Chapter 10- Aliquis latet error

"Some trickery lies hidden"

December 20, 1894, Thursday

Not much had become of the spontaneous tear, fortunately. Or unfortunately. They had studied the location and the surrounding areas. The boy had proven a dead end as well. Despite isolating him for questioning, it seemed his mother's new attention had quelled any useful information they might have extracted. Still, the lack of evidence had him wondering if it could really have been some young child's lashing out.

Disappointing, but he had to be sure. Very sure.

Despite what a spontaneous tear would mean, and it would mean many things dangerous and devastating, he was immensely curious of what would and could happen. He was, at his most natural, always curious. Both he and Rosalind had spent time constructing hypotheses of possibilities and discovered just how creatively curious they were. He could not deny that he was interested in studying the effect of trans-dimensional travel on other persons. He himself was not a reliable subject. Yes, there was the girl, but an infant was even more useless to study until she could talk. And this infant was a variable; no counterpart in this universe and a tear severance. Virtually no memories. If an infant version of oneself was introduced to another universe where one was older, would the infant then become an exact counterpart of the older self? He had nearly lost himself to Rosalind's memories, what more tabula rasa?

Robert pursed his lips at himself in the mirror as he replaced his tie. Curious indeed, and unethical in practice. His curiosity was sated, however. If the hypothesis remained a theory in this universe, there stands one universe where it had actually played out, just as there was one universe where he did not spill his tea on his shirt at breakfast this morning. He frowned at that because it meant that Rosalind had not smiled at him from across the table, and he was sad for that counterpart's average breakfast. Would it have an effect on the rest of the day? On the final fitting of his suit? On the gift he was going to buy for her?

He straightened his tie and waistcoat. Had she, in this negative universe, accepted an invitation from a suitor to attend the Christmas Ball with instead of him?

I am already attending with whom I want to be with, she had said, and her smile, though fleeting, was enough to affect and urge him to choose to match her expression instead of sip his tea.

Causality? Perhaps; perhaps not. He did not yet know what he was to get her, only that he was, and his decision was made long ago. The difficulty he was facing today was finding a way to separate from Rosalind to shop for her—a dilemma he had never faced. They were always together unless the situation demanded they be apart, and his final fitting was something she would surely want to see. He wanted her to see it. He valued her opinion of course, but...he remembered how she looked at him during the first fitting. There had been a moment, when he had smiled at her and her smirk faltered, and she stared with such intense fascination. At university, if a woman had given him that look, he knew exactly what it meant, but Rosalind was not just a woman. If she glanced at him like that, what was the meaning of it?

Robert stopped his actions completely and peered at himself. Heavy eyes, copper complexion, rounded chin. What did she see that was not reflection?

While he is drinking he beholds himself reflected in the mirror pool—and loves…all that is lovely in himself he loves, and in his witless way he wants himself.

Narcissus. His boyhood lessons came back in an unbidden swell, something that was occurring more frequently—a possible symptom of his spells? He pushed the immediate concern of it away in light of his tangent. The subject of the vainglorious hunter was something they oft discussed, their situation being what it was of course, but never had he truly stopped to heed the literal context of the myth, that there was another layer forming in their relationship.

All that came to mind in the aftermath of the new attention was another fragment. But why O foolish boy, so vainly catching at this flitting form?

He looked to his features again and he saw the deepening grooves on his forehead, the sallowness of his cheeks, the lines at the corner of his eyes. Why him? Surely he was plain to her eyes, he thought, but even still, he had never thought her plain. In the familiarity of her face, he saw beauty, elegance, dominance. He searched, a third time, to see if he spotted the very traits in himself, and found only his frown and his wits once more.

How had his thoughts drifted into such drivel so early in the day?

The answer, he supposed, was that actions as simple as tea staining a tie were now distinctly notable and variable instead of inconvenient. If Rosalind was struggling with the new perspective, she hid it well. Or did she choose to focus only on one reality-hers-something he could never do, he a product of two? At this moment, might she only be focusing on the amount of time it was taking him to make a minor adjustment to his attire? He finally moved away from the mirror and headed to join her again downstairs.

