The proposal, final installment

This is the last chapter in my proposal. This is where the steam punk elements come in. It was a blast coming up with the inventions. I did not plan on Von Swaim being OCD, it just kind of happened. I worked with someone who had the condition and it was not fun, believe me.


Chapter Four

The big clock in the foyer chimed seven times as Dr. Edmond Von Swaim, who also held the title of Baron, walked into his breakfast room. The room was located on the second floor of his manse and overlooked the street. He preferred to eat in the smaller room instead of using the expansive table located in the formal dining room on the first floor.
There were those who would say it made more work for his servants, as they would have to carry things from the first floor kitchen located on the back of the house, to the second floor. Those who would say such things did not know of the steam powered lift that was installed off the kitchen just for this very purpose. His servants merely had to enter the small room; turn the wheel and they were carried up to the floors above. It worked in warehouses and hotels, why not put the same technology to use in homes? It made for less waste and more efficiency upon the part of his servants.
Von Swaim had his breakfast in the room upstairs because it was smaller and therefore less wasteful. If there was anything the Doctor could not tolerate it was waste of anything. Time, money, resources and inventions; all were things that should be used to their utmost potential. Even his title was carefully chosen. He much preferred to be called Doctor, since it was something he had earned, than Baron, which was something that had been passed down generation after generation, because of something one of his ancestors had done. Just as the Queen was Queen because of something her ancestors had done. She was Queen because the royal blood ran in her veins. The same royal blood that was in Von Swaim's
A maid wearing white gloves placed his meal on the table as he waited by the window. The street below was just springing to life. The vendor carts were in place along the way and young boys held up newspapers on the corner, their cries of headlines lost against the panes of glass.
Von Swaim noticed a bright array of flowers at the cart on the corner. Roses, lilies, carnations and daisies swirled in a kaleidoscope of color against the grays and browns of the cobblestones. They would have to be from a greenhouse since spring was just upon them. The snow from a few days past was gone now and there was a definite feel of warmth to the air. Perhaps he should invest in a bouquet and have it sent around to the girl. It would not hurt to extend some sort of token to Pemberton after the near disaster of their visit.
Von Swaim turned when he heard the teapot placed and examined the table as the maid curtseyed her way from the room. Everything was placed to his exact specifications; still his practiced eyes scanned the table, just to make sure. His utensils were placed exactly one inch apart, his glass containing his special health mixture was precisely five inches above his spoon and at the correct angle from his plate. His meal, which was the same meal that he had every morning, was arranged exactly as he desired it on the plate and cooked to his taste. The teapot emitted enough steam to let him know that it would be the appropriate temperature when he poured his first cup. The only thing left was the morning newspaper and it lay beside his plate, folded once in the middle.
His staff worked hard to please him. They had learned what happened when he was not pleased. Heinz, his butler, was an excellent and demanding instructor and Mrs. Shultz, his head housekeeper, had a sharp eye. Their ways produced results, one of which was a secure position in the Von Swaim household. For the most part, his staff was grateful to be employed during these trying times. While life was pleasant for the titled and rich, it was not so for the common folk. Whitechapel was full of people who would give anything to have steady employment, even if it meant dealing with the strange idiosyncrasies of Dr. Von Swaim.
Satisfied that all was at is should be, Von Swaim sat down and ate his meal, cutting each morsel into the same size and eating it in the same order. Eggs, sausage, toast. Eggs, sausage, toast. He treated himself to a spoonful of orange marmalade on his last bite of toast and then quickly drank his special mixture in one long steady gulp. He poured his tea, added lemon and a half-teaspoon of sugar and stirred it five times, counting as he stirred. He took one sip and picked up the paper.
As was his custom, he started on page one and read each article, working his way from left to right across and down the page. If an article was continued on another page he did not turn to it, instead, he finished page one, then went on to page two and so on until he had read everything worthy of his notice. Despite the ineptitude of Parliament and the Queen's frustrating retreat from society, it wasn't until he got to the social pages and read about the reception for the entertainers from the Wild West show that his temper flared.
The girl had been there. Merritt Chadwyke. Lord Pemberton's daughter. He assumed that after the incident in his study that they would go into hiding or at least spirit her away to a sanatorium. He never expected them to take her to a party or that she would be a willing participant in part of the exhibition. Or course he must take into account the columnist's need to embellish things. He had been the subject of such embellishments himself after performing some of his “party tricks” for English society. The buffoons did not realize that most of what he did with hypnotism was trickery. It was easy to lead the willing down such a path. But the girl…Merritt…she was the real thing.
Unlike other mornings, Von Swaim dropped the paper onto the table and walked to the window. He'd been strangely unsettled since the incident. She had surprised him. It was not often than he was surprised.
The canary's release had been most bewildering. He knew the mind was a powerful instrument but in his studies the most he'd ever seen done was spoon bending and a saucer moved across a table. His pet's cage was utterly destroyed and it wasn't even the center of her concentration. What could she do if she really focused on something? What was she capable of? It was a question that he desperately needed the answer too.
He studied the sky as he stood at the window, hoping that perchance he would see a flash of yellow against the pale cloudless blue of the morning. Von Swaim was quite annoyed at the canary's escape. It seemed ungrateful to him. It appeared disrespectful and that was something else he had no patience for. Did he not care for it? Feed it? Give it plenty of water and a safe secure place to live along with a view of the sky from its gilded cage? The creature should have been grateful to him instead of flying away in haste.
“Your loss my little friend. I am certain you missed your warm cage the past few nights when you were out in the cold air.” He drew some satisfaction from thinking of the tiny bird, shivering upon a barren tree branch or perhaps becoming the breakfast of a cat or a hawk. It was nothing more than the traitorous bird deserved.
He would think upon it no more. The girl however, deserved more thought. If she thought she could prance about London and go to parties as if nothing had happened then she was wrong. Something had happened. Something strange and wonderful. Something that was totally unexpected.
She was the one. She was something that he'd hoped to find but wasn't sure of its existence. Logic dictated that she could exist and that she should exist but his hopes of finding it…her…
Von Swaim turned from the window. Merritt Chadwyke did not know it yet, but she was the culmination of his life's work. She was the instrument that would lead to his greatest victory. She was the embodiment of a powerful weapon that he intended to use.
He would be the next King of England and she was the means by which he would achieve it.
His breakfast was over. The maid, who always waited in the hallway just in case something was amiss, nearly fell in her haste to curtsey when he burst from the room.
“Sir? Should I keep your tea warm?” she asked. Her fear of making a mistake was greater than her fear of speaking to her employer directly.
