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Of Medics and Magic

A Fallen Angel/Mesmer x Human/Doctor 1x1 RP featuring Oliver Pi as Abigale Regina Elliot and Nintendraw as Gabriel Angelo Navarre.

Please don't post if you weren't named. Otherwise, please enjoy!


Details
Current Day: Monday, Nov 19, 1901
First Meeting: Saturday, Nov 10, 1901

Setting: London, England (Victorian era): Queen Victoria is on the throne; England is effectively at peace with the world. The telegraph and telephone have been invented, as has the gas lamp, allowing for a new record in productivity and interconnectedness (and insomnia). Darwin's Origin of Species upset the world, previously believing the creation and evolution of life to be God's domain alone; and the people turned towards science and pseudoscience to explain everything in life. Psychology, Mesmerism, seances, and the occult bloomed, and the clever con-man very promptly got rich off his more gullible fellows. It was a trying time for academics sifting through the manifold mess the con-men wrought, and also for the angels above, who struggled to keep their demonic brethren in line thanks to the massive upsurge in magic practice and belief augmenting their and their counterparts' powers. Thus the Watchers were created, angels who would protect the humans while on Earth. Though those assigned here carried out their job with aplomb, the distasteful work environment made for a distasteful job that most, thankfully, needed fill only part-time. Most angels could return to the heavens after a preset amount of work. But for the fallen angels, who signed up for the job en masse, this was their one best chance for coming home.

Locations:
  • University of London: Abby's secondary base of operations (her primary is her office), full of academics in all disciplines and a common staging ground for lectures and debate.
  • Whitechapel (The Cauldron): one of various slums lurking between the affluent thoroughfares of London. Approximately a 30-40 minute walk from the university.
  • Elliot, M.D.: Abby's office in Belgravia, inherited from her father.
  • Navarre Mesmerist: Gabe's office in central London. Similar to Freud's, but with fewer statues--just one Jesus crucifixion statue underneath that big, cut-off picture in the middle and a statue each of archangels Gabriel and Raphael, each with folded wings, the former blowing his trumpet and the latter with his left hand clutching a lyre to his chest and his right outstretched towards the sky, where those two busts near the window are. The small red desk next to the main one bears only his nameplate, and behind the bed/chair is a fairly recessed fireplace for coziness. The right unseeable wall has the entry door (behind that is a hallway that also contains the staircase to Gabe's personal quarters), and the left unseeable wall near the window has a giant painting of birds on a purple-gold sunset sky, so that Gabe can stare at it and dream of flight, while his quarters has a vertical pianola.
  • miscellaneous locations: hat shop, park cafe, St. James Theater,


Significant Characters: Red Spearman, MD; Madeleine Boleyn, Countess of Essex;

General Background: Heaven and Hell are enormous repositories/facilities set up to separate the chaotic mixture, known appropriately as Chaos, which birthed the universe and everything in it. Angels are the pure good and Demons the pure bad essence of Chaos; humans, however, are a mix, and both pure entities are supposed to guide them towards ideal sorting as per the Covenant. Angels do their job properly by advising without intervening (they operate through advice/suggestion—direct manipulation, including memory-wipe spells, is taboo) (memories are so interconnected with senses/other memories that memory erasure spells always do some collateral damage); Demons, however, take active roles in tempting man, most notably through coercion and facilities/persons of carnal excesses, ie nightclubs, brothels, bars, prostitutes, etc. Angels are generally much better at reining their own desires in (if, arguably, they have them at all), but they can drive modern humans who know of their existence insane (too much wisdom/etc for man to handle?). The stated reason for why angel-human intimate relations results in Fall for the angel (and severing soul from body for the human) is because it hurts the beings they're supposed to protect and guide. Truthfully, angel-human copulation results in Nephilim, who by virtue of their half-human heritage are susceptible to Demonic wiles (arguably more susceptible than man because [1] their angelic heritage gives them power in the mortal realm and power, to mortals, is corrupting, and [2] Nephilim souls are like iron ores which can be mined for the precious material, in this case Angel essence, by the pure entities--and since Nephilim are almost guaranteed to go to Hell, too many of them would cause Hell to become stronger than Heaven). Indeed, the threat of the Nephilim is the primary reason why humans suspected to have been involved in angel-human copulation are invariably killed--a human spirit cannot carry a baby to term. Female angel caught pregnant or copulating are smited and their essence sent back to Chaos for re-sorting.