She was where he left her last at the kitchen median, only the invitation that had arrived earlier today was folded uninterestedly under her saucer. The corner of his mouth tugged slightly.

"Ovid's Metamorphoses," he started, going back to his tea across from her. She looked up mildly interested from the Chronicle she had begun to read everyday in the past week after the possible incident with the tear. "Narcissus would take his own life in this reality, yes?"

"Drowning," she corrected with the easy smile she donned when his P's and Q's were muddled.

"Ah, of course," he said, consolidating the information. He did prefer drowning as the end to the tale; implications of complete devotion rather than despair.

Rosalind placed the newspaper down, palms laying over the smooth paper. "That is the generally accepted ending to the myth, of course. There is text by one Pausanias who found the idea of a grown man so enamored with his reflection utterly preposterous. His version changes the myth all together, proposing that Narcissus instead was in love with his twin sister who hunted and dressed as he did. When she died, he found his reflection in a pool to be as she was and so longed for her through his image."

"I don't recall you ever mentioning this?"

She waved her hand. "It hardly seemed relevant or important. One man's repulsion to homo-eroticism and replacing it with incest, in the guise of pedantry, mind you, is not something notable to our situation. Indeed, I hardly see the true myth as either."

"What do you see it as?" Her answer was suddenly important to him.

"Above all else, it is self-desire." For the briefest of moments, her attention remained on the knot of his new tie, as if she knew his musings of earlier when looping the material.

He felt it to be all at once constricting, a garrote of implications and, he realized, hopes.

She moistened her lips, furrowing her brow, and she had an expression that chilled him. It was briefer than her first, but in that iota, he became a specimen, a thing that might easily break. She blinked, and she found sudden interest in the Chronicle once more.

"Classical start this morning?"

He shrugged despite knowing she couldn't see him. "More of a misstep."

With a small grin she looked to him again."Shall I brush up on my Dante?"

Robert perked an eyebrow; she did not often reference the classics, unless it was an aid for his dissonance.

She tilted her chin up and started,"O sage, famous in wisdom, save me from her-"

"-Save me from her she that-" He paused, grinning as he connected the line. "'She that makes my veins and my pulse tremble.' I do believe you have taken that out of context."

"Or given it a new one." She picked up her tea. "Besides," she murmured over the rim, "It is only an exercise. I would have your blood and wits stay with you if it meant altering literature."

She drank and he hummed his agreement, though he did not mention it was alteration that more or less caused his confusion. That she cared to bend words, bend reality for him was more than recompense.

Displeasure splashed across her face and he knew she had reached the dregs. She set her cup down disinterestedly. "And are you feeling better?"

"In the pink," Robert offered, keen once more to what had been his original worry. "Actually, I was going to tell you that I could do my final fitting myself and save you the trouble of a walk and wait. I shall be quick," he added.

He expected her insistence, or at the very least, her inquiry, but she simply nodded as if she had something else to do. "Alright."

Robert blinked, thrown by the reaction. Perhaps he had been wrong about everything; her reaction, her interest. Or perhaps she didn't want to have another encounter like at the tailor's. He mustered his best smile, regardless.

With that, Robert headed out, leaving the kitchen and his home with a feeling he had never experienced before. He fought the compulsion to turn back, to invite her to come along, and even more, to ascertain her distance.

Hudson's was the portrait of business and bustle. The hour was early, but he had passed several citizens on the street with dress and hat boxes. Could it be that the Christmas Ball at the end of the week has Emporia fervent for the festivities and social impression? Or was it the well appreciated change in weather from last week that everyone took to resuming their activities with fervor? Whatever the reason, there were two gentlemen waiting to be helped before he was when he entered the shop. Mr. Hudson and Mr. Able were navigating about the shop, either laying out yards of material here, or reassuring an opinion there. They flitted between customers and shop workers, displaying a coordination that came only with years of working together.