Von Swaim stopped and looked the young woman over as if seeing her for the first time. “No. I am done.” He went to the back staircase instead of his office. “See that I am not disturbed.”
“Did he say anything about the noonday meal?” the cook asked when the maid carried in the tray and told the cook and housekeeper, Mrs. Shultz, about the strange happenings of the morning.
“He did not,” she confessed. They both looked in confusion at Mrs. Shultz. She, along with Heinz and Simon, the mysterious Englishman with the strange hands were the only ones on the staff who had come to England with Von Swaim. The cook, maids, and footmen had all been hired on as staff after he purchased the houses that backed up to each other.
“Proceed as you would normally,” she instructed in her strange accent and left them to figure out the mysterious ways of the Doctor on their own. She went to the window that faced the courtyard behind the house and watched as Von Swaim went into the building behind. Something was troubling him and she was certain it had something to do with the visit from the English Lord and his daughter. He had offered no explanation beyond asking her to dispose of the twisted and ruined remnants of the cage and procure another one for the tiny yellow canary's return. The new cage still sat empty on the balcony outside his office with its door open and food and water inside. Was it just the missing bird that upset him or did it have something to do with the Lord's daughter and the tests he'd performed on her?
She felt his strange disquiet as if it were eddies beneath the surface of the river. To everyone else he appeared calm and serene as always, but to one who knew him as she did…Mrs. Shultz turned from the window and went back to her work. She needed to make sure nothing disturbed the Doctor when he was troubled or they would all suffer for it.

The door was locked from the inside as he knew it would be. No trouble there. He possessed a key. He found Simon coming toward him in the dim light of the long hallway.
“Sir?” It was obvious that his man was surprised to see him here at this strange hour. He usually did not make his rounds until the late afternoon. “Is something amiss?”
He held his hands behind his back as if he were afraid to show them.
Von Swaim looked pointedly at Simon's arms and raised an eyebrow. “Why don't you tell me,” he said. “Is something amiss?”
Simon brought his hands around and held the clenched fists before Von Swaim.
“They have locked up sir,” he said. “Dr. Macmillan was examining them when we saw your approach.”
“Have you been keeping them lubricated as I instructed?” Von Swaim held his hand out to indicate Simon should precede him down the hallway to the Doctor's Office.
“Yes sir.” Simon said. “Macmillan seems to think it is the dampness that is having an affect on them.”
Von Swaim saw the strain around Simon's eyes and mouth, still he voiced no complaint. Simon had lost his hands with the swing of a blade in the Boer War. If not for Von Swaim's generosity he would be dead, or worse, a beggar. Fortunately Von Swaim had discovered him during his travels in South Africa before it was too late to help him. He'd recognized the brilliance and desperation in his pain filled eyes, but something more, he'd seen a man who would do anything to be made whole again. The trip had been most satisfactory. He'd returned with the diamonds he needed and as a bonus he was able to enlist Simon into his cause.
Macmillan barely looked up when the two men entered. He simply motioned for Simon to sit upon a stool and place his two fists upon the table beneath a powerful magnifying class.
The hands were larger than normal but that was to be expected since they were made of brass with each finger joint made up of intricate gears. The wrists were hinged so that they moved up and down and rotated side to side. Both appendages were attached by heavy cuffs that were screwed into the actual bone of the arm. It was quite painful, of course, since the bones had to be drilled and the gears attached to the muscles and tendons of the forearms with thick strands of catgut. In addition, Simon's upper arms and shoulders were thick with muscle because of the weight of the brass hands. He functioned quite well and kept the pain at bay with small doses of opium that was carefully doled out by Macmillan.
Von Swaim watched patiently as Macmillan carefully lubricated each joint with small drops of oil after taking out the miniature screws and reinserting them. It would be quite painful to remove the bands that attached the hands to Simon's body so both men endured the tedious nature of the intricate work.
Macmillan was another discovery that he'd come across quite be accident. The man was a genius and had studied extensively the anatomy of the human body. Unfortunately his quest for knowledge had led him to engage in the crime of grave robbing, and that, in addition to his great love of whiskey led to him barely escaping the shores of England with his life. Both men were great admirers of DaVinci and thus a partnership was born in the Lourve when they realized that between the two of them it was quite possible to bring some of DaVinci's ideas into existence.
“Release the fist,” Macmillan instructed.
Simon looked intently at his hand. For it to function, he had to move the muscles in his forearms. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he concentrated upon the task. Finally, the fingers relaxed and the hand lay, palm up upon the table.
“Keep moving it.”
Simon flexed the fingers, back and forth, fisting his hand, and then relaxing it until he was able to do so with ease. There was a distinct release of tension as all three men realized that the problem was now solved.
“I suggest two more treatments with oil each day,” Macmillan said. “I will see if I can concoct a lighter mixture since this damp weather seems to be leading to coagulation.” He went to work on the other fist while Simon exercised the first.
“That sounds like a responsible explanation and treatment,” Von Swaim agreed.
“What brings you to visit this hour of the day?” Macmillan asked. Unlike the rest of his staff, Macmillan held no fear of Von Swaim. Both men were geniuses in their own fields and both had no problems with using any means possible to come to the end they desired. Von Swaim had no doubt in his mind that Macmillan stayed with him because Von Swaim turned a blind eye to his experiments and had an unlimited source of funds and a well stocked bar. In return Von Swaim kept him on because the man did not hesitate, no matter how outlandish his requests.
“It appears that things may be happening quicker than I anticipated.”
Both men stopped what they were doing and looked intently at Von Swaim. It pleased him to see that they were waiting for his next words.
“I believe I have found what we were hoping for.”
“You found the Prism?” Simon's voice held a hint of disbelief.
“Further testing will be required,” Von Swaim said. “But I have high hopes that I have indeed found her.”
“Her?” Macmillan asked. A sly grin spread over his face. “That's a bonus we did not plan on.”
The man's tastes were perverse, another reason why he'd been run out of England. His crimes, besides grave robbing and desecrating the dead also included several acts of sexual perversion and whether or not the participant was agreeable or breathing did not matter to him in the least.
Simon looked nervously between the two men.
“As I said, further testing is required.” Von Swaim looked around the laboratory. In one corner a completed suit of armor stood, made completely of brass and steel with hinges and joints. Various weapons were scattered about on tables along with a collection of large gems cut to exact specifications. Another table held several large sheets of paper, all covered with detailed drawings. Von Swaim lifted the top sheet to look at a sketch beneath it.
“Should we step up the manufacturing?” Simon asked.
“Yes.” Von Swaim's finger trailed over the notes made on the page. “The warehouse is secure?”