Madeleine Background: (…) Gabe rescues Maddy from premature (unappointed by Fate) death, blowing his cover in the process, and when he attempts to disappear and let her forget him with time (because memory spells are taboo—obvious manipulation), she pines after him to the point of insanity. He feels guilty for doing that to her and appears to her once more to tell her to forget him, but she seizes the opportunity to make out with (and more?) him (he’s too surprised to resist) (“and more” could have prompted her subsequent death because Nephilim). He tries to disappear/make her forget him again, but she ultimately wanders into some dark alley(s) looking for him (since, since he appeared to her during her darkest moments, he might do so again this time) and dying due to assault (the irony). Maddy’s obsession with Gabe began after he rescued her because she wanted to thank him for it, but the more he stayed away, the more she romanticized him and fell in love with him and only him. When he didn’t come for her after she died, she waited, then lost hope, then became vengeful. Seeing Abby being friendly with Gabe could very easily set off her disastrous jealous streak, but she could also resent Abby’s richer patients if she sees some of them after retreating from dominance over Abby’s body (maybe possession is energy-costly).

Diseases
Tuberculosis
Affected people of all ages; occurred in all social classes but more frequently among the poor due to overcrowding and poor sanitation
An incurable (at the time, though people could seem to get better) mycobacterial infection known as 'consumption' because of its wasting properties and as the White Plague by older generations, tuberculosis caused people to become thin, sallow, and fatigued. As with any true infection, from the earliest stages sputum would be yellow or green. As it progressed, it may become blood-tinged. The medical philosophy was to send people to sanitariums where they could get fresh air and sunlight to recover, hence all the sanitariums built (particularly in places like Colorado and whatnot). Wealthy people might send their loved ones to institutions to receive such therapy. Resolution of symptoms and "curing" of the individual only meant that the body's immune system and the bacteria had reached a 'stalemate' in which the immune system managed to contain the bacteria within masses of immune cells and tissue (called tubercles!) in the lungs. The bacteria was still alive, and should it escape the tubercle, the person would fall ill again. But some people, even in the modern era, have tubercles and might never know they had TB. Among the wealthy, 'consumption' was sometimes glamorized as a way to die. The suffering was thought to provide enlightenment, while the slow progression allowed people time to make their arrangements. The pulmonary lesions were studied in the first half of the 19th century, a man named Leanne (who invented the stethoscope, I think?, and who died from TB lol oops); his findings were published in 1821 and TB was demonstrated to be contagious in 1869. In 1882, good old Robert Koch (all hail Koch) determined it was spread by infectious agent, and in 1895, the advent of the X-ray allowed doctors to diagnose and track the course of disease and treatment (perhaps what Abigale refers to when she mentions not being able to formally diagnose Sully despite knowing it's TB because of the hallmark symptoms). This wiki has a good bit about the sanatorium movement which was the primary method of treatment. There were no antibiotics or proven medications. No wonder Abby feels so defeated by TB: she can't get her poor patients any kind of fresh air, and because she is a huge believer in the emerging field of microbiology, she doesn't think it's effective anyway. Well, it might be better than the London slums, but because she follows the research and knows that it's spread by microorganism, she knows there is a more effective treatment out there.

Pertussis
It's a respiratory infection that is fairly mild in adults. In fact, had we not been vaccinated, you or I might get it and only ever think we had a cold. It's particularly dangerous for young children and infants, who can cough so terribly that they experience apneic episodes (they stop breathing). It's unlikely that an adult would have it so symptomatically, and also, the threat is from the respiratory distress, not the accumulation of phlegm.

Diphtheria
Common childhood disease; again, like TB, it was a threat to everybody but ran especially rampant in the slums
The formation of a thick, gray, slimy coating of the throat makes breathing hard and can lead to respiratory distress. The thick gray coating is a result of inflammation of the ciliated epithelial cells (mucosa) of the upper respiratory tract that occurs when the bacterium latch to the cells and release an endotoxin. The widespread use of diphtheria toxoid to counteract this pathology would occur until the 1920s. Symptoms include fever and ataxia (weakness). It was very, very dangerous to susceptible populations (the very old and very young; those who were already ill, were immunosuppressed, and didn't have access to any healthcare).

Cholera
THIS WAS THE BIG DADDY OF THE ERA. Affected all ages, and as outbreaks usually began with contaminated food and water sources, it was most likely to occur among the working poor and the desolate within the city's slums-- though it could affect anyone should they come into contact with the bacteria by chance
With hallmark symptoms including fever and profuse diarrhea, cholera is a gastrointestinal bacterial infection that can kill within a day of onset. The ultimate cause of death is severe dehydration. The idea that it emanated from contaminated sources emerged with this. I actually learned about that outbreak in my fav micro class because it had major implications for the field. Fun fun!

