The Nevers: Always Fine

by milk3002

Just as intrigued as you are, and probably more confused. But I do adore Mrs. True and Miss Adair. This will most likely verge from canon, but what is canon but a mere suggestion? Amalia and Penance, along with their fellow Touched, try to figure out just what it is they don't know about Maladie and who is truly hunting them.

3. The Doctor Is In

"You missed breakfast this morning," Lucy admonished from over her shoulder as Amalia walked into the kitchen, which was in its usually disheveled state after a meal. Lucy bent over the basin, a haphazard tower of bowls stacked next to her. She turned from the rising soap suds and raised her eyebrows at Amalia, her lip dropping in faint amusement.

"Well, Mrs. True. I always knew you had a bit of the dandy in you, ay?" She nodded at the suit and trousers that Amalia wore.

Amalia pulled at the suspenders that crossed her back. "These are quite irritating." She took the bowl of oatmeal that Lucy offered her, grateful for the respite from the rowdy breakfast routine. She had spent some quiet time contemplating her upcoming visit to Dr. Hague and perused her closet for attire that, from a distance, would be a good deal less noticeable than her usual. "Is there any jam?"

"Fresh out."

Amalia sighed, abandoning the oatmeal in protest and instead went to her three cups of tea. She pointed at the soap suds, which were now threatening to overrun the basin and Lucy turned, cursing under breath, and closed off the water.

"I can't help with the dishes this morning," Amalia said.

Lucy raised a knowing brow at her. "Sounding more like a man by the minute, aren't ya."

"I have an appointment." Amalia gestured toward her clothes. "I don't want to be noticed. Let the girls do the dishes today."

"I can do the dishes on my own."

"You can break the dishes on your own."

"My mother never washed dishes. She'd dirty one and break it over a man's head."

"It's a shame the suffragists never met your mother. Or me, for that matter. I'd have liked her."

"She didn't care for fops."

"I don't know what that is, but I'm certain its offensive." Amalia leaned against the counter as she sipped her tea. "Just tell the girls about your turn. It's time they begin helping out around here anyway. And it would save us money on dishes."

Lucy rolled her eyes and picked up Amalia's bowl of oatmeal, taking a few bites for herself. "I can do the math," she said derisively. "I do do the math. It's helpful if the girls don't know my true turn. Keeps them on their toes. Never show all your cards," she said, raising a finger to make her point and wiping a bit of oatmeal off her lip.

"You just don't want to own up to the fact that you've broken half of their things."

"Speaking of broken, I fixed that rod in the shower. Penance gave me some sort of adhesive from her shop, the thing won't fall down until kingdom come." She gave Amalia's suit a teasing smile. "Someone's got to be the man of the house around here."

"Binaries are beneath you," Amalia reminded her with a smile as the front door bell chimed and the two of them glanced at one another, their eyes each beckoning for the other to see to the visitor. Lucy held up the bowl of oatmeal. "I'm eating," she said, her mouth full. "You're the one dressed like a butler."

Without giving herself time to be offended, Amalia walked to the front door, dodging a flying hatbox that seemed to come from one of the upstairs rooms. She fixed a smile onto her face as she opened the front door, but it verged on a frown as she stared at a stout woman and a small boy, the latter just a couple of years out of toddlerhood. They both looked needfully up at her. She didn't have time for charity this morning.

"Good morning!" the woman said, too brightly. "I'm a kindred spirit, Desiree Blodgett, happy to meet you." She followed Amalia's eyes to the boy, standing next to her on the stoop and seemingly remembered that he was there. "This is Nigel."

She extended a hand and Amalia automatically reached for it, giving it a hard shake. She waved a hand at the boy, stretching her smile a bit wider to make up for the fact that she was dreadfully annoyed at being delayed from her outing.

"And how old is Nigel?" Amalia asked, turning her back and escorting them both inside, if only to allow her face a moment to return to its rightful stoic resting place. She turned back and saw Miss Blodgett sizing the boy up.

"Uh, eleven."

Amalia glanced down at the child, who had likely not even reached an age where he could read the front of a candy wrapper. "Eleven?"

Desiree eyed him carefully, her hands clasped nervously at her waist. "Small for his age. I don't like to talk about it in front of him."

Amalia smiled again, but this time it had lost its feigned warmth. "Ms. Blodgett, I am in a bit of a hurry this morning, so I will cut to the chase. She raised both hands in a sunny wave at her office. 'Welcome, we are here to offer the Touched a helping hand and to turn, pun intended, the tide of ill will, blah. And blah.'" She angled a knowing gaze at Desiree. "Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, do you mind telling me who referred you to the orphanage?"

Desiree simply looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "Ah, well…"

"Who sent you?" Amalia tried again.

Desiree glanced sideways.

"Who paid you to come here?" Amalia said thinly.

"A client."