“Yes sir,” Simon replied. “The adaptations you asked for have been put into place and are ready for your inspection.”
“We can have the weapons ready,” Macmillan said. “But the army. That's another thing entirely. The men you have are not ready and Whitechapel has been picked over for viable candidates.”
Von Swaim looked at Simon. “Go to Ireland,” he said. “I am certain you can find several worthy recruits there.”
“Shall I take the airship?”
“Yes. Take it. I want things in place as soon as possible.” He walked to the window that overlooked the courtyard. Bars covered it as it did all the windows. The recruits needed to know that compliance was their only recourse. That there was no chance of escape. Unless they turn into a canary…His eyes darted back and forth, hoping to see the flash of yellow that would say his pet had come home.
“The Wild West show has come to town gentlemen. I believe it might be just the thing to get the queen out of hiding. We must be ready when and if the time comes.”
He left without another word.

When at story doesn't work

This is where I started to have fun. While researching I found out that Buffalo Bill's Wild West show was in England in 1887. These were some of my heroes from my youth. And I really enjoy writing Cowboys. Dax's character seemed to take off and I was envisioning his back story in my mind.


Chapter Three
David Alexander Cochran opened his eyes with some difficulty and looked at the three feathers that swung back and forth in front of his face. He lay on his side in the dormitory facing a long row of empty bunks. Empty bunks meant that he had overslept. Great. His first day in England and it was already half wasted.
“Great Dax,” he mumbled to himself. “Not only did you sleep in but apparently you’re seeing things.”
He rolled over on his back and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The feathers were attached to a twisted circle of willow branch that was intricately woven with brightly color threads. The circle hung from the bunk above him. He was pretty sure it hadn’t been there when he fell asleep the night before. How in the heck did it get up there during the night without him knowing it?
He heard a chirp and realized that he was not alone. Two people stood at the end of his bunk. He sat up and his head pounded in protest. It felt like he’d been on a three-day drunk. If only he had. That could be fixed with a concoction he’d picked up from the Arapaho.
“Dream catcher for Dax.” Red Shirt said in his broken English from the end of his bunk. The Indian’s Chippewa wife, Little Deer, stood beside him smiling broadly. She didn’t speak a word of English but she nodded in agreement as if she understood what they were talking about.
Maybe she did. Dax sure as hell didn’t.
What was she holding in her hands? Was it a bird? Was he still dreaming?
As if she read his mind Little Deer opened her hands a bit. Sure enough a bright yellow bird sat nestled in her palms. She brought her hands up to her face and said something to the bird and it broke into song. Red Shirt nodded his approval and the two walked off, leaving Dax scratching his head in confusion.
“They were worried about you,” Buck said. Buck Taylor dubbed King of the Cowboys by Will Cody was just a few years older that Dax. Buck had a way with horses and could do things with a rope that seemed impossible. They’d become friends since Dax joined the show last winter, more so in the two weeks they’d spent on the ship since there’d been plenty of time for talk.
“Was it the Comanche?” Buck asked.
“What?”
“In your dreams,” Buck said. “I figured from the way you were hollering that you must have been dreaming about the Comanche.”
“I was hollering?” Dax asked. He tried to remember what he’d dreamed about but all he could recall was a sense of fear and a lot of running from something or someone. The rest of it was pretty much a mystery. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and looked sideways at Buck.
“Like you were being skinned alive,” Buck said.
Dax ran a hand down his bare chest just to make sure his skin was still attached. He’d come close to losing it one time and that was enough.
“I don’t remember what I dreamed about,” Dax confessed. “Maybe it was the Comanche.” He looked at Buck as if he held the answers. “Was I really that loud?”
“Loud enough that they heard you out in the Indian Camp. Loud enough that Little Deer made you that dream catcher. She said it would catch the bad spirits that caused nightmares and let the good spirits through so you’ll only have sweet dreams from now on.”
“That loud,” Dax groaned. It was humiliating to think that every one on the twenty-three acre exhibition grounds had heard him carrying on.
“Jasper kicked the end of your bunk and you stopped,” Buck explained. “But yeah, it was loud. Everyone jumped up and grabbed their guns because they thought we were under attack.”
“Dang it,” Dax moaned. “Now everyone probably thinks I’m some namby pamby momma’s boy who’s afraid to be away from home.
“Nobody thinks that,” Buck said. “We all know what you’ve been through in the past. It would be enough to give anyone of us nightmares, Cody included. Still you better hope that thing does its job or you’ll be sleeping out in the cold next time.”
Dax dubiously eyed the dream catcher. His experiences with the Indians, especially Geronimo, had taught him not to doubt the things that were in the spiritual realm. It seemed like a mighty big job for a bunch of thread and feathers to pull off. Still there was nothing to lose by leaving it be.
“Are you planning on lollygagging all day?” Buck asked.
“I’m up,” Dax kicked the blankets off and reached for his pants. “Is there anyplace around where we can take the horses for a good run?”
“There’s a park,” Buck said dryly.
“A park?” He was supposed to run Katie through a park? Sounded kind of sissified for a horse that was used to the wide-open spaces. He needed to get her out where he could let her have her head and run the kinks out from being on the ship. Dang it. He needed to run his own kinks out too. There was nothing like riding flat out with the wind in your face to settle a man’s mind and get rid of the cobwebs. That was probably why he’d had the nightmares. There had been too much time spent closed in. There were those who would argue that being in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean didn’t count as being closed in. However being on a boat could give one a feeling of claustrophobia since there was no place on it where you could run. Plus the smells tended to get to him. Unwashed bodies, all the animals below deck, and the scent of the ocean were not smells he enjoyed. He would much rather fill his lungs with the smells of prairie grass and the wind. Flowers weren’t bad either. The girl he’d talked to yesterday, the one called Merritt. She smelled like flowers. Like real pretty flowers. Pretty like she was. I wonder if she will come to the show…
“Welcome to the mother country,” Buck said with a wide grin. “Whatever you plan on doing, just make sure you’re back here in time to get ready for the reception tonight. Major Burke has got all the promoters coming. They want to get things going right away and get the public excited about the show.”
“Great,” Dax sighed. “Guess I better get my suit pressed too.”
“You got it,” Buck said. “And a shave wouldn’t hurt either.”
Dax ran his hand over the three day growth of beard. “Maybe I’ll just grow one of them lip squirrels like you got.”
Buck’s lips quirked beneath his impressive handlebar mustache. “You always were jealous of my good looks,” he said. “Maybe if you try hard enough you’ll grow enough hair to have one of these.”