Typhoid Mary Fever
Can strike anyone. As with basically everything else, more rampant in areas of poor sanitation due to its fecal-oral transmission, but as evidenced by the reign of terror of Typhoid Mary, it can affect anyone
The etiology and dangers of typhoid fever are well-represented in the true story of Typhoid Mary. Mary was an immigrant to NYC at the end of the 19th c. She found work as a cook for a wealthy family, but moved on to a new family when several members of the household became ill with typhoid fever. Mary herself was never ill, but typhoid followed her wherever she went. When health authorities picked up on the trend of sick (and occasionally dying) wealthy families, Mary resisted their efforts to teach her proper sanitation. She did not appreciate the need for hand-washing and was contaminating the food. I think a couple times she changed her name and/or promised to change but never did and kept getting people sick until she had to be quarantined on North Brother Island in the East River. And by some accounts, her wake was small: there are other similar tales where contaminated cooking cause more sickness and death.

Typhoid was not a certain death sentence, though it could very well be fatal. Maybe like 10-30% died? Probably a greater number among the poor. Symptoms included fever, malaise, abdominal cramping, and constipation. It's actually often caused by salmonella bacteria! Without treatment, the bowel may perforate, resulting in septicemia and certain death. Delirium was common in severe cases. The first vaccine was developed in the 1980s and would have been being actively developed in Abby and Gabe's time.

Scarlet Fever
Common among all classes and especially in children; obvs more common yet among the overcrowded (basically just assume that forever)
Scarlet fever is a post-streptococcal infection, meaning it might arise after any otherwise benign strep infection (like strep throat). While anyone might be infected, it was particularly deadly to the very old and very young. In an outbreak, a family might lose all of their children in days or weeks. It was super super common in kids. Like almost expected sometimes, and it wasn't always fatal, though it was very feared and for good reasons. Symptoms are fever, a red rash of tiny bumps, throat inflammation, and other flu-like symptoms (ashiness, fatigue, etc). Here's a great link for historical context.

Small Pox
Like cholera and scarlet fever, small pox occurred in endemics and pandemics (outbreaks). Thanks to the work of Jenner and his vaccine (which he left unpainted to keep it accessible), smallpox wasn't really a common cause of death by the end of 19th century in London. It continued to affect rural immigrants and communities in the United States, but I believe there was actually legislature mandating a vaccine in the 1870s or something. Some poor people did not receive the help they needed / could not afford it, but thanks to principles similar to the herd immunity we rely on today, it was not a big a monster as others of they day.


RPers Only
Clayderman: Love Song in Winter = Courtship, Clayderman: Lady Di = First Date, Clayderman: Feelings = Love Theme, Torrent: Glimmer of Hope = You're an Angel + Exhilarating First Flight, Onofreiciuc: Beyond the Stars = Guided Tour of the Pantheon/Stars, Phoenix: Starfall ~ Tranquility + Calamity of Hell, Torrent: Before I Leave This World = about to leave,