"Which client?" Amalia crossed the room and poured herself a small dash of brandy, feeling more like she'd rather smash the bottle against the wall. "Did he happen to have a horrid mustache? Poor posture? The manner of a bear awoken halfway through hibernation?"

"What an apt description," Desiree breathed. "Like you painted a picture of him in words. That's a delightful turn, if that is indeed your turn. Yes, Detective Mundy." She glanced out the door of the office, eyeing the wide entry hall with a lustful look. "He did ask me to come, but he did not tell me how regal it is here." Her eyes trailed up the staircase. "Much nicer than my own flat. With just the one shared bathroom for all of us." She looked back sadly. "One sink. Very hairy girls." She shook her head. "Lots of clogs."

Amalia sighed, glancing again at the small boy who was entertaining himself with spinning her globe at an ever accelerating pace. "Desiree, this is a place for any Touched woman to live amid friends. You are more than welcome to stay, but if you choose to do so, then I ask for your complete allegiance to this place and the women who live here. You will send this child back to whomever he belongs to and you can forget about Detective Mundy, as I'm sure he'll bounce back with the misplaced confidence of a below-average man."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pound note and handed it to the boy along with her fedora. "You can keep this and the hat," she said, plopping it onto his head. "There is a pot of oatmeal in the kitchen if you'd like some on your way out. The woman breaking all of the dishes can get you some."

The boy smiled broadly and gave the globe one last spin as he bounded out of the room. Amalia put a hand out to stop it, frowning, and glanced at her watch. Time was slipping from her.

Desiree perched on the edge of a chair. "Is there a fee involved for staying here?" She raised an appraising eye at Amalia. "Or might other services fit the need? I am quite famous, mostly among men, but I do entertain women although they do tend to take much more time and effort. Are you in need of any fleshly services?"

"Not at the moment, thank you," Amalia replied. "Ms. Best will see to you. Your turn is quite grand and I can think of a few ways to put it to use. But, I'm in a bit of a hurry, you see." She glanced at Desiree and found her eyes unduly comforting, which was odd considering her aversion to most people. "I am in great need to find a young woman who I've encountered recently. She has a great gift, one that she most likely isn't even aware that she possesses. Of course, Penance is quite disturbed by my proposed course of action, but she must understand that I have an imperative to act on my knowledge, if you can call it that. It's more like a deep knowing, the kind that would most likely send her running for the hills if I ever shared it. Life as a Touched has hardened Penance, coating her in a fine frost, but she is the finest of flowers underneath and I'll be damned if I let this world destroy her."

Desiree's eyes looked innocently up at her, but Amalia kept speaking, not even taking a breath. "Of course loving her makes it incredibly hard for me to upset her, which is why love is so damned cumbersome and time-consuming and quite frankly not a distraction I need at the moment. But I have a mission, handed down to me from-" She paused, her eyes finding Desiree's, who simply stared up at her, soft and undemanding. "My." She angled her head at Desiree. "That is some turn. Everyone in your presence shares their secrets like that?"

Desiree smiled cheerfully. "Gives new meaning to the idea that you pay a whore just to leave, am I right?" She chuckled. And glanced at Amalia, who was biting her cheek in order to keep her mouth closed. "I should leave you now, and find Ms. Best, right?"

Amalia nodded stiffly, her voice thick with restraint. "Mhmm. That would be helpful."

"You're about to word purge again, aren't you?" Desiree asked, resignedly expectant. "The secrets are starting to bubble up, aren't they?" She nodded matter-of-factly. "I do forget them, if that makes you feel better. Can't remember a thing. I never could, really, my memory always has been shitty, so I'm not certain if that's part of my turn or not. I imagine one only gets one turn, so the shitty memory may just be good ol' me." She looked as if she were going to continue, but at the sight of Amalia biting her lower lip, she gave a quick wave of her hand and scurried out of the office. Amalia put a hand on her stomach and heaved a sigh of relief, tossing back the rest of the brandy, and hopefully, finally, leaving to find Dr. Edmund Hague.

The sun, still low in the sky, had not yet burned away the morning fog and the yard was still muted in color, the dirt faintly damp. Amalia allowed herself a brief moment to watch Penance as she balanced on the stoop of the carriage, settling her electric coachman on the box and snapping him into place with a satisfied grunt. This talent for helping people, despite her own misgivings, was the very thing that Amalia admired about her. Whereas Amalia rushed steadfast toward violence, fearless of its consequences, Penance bared her courage through quiet affinity to people and a constant devotion to those she loved. Amalia shied away from these things for good cause, and yet she gravitated toward Penance like a moon to Jupiter. Again, it was all quite cumbersome and time-consuming, evidenced by the fact she'd just spent precious moments standing in place. And she was already late.

