Page 29 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“Of course. If you opened your window, I could enter easily.”

“I’m sure I can manage that,” I say, wondering how he could do such a thing. Perhaps he was acrobatically inclined?

Moreau smiles warmly. When he stands up, he shakes invisible crumbs from his trousers. I try to follow him, but the world suddenly shifts askew. The entire room wavers, and before I know it, I’m back on the settee.

Moreau’s hands hold onto my arm. “Let me help,” he says gently.

I try to stand again, but my legs suddenly seem made for a much smaller man than me. Moreau’s strong grip keeps me in place. I take care to steady my breath until I find my footing again.

“I’m alright now,” I reassure him, but he doesn’t let go.

I feel awkward to be held like this, as if I were an invalid. But perhaps I am? Have I not experienced ailments that plagued so many people without help or cure? There’s no shame in needing assistance.

“Thank you, Moreau,” I say.

He makes a non-committal sound in response.

We walk arm in arm through the dark streets. I imagine Moreau must look funny. With one hand gripping the air, he’s staggering along as if addled. Every so often, he murmurs words of comfort and reassurance. It’s strange being treated with such gentle care. After decades of wanting for something so ardently, it’s rather ironic that it’s finally bestowed on me after losing the ability to feel any of it.

When we finally reach my home, I carefully open the door, sneaking up to my bedroom. It’s not much of a challenge, since it’s the middle of the night and Godfrey is fast asleep.

Mere moments after I open the window, Moreau slides in as calmly as if he just sauntered in from the street.

“How did you do that?” I ask.

He only shrugs and flashes that wicked grin of his.

“Where’s the stick?”

“One moment, please.” I fetch it from the vitrine, then hand it to him.

“You’ve got quite an alchemical setup here,” he says, circling my desk.

“I wouldn’t know. I only followed this book.” I point to the tome still open to the last recipe.

“I can’t say I’m surprised everything went so wrong. I was told not to meddle with the occult,” he says, moving toward the lamp.

“Is that so?”

“Apparently, there are unforeseen consequences to which I’m not willing to acquiesce.”

That was certainly one way to put it.

Moreau lifts the stick to his face, inspecting it closely. He turns it several times, then brushes his fingertips gently over the surface.

“There’s something here,” he whispers. “Lend me a brush.”

I hand him one, and with it, he proceeds to carefully sweep over the stick’s surface. Feeling a bit light-headed, I sit down.

“Here, Orlando. Do you see?” he says.

I lean closer, carefully inspecting the object in his hands.

“Hell’s Bells! How did I not?” I gasp.

Moreau offers me the artifact so I can get a better look.

“This must be ancient. I’ve never seen such a thing,” I say in utter disbelief.