her cheeks.
Lucille blinked. “Really?”
“But now she’s more interested in a love story,” Alan said, and Edith’s flush deepened. Was he teasing her?
“The ghosts are a metaphor,” she replied.
“They’ve always fascinated me,” Sir Thomas said, catching Edith’s eye.
“It seems to me the only people who witness such apparitions are those who feel themselves in need of consolation or reproach,” Lady Sharpe declared.
“I assume you’re beyond both,” Alan said, and she raised her chin as if looking at something in the distance. Soon the Sharpes moved away and were deep in conversation.
“Visit me, Edith. Come to my office,” Alan said. “I’m still setting up but I think you would find some of my theories quite interesting.”
Theories? Edith wondered if she had missed something. About what? She replayed the conversation. Was he speaking of ghosts?
* * *
Shaded from the blazing American sunshine, Lucille said quietly to Thomas, “I don’t think she’s the right choice.”
He leaned closely toward her, murmuring, “You have to trust me.”
He was different; this was different; this was not what they had agreed on. It was too bright out; she could not think. Trust was so hard to come by in this world. But of course she trusted Thomas.
Who else was there?
* * *
Carter Cushing was an observant man; details were important in his line of work. And so, a few days later, as Mr. Holly approached him, he knew that the man had information for him, and that it boded ill.
Ah, child, I am sorry
, he thought.
“It’s not often I am the bearer of bad news,” Mr. Holly said by way of greeting. “But when I am, I insist on bearing it myself.”
He was holding an envelope, which he extended to Cushing.
“Open it alone,” he advised.
More money changed hands, and Mr. Holly left.
* * *
Edith was so proud of Alan. Though his office was still half in boxes, he was consulting with an actual patient, and he moved with the authority of a trained scientist. In dimmed light, he was using a device to examine the eyes of an elderly gentleman, and Edith politely stayed on the sidelines. She recalled observing Sir Thomas showing off his mining machine to her father and her cheeks warmed. Occupying herself, she began to scan his bookcases and other belongings.
“You have not been using the drops regularly,” Alan said gently. “I must insist you do so.” He turned and saw Edith, and she smiled at him. He began to write on a pad of paper. “Take this to the druggist and ask him to prepare it exactly, then resume the dose.”
The man departed, and Alan turned his full attention to her. She beamed at him.
“What are you reading?” she asked him. “
Morphology of the Optic Nerve. Principles of Optical Refraction.
And…” She touched the spine of another book. “Arthur Conan Doyle? Alan? You fancy yourself a detective?”
He shook his head. “No, not really. But he is a doctor. An ophthalmologist, just like me.”
She smiled. “Just like you.”
“I met him, in England. I attended one of his lectures.”
“You did? How was he?”
“Fascinating. The lecture was not on fiction, but on spiritualism. Let me show you something that might interest you.”
Sitting, she watched as he arranged a wood-and-brass projecting device. The color of her dress with its mutton-chop sleeves matched the brass hue of the device’s fittings. Alan busied himself arranging a tray of photographic plates.
“Photographic work is simple,” he began. “The image is captured using a coating of silver salts and it stays there, waiting, invisible to the naked eye. It’s called a latent image. Then we use a developing agent: mercury vapors, say, to reveal it.”
He gestured to the glass plate before them. The primary image, darker, was of a little baby in a crib. Then Edith’s blood turned to ice as she spotted a blurry shape hovering above the baby: a stretched, eerie face with black holes for eyes and a
Lucille blinked. “Really?”
“But now she’s more interested in a love story,” Alan said, and Edith’s flush deepened. Was he teasing her?
“The ghosts are a metaphor,” she replied.
“They’ve always fascinated me,” Sir Thomas said, catching Edith’s eye.
“It seems to me the only people who witness such apparitions are those who feel themselves in need of consolation or reproach,” Lady Sharpe declared.
“I assume you’re beyond both,” Alan said, and she raised her chin as if looking at something in the distance. Soon the Sharpes moved away and were deep in conversation.
“Visit me, Edith. Come to my office,” Alan said. “I’m still setting up but I think you would find some of my theories quite interesting.”
Theories? Edith wondered if she had missed something. About what? She replayed the conversation. Was he speaking of ghosts?
* * *
Shaded from the blazing American sunshine, Lucille said quietly to Thomas, “I don’t think she’s the right choice.”
He leaned closely toward her, murmuring, “You have to trust me.”
He was different; this was different; this was not what they had agreed on. It was too bright out; she could not think. Trust was so hard to come by in this world. But of course she trusted Thomas.
Who else was there?
* * *
Carter Cushing was an observant man; details were important in his line of work. And so, a few days later, as Mr. Holly approached him, he knew that the man had information for him, and that it boded ill.
Ah, child, I am sorry
, he thought.
“It’s not often I am the bearer of bad news,” Mr. Holly said by way of greeting. “But when I am, I insist on bearing it myself.”
He was holding an envelope, which he extended to Cushing.
“Open it alone,” he advised.
More money changed hands, and Mr. Holly left.
* * *
Edith was so proud of Alan. Though his office was still half in boxes, he was consulting with an actual patient, and he moved with the authority of a trained scientist. In dimmed light, he was using a device to examine the eyes of an elderly gentleman, and Edith politely stayed on the sidelines. She recalled observing Sir Thomas showing off his mining machine to her father and her cheeks warmed. Occupying herself, she began to scan his bookcases and other belongings.
“You have not been using the drops regularly,” Alan said gently. “I must insist you do so.” He turned and saw Edith, and she smiled at him. He began to write on a pad of paper. “Take this to the druggist and ask him to prepare it exactly, then resume the dose.”
The man departed, and Alan turned his full attention to her. She beamed at him.
“What are you reading?” she asked him. “
Morphology of the Optic Nerve. Principles of Optical Refraction.
And…” She touched the spine of another book. “Arthur Conan Doyle? Alan? You fancy yourself a detective?”
He shook his head. “No, not really. But he is a doctor. An ophthalmologist, just like me.”
She smiled. “Just like you.”
“I met him, in England. I attended one of his lectures.”
“You did? How was he?”
“Fascinating. The lecture was not on fiction, but on spiritualism. Let me show you something that might interest you.”
Sitting, she watched as he arranged a wood-and-brass projecting device. The color of her dress with its mutton-chop sleeves matched the brass hue of the device’s fittings. Alan busied himself arranging a tray of photographic plates.
“Photographic work is simple,” he began. “The image is captured using a coating of silver salts and it stays there, waiting, invisible to the naked eye. It’s called a latent image. Then we use a developing agent: mercury vapors, say, to reveal it.”
He gestured to the glass plate before them. The primary image, darker, was of a little baby in a crib. Then Edith’s blood turned to ice as she spotted a blurry shape hovering above the baby: a stretched, eerie face with black holes for eyes and a
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