Amalia walked towards the carriage and picked up the box jacket that was haphazardly thrown over the wheel. She handed it up to Penance, again watching her as she draped it lovingly over her machine, hiding any semblance of it until it appeared very much like a dreary London coachman.

Penance climbed down and wiped a hand on her skirt, leaving a thin smear of oil, finally taking in the whole of Amalia's getup with a surprised but appreciatively lingering gaze. "Mrs. True."

"Miss Adair," Amalia answered, tipping her hat.

"You look very fine."

"I think so, too."

"Isn't that Dr. Cousens's hat?"

Amalia touched its brim. "I snagged it on the way out. If he asks, tell him I'll return it shortly. I gave it to a small boy. We got a new girl this morning. She has quite a turn. Perhaps give word to Lucy to pair her with Myrtle for awhile, just until she gets used to the place?"

Penance nodded and reached into the carriage and handed over a small napkin-wrapped parcel. "I saved you some bread and jam," she said. "The girls were savages this morning."

Amalias's eyes widened, joy dawning in them. "I could kiss you."

Penance stepped back, and watched as Amalia took an unladylike bite of the bread. She was unused to seeing Amalia outside of her skirts, which she had always thought androgynous enough, but trousers seemed to give her an empowering confidence. And most likely, more range for a scuffle here and there. "Your legs look so thin."

Amalia glanced at her out of the side of her eye and the confidence wavered. "Is that good?"

Penance's face brightened, a light within making her eyes shine greener. "I have something to go with your outfit," she said and hurried across the yard. Before Amalia could lament yet another delay and loss of precious time, Harriet walked out of the house carrying a large stack of books. Coming closer, she poked her head around them.

"Nice outfit."

Amalia took a few of the books from her. "It's not an 'outfit,'" she insisted. "They're just clothes. What are all these books?"

"Reading material for the commute," Harriet explained.

"And what are you studying today?"

"Shakespeare's comedies." Her brown eyes glowed. "For a lark."

Amalia sat the books in the floor of the carriage and opened her jacket, pulling at the tie and high collar at her neck. "Sun is getting a bit hot," she said, glancing back toward Penance's lab.

"Do you want me to freeze your sweat for you?" Harriet asked. "It's not as invasive as it sounds and it's as good as a cool breeze. Lucy asks me to do it for her all the time."
Amalia smiled, amused. "Tempting, but no thank you. Funny, but I have more use for your talent than your turn."

"Freezing goes over better with boys than a photographic memory."

Penance ran towards them, her cheeks flushed, and placed a small gold watch inside Amalia's jacket pocket. "There," she panted. "That does complete the look, then."

"Does it actually tell time? Perhaps it can remind me how woefully late I'm running today."

Penance was offended by the question. "Of course it does. But fair warning, don't wind it unless you're in need of a flame thrower. I wanted it to be a lighter for Horatio's birthday present, but I got carried away with the pyrolysis."

"I am appreciative of the adornment, but I doubt I'll need a flamethrower." Amalia watched as Penance and Harriet exchanged a quiet glance. "Today, at least," she qualified.

Knowing that Penance was still upset about her venture to Dr. Hague, Amalia pointed up at the electric coachman, a smile in her voice, hoping to make amends. "Is it Chad today, then?"

Penance let out a bashful smile. "They're all Chad. I'm not the best when it comes to naming convention." She shrugged. "As a child, I had three birds. I called them all Priscilla." She chuckled until she remembered that she was still quite angry at Amalia and her pretense at playing Detective. "I'll ready the buggy for you," she said curtly, pointing toward the garage door near the stable."

Amalia caught the shift in Penance's demeanor, the sudden coolness coming off like an unwelcome gust of wind, which ironically, would have been very helpful considering the sweat beginning to bead at her back. Still, she said, "I really do appreciate your help."

Penance touched Amalia's arm in a brief reprieve, of the view that if a friend was actively putting her life at risk, then perhaps best not to part on bad terms. "I've got something oxidizing," she stammered, turning back to the lab. She was no good at lying, which is what she was unfortunately attempting to do at that moment, and turned to go. "Chad will be out in a moment," she called, then glanced over her shoulder, eyeing the coachman already seated in the carriage. "Again."

Amalia watched her scurry quickly back toward the garage and felt suddenly quite bereft. She was accustomed to Penance accompanying her on her outings and her fingers brushed against one another at the thought of the quiet, solitary ride ahead of her. She didn't have long to lament it, for Harriet went to shut the carriage door. Amalia caught it, keeping it open until she could give her instructions. "You're not to get out for any reason. Chad here is simply going to loop through the city proper and bring you right back. Should anything go awry-"

"I know," Harriet interrupted, reaching into the carriage and holding up a small cube. "Penance gave me this."

"What is it?"

"I don't want to bore you with the details." Harriet leaned closer, cupping a hand around her mouth. "Penance tried to explain it, but even I couldn't keep up. Something about electromagnetism and lifesaving radio waves. When I press it, it glows purple and then I can speak to her." She glanced down at it. "It's a very soothing purple. Quite nice."

