Free Aether Spirit by Cecilia Dominic Page B

took the thermometer and pronounced her temperature normal.
    “Doctor Perkins will be by later to give you a listen and make sure you’re good to go back to your room at the general’s house. Doctor Radcliffe’s orders are for you to take it easy through tomorrow.”
    Ugh on both counts. What must Radcliffe think of me? Did I faint in his office? “I’d rather Doctor Radcliffe see to me.”
    “You and the rest of the base, dearie. I won’t let you be in here alone with him, don’t worry. We women have our reputation to keep, although the rules are more relaxed here. If you go into town, though, be sure you have an escort.”
    Claire wasn’t sure what to make of this unsolicited advice, but her rumbling stomach replied before she could.
    “Oh, you missed lunch, didn’t you? Hang here a trice, and I’ll be back with some soup.”
    Lillian disappeared, and Claire sat back to watch the shadows outside change. Her pocket watch said it was a little after five when Lillian returned with a tray, on which there was a bowl of soup, a piece of bread, and a glass of juice.
    “Thank you,” Claire said. “It smells wonderful.”
    Lillian placed the tray on Claire’s lap and pressed a button on the side. Little wooden legs lowered so the tray stayed even and didn’t warm Claire’s lap too much.
    “Clever,” Claire said.
    “Sometimes our boys in tinkering actually make something useful. Do you have everything you need?”
    Claire nodded, and Lillian turned to leave, but something she’d said made Claire say, “Wait.”
    “Yes?”
    “Are you familiar with the tinkerers? I mean, do you talk to them regularly, know what they’re working on?”
    “Why, do you need something?”
    Claire thought to the glowing thing in the glass globe that O’Connell had thrown a sheet over. “No, I was just curious.” Her vision fogged, and she heard her voice as though she stood on the other side of an echoing tunnel once. “I knew a tinkerer once. In Boston, I think.” She blinked the strange film away. Lillian studied her with a frown.
    “I don’t know that any of them except that Irishman have ever been to Boston,” the nurse told her. “And whatever he’s working on is some sort of big secret. No one is close enough to him to find out what except Doctor Radcliffe, and he’s certainly not telling.”
    “I see. Well, thank you.”
    “I’ll check on you in a bit, dearie.”
    Claire picked up the spoon and tried some of the soup. Like that morning’s breakfast, it tasted very salty to her, but not overly so. Her mother and aunt had treated her like an invalid, which meant a bland diet, so she supposed she just wasn’t accustomed to normal food. She hoped that would change.
    Meanwhile, she wanted to know what Patrick O’Connell worked on. Something about the strange device in the workshop fascinated her. Things like that often did and filled her with a wistfulness, but for what, she didn’t know. Her intuition told her she would find out, though, if she pursued knowledge of the Irishman’s secret. It would probably be safer than going after her own.
    Chapter Eight
    Distillery Hospital, 24 February 1871
    Chad ran into Perkins as he was leaving. The smug smirk on Perkins’s face made Chad pause. He swallowed his pride—apologizing to the ass would be best for the hospital, and he’d need Perkins’s cooperation once Claire started working with the boys. If being too near Chad made her ill, she’d have to work with Perkins.
    “About yesterday,” Chad said and held out a hand, “I’m sorry. I lost my head, and I shouldn’t have.”
    Perkins nodded and took Chad’s hand for a limp shake. “Apology accepted.”
    “Just to let you know, though, Doctor McPhee is going to be working with us, and I expect everyone, including myself, to maintain a professional air about it.”
    Perkins raised his eyebrows, which echoed the curve of his glasses. “I’d heard a neuroticist was coming. That’s her?”
    Chad tried to