Like a Wisp of Steam, Thomas Roche [list of e readers txt] 📗

yours, repeated vibratory treatment may be necessary. Perhaps three times a week for ... Oh, six months or so?"

Victoria's tear-filled eyes went wide, and she gave a little shudder of excitement and choked back a sob of pure happiness.

"If you think so, Doctor."

"I'll have a chat with Arthur about the fee. Certainly we can strike a deal, since frequent sessions will be necessary—

to prevent relapse, you understand."

"Oh, I understand," Victoria said—too quickly, she thought.

She nodded fervently.

"For at least ... The first year."

"Year?" gasped Victoria, as Charles quickly stood and buttoned his long white coat across his moisture-stained pants.

"Or two," said Charles nervously.

"No problem about the fee, eh?" It was Arthur's booming voice from the reception desk outside. "No treatment's too expensive to keep my little petunia happy!"

"I'll call Clara in to help you dress," said Charles as he helped Victoria to stand.

Victoria heard herself giggling slightly, a highly uncharacteristic utterance of mirth.

"No need!" she cried, and slipped out of the chair.

Charles stared, confounded, at Victoria as she bounded across the room to gather her things and dress.

It was as if she'd been given a new lease on life.

Charles dabbed at his moistening eye with the corner of his sleeve. Oh, how he adored the science of medicine.

In the Flask

Vanessa Vaughn

My hand pulled the delicate glass flask into place as Dr.Aubrey positioned a tube directly above it. His fingers inched closer to mine, but I dared not touch them. Instead, I steadied myself. When he was this near, I felt nothing but confusion, simultaneously drawn toward him and held at a distance. We were like two magnets with the same polarization, hovering close but pushed apart by a stronger invisible force.

"Nicholas," he said in a low voice. "Fetch me the copper wire. I need to secure this properly." Quickly, I obeyed, hurrying to the other end of the laboratory and returning with a spool of thin wire and a pair of heavy scissors. The doctor measured out an appropriate length and held it out for me to cut. He then sat back at the wide table again and leaned over the complicated apparatus, attaching the wire to the thick rubber tube. "You know, Nicholas," he said, using his pliers to twist the copper carefully. "We really must get you a lab coat if you are going to be a proper assistant."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," I said. Usually, the doctor was not renowned for his kind treatment of his students—or even his colleagues for that matter. In fact, he treated most of his former assistants with what could only be described as indifference; so I smiled at this comment, happy for any recognition. He must intend to keep me on a while longer if he means to dress me for the role, I thought.

I had been there only a handful of months, arriving just after Dr. Aubrey had received his latest research grant from the Royal College. Even before I had seen him in the flesh, I knew him by reputation and had been eager to join him in his work.

Like many nowadays, I was convinced that science was indeed the tool with which we would cure all of society's ills.

Murder, aggressiveness, sexual impulses, greed—all of this and more we scientists would no doubt eventually expel.

Mysteries of the brain, the body's chemicals, electric pulses, and tissues were all under the gaze of science's perpetually-improving microscopes and lenses. Yes, there were important strides being made in all academic disciplines, but the mind—how to understand and control it—was receiving an unprecedented amount of attention. Universities, as well as Her Majesty's Government, had been funding all areas of mental research at astounding levels unheard of until now.

Mesmerism, phrenetics, brain dissection, and in our case, chemistry, were all being employed to help create the sort of peaceful, chaste, and proper society any man would want for himself and his family.

"Well, that does it," Dr. Aubrey said with relief, pulling himself into an upright position and returning his pliers to the finely crafted leather tool belt at his waist. The belt was already filled with every manner of instrument ranging from simple hammers and stoppers for vials and beakers of every shape and size to bizarre devices of twisted metal, designed to trim the ends of protruding hoses and scrape strange compounds from the bottoms of flasks. Somehow, however, he managed to push the pliers easily into their proper place.

He brought himself to his feet, leaning casually against the table. I watched his hands again as he removed a small notebook from his pocket and penciled a few short notations.

His stance was always so sure, so confident. This man looked more like a soldier than an academic, wide shoulders giving way to hard muscular arms. And those hands. Well, no doubt I had imagined their touch often enough.

The doctor looked up and issued some more instructions to me. As he did, I stared back into those eyes. They were palest blue framed by lashes of dark inky black. It was the contrast between those two extremes of color, light and dark, which always entranced me. They made his face both beautiful and fierce, at once tender and aggressive. We looked at one another for a long moment, unflinching, and then I felt suddenly self-conscious, almost ashamed. I felt he could surely guess my thoughts, lascivious as they were. I pictured skin against skin, the hard press of his lips on mine, how his muscles would feel as he leaned me against the wall and pushed his way slowly inside of me, the handsome master and his willing university pupil.

My face flushed pink. I turned quickly, moving to gather the ingredients he requested, and the spell was broken. I was usually careful not to let my gaze linger too long, but still he must have sensed my preoccupation with him. I was sure of it. Too often now, we would stand, shoulders just a little too close together, arms only a few centimeters apart. We