"Penance is an abundance of resourcefulness."

"There's also one in the buggy for you to use if you need it. Yours turns a different color. Taupe, I think."

"Taupe?" Amalia repeated. "Why do I get taupe?"

With a shrug, Harriet edged backwards into the carriage and closed the door, leaving Amalia to step away from the dust as she made her way through the gate.

The buggy was waiting outside of the stable as promised, but Penance was nowhere to be found. Amalia decided not to take it personally, although the mere decision to do so implied that she was indeed taking it personally. She pulled herself into the buggy, glancing briefly at the electric coachmen, fully covered by its draped cloak.

"Greetings, Chad," she said amicably, climbing into the buggy. "You look very fine."

In the small compartment on the side of the buggy, Amalia spotted a cube of her own, and noticed her parasol tucked along the front, this one a delightful rose pink. "At least that isn't taupe," she sighed, chancing one last look at Penance's lab. She shook off her disappointment with a huff and turned her attention to the sounds of the buggies and drifting voices as the buggy pulled out of the gate. Thankfully, the street was empty. If there had been someone waiting for her to exit in her carriage, then hopefully they were already off, sure to be disappointed by Harriet's anti-climactic journey.

By the time the buggy made it to the edge of the city, its shabbiness making for a bouncier ride than Amalia would have liked, the sun was shining high and sweat beaded along the brim of her hat. She glanced at the parasol Penance had been kind enough to leave for her, and charted another small point for womankind. She considered its fine lace and the shade it would offer and then reached for it.

"Fuck it," she breathed, opening its lacy rose covering, and confidently avoiding the looks of passerby. She covered a cough as dust floated by after the buggy turned onto a dry lane, and examined the addresses on the buildings, most of them so faded as to be nearly invisible. She passed a row of low buildings, former tenements that were now small commercial fairings, with dark alleys tucked in between.

She allowed the buggy to bounce by Dr. Hague's address and stopped it a block away, climbing out near an alley. Glancing at the empty street, she pulled the horse just beyond the entrance of the alley, tucking it out of sight lest a passerby, not that there seemed to be any, want to try to chit chat with Chad.

Amalia reached back into the buggy and pulled out the cube, pressing the small button on one side. It glowed a mopish gray brown, a wholly unattractive hue only slightly brighter than its original color. Amalia rolled her eyes and slipped it into her pocket. It was then that she heard a faint chirp followed by a small beeping, both sounds coming from underneath the driver's dark cloak. Amalia walked over to the insensate, yet seemingly quite distressed, electric coachman. She yanked off the cloak and a bounce of blonde curls appeared.

Penance kept her head down for a brief second, as if almost convinced that by not peering back at Amalia, she could stay undiscovered. Amalia never tolerated surprise for very long, finding it a wholly unhelpful state, and Penance could feel her standing there, seething. She finally clicked of the receiver still beeping from the pocket of her skirt.

"I know you're angry," she started, finally looking down at Amalia. "I was also angry this morning and that's why I'm sitting here right now." She paused. "Feeling not quite so angry anymore and mostly rather frightened and a tad apologetic. But if you keep seething at me like that, then I'll get angry all over again."

Amalia didn't reply for a moment, instead furiously biting her lower lip. "I expressly told you that I was to come here alone."

Now Penance turned to look fully at her from her perch on the buggy, her eyes alit with annoyance. "I know! You 'expressly' tell me a lot of things." Now she was angry again, which was a positive because it girder her with enough courage to stand her ground. "But that doesn't mean you're always right."

"Precisely. This could very well turn out to be a bad idea, which is why I'd much rather pursue it on my own."

"That's terrible logic!" Penance pointed out.

Once again, Amalia was delayed, and quite frustrated. And, though she didn't care to acknowledge it, quite frightened. She was unable to rid her mind of the terrible image from her ripple on the bridge, examining it again and again in hopes of finding some fray that would allow her to unravel its meaning. But she had learned the hard lesson that she was powerless when it came to changing what she saw. "You must go."

"No." Penance pegged her with a hard stare, her normally bright eyes as unforgiving as stone. Penance, of course, needed no ripples or foreshadowing to know that Amalia would put herself at risk if it meant protecting someone else, a habit bent more toward nihilism than bravery.

Amalia crossed her arms, if only to keep her exasperation contained. "Please."

Penance swallowed, noting the ever present cuts and bruises on Amalia's fingers. "Didn't it occur to you that while you are speaking with him, it may be nice to have someone act as a lookout? You know, for the masked men you're convinced work for him? Or perhaps take a look around the grounds? If he is what you say, then what if he's hiding something?"

"This isn't a Sherlock Holmes serial," Amalia replied.

