Page 32 of A Gathering Storm

Nick stepped up to the mouth of the crevice, Snow padding cautiously beside him. He looked down the long, craggy tunnel to the patch of glittering grey-blue below where the sea undulated and foamed. There was something bobbing down there in the water. Nick squinted—it looked like several wooden crates, bound together. Further up the crevice, perhaps twenty feet from the bottom, there was a wooden platform. It looked to be three feet wide and perhaps six or seven feet long. Very solid. Another platform had been started further up, thick beams already secured in place on which the thinner platform boards would be set.

Nick glanced at Ward who was now standing beside him, peering down too.

“How many of those are you going to build?”

“Three near the bottom and three near the top. To begin with, anyway.”

“What have they got to do with ozone gas then?”

Ward pointed down thezawn. “Do you see the wooden cases right down at the bottom? In the sea?”

“Yes.”

“Those contain cells, not unlike the ones I showed you last week. Batteries of them—some other equipment too. In essence, I’m trying to produce ozone gas by passing electricity into water, a process that happens naturally during storms. I’m attempting an artificial synthesis.”

“And have you been successful?”

Ward made a face. “Slightly. It’s not very difficult to produce a small quantity—it’s a question of volume.”

“I see. And the platforms?”

“Those are mainly for carrying out observations. As and when I get to the stage of producing a reasonable quantity of ozone, I’ll be taking measurements to see how it travels, what effect the sea surges have, and so on.” He looked at Nick, catching his eye. “And of course, the platforms will be useful for working with subjects too. This crevice is a natural funnel. I’m hoping I can take advantage of that to re-create the atmospheric conditions present during a storm at sea, even when the weather is fair.” He glanced at Nick. “In fact, if you like, we could hold our session out here today?”

Nick raised his brows. “You want me to climb down there so you canhypnotiseme?” he exclaimed.

Ward grinned. “Does the prospect alarm you?”

That grin, so brilliant and bright with humour, momentarily floored Nick. He could do nothing but gaze at the man, rocked by a sudden surge of helpless longing.

When he realised he was staring, heat flooded his face and he looked quickly away, but not before he saw Ward’s own brows draw together in faint puzzlement.

Frantically, Nick searched his mind for Ward’s last words. “Alarm me?” he repeated. He cleared his throat. “Yes, it does rather. I’d far prefer to be hypnotised in your study, in that nice comfortable armchair.” He made himself smile, though he feared it was a stiff and awkward thing. “Speaking of which, isn’t it about time we got back and made a start?”

Without waiting for a reply, he strode back to the fence, praying that Ward would follow him, and that he wouldn’t ask Nick why he was suddenly so anxious to be put into a trance.

FromThe Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I

Some of the first experiments I conducted involved the production of chemical reactions by the application of an electrical current to an electrolyte. My father allowed me to purchase a simple electrostatic machine and I used this firstly to electrolyse water, splitting it into its two constituent gases, and then a variety of other electrolytes. It was the reverse process, though—producing electricity from the energy released by spontaneous chemical reactions—that truly fascinated me. As Professor Daniell had explained in that first lecture I attended, exciting new inventions were already being powered with the portable power source he had invented, the Daniell cell. It was clear to me, even then, that far greater things would be possible in the future, as more power was harnessed into smaller and ever more durable batteries of these cells. That, I felt sure, was the key to the future.

12th June 1853

Four weeks later

“Is she there?” Ward asked. “Can you sense her?”

Nicholas sat on the high-backed armchair opposite Ward in the study. His eyes were closed, his posture curiously alert yet somehow still relaxed, forearms and hands resting on the arms of the chair. A few moments earlier, he had called out to his mother.“Ma? Can you hear me?”

At Ward’s question, a tiny frown appeared between Nicholas’s brows. It was an expression Ward had become very familiar with over the past five weeks. That and a hundred others. When he wasn’t in a trance, Nicholas’s resting expression was, well, no expression at all, which made it all the more fascinating that his features gave so much away when he was in a trance, as though a veil had been stripped away.

For a long time, Nicholas was silent, sitting very upright. He looked as though he was listening just as hard as he could. At last though, he sighed and answered Ward’s question.

“No,” he said. “I can’t sense her.”

At least he had tried—really tried, Ward was sure—this time. That was an improvement.

Ward noted it in his book.NH cooperative in trance. Attempted to contact deceased mother. Attempt unsuccessful.

“Can you sense anyone else? Any other spirits?” he asked mildly, careful not to let his disappointment show.