Whatever answers Dr. Emrick had for me, they were postponed by my own lack of discipline. Staying up all night had perpetuated my unconventional sleep schedule, and by the time I made my way downstairs, my host was gone. The only sign of him was a short note explaining he'd been called away on business, and I should take my dinner without him.

I found a similar meal set out for me as the night before, but with just one place set at the long banquet table.

The room had an echo that wasn't noticeable with company and conversation but played on my nerves now I was by myself. The entire character had shifted to a darker patina as though mirroring my mood. Dust dampened the gloss of the polished wood. The wallpaper had lost its vibrance and was the red of dried blood on a discarded surgical apron. The art adorning the walls—stodgy pastorals done in that Romantic tradition I so loathed—were full of the muted greens, reminiscent of swamps and stagnant pools.

To be alone in such an atmosphere with no companionship but the sound of one's own echoed chewing put me in a lonely state, and once I was finished my second plate, I was determined to seek out whatever manner of humanity might be found.

Following the lit corridors and distant sounds, I presently arrived at the conservatory. Dozens of electric bulbs cast blank moons on the glass dome and made the world beyond nothing but impenetrable darkness. The servant, Vernon, was busy tending to Emrick's orchids and other tropical plants, which I was unable to identify. Botany had never been an interest of mine, but I could tell it was an impressive collection. Tall palms towered to the dome's height, and bright-colored flowers were everywhere in bloom. So stark was the difference from the rest of the house, I immediately felt cheered seeing it through the door's window.

The air inside was thick and hot like Louisiana in August rather than the early New England summer outside. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, and my shirt grew damp within moments of entering. The buzz of the gas generator and whatever machines were running to maintain the atmosphere kept me unnoticed until I spoke.

"They're beautiful."

Vernon shrugged as though it was no business of his what the flowers looked like.

"So, you're the gardener then?"

"Gardener, butler, chauffeur, you name it. I am whatever I'm told to be." His voice was softer than I was expecting, although accented like the coarser aspect of those people who inhabit the shores north of Boston. Then, almost to himself, he added, "We all do what we're told here."

"The name's Richard," I held out my hand, not standing on ceremony. Emrick might be used to ordering about servants, but I'd been raised on the egalitarian principles of this country. Besides, I had served with many men like Vernon, and when the shells were falling, everyone bled the same.

"I'm a scientist like your employer."

"I know what you are." He held out his hand palm forward to show me the grime coating it and did me the favor of not shaking mine.

Tugging on the hose, he moved to the next table of pots.

"Did you find that woman?" I asked. He would have mentioned something if he had, but I hoped to get a recount of his fruitless search at the least.

"There's no woman in these woods."

"I swear, I saw a young lady coming from the direction of the house last night and entering the woods just yonder." I pointed out the windows in the rough direction I meant, but the lights blocked the outside and cast my own reflection back.

"The only ladies that come to Foxcroft is Mrs. Cabot and her daughter. And they're gone well before dark."

"Perhaps some girl from town, then? Or a stranded motorist seeking aid?"

He shook his head with a gruff laugh. "No one from around here would go into those woods. Know better than to trespass, they do. And the road splits and goes east five miles from here. Nothing out this way except Foxcroft. And I don't reckon anyone would be driving around these parts for fun. No one with any sense, anyhow."

I could see I wasn't getting anywhere with this questioning and sensed the interrogation was causing his blood to rise. Or perhaps, he was simply irritated by me disturbing him while doing an unpleasant task, making it take longer than he'd like.

"Do you have any idea when Dr. Emrick will be back?"

"Not till morning, I should think."

This was bad news. I was hoping to resolve our business and be off. Not only that, but I faced the prospect of a night with no company or any form of entertainment. I'm not sure what possessed me to not pack any of my books for the trip.

"I assume there's a library?" I asked. Vernon nodded and directed me to it without lifting his eyes from his work.

***

The library was situated next to Emrick's study. I'm ashamed to say I tried the door as I passed, unable to resist the temptation of reading his notes and getting the answer to his mystery without waiting around for the man. But I was saved from temptation by a sturdy lock.

Fortunately, the library was not closed to me. A button by the door filled it with light proving that this entire wing had been wired, even if others had not. The room was modest in size, barely larger than the dining room. However, the tightly packed shelves gave it the appearance of being smaller. At a glance, the collection seemed to be oriented to the scientific mind, which suited me just fine. I hoped that with Emrick's prestige and wealth, he might have some of the latest publications, particularly Kingsley's new pamphlet that was only circulating in New York. I'd been desperate to read it and as of yet had not the opportunity to lay hands on one. But these hopes were dashed when I didn't find anything more recent than the venerable Grey's Anatomy. So, I moderated my expectations and hunted for something older and rarer, perhaps Fasciculus Medicinae or De Re Anatomica Libri. Not particularly relevant anymore, no, but of some scholarly interest nonetheless. On this front, luck favored me no better.

In a nook, near the back, I came across a shrine of sorts. Someone, most certainly Emrick, had set up a remembrance on a small table. A plaster death mask sat next to several candles and an alabaster vase. Blooms from the flowers grown in the conservatory had been placed there recently, and a bible stood open to chapter nine of Acts of the Apostles. Although it has been many years since I bothered myself with religious matters, not since the war, I still had a possible acquaintance with the text from my youth. The chapter concerned itself with Saul's conversion, which wasn't typical for an elegy and unlikely to provide solace while mourning.

On the wall above the display, portraits, both painted and photographed, hung from just below eye level and spanned nearly to the ceiling. I noted several of the photos were of the type so popular a generation ago, where a mother would pose with her dead child for posterity.

Thankfully the ghoulish practice had grown out of fashion. Although, not in this household apparently.

Stumbling upon this personal tableau put me ill at ease little different than had I walked in on Emrick in a state of undress. This was not for my eyes. Whatever he had intended here, either a memorial or a place of prayer, it had the aura of the sacred about it. And I had the intense feeling of intrusion on the gentle space.

For although this was quaintly sentimental for a man like Emrick, a person's grief should not be judged. Death touches all of us, whether in the home or on the field. And perhaps, one of these faces whom he mourned was what set him on his path of scientific discovery, just as my service in France had done with me.

Who can stand idly by when Death ravages all in his path? Not only the sick and the aged but those in their prime. Yes, it is then we see what an enemy this force—this creature—truly is. Wasn't it him who I was fighting and not the Huns?

The room grew darker, and the air denser. To my eyes, the walls shifted to the proportions of my little field hospital, a sole lantern swinging from a beam. The smell of necrosis grew thick in the air. The odor seeped into every fiber of cloth and canvas and was the only thing that could conquer the abattoir stench of blood. A rat-a-tat of rifle fire rang outside, only broken by a slow whistle of an inbound grenade.

Owsley. Owsley. I still feel his name burned in my throat.

I grab a shelf for support, waiting for the spell to pass. The vision had not assailed me for many years. Why now, I wondered? I mopped the cold sweat from my brow with my handkerchief. I coughed, foolishly pantomiming a malady should anyone have been watching. But of course, no one was.

Tired and distressed, I returned to my room and waited for sleep to take me.