"You're literally dressed like Sherlock Holmes."

Amalia raised an eyebrow at her. "I'll speak with Dr. Hague and if that doesn't work, I'll use violence."

Penance rolled her eyes. "You said this was just a consultation."

"Sometimes I talk with my hands." Amalia pegged her with another stare, but Penance would not be moved. "If you must be stubborn, then stay in the buggy. Please."

"Fine," Penance agreed. "Do you have the electromagnetic cube?" She held up her own cube, the receiver that had blown her cover and pressed it until it glowed a brilliant blue. "I have one, too. Two-way communication."

"Yes." Amalia tossed an accusing glance at her own. "Taupe?"

"It fit my mood this morning," Penance replied.

"You are entitled to your moods." Amalia held up the parasol. "At least I have one dash of color." She winked at Penance. "I'll be right back."

Amalia strolled back down the block, passing several doors, then stopped and looked up at one that was less shabby than the rest, but still nothing that would remotely attract anyone of pedigree. Whoever Dr. Hague had been, he had certainly had a fall from grace. She knocked loudly and stood on the stoop for a moment, noting again the emptiness of the street.

The door opened and a thin man peered at her, dark shadows underneath a pair of shining but tired eyes smattered with spidery red lines. A pointed, white beard grew from his chin, markedly different from his brown hair, as if all of his stress trickled down through the follicles of his chin. "I'm looking for Dr. Edmund Hague," Amalia said. "Might you be him?"

"I might be him," he answered with an all too chipper American accent.

"I'm Mrs. Amalia True. I've come to ask you questions about your psychiatry practice."

He eyed her outfit, his eyes snagging on the parasol. "Yes, I imagine you are," he said slowly. "I don't refer to it as a practice, however. Profession. Or passion, perhaps. Practice connotes the idea that all patients are merely test subjects." He smiled, his lower lip disappearing into his beard.

"When it comes to psychiatry, I would imagine they are. After all, each individual being so unique."

"We are all but mere patterns and probability," he demurred. "Do come in." He waved her further inside and Amalia followed him into the small foyer, where he politely offered to take her parasol and she ever more politely insisted on keeping it. She did let go of her hat, which he hung on a coatrack near the door. The front parlor was small, but inviting, with potted plants dotting the corners and several landscape paintings hanging along each of the walls. The only fault Amalia could find was that it was all a bit cluttered, as if the last several occupants of the house just kept piling on their belongings.

Amalia stood, facing him. "Lovely. This is an interesting location. Do you practice from here these days or are you affiliated with a facility?"

He was slightly miffed at her use of 'practice,' which was exactly what Amalia wanted. He made his way to a chair and sat, gesturing for her to take a seat as well. "I'm afraid that's all in the past. I no longer work at psychiatry, so apologies if you were looking for a doctor. I can, however, recommend a few who have had some success in converting todger dodgers like yourself. I assume that's why you're here?"

She met his question with one of her own. "What is it that got you out of the profession?"

One of his eyes narrowed, as if he were unsure whether he wanted to pursue small talk with her. "Regulation," he tattered, an edge of bitterness cutting his tone. "Stifles innovation. I am no good as a doctor wading in stagnant administrative waters." He widened his arms, as if hugging the parlor into himself, and smiled sprightly. "I'm now in supplements! Tinctures. Thriving market. I make them here, as a matter of fact."

He gestured to a wide, low cabinet, its shelves covered in dozens of small bottles and vials. "Can I interest you in a bottle of ashwaganda? It boosts testosterone."

Amalia imagined her boot smashing into his chest and shook her head with a polite smile. She did not recognize this doctor, but she did recognize his kind, the type that confused ego with innovation, their treatments more harmful than the condition they sought to cure. "No, thank you. I'm actually interested in knowing whether you worked with any patients who were considered Touched. Specifically at Strohman's Facility for the Deranged."

"Aha!" He crossed the room in two large strides and snapped a finger far too close to her face. Amalia leaned back and raised her parasol, but recovered her resolve in time to lower it without ramming into his cheekbone.

"I knew that I'd heard your name. Mrs. True. You're Ms. Bidlow's girl, running her home for the Touched, is it?"

Amalia stilled, coldness running just beneath her skin and she stood, positioning herself nearer to the foyer. Ms. Bidlow excelled at ensuring that society knew about the orphanage and her cause, but Amalia was far less trusting in the public. "Yes," she answered, using his knowledge to her advantage. "Hence my interest in your work with individuals considered Touched." She swallowed her distaste and continued. "I'm curious into your insights."

He had turned his attention again to the display, walking over to it. He picked up a vial and uncapped it, pulling out a small dropper. "There is a lot of power in these tiny bottles," he said to her. "Incredible. Just a drop of this can change you from a tiger into a pussycat."

He held it out just underneath her nose, but Amalia took a step back, his movements riling her to the point where she wished to smack him just to sit him down.

