil to receive the priest's blessing. The Father had been impressed with the transfusion method, making a comment about science catching up with Christ's gift of his own precious blood. William confided to him frustration with the doctors' gloomy attitude, limited vision and lack of faith, as well as that he was not so sure the doctors were all that caught-up with the latest scientific literature or methods.

Never-the-less, his conversation with Father Clemens helped William turn away from grief or despair and got him thinking in another direction entirely, encouraging him to figure something out that will help Julia. That gave him the impetus to talk soothingly to Julia, telling her he was right by her side and that everything was going to be all right, because, after all, it had to be.

One thing for certain was that he was never going to give up on her. I may have been momentarily paralyzed with shock, but that is over, now. This was a problem to be solved like any other, and William Murdoch was a master problem-solver. The first problem, now that Julia was a pace or two removed from death's door, was in figuring out who shot her and capturing whomever it was before he could finish the job. He was listing the possibilities when he was summoned to Wilton Street to have his official statement taken.

# # #

SUNDAY EVENING

Station House No. 4

The Station House was surprisingly quiet, which suited William just as well; he wanted no one's worried looks or uncomfortable, well-meaning comments. The only one remaining on duty was the desk Sargent, Parker. Constables were out on assignments searching for other witnesses and clues. George Crabtree had the bullets and was going to set up any comparisons to a weapon, should one be found.

William had just finished the second part of his witness interview with Inspector Brackenreid, his mind spinning through a long list of possible assailants. A witness came forward saying someone was looking specifically for Julia. The uncomfortable conclusion was that Julia did appear to be the intended target, so it was reasonable to assume that it was someone from her work at the asylum or with the coroner's office. William slapped his hand on the table. Julia must have seen who shot her. He wracked his brain again to see if he could match the face of the suspect to a name or case—and came up blank. Later on he'd have to check Julia's personal records at home; the ones from the asylum were being delivered Monday morning. He had a fleeting recollection of something or someone playing at the edges of his awareness, but it refused to be pinned down.

He was guarded against giving in to his feelings, needing at least the outward semblance of calmness and competency, clinging to the hope that Julia would recover. Hope was all he needed; in truth all he had, but it had sustained him before and would do so now, God willing. Drinking tea and eating a meal provided by Mrs. Brackenreid, his mind kept travelling back to Julia, lying motionless in her hospital room, overseen by the young female parishioner who had accompanied Father Clemens. Mademoiselle DuBuisson seemed devout and sensible enough, promising to contact the station house immediately should anything change in his wife's condition, which allowed him to, reluctantly, leave Julia's side. Alone in his office with only the desk Sargent, on duty, he was able to focus, knowing that his greatest gift was his intellect and he needed to insulate himself against distractions from his devotion to bring Julia through all of this safely.

William concentrated on the evidence until his head ached, when he had a sudden, awful thought: Leslie Garland! Just because the man had theoretically slunk south, back to Buffalo, did not mean he gave up on revenge. Shooting Julia would be consistent with that, he thought with an angry flare. Without consulting with the Inspector, William placed a call to the Buffalo Police Headquarters, begging and receiving a professional courtesy to discretely locate the whereabouts of Mr. Garland, and obtain the knowledge if he possessed a .22 calibre revolver, with a promise from the Buffalo police of a call back within a day. After he hung up, he thought that if Leslie Garland was involved, the man was too much of a coward to have pulled the trigger himself, and may have paid someone to do his dirty work. He left a note for the Inspector to investigate that angle in the morning, and a follow up call about Mr. Garland's bank account to see if there had been any unusual withdrawals.

An hour of flipping through old record books and notes brought him no closer to an answer, since the best witness to who shot her was currently lying senseless in the hospital… William's eyes stopped their tracking of the pages and captured his memory of Julia in her hospital bed, then felt a shiver of current shoot through him.

Julia was unresponsive. Or was she?

