The Story of Cirrus Flux Page 5

  The doors swing open and the two men enter a cavernous room filled with blazing light. A long table sits in the middle of the chamber, underneath a glass roof, through which the moon is faintly shining. The table is surrounded by some of the most eminent men in London. There is just one woman.

  A man in a red jacket is addressing the table.

  “The Breath of God. Think of it, gentlemen,” he says in a loud, cannonading voice. “It is the most subtle, elusive force in all existence, the paragon of elements. Many a brave sailor has gone in quest of it. Imagine being able to tap its source, to capture and contain it. Why, we would be like gods! We would have all the power in the world at our disposal!” He bangs his fist upon the table. “We want it, gentlemen, and by thunder we shall have it!”

  A gust of wind whips round the side of the building, and the fires that burn in the hearths along the walls roar with their approval.

  “But how do you propose to find it?”

  It is barely a squeak of skepticism in the large room, but enough to make the man pause, a wineglass half raised to his lips. His eyes search the table until he finds the owner of the small voice: a cartographer in a frock coat with numerous pockets, from which he pulls a collection of tightly scrolled maps.

  “The Breath of God is rumored to exist beyond the edge of the world,” continues the cartographer, “further than any man has traveled. Venturing upon such an enterprise would be folly, surely?”

  The president of the Guild takes a deep breath and returns his glass to the table, spilling a quantity of wine on the tablecloth.

  “Folly?” he says. “Then why, sir, are the French, the Spanish and the Portuguese all looking for it? Why do they send their ships to the furthest reaches of the globe? Terra Australis Incognita? Is that what they are searching for? Why, it is but a ruse! They are searching for the Breath of God!”

  “But the Southern Hemisphere is ringed by a band of ice and fog,” insists the other man. “It is, by all accounts, impassable.”

  He unrolls one of the maps and spreads it across the table. The paper reveals a filigree of finely drawn lines that dissolve into emptiness the nearer they approach the Antarctic. The bottom part of the map is a gulf of uncertainty.

  “Who will guide us to this mysterious Aether?”

  The president glances at the door and his lips curve into a smile. “Why, sir, I know the very gentleman,” he says. He motions toward the two latecomers. “May I introduce, sirs, Mr. James Flux, First Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy.”

  Thirty years old, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, James approaches the table.

  Heads turn to greet him.

  “Why, sir, he is no more than a boy,” says someone on the left, a man with cheeks like marbled cheese. “And certainly no gentleman.”

  James feels a wave of antagonism surge toward him, but he plows on through the stares of their defiance. His hair is a mass of dark curls, and the buttons on his newly brushed jacket gleam in the firelight.

  “Lieutenant Flux, I assure you, is no boy,” says the president of the Guild. “Why, in his young career he has already charted an archipelago in the South Pacific and risen swiftly through the ranks of His Majesty’s Navy. Indeed, it is said that the wind favors him wherever he sets sail and the sea prostrates itself before him. There is no finer seaman alive.”

  Someone scoffs, “And who is the oaf in the monkey coat beside him? Surely not some savage he picked up off one of the islands?”

  Laughter surrounds the table and James can sense all two hundred pounds of his best friend, Felix, stiffen under his battered fearnought jacket. Together, they have braved the iciest gales and most vicious storms, and he hopes the insults will wash off him now like sea spray.

  “Mr. ‘Fearnought’ Hardy is my second in command,” he says, using the name by which his colleague is commonly known at sea, “and a gentleman I would trust with my own life.”

  One of the merchants dismisses his comments with an idle wave.

  “Be that as it may. Kindly tell us, Flux, why we should entrust you with such a mission. You are asking us to invest a personal fortune in your quest for something that may or may not exist. How do you propose to track down this elusive Breath of God?”

  “It is quite simple, sir,” says James, staring him in the eye. “Because I have seen it.”