"And yet," he said, holding up the dropper, "even this pales in comparison to the power stored in the brain. WIth the Touched, it's as if God pressed his finger to the brain, activating the latent part of it." He grinned at her. "A part we clearly all have, but someone forgot to press the on switch for the rest of us."

Amalia exhaled, used to the pontifications of many when it came to the Touched. "I'm particularly interested to know if you treated any Touched women, around the age of twenty-five to thirty-five." She paused, relieved as he bounded back to his chair and sat, and steepled his fingers, looking thoughtfully up at her.

"I'm surprised, Mrs. True, with you being in the business of the Touched, that you haven't come to see me before now. Especially considering Ms. Bidlow's interest in research." He paused, as if checking to see if this revelation had ruffled Amalia, and she worked to keep her face placid. "I did work for a time at Strohman's, and was sought after for my particular brilliance with those trying to overcome a religious upbringing, you know the type, obsessed with being the Chosen one, fearful of the hell mouth, slaying demons." He tilted his head. "They were tormented by religion, but rarely mentioned God. Do you have any experience with asylums, Mrs. True?"

Amalia's fingers rubbed against one another and she simply eyed him, unresponsive and all but daring him to continue his line of questioning.

"Silence is also an answer," he said playfully, pointing a finger at her.

"That it is," Amalia replied, aware of his avoidance of her earlier question.

"You know, I may have a few things that would be an absolute godsend for your Touched there at the orphanage. Between the brain energy and the hormones it must be a regular banshee house. A little red clover oil, Ph-balanced for a woman with electric tendencies may help soothe the air during that time of the month."

Amalia tossed her parasol from one hand to the other. "I think I've about exhausted my time here, Dr. Hague, and I don't believe in your quack oils and neither do you, so why don't we cut to the chase? You treated the girl they call Maladie."

"Well, that is indeed insulting. If I did treat her, then you insinuate I'm a failure considering she' currently in the midst of fiendish murder spree. That would be quite a stain on my curriculum vitae."

"I don't think you were attempting to treat her at all. Perhaps you created her."

He raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. "Now, that is the highest praise anyone has ever given me." He put a his hand to his heart and took a small bow. "Thank you, Mrs. True."

He rose, now excited, and she took a careful step back from him. She was being a bit reckless and thought best to pull some of her cards back, but something about the man's hubris riled her. Her fingers twitched and her vision blurred as a ripple started to detach her from the room. She tried to focus on the light coming from a front window, keeping herself in place with a tenuous thread of attention.

Dr. Hague continued. "For what is a treatment, but the act of shedding one's affliction and becoming something new and whole? I confess I do find God a little elementary, don't tell the Anglicans. He was quite a lazy dolt. He tried once and gave up." He laughed, his voice rising. "He should have kept trying! Take what is there and improve it. Learn! Knowledge as god and emperor. Take the broken minds and turn them into the very things that drive creation. We are all just mere gears meant to grind against one another until we reach the pinnacle of…" he waved his hand lackadaisically. "Of whatever."

"That's what you did at Strohman's? To Maladie?" Amalia's tie to the present was fraying, and her fingers moved as she felt the fight leave her.

"That's what I am doing." He turned back to his bottles. "That is, for three shillings a week, which will get you a full array of eight tinctures." He looked back at her. "Interested?"

Penance sat patiently for several moments after Amalia walked towards Dr. Hague's address, and then she hopped down from the buggy and poked her head around the edge of the alley. The lane itself was dreary and mostly empty, and Penance glanced up at the abandoned building across from her. One side seemed to be crumbling and she detected a current in the air that made her think that in its prime it had been some sort of processing mill: an air of old smoke, ash, and vapor.

"What sort of doctor practices around here?" she asked herself. "Probably the type that hides girls in cellars," she answered with a disbelieving chuckle, and then stopped short, nervously glancing at the alley stretching behind her. Logic told her to climb back into the buggy and follow Amalia's directive, but something near the back of her belly propelled her down the alley toward the back of the building.

From her pocket she pulled out a small rectangular device with an antennae that she extended. She flicked on a small switch at its side and hoped that she had charged it enough that morning. The small light at the end of it flickered on and blinked a few times before glowing yellow. She ran it across her forehead and down both of her arms, calibrating it so that it wouldn't register her own heat, and then pressed another button and the light switched to a ready green.

Stones and refuse were littered about in the narrower alley behind the building and Penance sidestepped several puddles so saturated with trash they looked like small bogs amid the dust. Cellar doors dotted the edge of the buildings near her feet, almost all of them unlocked, and one knocked open and stinking of a rotten brine. The next cellar, however, caught her attention. It was shut and locked with a shiny, she almost dared to say quite new, lock. Nothing that would be out of the ordinary on an ordinary block, but this was most decidedly an out of the ordinary place.