  • Red's possession by Maddy was undescribed because Abby gets subjected to the same later. Red made a deal with Maddy: he would ruin Gabe/make him go to Maddy and Maddy would do likewise for Abby (via typhoid vaccine hoarding/sabotaging—she’ll do anything for her patients, even go to Red).
    Red thought that magic didn't exist + Gabe's just some dirty Mesmerist whereas Maddy recognized Gabe's true ID, but thought his presence on Earth meant he was neutered, so to speak. How wrong they both (find they) are, during the appointment and the Big Reveal...
  • Furious that she lost to Gabe, Maddy makes a Faustian pact with a demon (in Whitechapel?) to gain the power necessary to fight Gabe and kill Abby—at this point, her relationship with Red becomes nonconsensual; she’s in control. (Perhaps after the pact has taken place, "This has gone too far!" > "You can't stop me now, human!") Maddy!Red begins sabotaging typhoid by stealing the supply and/or by using her new demon powers to remove or reverse the vaccine’s effects in order to ruin Abby and get her away from Gabe (and perhaps back to Red). If both, only the administered vaccines (that Maddy knows about) can be subjected to effect reversal—the hoarded vaccines are safe.
  • Following the appointment but before Abby goes to Whitechapel (too many times) to treat her typhoid vaccine patients, Gabe tells Abby that something is very off about Red (he’s alarmed by the unexpected amount of resistance to his memory erasure and possibly to his healing too) and asks to keep an eye on her. If she refuses (“I can take care of myself!” = original defensiveness + now she’s really falling for Gabe), he’ll do it anyway.
  • Angry that her typhoid vaccine isn’t working (a cover for her [irrational?] guilt that her refusal to help Red ruin Gabe is causing more typhoid), Abby goes alone to Whitechapel to treat them. (Unbeknownst to her, Gabe follows her.) There, she is attacked by a super-violent/murderous Red (aka Maddy). Gabe shows up just in the nick of time to exorcise Red (again causing Maddy’s ejection and causing Red to fall unconscious—he hasn’t had control of his body in a little while), but doing so causes him to reveal himself as an angel to Abby. Gabe checks up on Red first since he was knocked unconscious after being evicted of such a powerful spirit (“He’s unconscious, but breathing; thank goodness.”) and then turns to Abby (“You alright?”)… conveniently forgetting that he’s winged and hovering over the ground. Cue "WTF ARE YOU". All of a sudden, Gabe’s strange quirks make sense to Abby—his affinity for birds, his religiousness, any strange words he remembers him saying, the aerial-view art of the secret Thames, how badly he was affected by healing the TB patient (and that he was able to heal them at all)… Since Abby befriended/began falling for him without knowing his power, she won’t ever love him for that alone—his doing something so dramatic to protect her makes her wonder if he cares for her in return, since he’s been careful about not reciprocating any feelings for her (perhaps this was something even HE didn’t know about)
  • Stuff, probably including more dates and more spiritual/romantic/backstory-related talks. After detailing the first (or second?) or a specific type of date (ie cafe, film, show, Burlesque/Vaudeville, train ride to country, flight to mountains/lake/country alongside birds and such), we don’t have to detail them, though we should at least plan them out prior to execution: "Hey, I think this is a good time for a date; what sort of date should it be" or "Maybe they should talk about such-and-such over Date X; what would Gabe and Abby learn about each other?" This interim would be a really good time for the last three unsorted bullets to happen—maybe Abby could start reading the Bible after he mentions it a number of times in order to try and see if there's a way around his whole "I can't allow myself to be more than friends with you because of how I got here in the first place" beef. (He may be more cryptic about it than that, hence the "I am but an agent of the Lord" line.)
  • Maddy comes for Abby through some event. Once Maddy is using Abby's body, she doesn't necessarily want to eliminate her anymore (lest she lose the vehicle keeping her close to Gabe); thus, her ultimate game plan would be to seduce Gabe > announce herself as Maddy (so that she wins his love, gets him to forget about Abby and prioritize her instead) > etc. Since Maddy fell in love with Gabe for his (angelic) power, she might try physically endangering Abby (not to the point of death, though, to keep her vehicle alive?) in order to provoke him out. It wouldn't get that far because Abby would momentarily break through to ask for help (via an Animiorphs-like "vehicle with two drivers" method).
  • Maddy-Abby x Gabe drama ensues, perhaps begun with Maddy’s subtle teasing/seduction tactics (aided by the fact that Gabe knows nothing of Abby’s flirting tactics). Maybe Maddy tries to steer Gabe away from Mesmerism/Abby (in case she can’t crush Abby’s soul) while also putting Abby(‘s body) in danger (to draw out the powerful hero side she loves). This may be where Abby learns more about Maddy and Gabe. Maddy-Abby may try to win Gabe over so that she can stay in Abby’s body (especially if that involved trying to get him to forget about Abby/dislike her)… and then whether he resisted or it was her plan all along, she’d pounce and try to get him back for leaving her alone (to die so horribly). If Maddy is driven to sabotage Gabe, she could attempt to (break his resistance to getting too involved with another mortal) secure his banishment to Hell by making him repeat his mistake with her in Abby’s body. Alternatively, she wants Gabe for herself, rather than to sabotage him, and that requires getting rid of Abby for good (which could make Red’s assault physically as well as sexually violent).
  • Somehow (perhaps Maddy lets spill one of her, not Abby’s memories, OR Abby regains control of her body long enough to plead Gabe to cleanse her [of this malicious spirit]), Gabe figures out the jig and exorcises her for good. . Especially after Abby comes back, Gabe now absolutely has to explain Maddy, himself/ wtf he’s doing on Earth as a Mesmerist of all things, and (possibly depending on whether actual demons were dragged in—London could just be a relative safe zone), the whole deal with angels, demons, and Watchers. The demon business could potentially intensify post-Maddy too.
  • Vague endgame things: All I could ever come up was either Gabe parts ways with the girl (never fleshed out whether he'd regain his angel status by this point in time; he could very well just cart his mortal arse off to the boonies somewhere); gives up immortality to be with her; or dies for her (which could theoretically cause him to be reborn into Heaven, so he could still watch over her as her angel); or the girl could even commit suicide to join him in Heaven (this was only ever mentioned in one run of the original Fall from Grace). If relationships are what carries into Heaven, there is a possibility for a happy resolution: Gabe ties himself to Abby as her guardian angel (whether she loves him for him, him as God's proxy, or God is WAY in the future XD), and when she dies, she joins him in Heaven.


