The Face in the House

27

Before the observation lasted long enough to be considered spying, Malcolm had cleared his throat to announce his presence in the room. Immediately, the mad scientist transformed back into the reserved butler. His muscles tensed, his brow furrowed, and he stood up straight, neglecting his experiments. Can I help you? Poole had asked, not unkindly but not terribly kindly either.

Though the butler hadn't been welcoming, Malcolm was persistent. He wanted to observe the work and keep tabs on his progress. He needed to feel involved, he needed to feel a sense of control over his brother's fate. But if he were more honest with himself, he also felt drawn to Edward Poole, the man behind the letters. He had learned so much about him in writing, he felt like he knew him. He felt like a friend.

So, Malcolm had joined the butler in the basement day after day. At first, he felt like an intruder. He couldn't make himself useful beyond handing the man the wrong tools and washing beakers, so he asked questions. What's that you've got there? What does this thing do? Why are you doing that? His curiosity was too much, but he couldn't help himself.

Poole was surprisingly patient, and though his answers were often short and unhelpful, Malcolm continued to ask. He had a feeling this was the very subject Poole wished to speak about the most, as he hadn't had a friend to share it with for hundreds of years. Plus, he hadn't had much luck talking about the weather.

Each day, the basement felt a little bit warmer.

On this day, Malcolm watched Poole work with a feeling of comfort and routine. Though he had asked many questions, the experiment still made little sense to Malcolm. The butler seemed to do the same small tasks each and every day, with only slightly varying results. Some results seemed to please him, which he would meet with a nod and a scribble in his notebook, while others made his forehead crease with either concern or surprise. Malcolm could never guess which was to come.

Poole was leaning over his current specimen, which was heating on a burner and bubbling with enthusiasm. Suddenly, the beaker started to smoke, and a cloud of putrid sulfuric stench filled the room. It was clearly not the intended reaction. Poole's forehead creased as he removed the beaker from heat and snuffed out the flame. He wiped his brow. It was the third time he had burned the substance.

"What's supposed to happen?" Malcolm dared to ask. He rose from his chair to help the butler clean up the burned mess.

There was no response for a moment, just a deep sigh.

"Well, it's not supposed to burn," Poole said.

"You mean, you don't know what's supposed to happen?" Malcolm said, with an edge he didn't intend to betray.

"It is . . . trial and error at the moment," Poole admitted.

Malcolm's words caught in his throat as he processed this new information. He had been counting on this man to know what to do. He had risked everything, had bet everything on his competence. He had put his trust into Edward Poole, a stranger -- more than a stranger -- a mystery. Owen's life was in his hands, and here he is saying it's trial and error --

The thoughts overwhelmed him, but Poole's voice interjected.

"I warned you from the start that there is no guarantee of success," he said, a bitter truth.

"You also said you were close," Malcolm said, and he hated how childish he sounded, how desperate.

"I believe I am," Poole said. "But this is the hard part. You must understand, my specialty lies in elements. Human physiology was . . . never my strong suit. But I had an associate who was classically trained and I have his notes--"

Poole lifted an old leather journal and handed it to Malcolm. He held it gingerly, as if it were a newborn baby. The leather cover was soft, but the pages within were brittle and yellow with age. Black ink filled the pages, the handwriting elegant and neat. Though the instructions were clear, they meant nothing to Malcolm.

"William," Malcolm whispered.

At first, he thought he'd spoken low enough that the butler hadn't heard him. The basement was silent, thoughtful, for several beats.

"Yes, William Allan. I believe . . . you know of him?" Poole said, finally.

Malcolm had started to think Poole had forgotten about the letters, and that Malcolm had read them. It felt like an imposition now, to have read someone's private correspondence, though at the time he had fully believed them both to be dead.

Malcolm saw years in the butler's dark eyes, centuries behind his forever-youthful face. He could see a sadness, a loneliness. He wondered, if Poole would ever meet his gaze, what he would see in his eyes. Would he see that sadness reflected back at him?

"I wish I could've met him," Malcolm said.

A small smile brushed the butler's lips.

"Many years, and many generations lie between you. And yet . . . I fancy I hear his voice when you speak, I see his shadow where you walk."

The speech surprised him. His hands suddenly felt numb. He set the journal down gently on the table.

Poole cleared his throat and stood up straight, as if remembering himself.

"William came quite close to finding what we need for your brother," he said, gesturing to the journal. "Now, I must finish what he started."