She knelt down and placed her antennae near the cellar door, but it still glowed green. She pulled a coin out of her skirt pocket and dropped it near the lock with a light rattle, then stepped back and turned her head as it let out a small, tiny blast, powerful but sounding a bit like a sneeze. The lock now lay in two pieces, and Penance lifted the door with just the toe of her boot and bent and held the device into the crevice.

The cellar was quiet and smelled of decades of stored fruit and onions, dank and organic, but the tip of her antennae glowed orange, letting her know that it didn't simply hold old potatoes. Penance stepped further into the dark, and waited, but heard no movement. She could make out just enough of the room from a sliver of light peeking through an upper window. The room was small, a bare square of concrete and a large part of her was relieved at its emptiness. And then she saw a small door at the far end of the room and dread slid coldly down her back. Shifting a step closer and then another, her antennae began blinking, red and persistent. She paused at the door and listened. There was no lock, just a large wooden bar that stretched across it, which she lifted, lamenting whatever it was that kept her from running back out to the alley. Was this the same sort of perverse courage that sent Amalia bounding into dreadful situations? She thought of Mary and her song. And then she opened the door.

"Housekeeping," she whispered inexplicably, her mind surprising her by its turn to mush in the midst of fear, but she let it go and stepped inside a smaller, narrower room. There, in a corner, sat Mary Brighton.

She edged backwards against the wall and Penance spoke softly. "I'm sorry to disturb you." She cleared her throat. "I'm here to help." Unhelpfully, she rambled, "I was at the opera the other night? My colleague, Mrs. True, was the one that came after you? The one without her dress?"

"Shh," Mary whispered, turning to her. "There are tunnels all over. They can hear everything."

Penance swallowed. "There's a 'they,' then?" She took a shaky breath. The light didn't reach this inner room and she wasn't sure where the tunnels were, the area around them a pool of dark.

"My hands are chained," Mary whispered again, prompting Penance back to the task at hand.

"I can take care of that," Penance whispered back, grateful for the direction, and reached for another coin. "It may sting your hands a bit, but nothing that will scar." Penance waited before dropping it. "Would you say they hear you when you sneeze?" She shook her head, focusing. "Never mind. Although, when you're free, we should probably make a quick run for it. Science is never silent."

The coin exploded and Mary let out a small grunt, but was able to pull her hands apart, rubbing them against her stomach. Penance reached for one and pulled Mary toward the door, pushing it open. Or so, she had planned. But the door remained shut, and Penance had her own obvious ripple from the past, imagining the bar slowly falling shut again after she entered. She grasped in her pocket, but she had exhausted her coins. She glanced at Mary. "Well, this is unfortunate."

They both heard the footsteps at the same time, sounding as if they were coming from every direction in the room, as if the walls themselves were closing in on them. Penance reached for the wireless cube in her pocket and pressed it, but this far deep under the house, the device had gone dark. It was then that she gave into using a signal that needed no radio waves to be heard: she let out a loud, piercing scream.

Upstairs, Amalia was lost in a rippling that hit her with the force of a train: she saw a small trap door, opening, and a masked man reaching up for her, gripping her necktie and pulling her down into darkness. Just as quickly, she was back in Dr. Hague's foyer, the light from the window nearly blinding her. She tottered and braced herself against the wall, forcing herself to retrace the ripple, wondering if she was meant to stay or flee.

Dr. Hague studied her. "What is your turn, Mrs. True? Proclivity for light-headedness? Fainting spells? Ginseng may help."

Before Amalia could respond, a jolting scream rose up at her from beneath the floor. She straightened, fear buttressing her spine, and for a moment she wondered whether she had lost herself in another ripple. The scream came again, this time startling real and altogether coming from Penance. For only a second, she met Dr. Hague's eyes, both of them caught in a connection of the unexpected.

"Oh dear," he said.

In the flash of another second, he had bent toward the bottom of the supplement cabinet and pulled out a small pistol, but Amalia had already raised her parasol and struck him across the temple before he had even the time to aim it. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed stairs leading up to a second story, but ignored them and instead ran down the narrow hallway towards the back of the house. A bombardment of feet clambered above her as she ran into the kitchen, where several masked figures were streaming from a back staircase, their faces one expression of measured menace.

One of the masks came at her and she landed a whack with her parasol, her swing continuing and knocking over several brown medicine bottles. A chemical smell wafted up at her and she picked up another of the bottles, smashing it squarely into another mask that appeared behind her, but it wasn't enough to startle it. She picked up another bottle and tried again, but an arm wrapped around her neck. The mask on the floor in front of her scrambled underneath a table and lifted a trap door, disappearing into it. Amalia kicked out a leg, hoping this would finally free her from the thick arm pressing against her windpipe, and the mask let out a grunt and she was free.