  • On joint medical outings, Gabe introduces himself as Dr. Angelo to avoid Abby's disdain for his Mesmerist title; but should it ever come up that she's lost more patients to him and he used a different name, she'll just be more annoyed and is likely to initially interpret that as further scheming. Any patients she loses to him, however, are more likely to be of the upper or middle class.
  • "You aren't the Madeleine I knew. My protege would never exploit others for selfish ends." Relates to demon-Maddy.
  • “Please eat. I know you don’t need it, but it makes me feel awkward to be the only one of us eating.”
  • “I am but an agent of the Lord, not the Lord Himself… If you must direct your affections somewhere, give them to Him.” (Probably sometime after Gabe shows himself. Perhaps the reply would be something related to Jesus's coming down to Earth? Even so, that was still purportedly God in human form; but then again, IF I can execute it right, Gabe could still play the forgiving teacher role He played.)
  • If God is forgiving and all-loving, maybe putting Gabe on Earth was a way to teach him how to know when he should resist relations with a human, as opposed to putting him in temptation’s way. Maddy loved Gabe for his power as an angel (understandable because the first time he appeared to her, it was as an otherworldly, omnipotent being), but Abby grows to love Gabe for him (since regardless of his motivations, he has, up to the Big Reveal, only presented himself as human). Gabe doesn’t realize the former—only remembers the fiancée—and tries to keep Abby away once he realizes she loves him (thinking the same [that she too has a betrothed]—they never broach the subject of marriage until later/at some critical point).
  • If adultery is a sin and adultery means trysts with a married person, perhaps Maddy had been seeking Gabe out in lieu of her betrothed (who broke off relations with her later due to what he perceived to be insanity on her part) precisely because she fell in love with that power she perceived in him, but Gabe misremembers it as he sought her out despite the fiancee (and, particularly, didn't resist when he finally got her) and therefore committed a sin. Maybe the fiancee broke up with Maddy sometime between Gabe's first and second appearances before her—between that timeframe, Gabe would have been trying to stay away from Maddy in order to make her forget him and not lose herself pining away for him. Not QUITE sure how he'll figure out the fiancee breakup unless Maddy tells him outright during the Maddy (through Abby) x Gabe drama—but if it happens that way, she'll probably spin her words so that the poor angel will probably first think that she loves him for him and not for his power. (Now how will he be broken of THAT belief, I wonder... Perhaps this will be Abby's job.)

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                                                        location: Navarre Mesmerist > University of London
                                                        company: Marquess Annette > no one


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                                                        “That’s it. Breathe slowly; in and out. Still your mind as I draw this malaise out of you.”

                                                        The blonde spoke softly, his voice almost harmonizing with Johannes Brahms’s Lullaby emanating from the radio as he traced a path up the woman’s spine from the small of her back to the top of her head, rubbing extra patterns behind her ribcage where the lungs resided. He always began from the backside, and never lower than the waist unless conditions specifically called for it. Marquess Annette’s social standing was not such a condition. Let the more lecherous in this profession delude themselves thus. He knew full well the imprecations that awaited him should he dally in such ways. As his hands approached her larynx, Gabriel set aside his magnets and closed his eyes. Energy pulsed through his fingertips from him to her; only the most observant of humans would notice the warm and gentle glow that seemed to suffuse the point of contact. At the same time, he began squeezing his patient’s neck softly, gently. Massages, he knew, relaxed the muscles and the mind; and at any rate, it helped disguise the true source of his power.

                                                        In a world where men had trouble defining the line between fantasy and reality, between medicine and magic, Gabriel Navarre was a rarity: He was one of few mesmerists in all of London who was not in any way a fraud. An angel from the fifth sphere, he had been sent to Earth in 1820 to defend his charge, the late Madeleine Beau, future Countess of Essex. She’d been such a delicate, gullible thing—had it not been for his intervention, she would have been slain at the hands of a man whom she’d believed had loved her. Unfortunately for him, her shock at her own foolishness soon gave way to insanity, and when he’d appeared before her once more to steer her away from self-destruction, she’d latched onto him and doomed them both. However much he might want to forget, he still remembered vividly the feel of her flesh on his, her heady breaths in his ear, and of course, the consummation.

                                                        As the receiver of sin, he’d been demoted to the third sphere, home of the intemperate. As provocateuress, she had been damned. The last he’d heard of her was that Madeleine’s body had been found in an alleyway, violated and alone.

                                                        Heaven had a cruel sense of irony, he’d decided long ago. Madeleine had ruined them both through her own lack of temperance, and she’d perished due to another’s privation of the same.

