The Story of Cirrus Flux (7 page)

The House of Mesmerism

P
andora 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 woman
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?”

“That, Pandora,” he said very softly, staring at the floor, “I cannot tell you.”

His gaze shifted to the heavy bottles of magnetized water that were stored in the adjoining room. Pandora’s shoulders sagged. She would get no more from him today.

As if reading her mind, Mr. Sorrel said, “Madame Orrery has a clinic this morning. You are to prepare the Crisis Room, as usual, and then scrub the hall.”

“Yes, Mr. Sorrel,” she answered, with a curtsy, and moved toward the door.

“And, Pandora,” he said, reaching out to hold her back, “under no circumstances are you to mention what we have discussed this morning to Madame Orrery, do I make myself clear? It would not do for her to learn that I have been so … indiscreet.”

“Yes, Mr. Sorrel.”

“Good.” The man appeared to relax; his face brightened. “Madame Orrery is having her hair prepared this afternoon for a visit to the Foundling Hospital. Once you have finished your duties, you may take the rest of the day off.”

Pandora glanced up. “The hospital?” she said, her mind flashing back to the scene in the Governor’s study a few weeks before.

A hesitant smile worked its way onto Mr. Sorrel’s lips. “Madame Orrery has convinced the Governor to seek a private treatment,” he said. “The strange weather, it appears, is playing havoc with his gout. She is to mesmerize him tonight at the hospital.”

Pandora’s fingers rushed to the bunch of keys in her pocket, the keys she had failed to return to the Governor, but before she could ask any more questions a bell clattered against the wall. Mr. Sorrel jumped to his feet. He grabbed a tray of sugared dates—Madame Orrery’s breakfast—and promptly left the room.

Itching with curiosity, Pandora lugged the heavy bottles of magnetized water to the Crisis Room and slowly got to work. Her mind was buzzing. What was Madame Orrery planning? Only a few weeks before, she had told Mr. Sorrel that she must find her way back to the hospital because the Governor was protecting more than just the boy, Cirrus Flux. She obviously wasn’t interested in the Governor’s welfare. Was there something else?

The Crisis Room was dark and stuffy, and Pandora opened the shutters to let in more light. Once again her eyes took in the peculiar objects around the room. Her gaze alighted on the glass harmonica in the corner. Only the other day Mr. Sorrel had shown her how it worked. Seating himself on a low wooden stool, he had started tapping a melody on a pedal with his foot, causing the rainbow-colored bowls on top of the instrument to spin. Then, to Pandora’s astonishment, he had dipped his fingers in a watery solution and passed them
back and forth across the whirling mouths of glass. The most excruciating sound had issued forth, a symphony of wails, like yowling cats. It was the most agonizing thing she had ever heard.

“Ah, the music of the spheres,” Mr. Sorrel had said, impervious to the racket he was making. “Some say it induces madness in those who hear it, but I think it transports one to a higher realm.”

She had just finished replacing the rancid-smelling water in the tub when the first clients arrived. She quickly closed the shutters, scooped up her things and rushed out of the door. From a distance she watched as Mr. Sorrel escorted a stream of fashionable young ladies across the hall. Their beautifully colored dresses trailed behind them like peacock tails on the floor.

A swish of silk made her spin round.

Madame Orrery had emerged from her private chamber upstairs and was descending the marble steps. Pandora ducked into hiding and watched as the woman swept aside the curtains of the Crisis Room and went in. Then, as if sensing the girl’s eyes on her, she turned and gave Pandora a hard, icy stare.

Pandora remembered what Mr. Sorrel had told her: on no account were the patients to be disturbed.

At once Pandora retreated to the kitchen and disposed of the water in the yard. From the hallway beyond came the sounds of Madame Orrery’s treatment. A mixture of sobs and sighs, pierced every now and then by a scream. This was
followed by a shrill, tortured music. Mr. Sorrel was playing his glass harmonica once again.

Listening now, she was overtaken by a sudden desire to know more. Tiptoeing back to the hall, she crept closer to the curtains and peered in.

She stifled a frightened gasp. The women were sprawled on the floor! They were barely moving, barely breathing, as if dead. Madame Orrery stood above them, her silver timepiece in her hand.

Mr. Sorrel rushed out of the room, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“Pandora!” he cried. “Whatever are you doing here? Quick! Get back to work!”

Pandora took another frightened look at the ladies on the floor. “Are they all right?” she asked, following him back to the kitchen.

“Yes, yes. It is all part of the treatment,” he said. Beads of perspiration showed on his brow. “We must induce a fever if we are to purge their minds. Madame Orrery will soon revive them.”

He grabbed an earthenware bottle from the larder and brought it to the table. He flicked back the stopper and poured a clear liquid into a number of long fluted glasses, which he set on a tray. The fluid popped and fizzed before her eyes.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Medicated water,” said Mr. Sorrel. “It acts as a tonic. Do not fear. The patients will recover—and, once they do, they
will remember nothing of what has happened. It will feel as if a great weight has been lifted from their minds. All of their painful thoughts and memories will have been wiped clean.”

He heaped some sugared dates onto a plate, set it next to the glasses and then rushed back with the tray to the hall. Pandora was about to follow, but Mr. Sorrel gave her a stern, warning look and she fell back.

She examined the bottle on the table more closely. It looked like water, it smelled like water, but a bubble pricked her nose and she jumped back, startled.

A short while later a chorus of voices filled the hall. The women had recovered their wits and were beginning to take their leave.

Mr. Sorrel reappeared. “You are fortunate Madame Orrery did not catch you,” he said. “Mesmerism is a subtle art. It does not do to interfere.” His eyes swept the floor. “Now, do as you’re told and scrub the hall. Madame Orrery’s hairdresser will be here shortly.”

“Yes, Mr. Sorrel.”

Cheeks flaming, Pandora filled a copper kettle and set it over the fire to boil. As soon as it had heated, she poured the scalding water into a bucket, sprinkled it with herbs and sand, and marched with it to the hall. She knelt down in a pool of steaming water and started to clean the floor.