Eros Element (5 page)

He gave her a skeptical look. “Fine, to give you some familiarity with my work and its importance.”

Ten minutes later, they met in a large room down the corridor. Several pieces of equipment Iris had never seen sat in neat rows along the long table in the middle and the counters around the edges, which were also stacked with books and journals. Everything seemed arranged with mathematical precision, and she felt round and messy…and intrusive.

“I'm going to show you a basic aether isolation and patterning,” Professor Bailey said.

“Would you mind starting with what aether is?” she asked. “I've heard the term, of course, but I'm not familiar with it.”

“The ancients called it the fifth element, or spirit,” he told her and lit a burner beside a glass apparatus with two globes, one copper and one glass, joined by a valve. He gestured to the shiny metal sphere. “This one has a small bit of liquid in it.”

“But the elemental science has been disproved,” she couldn't help but say. “Now there are actual, you know, elements.”

He looked up with a startled expression, and she bit her tongue—
no challenges to the fragile ego.

“Do you want me to show you or not?” he asked.

“Please continue.” She stood with her hands folded in front of her and hoped she portrayed an eager student image.

He put a pair of goggles on and moved the burner beneath the copper globe. “Not that I fear an explosion, but we know so little about this substance it's best to be safe. You have a pair on your side of the table. Now, this will boil the water and create steam, which will fill both chambers.” Indeed, the glass globe filled with white vapor. “As for aether, there are phenomena unexplained by elements such as the nature of light and how it travels. We've come to a more sophisticated understanding of aether as the substance between matter, and therefore what light travels through.”

Iris watched the glass globe through the goggles, which smelled of old leather and chemicals. The air inside the sphere was almost white by now. “Aren't you worried it will explode?”

“It's tempered, so if it does, it will cause minimal damage. But don't worry. These experiments are simple ones with low risk. As I said, the goggles are a precaution against a low-probability occurrence. I've done this demonstration hundreds of times.”

Which makes a mistake more likely due to careless familiarity.
But she didn't say anything.

“Now I'll shut the external valve, cool the copper globe, and create a vacuum in the glass globe, which I will isolate by closing this middle valve.” He reached below the counter and pulled out a carafe of water. “The University keeps ice on hand for us to keep our water cold.”

Iris watched as he poured the water over the copper sphere, and the vapor in the glass sphere disappeared, leaving it clean with a little condensation on the bottom. But that vanished in a moment, and he closed the connection between the two.

“So now you have a vacuum,” she said. “What about the aether?”

“As you can see, light passes through the globe, so there is aether present.” He picked up a tuning fork. “Passing waves through the aether will cause it to arrange itself into a visible form.” He struck the tuning fork on the desk and held it to the copper globe. “This way the waves get diffused and muted through the seal. It's a delicate process.”

Indeed, something glowed in the middle of the glass globe, and Iris noticed the area around it became dark. She moved closer. “Where is the light going?”

“When you condense aether, it pulls from the surrounding area, which changes how the light travels,” he said.

Iris watched the glowing worm in the center of the glass globe with fascination.
Not a worm, more like a snake biting its own tail and writhing in pain.
It swirled with opalescent sparks, at times pure white and others breaking apart into colors. “Like a rainbow,” she murmured.

“Right. Your eyes perceive the colors as the light moves in different ways through the medium I've given it, like it does through the water droplets that lead to rainbows. I would love to do experiments such as this on an airship higher in the atmosphere, where aether and light are more abundant. Perhaps I could condense it and capture it there.”

“I see.” She straightened from her scrutiny, disconcerted by the aureole of darkness. It faded, as did the aether donut in the middle of the globe.

“I allowed the sound waves to die,” he said. “It works better with tones that reflect Pythagorean ratios.”

“So do you ever use two tones at once?”

He shook his head. “Early experiments tried and failed catastrophically. Hence why we wear goggles.”

“The mysterious music of the spheres keep their secrets,” Iris said. “My father studied some of Pythagoras's writings to gain insight into the art and architecture associated with his cult.”