                                                        By the time the girl died, England was thoroughly caught up in the wonders of pseudoscience. Thanks to Darwin’s revelation that life, rather than being shaped by the Lord’s will, was molded by natural forces, men and women throughout London were eager to prove anything and everything a product of science… and whatever they could not ground in reality, they grounded in the occult. Heaven and Hell alike profited from man’s reckless forays into magic until the Guardians who monitored Earth from above could no longer keep the demons at bay. Thus the Watchers were born, angels masquerading as humans to defend man against Lucifer’s agents.

                                                        For most of the Heaven-born, this was only a part-time job. For Gabriel, however, the job was permanent.

                                                        He had no idea when his sentence would end, had given up hope on such a time arriving soon. Be it due to his Fall or to his years on Earth, it taxed him now to exert himself magically beyond whatever was needed to maintain his position here in Westminster. But the Lord had his reasons, he knew; and if nothing else, demons still prowled the streets. And so he maintained his lonely vigil, all the while trying his best to blend in. Would that he could use a less stigmatized occupation to do it, but he knew from experience that the mesmerist’s patients were the ones most likely to be tainted by demons. The archangels had yet to discover from whence they came, so all they could do was combat the problem at its periphery.

                                                        The woman shifting slightly beneath his tightened grip brought him back to the present, reminded him that he still had a patient to tend to. He had lingered overlong on the nape of her neck, and despite the healing trance he had put her in, she was growing uncomfortable. Brows furrowing at his own distraction, Gabriel slid his fingertips behind her ears and up her neck, massaging her head swiftly before releasing it two fingers at a time until his hands were steepled above her wavy chestnut updo. “The humors have been aligned,” he told her. “Your cough shan’t grieve you anymore.”

                                                        Her eyes opened languidly, and she gave him a vacant smile. “Oh, thank you, Dr. Navarre,” she cooed. “I feel so much better now.”

                                                        “Think nothing of it, my dear. And now, I would request your payment, if you don’t mind.”

                                                        Without rising from the chair, the young marquess, still smiling, retrieved her purse and poked her dainty fingers inside. After a moment, she handed him several banknotes. Gabriel quickly looked them over and nodded. Thirty-five shillings. She’d given him a tip—how unusual for a first customer.

                                                        He hated to think how many charlatans had grown wealthy through this precise scheme.

                                                        Marquess Annette lingered overlong in his chair, and when he gently but firmly propelled her towards the door, she turned and blew him a kiss. The angel’s cheeks colored slightly, and he shut the door a tad swifter than was strictly necessary. Humans went to such lengths to cultivate beauty in themselves; yet more often than not, Gabriel found his own to be an annoyance. Certainly, otherworldly beauty helped draw in customers (and he would prefer those customers here where he would actually help them, rather than at some crook’s doorstep), but the more physical attraction his patients held for him on the whole, the harder it would ultimately be for him to resist. He had already fallen once by giving in. Best not give in again, so long as he could still regain his place in Heaven.

                                                        As he walked back towards his desk, his gaze fell upon the grandfather clock nearby. Four PM—wasn’t there a seminar scheduled for the University of London at this time? If he remembered correctly, the speaker was Miss Abigale Elliot, daughter of Sir Bernard Elliot, director of the university’s medical department until his untimely demise not too long ago. Unusually, she had chosen to follow in his footsteps rather than defer to more feminine vocations such as sewing or pottery. The angel had only ever met her father, never her, so he had to admit that he was curious as to how she would uphold her father’s profession.

                                                        Thirty minutes left. If he was to arrive on time, he had to leave now. Donning a silk top hat, he tied his golden hair into a low ponytail that he tucked into the neck of his crisp tailcoat and stepped outside.
                                                        ***

Tipsy Conversationalist

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                                        location University of London, School of Medicine
                                        company lots of doctors


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                                        In one of the dusty cathedral-like lecture halls of the University of London, Abigale Elliot stood facing a sizable crowd of sharply dressed academics, all of whom were men. Some gazes were engaged, some critical; others still were downright undesirable. The young woman of twenty-four worked tirelessly to perpetuate a strictly professional image: she wore a carefully chosen dress that was attractive but very plain and had pinned her long dark hair neatly at the nape of her neck. She wore no makeup and even went so far as to insist that she be referred to as "A.B. Elliot" within the medical community to avoid any presumptions about her 'weaker sex.'

                                        As she ignored the leer of a mustachioed man in the furthest row, Abigale felt her efforts were all for naught and that she would have done no better to distract the audience from her gender had she shown up in a potato sack. Nonetheless, she delivered her lecture flawlessly and with the passion of a minister preaching to his congregation. Ultimately, the doctor cared more about her research of patent medicines than the uncouth imaginings of certain gentlemen.

