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Gates’s eyelids fluttered but he nodded weakly as he backed out of the room. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in trousers, my lord?” He was practically begging but Reginald shooed him off.
The doctor didn’t arrive for close to an hour and he came before Gates brought the papers. Reginald suspected his butler was afraid the news might further agitate his employer.
“What seems to be the trouble, Lord Marston?” A small, meek man tiptoed into the room hugging a leather satchel against his chest. Wire-framed glasses were perched on the end of his nose and his thin brown hair was glazed over the shiny dome of his very round head.
“Where do I begin?” Reginald asked with a sarcastic laugh. He raced across the room and yanked the bag out of the doctor’s limp grasp.
“Lord Marston?” Dr. Lister cried, then yelped when Reginald dropped and dumped the contents of the bag onto the floor. “You cannot—!” He choked out.
“Sure I can,” Reginald drawled. “It’s my dream, isn’t it?” He asked, then frowned at the primitive collection in front of him. “Or is it a trip?” He wondered out loud and looked around. He’d never had a trip this vivid but he’d had intense dreams at the tail end of his benders. “Nothing like this, though… I might have pushed myself a little too far this time,” he confided with a wince. Lister cleared his throat and took a few cautious steps closer.
“I have heard of similar behaviors from patients with amnesia.”
“Ha! Amnesia! I wish I could have amnesia and forget all of this.” He swept aside various-sized tweezers and tins. Reginald grimaced at the thin jar of catgut and tossed it aside and cheered when he found a vial labeled “Morphia.”
“Please! You do not understand—” Lister protested but Reginald let out another defiant Ha! As he held up a wooden monaural stethoscope. It resembled a double-ended funnel or the wheels and axle of a toy car.
“I understand far more than you do!” He assured Lister. “Take this. When pressed against the chest or back, it amplifies the sound and draws it into the ear thusly,” he said as he held one end to his ear, then flung it over his shoulder. “But the acoustic stethoscope has already been invented. It just hasn’t caught on because you’re one step up from a witch doctor and afraid that hearing out of both ears will confuse you. You don’t understand the way the brain receives and processes aural signals.”
“No one understands that!”
“Lots of people understand that!” Reginald replied testily as he untied and unrolled a leather case. It was a collection of scalpels so Reginald dropped it and reached for the harder case. He snapped it open and bit down on his lips. “That’s a big needle,” he said under his breath and held up the syringe kit so he could inspect it in the light.
“I really must object. I have studied medicine at—”
“Sound vibrates against the itty bitty bones inside your ears,” Reginald began as he took out the glass center of the syringe and began screwing on the clamp that secured the needle. “Those tiny bones beat against this little sack of fluid deep inside your ear, creating a wave that travels along a membrane and tickles microscopic hair cells. Those hair cells ride the wave and create an electrical signal that’s carried along the auditory nerve to the auditory cortex in the center of the brain where those electrical impulses are perceived as sound.” He grinned at Lister as he pulled the tourniquet’s strap around his bicep and gave it a hard tug. “But what we should be discussing is the importance of sterilization and infectious diseases.” Reginald waved the crude syringe at Lister and said a silent prayer before grabbing one of the glass vials.
“My lord, you must be careful when administering the morphia. Too much and you—”
“And I’ll what? Fall asleep?”
“You could die!”
“Calm down. I’ve snorted enough coke to stop an elephant’s heart and I’ve felt my own heart stop. I died once, for one brief moment, and I guarantee that there isn’t enough morphine in this bag to kill me. Not that any of this is real or really matters,” Reginald reminded himself, then drew half the liquid into the syringe. “We’re just gonna guess until I get a feel for how hot this sauce is,” he murmured. Gates dropped the papers and bolted from the room as Reginald pushed the end of the needle into the inside of his elbow while Lister looked on in awe.
“I have never seen a patient inject himself.”
“By accessing the median cubital vein, the morphine is introduced directly into the bloodstream and carried up to the head so it can pass through the blood-brain barrier. I don’t enjoy IV drugs, myself, but beggars can’t be choosers,” Reginald said and held his breath as he slowly pressed on the plunger. He carefully drew the needle out and grunted at the burn as it climbed up his arm. “Morphia—named after Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams—is derived by isolating the alkaloid in opium, thus making it ten times more powerful and easier to measure and dose.” Reginald wiggled his shoulders and squirmed as his limbs began to itch but felt a mild numbness spreading up his chest. “It’s alright for now,” he decided and fell back onto the floor. He wasn’t as frantic about finding Paul and told himself that none of it was real and that he’d wake up soon enough.
“Remarkable!” Lister whispered as Reginald picked up the nearest paper and began to scan, downloading headlines and bits of stories. He found anything that might help him make sense of where he was in British history and for any clues as to why his brain had sent him back to 1853. The word “rosary” caught Reginald’s eye and he quickly scanned an article about a debutante that was found dead and missing her rosary at a house party in Mayfair not far from his townhouse.
“I am, usually, but children understand these things where I’m from,” Reginald replied as he perused the front page of the third paper. A name jumped off the page and Reginald sat up as he read the headline.
Lord Winterstone to address the House of Commons in bid for support of the Irish Cause
“Gates!” Reginald called and hopped to his feet when the butler appeared. “It looks like I am going out. Where would I go if I wanted to talk to people who know people like this Lord Winterstone?”
“You do spend a great deal of time at your club,” Gates offered as he passed through the room and disappeared into the bathroom.
“Yes! My club!” Reginald rubbed his hands together and nodded as Gates returned with a black suit. Someone at his club would know how Reginald could get closer to Winterstone. “One thing: which club is my club?”