“Exactly.” He smiled, which did turn him into a handsome man. “So you see why I need to bring as much equipment as possible. If this journey is going to lead to the breakthrough we need to harness the power of aether, or alternately, capture it and distill it into a noble gas like hydrogen or helium, I need to have my tools with me. You wouldn't go to a dig with only a shovel, would you?”

Iris had to admit he had a point. “No, but I am also able to pack lightly enough to travel. Has the University provided equipment for field work, say for those high-altitude experiments?”

The smile vanished, and the professor's face resumed its irritable expression. Iris evidently hit a mark, and from Bledsoe's description, knew Bailey wouldn't lie to her.

“You do, don't you? Perhaps while you pack that equipment, I can help you with your references since we have a point of commonality with Pythagoras.”

“Maybe.” He was obviously not convinced, but Iris put on her bravest smile.

Oh, it's going to be a long, long morning.

Chapter Six

Grange House, 08 June 1870

By the time she returned home, Iris's nerves had been rubbed raw. Professor Bailey had argued over every little thing, and the final compromise had been two trunks, a small one full of books and journals and a large one with two pieces of equipment, the uses of which he'd explained in terms he obviously didn't think she'd understand. And she hadn't, at least not most of it.

If anything, I've learned he has very little respect for women.

With a sigh, she opened the door to find Cook in a flurry.

“Oh, Miss McTavish, I've been waiting for you. There's a gentleman caller, and I've naught but yesterday's scones for tea!”

Iris glanced at the hallway clock, and her stomach growled. Had she really spent all that time with the irritable professor? Had she known she'd have such a frustrating day, she would not have agreed to a teatime meeting with the odious Jeremy Scott. Sophie had disappeared at some point around lunchtime. Iris needed to have a conversation with that girl about staying close by. She couldn't have her maid wandering off in some large city neither of them was familiar with.

But here it was, tea time, and she must look a fright.

“I'm sure they will be fine. Heat them in the oven with a teacup of water and make sure the butter is softened when you bring them out.” Iris hung her hat on the rack by the door and paused before pulling off her gloves. They were dusty from a morning of touching the professor's things, but she hesitated to be exposed to any more of Cook's anxiety or whatever Lord Jeremy Scott wanted to push on her.

Before Iris walked into the parlor, Sophie appeared and blocked her. “You look a fright, Miss. Let me help you change. The young man can wait a bit longer.”

“I'm not looking to impress him, Sophie.”

“No, but you don't want to get a reputation for being slatternly, either. It will only take a minute.”

“Five minutes. Then I need to get rid of him and go lie down. My head is aching.”

“Because you skipped lunch, Miss.”

Iris led her up the stairs. “If you'd stayed around, I could have sent you for something.”

“I'm sorry, Miss,” Sophie said. Iris turned to see her maid's cheeks were pink, and an idea took root.

“Where did you go today, Sophie?”

“I needed to get some air. The dust was making me sneeze.”

Iris didn't remember any sneezing, but she needed to turn her attention to her own toilette and issues.

“The brown silk, please,” she said once Sophie had gotten her out of her day dress. It was a relief to be free of the sweaty, dusty thing.

“Oh, no, Miss. That will make you look pale. Here, put this one on. It will bring out your eyes.”

Sophie held a gown of purple silk that Iris had always thought too fancy for daytime, but not formal enough for evening. Not that Iris cared for activities other young women did. She would always choose staying at home and reading scientific papers over going to balls and dinners. As for the opera—were they singing or screaming? She admitted to a bias against it since that was where her mother had decided on her first adulterous liaison.

“I'm not going to wear that! He'll think I'm interested.”

“Well, your other day dresses have been packed, so if you won't wear this one, it's either your traveling frock—and if you get tea on it you're traveling in this dress—or your evening gowns.”

“Fine, I'll wear that one.”

Iris descended the stairs looking the part of a lady and wishing she felt poised and confident. Sophie had put Iris's hair up and rouged her cheeks—so she wouldn't look sick, goodness why was she so pale?—and Iris tried not to frown at the thought that she might look like she wanted to appear desirable.

“You look lovely,” Lord Jeremy Scott said and bowed over her extended hand, which was, as usual, ensconced in one of her nice kid gloves.