  There is silence around the table—a silence so complete that James can hear the flames sputter on their candlewicks. All eyes are fixed on him, and for the first time he takes in the whole assembly: the proud merchants and tight-lipped bankers to his left, the keen-eyed philosophers to his right, and the heavy-lidded astronomer and clergyman at the far end of the table. Immediately beside James is a silver-haired woman with fine cheekbones and a lofty brow, whose beauty takes his breath away. And to her right sits a shrunken individual, no larger than a child, in an upright chair on wheels.

  “I trust you know Madame Orrery and Mr. Sidereal,” says the president to him privately.

  James inclines his head. “Indeed. I know them both by reputation.”

  Madame Orrery is esteemed for her investigations into the human mind, which have impressed all of London, and Neville Sidereal, the son of a rich merchant, is reputed to be the cleverest man alive. He has developed an ingenious system of lenses that allows him to see far and wide across the city from a rooftop observatory.

  Twiddling a knob attached to the arm of his chair, which moves a series of cogs and gears beneath, Mr. Sidereal wheels closer. “You have seen it?” he asks.

  “Indeed, I have,” says James. “The Breath of God appeared above His Majesty’s Bark the Destiny when I was but a boy and receded into mist the moment I beheld it. Yet I believe I caught sight of its source: a vast continent made of shimmering ice, with the most amazing light behind it.”

  “What did I tell you?” says the clergyman, leaping to his feet at the far end of the table. “What are the ice caps, sirs, if not the frozen waters of the Flood—that great deluge sent down by God to drown the sinful multitudes? And what of the fog that surrounds them? Why, it can be only one thing—the souls of the departed. Indeed, it is obvious, sirs. The Breath of God resides beyond the edge of the world, at the entrance to the next. Mr. Flux, I do believe you have discovered the very gates of heaven!”

  “But have you any proof of this divine Aether?” asks one of the philosophers more scathingly. “Or are we merely to take you upon your word?”

  James feels Felix shift beside him.

  “I do,” he says.

  “And would you care to enlighten us?”

  “First, I have a condition of my own to make.”

  One of the merchants, a man with fat ruby rings, snorts. “You have a condition? What, pray, can you demand from us, you upstart whelp?”

  James swallows. “A house for my wife and an annual allowance,” he says. “She is with child.”

  For the first time, Madame Orrery displays an interest in the discussion. She leans forward and cups her chin in her hand. “Is that all?” she asks. “You seek nothing else—for yourself?”

  Just for a moment, James thinks of his bedridden wife in the tiny room they share in a tumbledown house next to the vile-smelling foundries on the south side of the river. He recalls what she said to him earlier this evening: “Please, James, I wish you would not go. Not for so long, not so far away. Anything could happen.… At least wait to see your child.”

  A blush steals across his cheeks, but he speaks over the doubts and misgivings in his head. “My loyalties are to my wife and child,” he says. “I must ensure their well-being, if not my own.”

  “Very well,” says Madame Orrery, her voice hardening somewhat. “I shall see to it personally that your wishes are fulfilled. Now, how do you propose to convince us of this Breath of God?”

  “With this,” says James.

  Taking a deep breath, he loosens the collar of his naval uniform and withdraws a small spherical object from the cord round his neck. It is the terr
ella he has worn since his first days at sea, the globe engraved with distant countries.

  “A terrella?” says the philosopher. “You propose to convince us with a common piece of metal?”

  “If you please, sir,” says James. “Watch.”

  He twists the halves of the sphere until they fall into place and the line at the equator cracks open. He glances at Felix, who, with a slight look of disapproval, signals to the footmen to extinguish the candles. The room plunges into shadow, save for the moonlight drifting overhead.

  Very carefully, James removes the northern hemisphere.

  The assembled members gasp as a brilliant blue-and-white light escapes from the interior of the sphere and spreads throughout the room, floating in icy waves above them. All at once they rise from their seats and reach toward it.