She slid under the table and peered down into the square black hole that was the trap door. She waited and the mask suddenly popped up again.

"Right," Amalia said, already bracing for the hand that her ripple had foreshadowed. She let it grip her neck tie and fell forward, the ground meeting her too quickly, her hands scraping dirt. Kicking out at the mask that had pulled her in, she reared her parasol back once more, this time giving it a hard enough whack that the figure dropped and lay prone at her feet. She opened her parasol and wedged it up against the trap door, pressing a small button in the middle of its dome and slipping out the metal bar that comprised the handle. She stepped over the fallen body at her feet and ran as the umbrella exploded, sending dirt and splinters flying from the trap door. Amalia hoped that would hold off the rest of them for a few minutes.

In the dark, she allowed the tunnel walls to guide her, following the sounds of footsteps, or at least trying to, but they seemed to be coming from all directions. Suddenly, they seemed to come directly from her right side and something barreled into her with the force of a bull, knocking the wind from her. She caught herself on the patchy dirt wall of the tunnel, grunting as she attempted to shake the mask off of her, but it had an arm pinned behind her back. She braced herself against the wall with her feet and knocked her head backwards, hearing cartilege pop, and then launched herself backwards, turning mid-fall and landing a resounding kick against the masked face. She crab-walked backwards until she was sure it wouldn't follow and then turned and scurried forward.

After a few more yards the tunnel opened to a wider room and Amalia saw three more of the masks advancing toward two smaller figures hunched close to the other side of the wall. Amalia went for one of the masks, sending it off balance into the second and smashing them both into the side of the wall, their heads cracking.

Penance was pummeling her shoulder against a door on the far side of the wall and her eye caught Amalia's. She was both happy to see her and terrified, and the only thing holding her up after this rush of emotion was the constant run of fear and the door that wouldn't seem to budge.

"Move!" Amalia yelled to them, entirely too loud for the small room, and her voice echoed back to her. But her urgency worked and Penance and Mary lunged away from the door. Amalia grabbed the watch out of her suit pocket, but that brief moment was the only lapse the third mask needed, and it rocketed toward her from behind, her face hitting the packed dirt floor. She kicked her leg up and maneuvered him over and landed a punch, dazing him just long enough for her to glance down at the watch. She heard the sound of footsteps in the tunnels and her bloodied fingers were clumsy along the its shiny edge. Nothing happened.

"Counter-clockwise," Penance yelled, watching Amalia struggle.

"That is counter to logic," Amalia yelled back, her voice cracking with adrenaline. The mask beneath her was still, thankfully, but here she was, delayed once again by an inconvenience.

Penance practically skated across the floor, yanking the pocket watch out of Amalia's hand and wound it backwards, a comical task in the moment, considering Mary was huddled in the corner and Amalia was in the process of launching another punch at the mask trapped between her thighs.

Penance felt a small click and a flame rushed forth from the watch, a column of fire lighting the small room. For the briefest of seconds, they looked like a painting from one of Dante's levels of hell, all terror and fire. Penance pointed the flame at the door and felt Amalia bump slightly into her as she dodged a punch, then heard fist connect to bone behind her and Amalia's painful gasp.

As the flame died out, Penance rushed toward the door and pushed her shoulder to it again, ignoring the molten heat coming from the scorched wood. This time it burst open, sending Penance flying into the bare cellar. She pulled Mary through and turned back to Amalia, whose fists flew as she struggled aptly with two more masks.

"Go!" Amalia shouted, landing another punch and catching the panic that held Penance in place, eyes frozen at some place just behind Amalia. An arm snaked around Amalia's throat and she kicked out behind her, throwing the mask over her shoulder, but the other was already back up and lumbered at her with a sloppy but effective punch to the kidney. She grunted and fell to a knee, her vision blurring and her fear rising as she caught Penance still petrified in place. "Go!" she struggled again.

Penance looked over her shoulder, where Mary was gloriously free, peering fearfully back through the open door of the cellar. A part of Penance wanted to stay with Amalia, knowing she would be of little use, but she just simply couldn't get her feet nor her heart to leave her. Amalia, who was now on both knees, wiped a hand across her face, uncaring of the blood now smeared across her cheek. Her eyes held Penance's, fire in them as hot as the flamethrower.

"Go!" Amalia screamed again, and this time Penance listened, turning and fleeing.

Amalia desperately pushed at a foot flying toward her face, clumsily banging her wrist into the heel, but managing to put the mask off balance. Footsteps were still coming, maddeningly from all directions, and a bludgeon of a fist landed on her back, sending her into the wall. The same fist smashed her head against it and she was uncertain for a moment whether her vision blinked out or if it was just the darkness of the room. She slid to her knees and glimpsed Penance and Mary in the square of daylight that now embraced them as they ran. Amalia laughed, triumphant, and this time a fist connected squarely with her jaw, sending her to darkness.