                                        "And in conclusion, the doctor who willingly and enthusiastically pastes his face on the box of a medicinal oil, balm, or salve is nothing more than a predatory businessman. The word 'proprietary' should be a warning to all those looking for an answer to their maladies. My fellow physicians, it is our duty to inform the vulnerable populace of the dangers that lurk in the miracle cures lining the shelves of their chemist's shop.

                                        Dr. Wild's Snake Salve, which I have shown to be the equivalent of household spices, will certainly not be the last threat to the integrity of medicine. These charlatans claim the cure to everything from cholera and tuberculosis to minor aches; their promises fall on weary, eager ears. In the company of such snakes, we must continue to encourage the practice evidence-based therapies so that our patients do not fall prey to greedy tricks."


                                        Her words were met with a reassuring chorus of applause.

                                        "The esteemed Dr. A. B. Elliot, gentlemen," the Dean of Medicine gestured as he stepped forward to relieve Abigale from her place at the mahogany lectern. "Thank you for your always-keen insight and admirable devotion to our profession, doctor." The dean, Dr. Edmund Carver, had been a life-long friend of her father and a strong supporter of her own studies. His eyes were kind as they fell upon her and she knew his praise was genuine. She tried to find comfort in that.

                                        Her father, the prolific Dr. Bernard Elliot, had been a respected and beloved member of London's medical community and a pillar of the university. Thanks to him, Abigale had practically grown up in the courtyards and libraries here; this very lecture hall had hosted many an afternoon nap in her childhood. The senior Dr. Elliot had always insisted that his daughter receive a premier education and never discouraged her from studying medicine. In fact, until his unexpected death just months ago, he and Abigale had worked side-by-side.

                                        With her father gone, the young, female physician felt alone; she worried that without his influence, she would lose the esteem of the profession she so admired. There was a reason she was the only female physician present today. Would she last?

                                        ... ... ...


                                        That afternoon, as the series of seminars drew to a close, the positive feedback she earned from her peers did little to suppress her growing self doubt. The last man to shake her hand was Red Spearman, a brash young physician who frequently articulated the unspoken opinions of the far more polite masses.

                                        "At this point, Dr. A. B. Elliot, can we not just assume that there is no credibility to any of the patent cures? Or are you truly predicating your expertise on the arduous, painfully boring task of discrediting each and every one of the hundreds of bottles that line the chemists’ shelves?” Even the way Spearman said her name was patronizing. Their handshake was long and exaggerated.

                                        Abigale's sharp gray eyes narrowed. "And may I ask what you contributed to the series today, Dr. Spearman?" Her efforts to be cordial failed.

                                        "Oh, today I was a mere observer. But I assure you that when I next present, my work will be unparalleled. I can also promise that it will be wholly original; not a mere shadow of my father's already forgotten contributions to the medicine." His words were venomous.

                                        ... ... ...


                                        As the crowd dispersed and the likes of Spearman settled into the gentlemen's club to smoke and bicker, Abigale prepared herself for the trip back to her home office in Hyde Park, where she was to take an evening appointment with one of her longest-established clients, Marquess Annette. Though she'd rather die before exhibit any weakness in Spearman's presence, she could not shake his message. In her heart, she felt he was right. Today's seminar had been intelligent and eloquently delivered, but it was strikingly similar to the last two she had given.

                                        As she retrieved her cloak and satchel, a steward approached to deliver an envelope before retreating just as suddenly. She recognized her name on the front as written in the hand of the Marquess' housekeeper. Quickly, Abigale skimmed the flowery note for pertinent information.

                                              The Marquess is no longer in need of your attention this evening. While she sends her regrets regarding the cancelled engagement, she is happy to report that she has been absolutely cured by the Mesmerist Gabriel Navarre. Additionally, the Marquess wishes to inform you of her intention to pursue his services in the future, should any need arise.


                                        She did not read further, instead opting to crumple the fine stationery in her fist. The Marquess and her family had been utilizing the Elliots' medical practice for nearly two generations. Abigale would be damned if she was about to let them entrust their health to some unproven Mesmerist with an exotic name.

                                        "Something has got to be done," she muttered under her breath, fueling the anger that Spearman's earlier words had incited. She began to hatch a plan: one that might just solve both of her present conundrums.