After the completion of a cycle—he was watching closely how a trip to the storage area on the lower floor generally signified a completed order—Mr. Hudson approached the gentlemen waiting.

"Mr. Grant, Mr. Roland. I do apologize, but Mr. Lutece only needs a final fitting."

Robert did not care to look if they displayed recognition or objection on their faces. He declined politely. "I can wait, sir." He doubted people would be so forgiving of his exceptional treatment if Rosalind was not in sight. "Or I come back in a few minute's time." Actually it worked out perfectly; he'd have more time to search for a gift.

"Forty-five minutes," he stated, certain of his timing, and Robert was quite sure of his estimation.

"I shall return after that time," Robert agreed. He gave a curt nod and left the tailor's.

Outside the shop, he slid his deerskin gloves over his hands. The weather was warming, due in part to their suggestion to navigate the city southward, but it was still winter. He rubbed his hands eagerly to warm them and headed towards the majority of Market Street.

He'd been mulling several gifts for Rosalind. A book, naturally, was his first choice. He thought of what he'd might like, because of course, it meant that she would as well, but any books that interested them were already available in their own collection or added to it weekly. She did enjoy novels, though, while he preferred the classics, and that was the variable between them. If he did not find anything better, that would be his final choice. He considered a dagger as well that would accompany Father's rapiers that hung on the wall in the music room, though he would be hard pressed to find fine weaponry up here. He would check the antique store at the end of Victory Lane.

As he strolled down Market street, past the fountain plaza and his house, the prominent placard of Magical Melodies peeked above the buildings, and Robert thought he also might check the music store for sheet music. She'd kept up with her piano better than he had, but he did not mind it. Her skill and practice were significant to his recovery, and even now, he did not know why, but he was always enraptured with her slender fingers dancing over ivory. There were other things he considered, if he could not attain the previous ones, but it was dangerous territory. A brush, a necklace, he'd seen enough of her personal feminine items to know that she used them, and at the very least, accepted their finery, but beyond that he did not know her tastes or opinion. If he delved too much into the thought, he felt the beginnings of a spell.

Columbia only had one antiques shop, and the question that bothered him the most was not what they had for sale, but how they remained open for business. Where did they get their merchandise? He understood the appeal because many citizens undoubtedly had to give up many of their possessions moving into these new homes, and a candelabra or a sextant that 'looked like grandfather's' would incite enough nostalgia to keep a person floating miles above the earth comfortable. He was curious what the owner of D. Fracon Antiques thought would be appropriate history for a floating city. The irony of the shop was that the building itself, the masonry, the glassware, was younger than what it housed, but the Federal Style it was modeled as closed the gap in years. Only a year the shop had been open, but he was greeted with the scent of mahogany and rosewood and tarnished copper and zinc; the smell of attics and summer homes when maids removed the sheets off tables and clocks and wiped autumn's leaves and winter's dust. A bright face greeted him when he entered, too youthful by appearance to know much about the aged items on sale, but he knew from the two times he'd been here previous that it truly was a facade.

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning."

Her name was Caroline Fracon, and though she'd never introduced herself, he could not forget her exceptional knowledge in late 17th Century glassware, nor her marriage to Mr. Fracon, twenty or so years her senior. Their coupling was not so odd as to be uncommon, but husband and wife appeared to get along quite well. He suspected it was her interest in history, but it could have been something else entirely.

"Something on your mind to buy?"

"Yes actually. I'm looking for a dagger, preferably European." In a city named after the personification of America, he doubted he would find what he was looking for, but the oddest of things appeared in the places you least expect.

"European? I'm not sure that we have one, but let's take a look."

Mrs. Fracon let him to their back wall, past the display dedicated to chess battalions of old pewter kings, marbled Romans, and wooden Forefathers; past the wall of clocks that ticked with the craftsmanship of makers they outlived. He paused when he passed them considering a humorous gift. Time, for them, was becoming dull and relative. There was only the one clock in the parlor that worked; the constant flux of Newtonian and Lutece Fields stopped all clocks within their home. The frequency of it was enough that they'd grown accustomed to watching the angle of the sun and, more recently, having Gwendolyn keep track of important events for them.