  “It’s beautiful,” murmurs Madame Orrery, gazing up at the heavenly light. “May I touch it?” She extends a hand toward the sphere itself.

  James hesitates, afraid to let go of the sphere, but then slips the terrella into her hand. Immediately, her fingers close round it and snatch the light from the room, sheathing it in a case of skin and bone.

  “It’s astonishing,” she says as a soft sheen takes possession of her face. “I can feel its power working through me. It is like a new lease on life!”

  James averts his eyes. He knows its alluring effect too well. He has opened the sphere many times during the intervening years, always surprised to find that the light is still inside, always afraid that the supply will one day run out.

  One of the merchants reaches across the table.

  “Let me see that!” he exclaims, but Mr. Sidereal is too fast. With astonishing speed he maneuvers his chair closer to Madame Orrery and seizes the terrella from her.

  “Such perfect clarity,” he says, examining it with a special lens. “Such luminescence. Why, it must be studied!”

  “Give that here, you runt,” says the ruby-knuckled merchant.

  This time, Felix intervenes. Wrestling the terrella away from Mr. Sidereal, he swiftly hands it back to James, who threads the halves together. Gradually, the wonderful light radiating through the room fades and the footmen, until now standing forgotten along the walls, rush forward to relight the candles. Their light seems dull and timorous compared to the brilliance before.

  “So,” says the president of the Guild, glancing round the table, “what say you, gentlemen? Are we agreed? Do we undertake this mission?”

  There is a babble of excited voices, and soon a unanimous decision is reached.

  “Good,” says the president, smiling smugly. He turns to James. “With our wealth and intelligence behind you, Flux, not to mention the latest instruments to guide your way, our success is assured. Determine the coordinates of the Breath of God—and, if you can, bring back more of this heavenly Aether—and you and your family will be richly rewarded.”

  Once again, James hears the worried voice of his wife in his ear and glimpses Felix’s troubled look beside him, but the temptation to sail is too great. He finds himself accepting the mission instead. “I await your instruction,” he says simply.

  The president nods. “Kindly see to it that you do not fail. The glory of this nation rests upon your shoulders.”

  With that, James and Felix leave the room and make their way down the stairs to the front of the Guild. It is even colder now, and very lightly it has begun to snow. Small sleety flakes spiral down from the sky in constellations.

  “I do not like this, James,” says Felix as they head toward the river. “Did you not see the way they were at each other’s throats? It is not safe to give such people power.”

  “Nonsense,” says James. “It will make our reputations.”

  Felix glances at his friend. “I think ambition is clouding your judgment.”

  James scowls and listens to the water lapping blackly. “Are you really against me?” he asks, his voice sounding somewhat younger and less assured than before. “Would you honestly prefer to stay behind?”

  Felix stares into the distance and for a long time does not answer. Lanterns glimmer on the far side of the river. Finally, he raises the collar of his jacket and stomps his boots against the ground, dislodging the little caps of snow that have formed there.

  “You know better than to doubt me,” he says, his frown lightening a little. “I shall remain by you to the end. I only wish I knew where that end might be.”

  The House of Mesmerism

  Pandora stepped closer to the body on the floor. The woman lay exactly where she had fallen the night before; her mouth was open and a sickly odor emanated from her clothes.

  Pandora listened carefully, expecting to hear a breath or a snore, but there was nothing. Not a sound. The woman’s lips were parted in a silent roar. And then a fly settled on the woman’s cheek and began to crawl across the unblinking surface of her eye, and Pandora suddenly knew the truth: Mrs. Stockton, her nurse, was dead. The gin had finally killed her.

  She walked over to the boy who was watching her from a bed of straw in the corner. He was her age exactly, nearly five and a half years old, but so slight and frail he seemed to be fading already into a ghost. His cheeks were swollen and he was whimpering with cold. She took him gently by the hand and guided him toward the door.

