§ § § -- January 15, 2005
Brennan Reese had agreed to leave his ancestress' diary with Roarke after the latter had explained that it could bring on tough questions at the very least. Without telling the doctor why he had agreed to grant his fantasy with so little explanation, Roarke brought him into the time-travel room, gestured at a box filled with clothing sitting on a chair, and handed him a black leather bag. "Those are the clothes you will need to fit into nineteenth-century Pittsburgh, and this bag contains the medication that will cure Mr. Moran. You should be able to use your own name. As soon as you can, get access to Mr. Moran and begin administering the medicine."
"Right, Mr. Roarke." Brennan placed the bag on the floor beside the chair and began to lift garments out of the box. "And that's all there is to it?"
Roarke smiled, just slightly. "Ask whatever questions of your ancestress you feel are necessary," he said.
Brennan peered at him, finally seeming to sense something odd about Roarke's demeanor. "This is too easy," he said slowly. "Is there something else I should know?"
"I must do more research before I can answer that question, Dr. Reese," Roarke said calmly. "For now, it's imperative that you restore Mr. Moran's health. As soon as I leave, change your clothing, then wait." He turned to leave the room.
"Mr. Roarke, come on…seriously?" Brennan persisted.
Roarke glanced back. "Yes, seriously," he said with a trace of whimsy in his voice. He smiled, this time with reassurance, and gestured again at the box of clothes. "I will return to check in with you later on. I wish you luck, Dr. Reese." Once more he turned away, and this time Brennan let him go, wondering what Roarke was hiding. Finally he shrugged and set about changing his clothing.
He folded his own clothes and laid them neatly inside the box, then picked up the black bag and waited, as Roarke had instructed. In a few seconds the room filled with a soft gray mist, foglike in texture and carrying the strange musty scent that he used to associate with his grandmother's attic. He couldn't see anything around him, not even his own feet when he looked down. But when he lifted his head again, he realized he could hear voices at some distance, rapidly growing louder as he stood there. Then the mist cleared, and he was standing on a sunny sidewalk in a city, watching horses pulling carriages along the street, people bustling by him, and an American flag on a nearby pole snapping in the breeze. He peered up at the flag and began counting stars, grinning when he saw that there were only thirty-one. Well, "dis mus' be da place", he thought excitedly.
"Forgive me, sir, if I might pry…but you appear to be lost," said a feminine voice from behind him, and he whirled in surprise to find himself staring at an attractive young woman with brown hair carelessly tucked under a bonnet, and an anxious look in her green eyes.
"Uh…I guess you could say that," Brennan said and cleared his throat. "Pardon me, ma'am, but I'm looking for Miss Amarette Blaine."
"You've found her, sir," the young woman said, frowning. "Who might you be?"
"Dr. Brennan Reese," he said.
Instantly she lit. "Oh, thank the good Lord, at last! Dr. Windom said two months ago that he would send for his colleague from Harvard, but I had given up hope." She swallowed thickly, blinked and gave her head a quick shake. "Please, follow me, sir." With that she turned and began to walk briskly away, and Brennan hastened after her.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Brennan blurted, surprised at her speed. On second thought, maybe he shouldn't be; she was obviously desperate. "Ma'am?"
She glanced at him over her shoulder but never slowed down. "Yes?"
"What exactly did Dr. Windom say about me?" he wanted to know.
"He said—" She stopped suddenly and swung into the doorway of a tall, narrow brownstone. "Quickly, please, come in and follow me." Once he was inside she shut the door firmly behind him, and only then did she continue. "He said that there had been ongoing research at Harvard into a cure for consumption, and that you had written to him telling him you thought you had a breakthrough. It simply must work."
"Oh, it will, ma'am," Brennan assured her. "It will."
Amarette Blaine paused, gave him a hard stare, then said, "It had better, after the confidence you're showing in it. Otherwise—" Again she caught herself, then began climbing the staircase in front of her. "This way."
Brennan followed her up the stairs and a few paces along a hallway; she paused in front of a door and eased it open, the anxious look spreading from her eyes to her entire face. "Gareth, my dear, are you awake?"
"Only just, my sweet," came a weak male voice from within. "Come inside."