"Have you an appreciation for clocks, Sir?" Mrs. Fracon noticed his pondering. When she smiled at the clock faces instead of his, he wondered whether her appreciation of antiques impeded her attention to anything else. He was not vain-well, that is to say, he was not vainglorious-but he doubted if she even knew who he was.

"A clock that ran backwards came into our possession once. When we tried to get it repaired, we discovered it was crafted to run that way."

Now that was intriguing, and he told her as such, to which she hummed in agreement.

"But you're not here for a clock," she said, and moved on to the back of the room.

Had she not been lost in her world of time and its keepers, she'd have seen his appraisal with her bluntness. He favored pragmatism over pleasantries most days, and if people dispensed with the weather chatter and the goings on of the mundane, then business and knowledge alike would benefit.

The end of the shop was reserved for weapons, and the entire wall of it did not have to convince him that Americans certainly had an appreciation for them; a proclivity for firearms he'd never seen in any other nation. Many were unique, as personal in design and construction as the clocks, but their age and commonness meant very little to him. They owned a few yes. Rosalind had father's hunting rifle in an armoire-protection really, though not from any external threats. They'd opened some unpleasant tears in the past.

Caroline made her way to a display case that housed tempered steel, quite a collection of it, he'd noticed since the last time he had been through here, but it was still a very limited hoard comprised primarily of officer's swords from American conflicts and French inspired Indian tomahawks-no doubt souvenirs from those conflicts as well. She seemed as disappointed as he was at the lack of selection, but she turned to him again for the first time since he entered.

"We received a shipment earlier this month with an Italian dagger. My husband is restoring it, but I'll ask him to bring it round for you, sir."

"Thank you. I would appreciate that very much."

Her departure allowed him more time to consider his selection. Father's rapiers were the only things, the only tangible things, that remained of his past life, and even then, they weren't his. He'd sold them in his universe, a decision he thought about even when working at his hardest. That she kept hers, despite her struggles, was a testament of her strength and willpower. In the presence of old belongings, he smiled to himself, and moments later, frowned. She had kept them. Why? Had he ever asked Rosalind if Father had taught her to duel? The sight of the swords was so familiar to him it never occurred that he should ask. Much of her life was so similar to his that he had not considered that this was a variable, as was Radcliffe college, as was Aunt Freddie, as was his art to her music. He would ask her, perhaps they might even duel-what would the result of that be?

Both husband and wife returned after a minute or so, and Mr. Fracon, peppered hair, greeted him as most shopkeepers did.

"Here you are, Sir," he presented. "Italian made, 17th century style."

He'd seen some Italian steel in the past and admired the delicate flourished foliage, but this one was very niche, possibly a specific commission for its original owner, and as such, would appeal only to an even smaller group of people. There was elegance in its construction; the fuller was grooved deep in blade, foliage sculpted into ricasso, but the manner of its design, sea serpents and leviathans, would hardly match the swords they had at the house, and that was his original intent.

Robert had to decline. "It is absolutely beautiful, sir, but unfortunately not what I'm looking for."

Mr. Fracon wrapped the dagger in the linen he held it with. "Next time then. I'll keep an eye out for your particular interest. Do you have a style in mind? Perhaps we can narrow it more."

"French," he clarified, "But please do let me know if something comes in." There was the upcoming conundrum of birthdays and if not, the opportunity for future gift-giving.

"Of course. You have a pleasant day, Mr. Lutece." There was no gesture of assistance that usually accompanied shop owners, and Robert knew it was because this was no ordinary shop. Patrons did not peruse until something caught their eye; they connected with each antique, conscious of its history, certain that it would gain more in their possession.

"And you, Mr. Fracon. Madam," he nodded, before leaving the shop.

