Page 19 of A Gathering Storm
Sir Edward didn’t seem to notice how distracted Nick was. He was already reaching for another box. “Iron filings,” he said, showing the contents to Nick. He held one of the magnets over the box and the filings jumped out, as though they were alive, fastening themselves to the dark metal like a layer of fur.
Nick couldn’t help but laugh at that and for a while, they messed around like a pair of schoolboys, using the magnets to make the tiny shavings of metal dance and move, building tiny bridges and towers.
From time to time, Nick cast a sidelong look at Sir Edward, marvelling at his carefree grin and easy manner. Nevertheless, Nick had no intention of allowing himself to forget what had brought him here today. He felt better now—more in control—knowing that there would be an end to this after August. On that point, he was prepared to take Sir Edward Fitzwilliam at his word. But that was as far as his trust went, and he wasn’t going to let go of the lingering resentment that simmered inside him over how the man had got him here.
After a while, he decided it was time to stop letting Sir Edward charm him. Setting the magnet in his hand down on the bench, he said, “Well now, this has been very interesting, I must say, but don’t you think we should get started?”
Sir Edward looked up at his words, seeming surprised, and perhaps even a little nervous. “All right. Let’s go back upstairs then.”
He led Nick out of the laboratory and back upstairs. He ushered him into the study, then closed the door behind them and crossed the floor to draw the curtains, making everything restful and shady. He turned the armchair Nick had sat in earlier so it faced away from the large desk and into the middle of the room instead, drawing up a smaller upright chair for himself.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, and Nick tried to do so, though his gut churned with nerves.
“How does this work?” he asked as he settled himself down.
“Have you ever seen a mesmerist perform?” Sir Edward asked.
“No,” Nick admitted, though he knew all about them—the newspapers were always full of their exploits. Nick took what he read with a pinch of salt though. He had reasons of his own to be sceptical of such sensational stories. He knew how easy it was to deceive with a few simple tricks. “Isn’t the whole thing just a fraud?”
“Yes and no,” Sir Edward said. “The mesmerists believe that there is an invisible force—animal magnetism as they term it—that influences all living things. They claim to be able to manipulate this force and thereby put their subjects into a trance state during which various phenomena may be witnessed—extreme pain endured by the subject without complaint, for example.”
“I’ve read stories,” Nick confirmed.
“The interesting thing,” Sir Edward continued, “is that some of the mesmerists’ claims are irrefutably genuine. This is what confounded so many of the detractors of mesmerism. At least until Mr. Braid came along.”
“Oh yes? And what did Mr. Braid do?”
Sir Edward’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm now, an expression entirely at odds with his harsh voice. “He realised that something was genuinely happening to these subjects, but that it must be something other than what the mesmerists claimed. And in quite short order, he discovered that there were indeed simple processes that could be followed whereby almost anyone could be induced into a trance state—provided they were willing participants. It was nothing to do with the mesmerist and everything to do with the techniques employed.”
“Techniques? What techniques?”
“There are a few that can be used, but for my part, I stick to the simplest one, which is to have the subject look at an object for a period of time and ask them to fix all their attention upon it.”
“What sort of object?” Nick asked, his nerves sharpening now that the moment was approaching.
“Anything will do really,” Sir Edward said, reaching into his pocket. “Though I find something shiny is good, since it naturally draws the eye.” He drew out a silver box, about the size of his palm. It was, Nick saw, a match-safe box. He held it up, a little above Nick’s head, and watched as Nick followed it with his eyes.
“Look at this box,” Sir Edward said. “Keep your gaze fixed upon it, please.” He shifted the box a couple of times and Nick faithfully followed it, as instructed.
“Yes,” Sir Edward said at last. “Just like that. That’s perfect.”
“Wake up.”
Nick stirred.
He had been asleep, he realised, surprised. Now he felt amazingly alert, though his eyelids remained closed.
“I’m awake,” he said.
“Good. How do you feel?”
Sir Edward’s voice, when he spoke, sounded further away than he expected.
“I feel fine.”
“And are you comfortable?”
“Yes.” He was conscious—very conscious, in fact—of considering his responses to Sir Edward’s questions. No loss of free will there. On the other hand, his hands felt heavy, weighed down on the arms of his high-backed chair, and the very idea of opening his eyes was unthinkable. He wondered if that should alarm him. It didn’t. In fact, he’d rarely experienced such a feeling of well-being as the one buoying him up now.