“I’m not sure if it’s worth the trouble,” Dax said. “From what I can tell it hasn’t impressed the ladies.”
“And that scruff you’ve got on your face has?”
“I’m not giving away any of my secrets,” Dax replied as he opened the trunk sitting at the end of his bunk and rummaged through it for his suit. “But I had one leaning out of her carriage yesterday so she could talk to me.”
“Most likely she was trying to get away from the buffalo.” Buck laughed.
“Think what you will,” Dax said. “She said she was coming to the show.”
“Try not to scare her too bad if and when she shows up,” Buck laughed as he left. “Maybe we’ll let Cody sweet-talk her into staying.”
“Go ahead. Laugh it up,” Dax mumbled as he pulled his rolled up formal suit from the trunk. The sea voyage had not been kind to it. It was a mass of wrinkles. He found the shirt and tie that went with it and threw it on his bunk. Thankfully, Cody employed a laundress with the show so he wouldn’t have to deal with it himself. He’d have to use his own brand of sweet-talking to get it done on time but the prospect didn’t bother him too much. He’d never had any trouble charming the ladies when he needed too.
Dax pulled on his shirt and boots. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he strapped on his double action colt and checked the cylinder for bullets. It was so much a part of him that some of the members of the show had ribbed him about wearing it that first day on the ship. He did leave it off after that and felt naked the entire time. It wasn’t as if he was planning on shooting at fish, although it had been tempting to give it a try when some skimmed over the waves as they steamed along. Flying fish they were called, or so one of the sailors said. He wasn’t one to shoot an innocent animal, or fish as the case may be but it did seem like a challenge at the time. Still he resisted the temptation with the knowledge that there would be plenty of opportunity for trick shooting once they reached England.
His first task of the day was taking care of Katie. So after charming the laundress and grabbing a bite in the ground floor dining hall set up for the performers he made his way out of the dormitory that had been built especially for their stay on the American Exhibition grounds.
The amphitheater seated over 20,000 people with room for another 10,000 in standing room only. The arena, which was part of the amphitheater, was a third of a mile in circumference, which gave room for a lot of whooping and hollering when the time came for the show to begin. Dax had a feeling the British had no idea what was about to hit them.
The Indians with the show created their own village on the grounds. Their teepee’s looked just a bit out of place with the buildings of London looming in the distance. However there was already a sense of community among the different groups represented. Cook pots bubbled over open fires and children scampered about, glad to be free after two weeks aboard ship. There was close to a hundred Indians of various tribes with the show along with a hundred white men and women who served as performers, wranglers, musicians and staff. Then there were the various animals: horses, buffalo, deer, elk and a great brown bear that looked mean enough to kill the Queen herself but was as harmless as a kitten.
The people of London best be forewarned. The American Wild West had just hit town.

“Quit messing with it,” Dax said to Buck later that evening.
“I hate these dang things,” Buck said as he stuck his finger in the neck of his formal shirt. “I feel like there’s a noose around my neck and the hangman is waiting to drop the trap.”
“If Cody catches you fingering it one more time he’ll be stringing you up himself,” Dax replied. “Eat one of them bitty sandwiches so you’ll quit thinking about it.”
“I can’t,” Buck said. “It chafes my neck when I swallow.”
Dax shook his head. Buck might dazzle the eye on horseback but in the middle of a formal affair he was lost. And this was one heck of a formal affair. He’d been introduced to more Lords and Ladies than he could shake a stick at. It was so crowded at the reception that it near to impossible to move without several excuse me’s and I beg your pardons. He tried to keep an eye out for the pretty girl he’d talked to the day before but it close to impossible to find anyone in the mass of people, especially someone he didn’t really know. He was certain he’d recognize her if he saw her again. There was something about her blue eyes…
“Do you think everyone in the entire city of London is here tonight?” Buck groaned.
“Only the important ones,” Dax said.
“Makes it darn near impossible for a man to breath,” Buck grumbled, then quickly recovered as a dandy approached them and asked Buck a question.
Dax hid a grin behind his cup of punch. Even though he talked like a cowboy he could hold his own in polite conversation when needed. It was one of the reason’s Cody hired him on. He was adaptable. He had grown up in Boston’s polite society with his stern grandmother before heading west to find his father. She had taught him about the finer things in life. He knew how to dress for a party and hold a teacup. He could even dance a waltz if the situation called for it. From the looks of the company gathered in the ballroom of the fine house on Park Lane there wouldn’t be any waltzing tonight unless it was two-stepping one of the tunes the Cowboy band played. Tonight it was all about the Wild West show.
Red Shirt and a few of the other Chiefs stood in the corner of the parlor decked out in all their feathered finery. Occasionally one or more would nod in agreement at the group of men and women gathered around them. Mostly they talked about the Indians as if they were an exhibit in a museum but every now and then someone would ask a question and Red Shirt would try to answer in his broken English. One gent clearly thought that Red Shirt was deaf as he kept shouting questions at him as if it would help him to understand. Dax felt sorry for the man. Just when he was getting used to using the white man’s language he was suddenly bombarded with the British accent.
Annie Oakley and her husband Frank Butler were doing much better than Red Shirt. Even though Annie was barely five feet tall she was still a commanding presence, even in her self made costume that was a bit out of place among the satins and silks of the ladies but still suited Annie herself. Frank, who was a fair shot himself, doted on wife and made sure all attention was on Annie. Cody was with them and the two men entertained a group in the center of the room with tails of Annie’s shooting feats.
“I’ve heard rumors that she can shoot the ash off a cigar while you hold it in your mouth,” one gentleman said to Frank.
“Actually it’s the ash off a cigarette.” Frank’s pride was evident.
Dax moved closer while the crowd murmured their disbelief. He knew where the conversation was headed and needed to be available for Cody.
“Not only can she shoot the ash off a cigarette,” Cody said. “She can shoot a dime at 90 feet.”
The murmurs grew to a rumbling. Dax managed to hide his smile as he heard the remarks.
“And she can split a playing card from the side.”
“Impossible.”
“Hard enough for a man to do so, but a woman?”
“I simply do not believe it.”
Dax watched as Cody smiled and sipped his drink until the words the showman had been waiting on reached his ears.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Cody lifted his arms wide and addressed the crowd as if he were treading the boards of a stage play. “Would you care for a demonstration?”
The rumbling of disbelief changed to a chorus of ascent.
“Of course we will need a gun,” Cody added and one appeared as if by magic. Dax grinned at Cody’s plan. It was Annie’s very own smooth bore Winchester that had been made specifically for her and secretly carried in to the party beneath one of the blankets worn by an Indian. Dax’s own double action colt sat beneath his right arm in a shoulder holster, just in case he needed it. It was there strictly for demonstration purposes, or so he reminded himself. Years of living on the edge had definitely left a mark upon his soul.