Bollocks.
“Thank you. I appreciate your patience. I apologize for my delay, but I was held up at the University.” She sat on the hard chaise, and he settled back in her father's favorite armchair. She blinked against the pressure at the corners of her eyes—the young man looked
wrong
there. The sensation of something in the center of her chest cracking like a stepped-on potsherd drove home the fact that Irvin McTavish, archaeologist and father extraordinaire, would never sit there again.

Don't cry in front of him, don't cry.

“I'm sorry, have I come at a bad time?” Lord Jeremy asked.

“No, I'm sorry, I was momentarily overcome. I didn't eat lunch.”

Sophie brought in the tea service and set it on the low table between them.

“That must have been quite the meeting,” he said. “To have kept you from eating. I can't remember the last time I missed a meal.” He patted his stomach, which even at his relatively young age, showed a paunch.

Exasperation chased away the grief, at least for the moment. Iris ignored the invitation to elaborate on what the meeting was and with whom and instead entertained herself with the image of him growing rounder as he aged. “Yes, it was, and you are privileged if you have never had to delay eating for something more important.”
Or lazy.

His eyebrows drew together, and a flush came to his cheeks, telling her he was at least clever enough to sense her barb. She reminded herself to be careful—as irritating as he could be, he was a member of the gentry and could cause trouble for her.

“But I am pleased I didn't inconvenience you too much,” she added and took a sip of tea to wash the bitterness of the words from her tongue.
Lies upon lies upon lies…

“Not at all. In fact, I'm pleased we will run late. Would you like to accompany me to dinner and the opera tonight? It's the student summer production, but I hear there is a magnificent second-year tenor. Those who hear him now will be able to claim knowledge of him as a raw talent before he becomes famous.”

“Thank you, but I'm afraid I have other plans.”
Like organizing my own papers for packing since I wasted my day cajoling a grown-up toddler into picking his favorite toys.

“Ah. A pity, then.”

Sophie brought in a tray of foodstuffs including the scones—which looked dry but would hopefully not crumble—and cucumber sandwiches. The cucumber was so fresh Iris smelled it, and she guessed her delay had allowed Cook pick one from the garden.
Bravo, Cook! I'm glad Father planted the cucumbers before he left.

Jeremy waited for her to fix a small plate and helped himself to more than a few items. “I've heard your cook does marvelous things with scones,” he said.

“She does,” Iris agreed and held her breath as he broke one and buttered it. A few more crumbs than one would expect fell to the plate, but overall it held up well. She exhaled—the baked good disaster averted. “So what did you want to speak with me about?”

“Well, I will be finished with my degree next year, and although my brother will inherit the bulk of the estate, I do have some money coming to me.”

Uh oh.
Iris sipped her tea and tried to avoid making a pained expression. “I see?”

He leaned forward, and the scone on top of his plate scooted forward to the lip. Iris focused on it to avoid the earnest expression on his face.

“Yes, so I was wondering, that is, if your father will agree, I'm going to be needing a wife soon.”

“For what?” Iris gave him a guileless smile.

He sputtered and turned red. Iris tried not to laugh.

“Well, for wifely things,” he said. “And I thought you would be perfect for the role because of our common interests. I've seen you around the department and know you helped your father with his cataloging when he came home from trips.”

“Yes, I did,” Iris told him. “So you need help cataloging? What about research? Field work?”

“Oh, yes, that too, well at least the research part of it. A woman has no place in field work. And I will be sure to credit you in my footnotes for any contributions you should make. You know, if you have time around keeping house and mothering children.”

Iris lowered her lashes so she wouldn't give him the glare he deserved.
Footnotes?
No place in field work?

“I imagine you would benefit from the formal connection to my father too,” Iris said, unable to resist poking at him.

“Oh, indeed. I would like to have access to his library and mind when needed. I imagine he has notes he needs written up into papers.”

Iris smiled at him and imagined the cucumber seed she squished between her molars was his head. Was he suggesting he could write up her father's discoveries and take partial credit for them? Journal readers and editors would think a second author contributed more than what he suggested.