Suddenly, William was energized, his mind buzzing. He and Julia recently read an English translation of Polish scientist Adolf Beck's collected papers on electrical activity in brains, discussing the philosophical notion of where the brain and mind intersected. Julia has been interested in Beck's discussion of dreams…His heart raced forward a notch. What if he could not only prove that Julia's brain was working, but that her mind was intact as well? He sat bolt up-right. Excitedly, William rummaged into his compendium of British Medical Journals and found the references to Richard Caton's work he was looking for.

"Julia!" he said out loud to the empty office, clapping his hand together. "We are going to make a device that will allow you to communicate with me…with us." He smiled for the first time since this morning. "You know how you are always teasing me about my fondness for electricity and electrical devices? Well, I am about to custom-make one just for you." He pulled out paper, pencil and ruler, beginning to sketch out the circuitry. "We are going to start with the theory that it is possible to detect and measure slight differences in voltage and then translate that into a signal which can be read….."

# # #

EARLY MONDAY MORNING

Station House No. 4

"Murdoch! What is going on here?"

The question sailed across the bull pen. Inspector Brackenreid arrived early and was fiddling in the early morning sunshine at his desk, with growing annoyance. "And what's wrong with the bloody lights?"

It was a logical, reasonable question… just not one William was prepared to answer at the moment. He was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. He'd worked through the night, stopping only for some of Sargent Parker's tea and a brief run to the University to raid a laboratory for a special tool he needed, leaving five dollars and an apology under a beaker.

William spoke with Julia all night long as if she was right beside him, participating in each step from concept to execution. He found it helped him to imagine she was responding, including her offering him suggestions when he got stuck, making a running commentary to himself as he worked. Parker poked his head in only once, then merely shrugged, well-acquainted with his eccentricities—it was not the first time he worked all night or constructed odd items out of bits of this or that. Looking around at the mess, William could well-imagine Inspector Brackenreid's displeasure at his station house being turned into a pseudo workshop, what with the wires and sawdust and the smell of solder spilling out from his own office into the common areas of the bull pen. He supposed in his rush and enthusiasm he was not as tidy as he usually was, nor as discrete in keeping his personal experiments and activities hidden from his superior.

He also hoped to have been gone by now and was only packing up his device for a return trip to Toronto General as Brackenreid arrived. He hesitated to answer the inspector's question and decided an explanation would take too long, as he was so eager to get going to try out his invention. It was only slightly worrying that he'd had no word from the hospital all night, trusting that meant Julia was in no distress and her status was unchanged. At least unchanged for the worse, he reminded himself. Grabbing his coat and hat, he hoisted the oil-cloth wrapped box over which he'd tinkered all night. He put on a pleasant tone, ignoring all the questions, spoken and unspoken. "Good morning, Inspector. I am off to the hospital again." He patted the box that Brackenreid was eying suspiciously. "Sir, there are notes on your desk, and you may want to pull the blinds open…"

With that William made his escape, leaving Sargent Parker with the job of explaining about all the light bulbs…..

# # #

p. 82 ***E. D. P. ***

Dear Diary:

I cannot wait for us to be with each other. I have many skills for pleasuring a man. All the other men before him were just husks I used to refine my art. William will find there is nothing I will not do to bring him to his knees in burning lust, begging for me to take him in… & losing his mind when I do.

She was never right for him. She must have trapped him into marriage—who better than I would understand the wiles of women. She must have some horrid hold over him. With her out of the way we can be together the way destiny has proclaimed & I will show him what real love is. It is I, the Red Queen who will unleash his potential as a man & I who will enjoy his boundless gratitude for liberating him.

One part down with only a minor irritant to resolve: there still appears to be life in The Ogden, that tiresome wretch. I will wait here in my room opposite William's hotel using my little spyglass to good effect, until he comes back to his suite, & I will pay a little visit to the hospital.

Then, Dear Diary, I just have to get him out of Toronto…

# # #