Annie smiled humbly as she took the rifle and Frank beamed with pride. Their host, who was one of the American Exhibition sponsors, guided them to the balcony that overlooked the garden behind the house. The party guests poured from the house, some into the garden, some onto the balcony while others gathered at the row of tall windows that stretched across the back of the house.
“How can she see?” Someone in the crowd asked. “Isn’t it too dark?”
Cody talked to the host while the crowd once more murmured their disbelief. In just a short while a line of servants appeared in the garden, each one carrying a torch. Another servant made his way through the crowd with a tray of glassware.
“I hope none of this is important to you,” Cody remarked loud enough for the crowd to hear.
“Something from my wife’s side of the family,” the host said jokingly. “I’m quite sure I can live without it.”
The crowd laughed at the joke as the tray was flourished to the crowd before being placed upon a small table that had also appeared by magic.
“Stand back please,” Cody addressed the crowd below. “It would pain me to see any of you injured by broken glass.”
The anticipation grew as the people below backed away from the balcony to make room for a clear area in the center of the torches. Dax noticed that the before mentioned wife and owner of the glassware winced when she saw the damage being done to her carefully tended plants below. Not a good night for their hostess. He was sure Bill would make it up to her with ringside tickets or a personal tour. He was good that way. Dax made his way down a staircase to the garden to help out on the remote possibility that Annie missed a shot. She never missed a shot.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Cody intoned in his best showman style. “Allow me to present to you the most impressive display of sharp shooting ever seen on this fair ground.” He swung an arm toward Annie, who stood with her rifle in her hand, poised and ready. “I give you Annie Oakley!”
Frank pitched a glass in the air as soon as Cody’s words faded away. The light from the many torches caught it and the reflection of the firelight made the glass glitter in the darkness as it tumbled through the night sky. In the blink of an eye Annie raised her rifle and shot the glass. Dax ducked as he reached the bottom step and quickly stepped away to avoid the flying shards. Another glass quickly flew into the air followed by another. The applause grew louder with each successive shot as Frank kept on throwing and Annie kept on hitting her targets. Cheers erupted when Frank held up the empty tray along with cries of encore.
“Now folks,” Cody said. “We don’t want to show off too much. Just come on out and see the show for a taste of what life is really like in the Wild West.”
“I want to see that young man shoot,” a voice said from the end of the balcony.
Dax looked up and saw a man pointing a finger right at his chest. Torch light bounced off gold hair shot with silver and he recognized him as the gentleman he’d talked to on the street. The gentleman with the very pretty daughter. Was she here too? His eyes quickly scanned the crowd on the balcony but there was no young faces above, no one with golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Just older types, mostly gentlemen with a few ladies scattered among them, all looking at him with bright interest since it appeared he was to be the second act.
“He is Kid Cochran, is he not?” the man asked. “The fastest gun alive, or so the advertisements say.”
“Why yes he is,” Cody said. Kid Cochran, celebrated scout to the United States
Cavalry, friend of the Sioux and the dreaded enemy of Geronimo himself.” He arched an eyebrow in Dax’s direction. “And the fastest gun alive,” he added with his showman's flourish.
“Have him shoot,” the gentleman said. He held up his glass. “I will throw it in the air.”
Dang…He wasn't Annie. Sharp Shooting wasn't his game. There was a difference between what Annie did and what he did. But he couldn't back down and he sure couldn't let Cody down. Dax looked at Cody who just barely tilted his head as if he disapproved of the notion. Dax knew he didn't, that it was all part of the show. It would get people talking. It was exactly the reason why he was here. They had not planned on someone from the crowd calling him out. That just made it that much better. The fact that it was Merritt's father was an added bonus. Maybe there was hope that he would see her again.
“I'm not sure if our hostess can spare any more of her fine glassware,” Dax said. “You got something else I can shoot at?”
The gentleman grinned in delight. “What do you suggest?”
Dax scratched his chin and twisted up his face as if he had to think on it for a bit. It was all staged of course; he knew Frank had him covered. Still it would be a delight to have the English gent dig up the coins.
“How bout a few of those shillings? Isn't that what you call money in these parts?”
“It is,” the gentleman replied. “However I do not customarily carry shillings upon my person.” There was subdued laughter from the crowd at this remark. “Can anyone spare a few? I promise to pay you back of course.” The laughter was louder this time, jovial, with several men adding agreement or disagreement to the gentleman's promise of compensation.
“I have some coins Father,” a feminine voice said.
Dax's heart suddenly jumped into his throat. She was here. The girl from the street. Merritt. The crowd parted and she appeared by her father's side with her hand in her reticule as she dug for coins. She wore a dress of blue satin, with her hair pinned up. A few tendrils caressed her cheek and long graceful neck. A desire to kiss that neck suddenly overcame him. She glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes as she placed the coins in her father's palm and Dax felt it like a punch in the gut. It had been a very long time since he'd reacted with such intensity to a woman. It wasn't as if he hadn't been around any, he'd had plenty of women in his lifetime. It was just that none had stirred him. Not since Rebekkah…
“Will this do?” The gentleman held up a coin between his forefinger and thumb. Merritt stood beside him with her hands gripping the rail. She looked as if she regretted stepping forward. As if she wished to remain in the background. A girl with chestnut hair dressed in gold joined her at the rail and they linked arms. She relaxed somewhat, as if she drew courage from her companion. What was she afraid of?
“Only if you have five more.” Dax reminded himself that he was here for the show, not to chase pretty girls. That would come later, he hoped.
“I do,” he said. “Do you have need of a weapon?”
Dax grinned, shook his head and drew his colt from the holster beneath his arm. Those closest to him gasped in shock or admiration, he could not tell. He simply shrugged as if it were perfectly normal to carry a double action colt to fancy parties and checked the chamber. “You best give me some room.” Those around him backed away with an undercurrent of anticipation.
“Your name sir?” Cody asked the gentleman.
“Thomas Chadwyke, Earl of Pemberton.”
Cody shook his head. “I don't think I'll ever get used to all these fancy titles.”
“You may call me Pemberton,” the Earl said.
“Pemberton,” Cody smiled broadly. “When I say go I want you to throw all six coins in the air.”
“All six at once?”
“All six at once.” Cody said. “Make sure you throw them into the circle of light where Kid Cochran can see them.”