Back on the cold street, he had a clearer decision of what to get Rosalind now, and he sought out the placard of Magical Melodies. The shop's location surprised him. Across from the cemetery, tucked away in a quaint corner, it hardly seemed the place for a Fink. Albert was as brilliant and creative as his brother, it seemed, but by observation, was the more introverted of the two. Married and without the pressures of the family business, he had the opportunity to expand upon his true passion; music. While Robert himself had not heard much of his work, what he had heard was brilliant, but there was something peculiar about it that he couldn't place. In his listening, he was thrown by both the genius of it, and the lack of discernible progression. In art, in music, in science, the evolution of development, exploration and error, was always apparent in work. Even he and Rosalind had papers and theories that were rubbish. Albert Fink's prose, his chord progression, he was still trying to see the connecting thread, as he was with his brother's latest project. Perhaps the brothers worked so uniquely as to appear erratic? And perhaps, Rosalind had uttered several times, he gave them too much credit. Perhaps he did, he relented, but was it his fault he enjoyed music so much? He'd never heard composition and lyrical structure quite like that before. Even now, a trilling melody filled the air, just cheerful and respectful enough to uplift the mood of the street the shop shared with the cemetery.

Robert reached the shop front. In his early months after his transference, when Rosalind had deemed his strength and wits ready for short trips, much of his outings were to Magical Melodies. She either thought Albert innocuous, or his well-being and musical therapy was of her utmost importance; Robert smiled at that. On one visit, they had purchased an upright piano, another gramophone, and all available records in the shop. Naturally, the younger Fink was very pleased and very interested in conversing with them about the latest musical additions in Columbia. Rosalind was worried his enthusiasm would bring him straight to their front door, but despite their residence proximity, their lifestyles demanded much attention that nothing ever came of it beyond the rare happening throughout the city.

It is a jovial and lighthearted tune that envelops him when he opens the door. In the center of the floor, Albert worked at the keys while his wife sang. They stopped abruptly, and Robert thought they'd taken notice of his entrance, but they pouted at each other.

"Y'know, Ruth, what if we just picked up from the next stanza?"

"Skip the bridge?"

"Yup. So it'd go 'Giddy-up jingle horse, pick up your feet…'"

"-Jingle around the clock," Ruth joined in. "Mix and a-mingle with the jingling beat'- Yes, I like that much better."

"Me too." Albert moved to mark the correction on the sheet music, grinning to himself. In his editing, he glanced up, surprised they had a visitor.

"Lutece!" he exclaimed, pushing away from the piano, and rushed to shake his hand. "My apologies. Ruth and I are working on something for our own entertainment."

Robert gave a bob of greeting to her. "It sounds lovely."

Albert waved his hand. "Not quite as lovely as it could be, but we're getting there," he said. "But," he rubbed his hands in anticipation, "You aren't here to listen to music. Unless, you are," he baited, wagging a dark eyebrow.

It's ability to procure a genuine smile and interest from him removed initial qualms he held, though not all worries altogether. Still, it was certainly easier to discern Albert's intentions; his jokes and double entendre than with his brother.

"Much as I'd love to, I'm on a tight schedule. I'm looking for a gift for Rosalind. Do you have pieces for four hands? Any will do, though Chopin is a favorite."

"Four hands?" Hands on his hips, Albert smacked his lips, pursing them as he recalled his inventory. He pivoted slightly to consult with his wife. "We have sonatas from Bach, Brahms…"

"And the Schubert."

"Yes, of course, the Schubert, and I know we have at least one Chopin on hand; we were practicing a few weeks ago." He spun around and inclined his head at the bookshelf near the window, signaling them to follow him. "Let's have a look."

Ruth moved to the opposite end of the mahogany case and pulled out three works by Schubert, continuing on to several more.

"No records this visit?" Albert asked cheerily, thumbing through the volumes. "We had a batch of Christmastime come in. And one of my own compositions that will have its debut at the Ball. It's not on sale yet, but, I can make an exception for someone with an appreciation for the musical arts."

"Is it the one I heard coming in?"