She slipped in and beckoned at Brennan to follow her. He ventured inside and found himself in a small, stuffy room whose window was shut tight. The air was close and warm, and he winced slightly at the unmistakable odor of illness. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I must ask you to open that window."
"But the city air—" Amarette began.
"Please, do as I ask," Brennan overrode her. "If you have any hope of saving this man, you'll do as I request. First of all, he needs fresh air."
Amarette eyed him suspiciously, and the man in the bed pleaded, "I beg you, my dear, do as he wishes. This room is unbearably stale."
She softened, wrapped one hand over his and murmured, "Anything for you, my love." Without further ado she crossed the room and began to fight to get the window open; in the meantime Brennan approached the bed.
"Are you the doctor who supposedly can help me?" its occupant asked.
"Yes, sir, my name's Brennan Reese," Brennan said. "What I have in here is a guaranteed cure for your affliction."
The man chuckled almost soundlessly. "I am Gareth Moran, sir, and while I admit to a certain skepticism in regard to your 'guaranteed' cure, I must also confess that I'm nearly as desperate as Amarette is. We had such plans, and then for this blasted consumption to cut me down—" He cranked his head aside and began to cough loudly and heavily; Amarette brushed past Brennan, snatched a handkerchief off the little table beside the bed and held it to Moran's mouth. Brennan watched closely, and when Moran finally ceased coughing and Amarette straightened up, he requested to see the cloth.
"He's begun expectorating blood," Amarette said tautly, and Brennan peered at the contents of the handkerchief, smiling a little.
"It's not too bad," he said. "I see no reason this can't be cured. Miss Blaine, do me a favor, please, and see if you can get Mr. Moran some cold water. I realize the weather's warm, but surely you can find a source of cold water."
She stiffened. "I've done everything I can do for him, doctor!"
Moran reached out with one hand. "My dearest Amarette, please, don't waste time arguing. I'm sure the doctor isn't accusing you. Please, I would so appreciate a glass of icy water. And you know I appreciate even more all the care you've taken of me."
Amarette bit her lip, then grabbed the pitcher and hurried out of the room, though not before both Brennan and Moran had caught the sparkle of tears in her eyes. Brennan sighed gently and turned back to Moran. "Don't worry," he said, "this will be relatively painless, I promise." He reached into his bag for the medication Roarke had given him.
‡ ‡ ‡
Leslie had been at the computer ever since lunch had ended, finding the material Roarke needed online and printing it out whenever she located it. The research had been exhausting; there was surprisingly little available, and she had found only two useful pieces of information in as many hours. Allowing herself a short break, she checked her e-mail and saw a message from Christian waiting for her. "Hello, my Rose," he wrote, "I'm sorry I haven't called lately. Three days after I arrived I received a package containing no fewer than three hundred sixteen applications for the positions in the new office, and I've been combing through them at whatever speed I can, in between handing out advice to nieces and nephews and enduring my sister's complaints about how the family doesn't eat all together anymore. I honestly think I should place a DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door, and I've begun to wonder whether coming here really was a better idea than going to Santi Arcuros. Between Rudolf's rocky love life, Margareta's closely guarded little secret, and Gabriella's griping about our unusually recalcitrant parliament, I'm drained. If only they didn't think I was The Man With the Answers! And as if that weren't enough, Errico's wine hasn't shown up here yet. Saints preserve us! At least I'll get a break from Rudolf next week, since he's going to Denmark for a few days. I wish you were here, my Rose, you can always make me feel better. I love you very much. Always, Christian."
She grinned sympathetically. Christian's first e-mail from Lilla Jordsö the previous Monday had been a long one telling her about a talk he'd had with Rudolf, who was having a hard time trying to understand Louisa Karlsen—the girl he'd met on the island in November—and feeling misunderstood himself, and another that he'd had with Margareta, who had tearfully confessed to Christian that she was lesbian and begged him not to tell anyone other than Leslie. Margareta didn't seem to think the rest of the family would be able to accept her, and Christian had deduced that this was the reason she had been snapping at and criticizing the rest of the family for some time. Leslie brought up a reply and typed: "Hi, my love! Are the vultures still driving you crazy? By all means, get that DO NOT DISTURB sign…or better yet, tell them your room is off-limits after suppertime and all the way around till breakfast. That ought to get them off your back, at least enough to let you get some sleep. The triplets are doing fine, except that Susanna and Karina are as miserable as ever with their teething, and Tobias has actually chewed a hole right through that teething ring you got him a few months back. Had to get him a new one yesterday. We are dealing with a particularly weird fantasy this weekend. It's a little scary—Father thinks he's going to have to deal with Mephistopheles again. Just when I thought he'd finally given up, after we cheated him and that stupid count out of your soul, and three years later he shows up again—except it looks like it's in the past. Curious yet? I'll tell you more when I can. I love you, my darling, stay well and try to get some rest. All my love, Leslie." She sent the message and settled back in the chair, stretching her arms high over her head and yawning. She arched her back inward and considered going to the kitchen for some lemonade; the house was quiet, and the triplets were down for their afternoon nap.