“Very well,” Pemberton shook his head as if he were dealing with an indulgent child. Dax backed away until he was next to one of the torches. He scanned the balcony and the night sky to make sure there was nothing in his line of sight to distract him. And to make sure no one would be injured in case a bullet just happened to stray off course. That wouldn't help the show a bit.
“Are you ready?” Cody asked the both of them.
Dax took a deep breath, expelled it and nodded. Pemberton held his hand over the garden with the coins in his fist and nodded also.
“One. Two. Three. Go!” Cody shouted the last word. As soon as he heard it Dax dove, rolled and came up firing. Before the crowd could even gasp he heard the ping of six coins as they were deflected by six successive shots. One landed on the ground before him and he picked it up, examined the hole in the middle and flipped it up to Lord Pemberton. He kept his eyes on Merritt, who stood beside him, her eyes wide and sparkling with excitement.
“Here's one,” someone shouted, holding up a coin.
“And another!”
Three more voices joined in and the five remaining coins were held up for inspection, all of them showing evidence of his bullets hitting the mark.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Kid Cochran,” Cody shouted and the crowd burst into applause.
Dax bowed for the crowd but kept his eyes on Merritt who applauded also, her face showing her amazement of his feat.
“Good Show!” Pemberton shouted. Then he, his daughter, and her friend disappeared into the crowd.

More on when a story doesn't work

Getting back to my revamp of a proposal after traveling to the RWA national conference.

In Chapter two I introduce Merrit's paranormal abilities and set up the plot point of Von Swaim's desire to control Merrit's talent. When doing a proposal its important to suck the reader in but you don't want to reveal to much too soon.

Chapter Two
“Cheeky sort wasn’t he,” the Earl said.
“Indeed!” the Countess exclaimed. “I always heard the Americans were rather forward.” Merritt folded her hands primly and kept her eyes upon her lap, as she well knew her mother’s mood.
“Accosting young girls on the street.”
“I hardly think he was accosting me.” Merritt boldly spoke out. “I consider it more as being polite.”
“Obviously they have no idea of propriety,” the Countess continued.
“Now Evelyn,” her father interrupted. “The young man was just trying to drum up business for the show is all. I’m sure any insult you imagined was entirely unintentional.”
“Imagined?” her mother gasped.
Merritt turned her head toward the window as her father winked at her. He had cleverly taken her mother’s mind off the cowboy and onto herself. It was no wonder he was such a success. He knew how to handle people. He knew what they were thinking and how to get them to come to his way of thinking. It was a gift that served him well, especially in Parliament. However when it came to his daughter the gift was useless. If only they would not worry so. If only they would just leave her alone. She had never hurt anyone and she certainly had never injured herself. If only she could just be what she was meant to be instead of what her parents and all of proper English society expected her to be. It just wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.
Harry moved the carriage along at a quick pace to make up for the delay. Merritt watched the streets as they passed. The snow from earlier in the day was nearly melted but a few patches remained on the shaded side of the street. What was left had turned into muddy brown water that trickled down the curbs and into the sewers below and eventually dumped into the Thames.
The streets were busy. The population of London had grown rapidly in the past few years, especially on the east side, which had become the haven for the poor. On the west side, where her family resided, people went about the everyday business of life. Tradesmen and solicitors, bankers and lawyers, governesses with their charges, all picked their way through the puddles on the street, rode their horses or were driven in a wide assortment of vehicles. Heavy wagons filled to the top with kegs and casks, boxes and bags stopped along the way to fill orders for the merchants. All in all a normal day in London, except for the fact that a herd of buffalo accompanied by cowboys and Indians had just passed by.
Another normal day for the normal people. What would it be like to be perfectly normal? Merritt could not even begin to imagine.
The carriage came to a stop. “We’re here sir,” Harry called down.
Merritt looked up at the tall building with the same feeling of dread that had been her constant companion since her parents informed her of their decision. A small sign hung over the door. Institute of Paranormal Research. Dr. Edmond Von Swaim.
They exited the carriage. Merritt gathered her skirts and reluctantly followed her parents up the steps with Rose and Jerry close on her heels. Did they think she would actually dash off down the street?
If only I could…But she could not. Any normal person would. But any normal person would not be here in the first place. She was not normal. She was paranormal. Or so her parents thought. They had latched onto the word as soon as they understood its meaning. They felt it explained her spells perfectly yet they wanted to be sure. They needed a diagnosis because with a diagnosis there could be a cure. It all made so much sense when they explained it to her. But now…that the time was nigh…it made no sense at all.
The door swung open before the Earl could lift his hand to knock. Her mother hesitated on the step before her as if she were suddenly afraid.
Imagine how I feel…Merritt knew they wanted to help her. They wanted what was best for her. They also wanted to protect the family from the whispering that went on when someone in their circle had experiences that were considered…objectionable. It would solve all their problems if Merritt had an illness that they could put a name too.
If only they would listen…if only they would ask…if only she were braver and stronger. If only she had been the one to die instead of her brother Christopher. If only…
The Earl took the Countess’s arm and led her inside. Merritt, always the dutiful daughter, had no choice but to follow. A butler, who stood a full head taller than her father, held the door open. His face was impassive, but Merritt could feel his eyes upon her. She marched straight ahead as her father looked upward and around, his eyes calculating the wealth of the Institute as one might inventory the jewels upon the neck of a dowager countess.
The foyer was a full three stories high. Before them was a grand staircase with a hall beside it that led back to a closed door. To the left was a closed door and to the right a sitting room. The fire was not lit, nor the lamps, and the heavy velvet drapes were drawn closed against the light of day. It all seemed very desolate and lonely even though the wood was well polished and the furnishings rich with ornate carvings and plush fabrics.
The sound of a clock ticking was overpowering in the sudden quiet when the door was closed behind them. To Merritt the sound was frighteningly omnipotent. She could not help but look upward to the source and saw a huge pendulum swinging directly over the door. The clockworks were above, on the third story behind a walkway that crossed from one side to the other. She could not see them clearly in the dim light but they seemed immense and complicated. Why would anyone need or want a clock that big?
A middle-aged woman dressed in a simple gray dress and white apron and wearing a white cap came down the impressive staircase and dropped a curtsey to her father.
“Dr. Von Swaim awaits you in the upper parlor,” she said. She spoke with a heavy accent, possibly German since it was known that Von Swaim was of German descent. “Your servants may await you in there.”
Her father started to protest then thought better of it. Merritt wondered if the overbearing presence of the butler had anything to do with his hesitancy. He motioned Rose and Jerry into the parlor. Jerry made it clear by his stance that he was not happy about the situation. Rose simply sat down on a sofa and let out a long suffering sigh.
