Page 5 of The Flesh Remembers
She clenched the folds of her cloak, acutely aware of the hush enveloping her. There was no hum of apparatus, no footfalls on the floor beyond. Only the faint hiss of candle flames dancing atop silver holders lined along the walls, dimming as she passed by as if they were bowing to her or, perhaps, leering. A swirl of apprehension squeezed her lungs like a vice.
Lord Blackwood, the elusive benefactor behind these unholy experiments, was coming to see her. The wooden floor groaned beneath her boots as Eleanor paced nervously, but the echo that followed wasn’t quite hers. Eleanor listened acutely, certain she must be hearing things, but as she walked back and forth, her footfalls distinctly reached her ears a second or two after she had already taken a step. She felt as if she was just slightly out of sync with the room around her.
A gilded clock on the mantel ticked away in the silence. When the door at the room's far end finally creaked open, Eleanor jolted upright. A figure emerged, tall and lean, dressed in a midnight-blue frock coat that accentuated an elegant frame. His dark hair curled at the temples, and the candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face, illuminating features that might have been sculpted for a decadent portrait. A lazy, charismatic smile curved his mouth.
“Dr. Ashcroft,” he intoned, his voice rich and resonant as a cello’s lower register. I’ve been quite eager to make your acquaintance.”
Excerpt from the Diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft
I am to meet the mysterious Lord Blackwood today. I confess that while I feel some nervous apprehension, a part of me feels a certain excitement at the thought of him. Marian and Fairfax have told me a little about his proclivities for certain activities that proper society would condemn. So why does my heart beat a little faster at the thought of what those activities might be?
I must try to control my thoughts. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel like someone might hear every errant thought. It feels almost as if someone is always listening and watching every movement. I am sure it is just my imagination combined with the stress of this situation, yet I cannot shake the feeling.
The Boundary between Agony and Desire
Eleanor rose, performing a reflexive half-curtsy. No words emerged immediately; his presence exuded such a potent, almost decadent aura that her breathing grew shallow. She recalled how Nurse Collins and Dr. Fairfax had alluded to his “carnal appetites,” though they withheld specifics. Now, confronted with his languid grace and keen eyes, she sensed an undercurrent of danger thrumming beneath the refined exterior.
“Lord Blackwood,” she managed, lowering her gaze in polite respect. “I appreciate this opportunity, though I confess, everything here is beyond my usual understanding.”
He chuckled, the sound low and knowing, as though he relished her uncertainty. “I would be disappointed if it weren’t. Usual understanding has no place in these halls.” Stepping closer, he flicked a glance about the salon. Ornate rugs, tapestries of mythic creatures, and a small table bearing a decanter of crimson wine lent the room a sumptuous air. “Come,” he gestured, “sit with me. Let us talk about your dear fiancé.”
She followed him to a tufted settee facing a marble fireplace. He settled on one end with casual grace, while she perched stiffly on the other. Lord Blackwood poured two glasses of wine, offering her one with a gloved hand. The flicker of the candlelight caressed the sharp angle of his jaw, emphasizing the half-smile that never quite left his lips.
“I hear you’ve thrown yourself entirely into this endeavour,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Dr. Fairfax is most impressed by your, shall we say, fervour.”
Heat prickled at her cheeks. She thought of her reactions to Frye’s provocations, the electric tingle of the galvanic machine, and how each step along this twisted path fuelled a relentless longing for James. “I am… determined,” she confessed softly. “If your clinic truly can bring him back, I will do whatever it takes.”
Lord Blackwood set his glass aside. “Mm, yes. Whatever it takes. So many have uttered those words. Few truly mean them. You, however, might.” His eyes lingered on her face, dipping briefly to her throat, before traveling lower, as though appraising every curve hidden beneath her cloak. “Have they told you the full truth of our methods?”
She hesitated. “They’ve explained that raw emotion fuels the galvanic currents… that harnessing powerful sensations like grief and desire can spark the boundary between life and death.”
He offered a faint smile, a flicker of approval that felt almost conspiratorial. "They may have whispered of a ritual, one of passion, binding this process together. But I doubt Dr. Fairfax or Nurse Collins dared to reveal its true nature."
He rose, his movements deliberate, and drifted to the fireplace. The shadows stretched and coiled around him, casting him as a figure plucked from the pages of a forbidden tale. "Science alone falters at the threshold of resurrection; what we seek demands... transcendence. A raw, unbridled ecstasy rooted in flesh, yet surging beyond the limits of mortality."
His voice lingered, heavy with unspoken truths. "Fairfax’s work at the Campbell Institute intrigued me. His pursuit of aging, death, and the elusive promise of their undoing." Blackwood paused, his gaze catching hers as he raised the glass to his lips, the faintest smile curling as he drank.
“I know, it seems like a desperate man’s pipe dream, to live forever, but what if it were possible, Dr. Ashcroft? What wouldn’t a man do for that possibility? The thought became quite an obsession for me.
When I was much younger, I was a restless wanderer and travelled much of the world. I discovered many interesting people in my travels and learned many things. Things that would not be readily welcomed into our modern London society.” Blackwood chuckled at Eleanor’s expression. “Yes, Dr. Ashcroft, you may well blush. But I suggest you overcome your sense of propriety rather quickly, for it will not serve you where we will be going.”
Eleanor’s heart drummed a wild rhythm in her chest. The phrase “ritual of passion” evoked images she dared not fully envision, bodies entwined, arcs of electricity dancing over bare flesh, a swirling intensity that cracked open the grave itself. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “And you orchestrate this ritual?”
He shifted to face her, the candlelight illuminating a glint in his eyes. “Orchestrate might be too strong a word. I merely… facilitate. Ensure the environment is ripe for the participants to unleash themselves. The question, Dr. Ashcroft, is whether you can unleash yourself. Are you prepared to let go of propriety, of the illusions society piles upon us, to reclaim your lost love?”
Though the notion felt perverse, an insidious thrill slid through her veins. She recalled how her body had responded to the clinic’s strange energies. Hadn’t she already glimpsed how carnal desire might interlace with the longing for James? If this was the next step, if this is what might lead to James’s resurrection…
“I am prepared,” she said. She prayed her voice sounded resolute.
Lord Blackwood smiled fully then, revealing even white teeth. “Excellent. And so, dear Eleanor,” he spoke her name as though tasting it, “allow me to show you a glimpse of what that means.”
He crossed to her side with unhurried grace, his polished boots barely sounding on the thick rug. His eyes locked onto hers with such intensity that her breath caught, and for a moment, the space between them seemed charged, a taut thread threatening to snap. Slowly, he extended a hand. His fingers were long and deft, exuding warmth she could feel even before their skin met.
She hesitated, but his gaze held hers, unyielding and full of dark promise. When she finally placed her trembling hand in his, the contact sent a spark shooting through her, sharp and electric, like a jolt from the apparatus but far more intimate. A soft gasp escaped her lips as he tightened his grip, guiding her to her feet with a languid precision that felt almost rehearsed.
“Look around,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, each word brushing against her like a caress. “Every element here is designed to stoke the senses. Sight, scent, touch are the gateways through which raw emotion and power flow.”
The room seemed to shimmer in her peripheral vision as he guided her attention to the tapestry on the wall. It depicted mythic lovers entwined, their bodies a seamless blend of muscle and desire. She felt his breath warm on her neck, closer now than before, as though he had invaded the very air she inhaled.