  Perhaps the woman in the next farmhouse would know what to do. Perhaps she would take them in and be their mother. Or, if not, perhaps she would take them to that place Mrs. Stockton was always grumbling about, the place they had come from: the “fouling hospital” in London, all those miles away.…

  Pandora’s eyes cracked open. No! She would not think of him again. Little Hopegood, her brother, was dead. She had seen the Governor burying him in an unmarked grave outside the hospital walls. She had failed to save him.

  With a shiver, she rose from her bed and stepped across the room to the window. She could still feel the wet suck of mud underfoot as she trudged through the country lanes and the weak, tepid grip of her brother’s fingers as they slowly slipped from her own.… If only there was something more she could have done.

  She climbed onto the chest below the window and looked out, trying to dislodge the memory from her mind. A foul-smelling haze had settled over the city, and the sun was a pale blister, seeping through the cloud.

  She got down from the chest, took off her dream-rumpled nightdress and pulled on her coarse brown foundling’s uniform. Then, turning away from the window, she left the room.

  Mr. Sorrel was in the kitchen when she joined him downstairs.

  “How did you sleep?” he asked her as she crossed to the iron cistern against the wall.

  “Not well. I dreamt of my brother again.” She splashed some cold water onto her face. “I cannot seem to get him out of my mind.”

  “You ought to let Madame Orrery see to your dreams,” said Mr. Sorrel. “One of her treatments would rid you of your obsession with the past.”

  Pandora glanced at him, curious to know what he meant, but then gave a little shudder. “No, thank you,” she said. She was still not certain what went on behind the curtains of Madame Orrery’s Crisis Room, but she had heard far too many shrieks and groans during the past few weeks ever to want Madame Orrery to treat her.

  Mr. Sorrel said nothing, but spooned some lumpy porridge onto a plate. He sprinkled it with a handful of currants and passed it to Pandora.

  Pandora sat down at the table and began to eat, watching as Mr. Sorrel flitted about the room, unable to settle. Even though she had shared with him plenty of details about her past, going so far as to tell him about her twin brother, he had never disclosed anything about himself.

  “Tell me about Madame Orrery,” she said, trying again to get him to talk. “How did she come to be a Mesmerist in London?”

  Mr. Sorrel looked at her for a moment and then sat down. He glanced behind him, as though afraid Madame Orrery might be there to overhear, and then said in a confidential whisper, “Madame Orrery was once the most admired wo
man in France. She was renowned for her beauty, intelligence and charm. Together with her husband, she attended the most splendid courts and salons.”

  “Her husband?” asked Pandora, surprised.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Sorrel. “Her husband was a renowned clockmaker, the finest in the land.”

  Pandora remembered the silver timepiece she had seen in Madame Orrery’s possession. “Her pocket watch,” she murmured.

  Mr. Sorrel nodded. “It was a gift from him. A heart-shaped silver timepiece reputed never to need winding, never to lose time. It was meant to be a token of his undying love.”

  Pandora’s heart was pounding. “But I saw her winding it,” she said. “A few weeks ago, in the Governor’s study. What happened?”

  Mr. Sorrel blushed. “Shortly after Madame Orrery received the timepiece,” he said, keeping his voice down, “she discovered that her husband had created yet another—but in gold—for a maiden nearly half her age. A woman already fat with his child.” He averted his eyes. “It is rumored that the moment she learned of his deception, her blood ran cold and the silver timepiece stopped working—as though, like her heart, it had broken. It never functioned properly again.”

  Pandora gasped. “What did she do then?”

  Mr. Sorrel took a deep breath. “She devoted herself to the mysteries of the body; more specifically, the circulation of the blood and the connection between the heart and the mind. Her investigations led her to the miracles of Mesmerism.”

  Pandora’s head was spinning, struggling to make sense of everything she had heard, but then she noticed Mr. Sorrel looking uncomfortable, as though he regretted divulging so much.

  “And you, Mr. Sorrel,” she asked more cautiously, “how did you come to be in Madame Orrery’s service?”