“For privacy sir,” the woman said when they were settled. “Doctor Von Swaim has also canceled all of his appointments for this afternoon so you need not worry about anyone disturbing you during your visit.”
“Very well,” her father said. “Lead on.”
Merritt took a firm grasp on the railing as she followed her parents up the grand staircase. As she watched her feet climb the stairs her insides felt as if she were descending into a deep dark pit. Her parents had insisted on enough doctors in her lifetime to dread any thought of any type of an exam, especially one that was as mysterious to her as this. What exactly did a paranormal exam involve?
For once her mother kept her chatter to a minimum. She always used it as a mask but in this situation there was no place for it. There was no hiding the fear or intimidation that any of them felt.
The light was brighter on the second floor. Gas lamps lit the hallways and the curtains were open on the opposite ends of the building to let in the light of day. The woman led them across the landing from the staircase and opened a set of double doors.
Bookcases, two stories high, filled the walls on either side. French doors covered the back wall and opened invitingly to a balcony that overlooked a courtyard. Merritt could hear water bubbling below and imagined it must contain a fountain of some sort. Deep burgundy curtains hung beside the windows that flanked the French doors. An ornate birdcage made of brass stood upon a stand next to the window and a bright yellow canary piped a few notes when they were shown into the room. A large sofa also covered in burgundy sat along the wall on the right with wing chairs on either side. End tables flanked the sofa and were covered with an assortment of gewgaws made of brass and glass. Some seemed to be spinning; it would take closer examination to be certain.
The left side of the room contained a huge desk with two small chairs before it. The desk held a smaller collection of gewgaws and a large crystal prism that seemed to Merritt to be as long as her arm. There was a door built into the wall directly behind the desk and she could not help but wonder where it led. Into the bowels of hell?
“The Doctor will be with you presently,” the woman said and closed the double doors behind her as she bowed her way from the room.
“You think they would have offered tea,” her mother said as she sat down in one of the wing chairs.
“We are not here for a social visit,” the Earl reminded her.
“Well, yes, I realize that,” the Countess replied. “Still it would be the hospitable thing to do, considering.”
Merritt let mother’s words pass over her without a response. Her father turned his back on both of them and perused the collection of books that filled the shelf behind the chair. Merritt walked to the balcony to see if there really was a fountain beyond.
A large telescope sat on the balcony aimed upwards at the sky. A stool was beside it with a sextant lying upon it. The instrument of the sea seemed strangely out of place in such an enclosed area. The courtyard was enclosed on the sides with a high brick wall and another building stood behind it. Dr. Von Swaim must have use of both buildings as a door from it opened into the courtyard also. The back of it was plain and tall with small windows that were covered with iron grates and shuttered from the inside. A chill went down her spine as she looked it over. What was the purpose of closing off the lovely courtyard from view? And why the grates? Were they meant to keep people in or people out?
The courtyard was, as she first surmised before her inspection of the building beyond, quite lovely. A large fountain with a replica of the earth done in metals was the centerpiece and water spurted from the top and coated the sides before falling into the stone basin beneath. Japanese maples with tightly budded leaves graced the centers of four uniform triangles that formed the corners of the gardens and neat boxwoods hedged the sides with benches placed before them. A brick walk surrounded the fountain and freshly tilled earth between the two begged for plantings of colorful flowers. It was a heady contradiction to the heavy and overpowering massiveness of everything she had seen inside the institute.
She heard her father’s harrumph of impatience and turned to see what caused it. The canary peeped inquisitively as she stepped inside so she paused beside its cage.
“I imagine you wish you could fly away,” she said softly to the bird. It hopped from its perch high in the cage to another that was closer to her face. Its dark eyes blinked several times as it examined her.
“Such a pretty cage,” Merritt said. “But it is still a cage, no matter how pretty it is.” She turned her head and looked at the building behind the courtyard.
Still a cage…
The canary jumped from the bar with a loud chirp as the pressure of the room changed with the opening of the door. Merritt felt a cold breeze swirl over her face and the few tendrils of her hair that had escaped the careful attentions of her maid tickled her cheek when she looked into the room.
She recognized Dr. Edmond Von Swaim. (Describe here) How could she not? He currently was the darling of the social circuit and was often mentioned in the gossip columns of the newspaper. Merritt had been present at a few of the functions he attended, as he was a must-have on any guest list. He usually performed feats of hypnotism or other sorts of trickery at the parties that were expounded on at great length in the columns the next day. He had impressed her parents enough that after a few discreet inquiries, they had decided to take Dr. Von Swaim into their confidence regarding Merritt and her “spells.”
His answer? She must be examined immediately before her spells worsened or she did harm to herself. They were exactly the words her mother most feared, since she had been dreading the prospect for these many years.
Maybe he will have an answer…or even a cure…It was too much to hope for. Merritt watched as her father shook hands with Dr. Von Swaim, and her mother greeted him warmly.
Why do I feel such a sense of dread?
Usually she had a vision or warning sign if something bad was about to happen. In this instance there had been no warning yet she still had the feeling that something was horribly wrong. Perhaps the canary had the same concerns. It piped mightily, as if in warning, as Dr. Von Swaim approached her with his arms open wide. Did he actually mean to embrace her?
“My dear Merritt,” he said with a welcoming smile on his broad and ruddy face. His voice held just the slightest accent of his German origins.
Merritt held out her gloved hand so that he might take it, but also to keep him from encroaching upon her. He took her hand, clasped it between his two palms and gave it a firm squeeze. It seemed on the surface to be comforting but then again something about it disturbed her. Perhaps it was in the way he evaluated her. She looked into the deep-set blue eyes beneath the heavy blonde brows. There was no mistaking it. His demeanor was kind and friendly but he was calculating her worth, just as her father had when they arrived at the institute.
“Your parents have expressed their deep concern over your condition,” he said as Merritt carefully pulled her hand free.
“They trouble themselves over nothing,” Merritt said. “I have strange dreams, nothing more.”
“Nonsense,” the Countess said. “Who has dreams in the middle of the day? When they are often wide awake?”
“Come my dear,” Von Swaim said. “Sit and tell me of your dreams.” He stepped back and extended his arm, just stopping short of touching her back as if he would propel her forward.
Merritt suppressed a heavy sigh as she made her way to the sofa. There were no other options and there certainly was no escape. The only thing to do was get it over with as quickly as possible. She sat down and Von Swaim joined her. Her parents took position in the wing chairs on either side. Von Swaim sat forward, placing his body between Merritt and her father. It also placed his body between Merritt and the door.