"Oh no, something better. The one earlier is, as I said, for fun. Not sure how that will fit into easy listening. Probably just one of those tunes meant to share around the piano with some eggnog. Ah!"

He pulled out two pieces from Chopin, frowning. "I thought we had more. Here's what your looking for, a Variations in D Major of T. Moore, and not what you're looking for; Op. 28, No. 4. Beautiful, if a bit somber." He handed it to Robert to look over and the other to his wife.

Robert glanced through it, as that was what Albert wanted him to do, but in truth, he could not look at music without playing it first to know how it sounded—Rosalind had developed that skill, not him.

"She'll enjoy this," he feigned, partially. When it wasn't waltzes, she favored lulling, poignant melodies, and while they were beautiful, he preferred lively to melancholic.

"Good, good." Taking the stack from Ruth, Albert led them back to the piano and he splayed the booklets across the smooth ebony top. "Alright. Let's see. Schubert, Bach, Brahms, Chopin, Chabrier," he listed and organized. Fingertips nudged spines and staples until they lined up accordingly.

Robert observed the compulsive action, taking care to remember that however warm Albert was, he was still a Fink; still bearing the dark resemblance, still sharp as a knife. In the brief moment his eyes flicked from the sheet music to his face, he felt for the second time that morning, a scrutinizing perception that chilled him. But then, it seemed the gaze softened, or was it merely hidden— by a practiced charm.

"Will you be taking them all?"

"Ah," Robert examined each of the stacks, mindful of keeping corners aligned. "I should love to, but I wouldn't care to overwhelm her, not that much can, but we are immensely busy as it is."

"Yes, yes. The business with the reactors. Ruth and I have peace of mind knowing you two live so close. Glad the winter is coming to an end."

"Me too. I think I'll save the Bach for another visit."

"Alright. I'll hold you to that!"Albert said, tapping the piano top, before gathering the booklets and handing them to his wife to put it away. "Ruth, dear, would you please keep this on reserve for Mr. Lutece? I'm joshing," he waved. "But I can put it aside if it's something you are looking forward to," he offered seriously.

"Oh no, please. If someone has an interest for it, by all means, let them have. Next visit, we could be in the mood for Wagner."

"Ah! I will have that ready then for you next time," he continued light-heartedly. From the counter he procured a fine leather folio and placed the remaining sheet music inside. "Jeremiah tells me you and your sister are attending the Ball this year!"

Like his brother a two weeks ago, he looked genuinely pleased they were attending, and like earlier, he was surprised that they were.

"Yes. We're looking forward to it, and your music," he added.

"As am I."

Ruth returned to his side and presented the receipt to Robert. He signed it.

Albert smiled warmly, and Robert wondered if that's what Fink's would look like if it wasn't hidden underneath a strip of hair. "You have a pleasant day. Hope to see you very soon."

"And you." He bid his exit and tucked the precious folio into the hollow of his arm while he donned his hat and gloves once more.

It was such a shame they preferred to steer clear of the Finks whenever possible. Jeremiah at least; Albert seemed amicable at best. Yes, Rosalind admitted that Fink's name had a reputation here, but it had one on the mainland as well. Railroads, steel, efficiency. And while there was not much solid evidence of shade, there was that incident in 1889 in Pennsylvania about a flood, and the unfortunate instance with that Tesla fellow. And now these vigors? Truly, Rosalind scented something stronger than he did, but there was something he couldn't quite place. Perhaps, it was Rosalind's memories influencing his again.

Ah, such another travesty that the memories of hers he remembered most were not helpful to him in the slightest. He longed to see her collecting bugs in the meadow as a girl or her standing before a panel of men and lifting a city into the sky. Instead, he recalled arguments and chastisement. Nothing pleasant or cluing to a gift she'd like. At that he held the folio tighter to him and he smiled. Christmas couldn't come soon enough. It would be his first true Christmas with her. Last year did not count between spells and reorientation, especially when he had not been able to leave the house to get her something. I have you this year, she had said. And that is all I ask for.