“I'm serious about forwarding my career in archeology. And about you,” he added quickly. He nodded so emphatically the fork dropped from his plate.

“I see.” She retrieved the utensil and confirmed her suspicions—a stab of hopeful triumph and the thought fragment of the intention to use her mind and her father's resources to further his career so he wouldn't have to do too much work on his own.

“So what do you say, Miss McTavish? Will you do me the honor of becoming Lady Scott?”

“I'm afraid not,” Iris said. “I have my own plans, and I cannot consider marrying you until my father returns.”
Which is to say, never.

“Oh.” The curves of his face rearranged themselves into a fleshy frown. “I thought, being one of those rare, logic-minded women, you would be excited for the ability to help your husband with research.”

“Well, we logic-minded women do tend to think for ourselves,” Iris told him. She stood, and he hesitated and looked with regret at his half-full plate. Finally he set it aside and rose.

“Are you sure you will not reconsider? As I said, I can offer you a small fortune as well.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to be more convincing than that,” she said. “Sophie will let you out.”

“This will not be our last discussion about this,” he said.

Iris lifted her chin. “If my father returns and gives you his blessing, I will marry you without a word of protest.” With that, she swept out of the room and up the stairs. She heard him finish his teatime snacks before leaving.

That evening after she, Sophie and Cook had enjoyed a light meal—there was no other kind at the moment—Iris went into her father's study to see what she needed to bring with her. She and Sophie had packed most of what he'd had in his university office and had it delivered to the house, and the boxes stood under the windows, in chairs, and anywhere else they fit.

If nothing else, we can burn old papers for heat this winter.
Not that Iris could stand the thought of burning her father's papers, whether he wrote them or if he'd saved them for some reason. Or selling off his prized artifacts. She walked to the shelves and ran her finger over a stone bowl held on either side by strange little beasts, possibly lions. The features of their faces had softened into vague curves, but they held some sense of their former ferocity. She cleared her mind and focused on it. Old things tended to have a fog around them because of all the people who had touched them, and although the most recent contact came through the clearest, she liked impressions from the past the best. Sometimes she got images of life long ago showing how the object was used—this one was for a ceremony in a dark, smoky temple—or what the object once had been, in the case of potsherds and fragments. Although they'd never talked directly about it, Iris suspected she and her father shared the talent. Otherwise, how could he have made such brilliant deductions that proved true every single time based on so little initial information?

What needs to come with me?
She didn't expect the objects to move by some sort of magical force, but nothing suggested itself to her with a nudge. No, wait, that wasn't quite right. Something called to her. It wasn't a sound, although it pressed on her ears in waves, like the ripples on the water after a stone is thrown into a pond. The sensation danced across her mind with the delicacy of a feather and the ponderous insistence of a funeral bell.

Iris turned to her left to a shelf between the windows. She didn't expect anything important to be there. Common sense said that the most significant items would be on or within easy reach of the desk, but she found a lump of black rock. Her father had talked about volcanic stones found at sites where no volcano had been because ancient peoples believed them of divine origin and carted them there. She picked it up and dropped it when a jolt of panic made her stifle a scream.

Danger, danger, danger!

She sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around her stomach, rocking to keep from sobbing out loud and bringing Cook or Sophie to her side. What would she say? That a rock made her cry?

There is something very wrong with that thing.
She gulped a few deep breaths to clear the stifling sense of threat and doom around the rock, and her rational mind reasserted itself.
Why did he have it in here?

She picked it up again, this time attempting to block the sensations, and brought it over to the desk, where she could examine it in the lamplight. A lump of dull, black stone with striations over the surface regular enough to have been carved by ancient hands, it felt less dense than a stone that size should feel, and she guessed it might be hollow. She remembered accompanying her father to a lecture he'd given with one of his geological colleagues on such stones. The volcano eggs, as they were called, had crystals in the middle of them, which led to legends of them having been the eggs of dragons or other mythical creatures.

The object seemed to warm to her touch, and Iris put it on the desk and flexed her fingers to clear the sense of dread it inspired.
Why would it put forth emotions without giving any images or thoughts?
Could it be blocking something inside?
She reached for it, then drew her hand back.
I can't do this right now.