“It would help me to know more of what you experience,” Von Swaim said. “Tell me of your dreams.”
It seemed too personal…too revealing…however he was a doctor. It was his intent to help her or so she hoped. If he could make the dreams, the visions, the spells, go away…Merritt looked at him hopefully.
“They are more like visions than dreams,” she explained. “I simply see things.”
“What type of things?”
She thought carefully of what she should say. It was all so confusing. Should she tell this man her deepest darkest secrets? Or would the basics be enough? It certainly would not hurt to share the things she told her parents. It wasn’t as if they had not already told him what they knew about her spells.
“Sometimes I see Papa at work talking with his friends…”
“About subjects that she should have no knowledge of,” the Earl interjected.
“Do you mean policy discussions? Von Swaim asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you bring home notes or letters that she would have access too?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Merritt said. “I would never look at Papa’s personal papers.”
“You do read the daily,” her mother said. “That’s enough to feed anyone’s imagination.”
“She speaks of things during her spells that she has no way of knowing. How someone will vote, or who will side with whom. It is almost as if she knows the outcome before it happens.”
Indeed,” Von Swaim said. “Very curious. Is she usually right about the things she sees?”
“Almost always,” her father said.
If only they knew…
“Any other instances? Anything besides parliament?” Von Swaim studied her intently, his eyes moving over her face and down enough to make her feel uncomfortable.
Merritt shifted her body so that he was not so close, and not so oppressive. She shrugged. “There have been a few other things.”
“She saw poor Mrs. Poole drop dead,” her mother said. “Our butler’s mother,” she went on to explain.
“No, I did not see her drop dead,” Merritt interjected. “I simply saw her lying on the floor. Then I asked Poole if he had seen her lately.”
“And when he did she was dead.”
“Yes. She was.”
“Quite dead,” her father volunteered. As if anyone could be any deader than dead.
“Fascinating!” Von Swaim jumped up from the sofa and strode across the room as if he could not contain himself.
Merritt looked at the man in disbelief. Poor Poole had lost his mother and Dr. Von Swaim was looking at her as if she had just given him a fortune in jewels.
“Is there anything else?”
Merritt twisted her hands in her lap. She knew what was coming before her mother even said it.
“We have noticed things moving about sometimes,” the Countess said timidly. Merritt could not blame her for being timid. It would be difficult to believe unless one had actually witnessed it. Small objects did have a habit of falling off of surfaces or in one instance flying across a room when she was in the midst of one of her more troublesome spells.”
“Excellent,” Von Swaim exclaimed. He came back to the sofa and knelt in front of Merritt before grasping her hands. “You must allow me to hypnotize you.”
Run…
She felt trapped once again. Pinned against the sofa with no chance of escape. She did manage to free her hands from his grasp yet he remained on the floor before her, practically kneeling on her skirts.
“Do you think it would help, Dr. Von Swaim?” her father asked.
“The subconscious mind holds much danger for those not familiar with its workings,” Von Swaim said as he finally rose to his feet. “Imagine Merritt’s mind as a battlefield with her subconscious at war with her consciousness. It seems to me that at the present time her subconscious is winning the battle. If I do not find out the cause I am afraid that Merritt’s consciousness may eventually be lost to you forever.”
“Oh my!” Her mother gasped. “Merritt lost?”
“The sanitariums are full of such cases.”
“That is unacceptable.” The Earl jumped to his feet while her mother held her handkerchief to her face to hide her distress.
Merritt was skeptical about his comments. There was no war going on in her mind. She just had dreams. Very vivid, very real dreams. She always knew whom she was and where she was when she awakened. It seemed as if Dr. Von Swaim had made a more accurate diagnosis of her parent’s fears and was using it to achieve his own ends.
“If you believe hypnotism will help, then by all means proceed,” her father said.
“Are you certain you will be able to hypnotize me?” She had seen performances of such things before but always felt as if there was collusion involved on the part of all parties.
“I have found that the stronger paranormal activity lends itself to susceptibility in these cases,” Von Swaim replied. He held a hand out to help her rise from the sofa and she had no choice but to take it. “Come my dear,” he said and led her to a gilt chair placed before his desk. “Please stay where you are so there will be no distractions,” he instructed her parents who had begun to follow.
They sat down together on the couch and smiled encouragement to Merritt. She smiled reassuringly in their direction and was pleased to see her father take her mother’s hand into his. There was nothing to fear. Her father would not let any harm come to her.
Merritt sat down with her back to the window while Von Swaim opened a desk drawer and removed an object. The light caught it as he carried it around the desk. It was a crystal, cut in the shape of a large diamond and suspended from a chain.
He sat down opposite her and dangled the crystal from the chain in front of her. “I want you to concentrate,” he said. “Concentrate on the crystal. Concentrate on the light. Watch it carefully.”
The crystal twisted back and forth, slowly winding then unwinding on the chain. Merritt watched the light from the lamps and the sun dance through the different angles of the cuts, each one casting a different color around it as if it was alive with its own aura. She heard the canary chirp once, heard the fountain cascading behind her, and heard the soft breathing of her parents. As watched the crystal spin up and down the chain she felt as if the walls of the room were falling away. The fountain became distant and then she heard the giant clock with the pendulum swinging back and forth.
Tick…tock…tick…tock…
The noise moved inside her head and became an echo of her heartbeat. Tick…thump….tock…thump-thump.
She was no longer in the room inside the institute. She was no longer with Dr. Von Swaim and her parents. She was standing in the middle of a circle. The ground beneath her was hard packed earth that was scarred with the imprint of many types of hoof prints. A light shone directly on her, blinding her. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from it and the light faded.
Someone was with her. “Trust me,” a voice said. “You’ve got to trust me.” The voice seemed vaguely familiar and she searched the area inside the light until she saw a silhouette. Her forehead furrowed as she tried to put a name to the face that was hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat.
“Don’t move,” the voice said. “Trust me. I will never hurt you.” Then he raised a gun in his hand and shot her.
Merritt screamed. She felt her body spinning and then she landed beside the desk. Her hands gripped the sides of the chair as if she were on a boat in huge swells that threatened to break over her head.
As she caught her breath she looked at Dr. Von Swaim for an answer to what she had said or done while under the effects of his hypnosis. But Von Swaim was not looking at her. He looked beyond her. Merritt turned in her seat and saw the birdcage. It was no longer beautiful. It was twisted and ruined with the bars broken and pulled apart.
The canary sat upon the rail of the balcony with its beak wide open as it sang a sweet song to the clear blue sky above. It turned and looked directly at Merritt before it extended its wings and flew away.
“My word!” her father said.
Her mother simply cried.