She had given him a journal and by February, he had filled it with all the things he needed and wanted to remember. What would she get him this year? And what would she expect from him? She would not expect this, and the more he thought of the papers under his arm, the more he remembered her requests to play songs from childhood that required two people. Rudimentary, one might say, but so were his thoughts when he struggled to piece them in those early months.

He decided he'd have to cut across Harmony Lane and the majority of Downtown to avoid walking past his home again, lest he be caught by Rosalind, and he took the detour back to Hudson's. He passed the prophet colossus and the gates that lead to Comstock House. The sky was clear and in the distance the Founding Fathers appeared to lessen their usual penetrating scowl in the agreeable weather. Even the number of people on the street had increased since earlier. In fact, he began to notice, the top hats and fine furs seemed to stream toward the central street and when he reached the bottom of the steps he saw they were headed to the amphitheater. He recognized instantly the voice that projected out of it.

The Prophet had to keep up his act. What was he discussing this time? Their last session had not procured anything significant, beyond that document. He had to admit he was mildly curious to see if the subject of today's preaching had anything to do with that. Against his better judgment, he stopped near the entrance and peeked inside.

"…brothers and sisters," Comstock implored—such a boorish voice. "You must be content with what you are given. If you are given riches, so be it. If you are given land, it is a blessing…"

Robert gritted for a few moments longer. He didn't care much for American oration, especially those that took their cues from awakenings and southern antebellum.

"Cursing the Lord for what He has given you is ungrateful. Stopping your work because you believe it unfair is selfish. What of the fine folk who rely on others for food? For services? What of Charlotte who cannot feed her children because the dairy farms don't want to sell milk? Stopping work doesn't solve problems. It creates them."

Robert rolled his eyes. He was long since bored with the man, a one-trick pony. The innocent anecdotes, the scolding father routine. He would now soon take Scripture and bend it for his message. What was it anyway? His assumption, from all this mention of labor and farms, must have some connection to the Populists. He knew only of their threatened strikes and plea for open political discussion only from the newspapers. Were they really that much of a threat in Columbia? Truly it was only Comstock who had bad blood with its leader Amos Sutherland. 13,000 feet in the air and Congress still held its leash.

He glanced now at the sea of heads. Ridiculous really, how they flocked to him blindly, but those that did not have heaven in their eyes had silver eagles.

"The Good Book says," Comstock began. Ah there it was. "Do not neglect to do good and share what you have. For such sacrifices are pleasing to the Lord. The Good Book says: All hard work brings a profit, but mere talk leads only to poverty."

Turning on his heel, he made to continue his errands. He had much more important things to do.

"And finally, my children,the Good Book says: Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists the authorities that God has appointed will incur judgment…"

Robert paused, listening to the rest. "…For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer."

That was not how he usually finished. If anything, it sounded like a direct threat. Naturally, Comstock exerted his power from time to time, kept his "flock" line by predicting the wolves with his "visions," but as far as he knew, he had no vision to back this up. Or did he?

He scoffed, continuing across the bridge. Why spoil his morning with a man they constantly reminded not to overstep his bounds? He'd discuss it later with Rosalind. She was better at deciphering the man than he was. Outside of their home, what Comstock did; politics, preaching, pandering; was really nothing he was interested in.

Still, as he passed Cunningham Studios and crossed into the chilly shade of Emporia Towers, he couldn't help but wonder if this was something they'd have to keep an eye on. Beyond tracking alternate Columbias and monitoring a stolen child, would they be caught in something else for Comstock's decisions?

Ponderings:

-The Finks are excited for the Ball and that Rosalind and Robert are attending, why do you think?

- What could Comstock possibly have in mind? Is it connected to the previous tear session they had and the document? (hint: Lady Comstock's voxophone, Dec 28th 1894).

A/n: A very special thank you to Nitensalis who provided much information on Dante translations and information on Pausanias.

Once again, commentary and other info about Meteora is available on a blog (check my profile for links)