Chapter One: A Professors Pet Project.

James blinked away the stinging of his eyes as he stepped away from the small glassblowing furnace. The light behind the former cobbler’s shop he had claimed for his home seemed dim, in spite of it being an unusually sunny noon in London. Staring into the crucibles flames while working with his glass had dazzled him a bit.

Still, after several hours of mixing, homogenizing, adding new ingredients and then starting the whole process over once more he had finally managed to fill his lens form with the molten glass his labor had produced. At this point all he could do now was wait to see if it cooled and hardened without shattering.

Again.

Picking up his battered, leather bound notebook he had carefully placed near at hand but far from the hellish flames of his furnace James rubbed his eyes one last time before dipping his pen into a small inkwell and putting the tip to paper.

Experiment Journal of James St. Cloud, August fourth of the year of our lord eighteen ninety. The nearly ritual like nature of beginning a new entry was nearly sacrosanct for an engineer and scientist like James, and that very fact helped to pull his mind from the intense concentration required of his labors, back to the science motivating his endeavor.

The seventeenth batch did blend, as hoped for and described by Mr. Richard Meskil who taught me the basics of the glass makers’ trade. Again, I am in awe of the men, and no small number of women, who work as glaziers every day for I feel as though I had just rowed once more for Cambridge, and to be honest I’m not sure we won the race!

The mix is the lightest blend of mugwort and cold iron I have yet tried for my lenses additives, and god willing I can begin grinding come morning. Soon my spirit camera will be complete.

After that, all I need is some tragic event to occur, with which I can test my theories of psychic resonance.

James sighed as he closed and rebound his journal. That sigh became a cry of surprise as two small but strong hands smacked down on his shoulders from behind.

“All done then? I was wondering how long you’d be at it, though you are getting faster at your queer little hobby, professor!”

“Emily Porter, what have I told you about startling me!” James demanded as he spun around to glare at the sixteen year old whose response was to simply grin back up at him. Her cherubic face held not one hint or repentance.

“Oh look at you, trying your teachers glare on me.” She teased. “You’ll be needing a touch of iron in that mess you call hair before that will have a chance of working, Professor.”

James ran his fingers through his sandy, sweat heavy locks, pushing it out of his face while wryly admitting to himself that he’d be waiting quite a while for any steel to grace his head. At twenty-three he imagined most of his students at London Guildhall University this last semester had wondered if he was old enough to truly claim his doctorates, but claim them he did! Through no less then Cambridge it’s self.

“I must admit, your labors are keeping you fit!” His musings were shattered as Emily, who had slid closer, squeezed his admittedly firm bicep. “You are rather firm for such skinny fellow!”

“Miss Porter! What would your father say if he knew what you were about?”

“He’d demand to know if I got your pale, over educated skin to blush! And I’m pleased to say, the report will be positive!”

“Oh good lord, you are incorrigible!” James couldn’t help but chuckle, in spite of his words. Emily, and her father Daniel, lived next door to him, working out of their own, much larger premises of Porter and Sons Light Boilers. While he’d never had any sons, indeed young Emily was Daniel Porters favored apprentice and foundry foreman, he’d assured James one evening that Porter and Daughter lacked a certain musical quality.

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“Weren’t you supposedly swamped with the steam handsome order you’re father mentioned?” He asked.

Porter and Sons built small, custom boilers and steam engines for both homes and small steam driven vehicles. A recent order from a for let handsome service wishing to switch from slower horse driven carriages had been keeping the entire foundry, and a handful of day laborers hired for the job, quite busy for several weeks.

“Da is out, puttering around on the last carriage now.” She admitted. “He sent me buy to offer you a chance to go to luncheon with us, seeing as how you solved that drive shaft problem for us.”

“While I won’t refuse your offer, being famished…” James chuckled, stepping just inside the shop turned laboratory to pull on his over shirt and grab his jacket. “I know you would have solved it if I hadn’t have wandered by.”

It was Emily’s turn to bear pink cheeks. He’d actually met the Porters a month after he’d moved to London the December before, not as his neighbors but because young Emily had taken to slipping into the physics course he taught at Guildhall while taking breaks from working on the universities heating system. While a new premises, the White Street campus had been rushed in a few small areas and the drafty nature of some classrooms were a prime example of the problems such hurries could cause.

Still, he probably wouldn’t have noticed, even though she was one of only a handful of young ladies in the formerly men only school much less in a physics course. What had drawn his attention was her predilection for blurting out answers, correct ones no less, and a habit of yelling insults at students who proved to be less intelligent then her by answering incorrectly when he called upon them. He’d sought her out after a time.

“Bah, now you’re teasing me.” While Emily was born in London, her fathers’ Irish baroque warred for dominance in her voice whenever she was angry or embarrassed. “I’m just a boilermaker’s daughter and not a very proper girl for all that.”

“And yet young Mr. Sullivan still visits on the occasional Sunday.” James noted with a wicked grin. “Odd, after you called him a knuckle dragging dunderhead with the arithmetic skill of a stunned gorilla.”

“Can I help it if he keeps dropping ones, all wily nily.” She demanded.

Chuckling, James pulled his braces over his shoulders, and patted his sculling oar, hung over the defunct shops door for luck. “I suppose not. Now I hear the demented laughter of a speed maddened Irishman. Shall we collect your father?” He asked as he locked the heavy back door.

“Yeah, afore he tries to up the pressure on this one, too. I’m sick of the fire brigade captains constant lecturing.”

“I think that has more to do with your pet project, and less to do with your father’s predilection for blowing up the occasional boiler filled with steam.” He commented wryly as they walked down the slim alley separating the defunct cobblers shop from Porter and Sons. She just waved him off, as though it was of no concern which was which.

They paused so James could purchase a paper from a passing newsboy. “I am sure the lens will come out this time.” He stated, returning to his own personal mania. “I’ll just need to find an appropriately grim event to use her on. Something fresh.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself, Professor.” Emily muttered, before she noticed the headline James hadn’t bothered to look at. “But if that’s what you need professor…” She said more loudly, trying to bring his attention to it.

“I know, macabre of me… wanting something tragic to happen.” James admitted, not really paying attention to her, he was so caught up in his musings. “But for the best possible results I need it fresh. A new stain on the tapestry of our spiritual reality, if you will, and I need to photograph it before that stain fades into the mist of time.”

“Well good news then, Professor…” She tried again, and was again only half heard.

“Oh I know Emily, plenty of horrible things happen in this city. Still, it should be something intense, for the best chance of success!”

Finally, frustrated at being ignored, Emily jerked the paper from the distracted scientists hand and held the headline up like a banner. “Look at this, you daft bloody idiot!” She yelled.

James blinked at the insult, but quickly his eyes focused on the text. “Is Jack Back? Another Woman Dead in Whitechapel!” He read aloud, reclaiming the newsprint as he did. “Dead on her doorstep, Scotland yard is baffled. Brilliant!”

“Um… James? People are staring.”

He looked around, finding a pair of women looking at him, clearly appalled. “Not brilliant, that it happened, I mean…” He babbled. “It’s just… my camera… sorry!”

Then he ran away. The two women turned to Emily with querulous looks, receiving a shrug in response. “I am sorry for my brother.” She gleefully lied. “My Ma dropped him on his head a time or two as a baby. He’s never been quite right.” She giggled as she slipped past them and gave chase.

“Professor! What about lunch? Dad’s over here!” She called out between chortling laughter.