She had just reluctantly settled back to her task when Roarke came back. "How is the research coming, Leslie?" he inquired.
She glanced at him and made a face. "It's like digging for gold in sand. I have exactly two items here, and that's across more than two hours of work."
Roarke smiled. "I didn't expect you to produce very much, as a matter of fact. As history stands just now, there is very little there. Show me what you do have."
"Two newspaper articles," she said and held the printed sheets out to him. He came to her and took them, looking over them for a moment, then nodding once or twice, folding them and slipping them in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
"Good work, Leslie," he said. "I think you'll feel better if you can take a bit of a walk. Why don't you check on the Faraday fantasy, and I'll do a little more work here."
‡ ‡ ‡
Brennan waited till Gareth Moran had fallen asleep, then made his way down the stairs and poked his head in various doorways till he found Amarette. She was in a small, ornately decorated room that faced the street; it, like Moran's, was shut up and stuffy. She sat at a beautiful little rolltop desk writing on something; Brennan suspected it was her diary, and paused to let her complete whatever entry she was making before clearing his throat. "Excuse me, Miss Blaine?"
Amarette's quill dropped from her fingers and she spun in her chair. "Oh…you quite startled me, Dr. Reese."
"My apologies," he said. "Mr. Moran's resting comfortably."
She nodded and arose from her chair, but stood beside it in guarded silence. "You do realize, of course, that until I see some sort of result, I'll have to maintain my skepticism."
He shrugged and peered down at his bag. "You're entitled to your opinion, Miss Blaine, but frankly, I think you'd be wise to wait and see that it does work, before you do anything else." It was the only way he could think of to find out what "arrangements" she had supposedly made to save Moran, in the absence of his cure.
She gave him a wary look. "There are a great many snake-oil salesmen roaming the land, Dr. Reese, and you yourself are untried and rather young. And your radical idea of 'fresh air' in Gareth's room…"
"There are doctors who are prescribing that tuber—that is, consumption patients move out west," he said, dredging whatever scattered history he could from his memory, "to California and other parts of the southwest, and the dry sunny air there does have a way of curing some patients. That's why I suggested opening Mr. Moran's window. It's possible that fresh air could be of some help to him."
Amarette's expression eased slightly. "I've heard of that, yes," she allowed. "But I have a contingency plan, in the event that all else fails."
Brennan eyed her. "Do you have some sort of secret miracle cure, Miss Blaine?"
She flushed and drew herself up straight. "That, sir, is not your concern," she said stiffly. "What matters is that Gareth is cured, and if your treatment fails, this will do it." She brushed past him. "I should be looking for that cold water."
"He's asleep, Miss Blaine," Brennan said, following her.
"No matter." She pushed into a kitchen that looked decidedly primitive by his standards, but which he supposed was reasonably well equipped for the day. "He will want cold water when he awakens. Then come with me, and I'll show you a room where you may sleep while you're with us, treating Gareth."
She duly showed him the room, leaving a pitcher of fresh cold water in Gareth's room, and left him alone after that. The afternoon waned, and Brennan checked twice on Gareth, all the while wondering where Roarke was. He still thought Roarke had given him far too easy a time of it in the course of granting his fantasy; but he had no way of obtaining a full explanation for his host's actions. He began to have a feeling that something sinister underlay all this, that he'd gotten himself into something much deeper and stickier than he'd bargained for. Something had begun to feel just plain wrong about this whole thing, and until Roarke appeared, he knew he wasn't going to get any sleep.