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                                        ooc none

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                                                        Despite his expectations, Gabriel found himself listening to Dr. Elliot’s words with an odd mixture of disappointment and irritation. Living as close as he did to the university grounds, ever with an ear for the healing arts, he knew almost as well as any physician that Miss Abigale’s father was well-renowned for more than denouncing quackery. In his earlier days, Bernard Elliot had been instrumental in propagating Florence Nightingale’s sanitation policies throughout London, and besides patenting many regularly-practiced procedures, made sure that every patient of his, rich or poor, received the same high standard of care. The daughter, by comparison seemed somehow lacking. Certainly, her denunciation of Dr. Wild’s snake salve was very well thought-out, but somehow, he’d expected her to announce something new. Was this her first lecture, or a first in a series? It seemed that he would need to attend more of these in order to find out.

                                                        He briefly considered meeting up with her afterwards to discuss her father and her, but as the talk wore on, Gabriel couldn’t help but feel as if some of her ire towards the snake salve was more personal and broadly aimed. The venom evident in her voice as she spoke of the charlatans who tainted the integrity of medicine stung, for although he did not consider himself a friend of such crooks (indeed, he’d earned a handful of enemies through what they believed to be failure on his part to disclose his practices to them), his earthly occupation was nevertheless the same as theirs, so he couldn’t help but feel some affinity towards the mesmerists she decried.

                                                        When the crowd of academics dispersed, he promptly lost himself and Abigale in their midst. As he pushed and apologized his way past the departing gentlemen, he could hear several of them discussing Dr. Elliot’s lecture.

                                                        “Did that seminar remind you of one of Mister Elliot’s?”

                                                        “Yes; and one of his later ones to boot.”

                                                        “Of all her father’s accomplishments she could have chosen to expound upon, she chose snake oil. How disappointing.”

                                                        “Ha! Is she even capable of furthering our trade?”


                                                        While part of Gabriel wanted to defend Miss Elliot—by denouncing charlatanry, she was helping warn the public against one of the wiles of Hell!—he couldn’t do it so long as part of him still agreed with those men. That was another reason why he wanted to speak with her if he got the chance. And so, wordlessly, he continued pushing his way through the throng.

                                                        But try as he might, by the time the angel arrived in front of the lectern, Abigale Elliot was nowhere to be found. Dean Edmund Carver greeted him in her stead. “Hello, sir,” he said. “How may I help you today?”

                                                        “Pardon me, Dr. Carver,” Gabriel answered with a quick doff of his hat. “I was looking for Dr. A.B. Elliot. Did you happen to see where she got off to?”

                                                        “Wanted to ask her a question? You’ll have to hurry, Sir…”

                                                        “Angelo, Doctor,” he said, answering the dean’s unspoken question. “Gabriel Angelo.” It would be unwise to give his mortal surname here to a leader of physicians now that it was one of the forefront names of the Mesmerist movement.

                                                        “Sir Angelo. Yes.” Dr. Carver nodded towards the door on his right. “As I said, you’ll have to hurry. She is already on her way out, I’m afraid.”

                                                        “Thank you, Doctor. Good day to you.”

                                                        As he left, Gabriel was thankful that Carver hadn’t pried more deeply into his relation to Elliot. Though he doubted the other man would have investigated if he’d claimed to be a patient of hers, the truth of the matter was that he had no real connection to her, other than curiosity due to her father having been such a great physician. At least, that was what he thought until he saw the note.

                                                        As he started down the corridor Carver had indicated, the ultrafine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was approaching him from behind at far too fast a clip. But no sooner had he begun to turn to intercept them than they slammed into his shoulder, causing him to stagger slightly.

                                                        “Oh! My apo—”

                                                        But by then, whoever it was had long passed him by. “—logies,” he finished, lamely.

                                                        Gabriel was surprised to note that the person he’d bumped into was a woman. Her shoulder had crashed into his upper arm rather than his shoulder, so she had to be a fair number of centimeters shorter than he; and she was dressed in a plain off-shoulder dress, the skirt of which was puffed in back and dusted her ankles, and short pumps. Her long hair, previously braided and draped in front of her chest, bounced wildly up and down on her shoulder, almost flying, such was her pace. Was that Dr. Abigale Elliot? What had happened, to leave her so flustered?

                                                        The angel stared after her for a few moments longer until she disappeared out the door. So much for asking her that question. Before he could follow her out onto the street towards his office, he caught sight of a crumpled piece of paper on the floor beside his shoe. It had straightened out slightly when it fell, such that he could see flowery cursive written within. Had Miss Elliot dropped this in her haste? Perhaps he should return it to her if he got the chance—but then again, seeing as it was crumpled, perhaps she would not want it back. Kneeling, he plucked the note up off the floor, straightened it out, and began to read. One word caught his eye, and made his blood run cold.

                                                        The marquess is no longer in need of your attention this evening. While she sends her regrets regarding the cancelled engagement, she is happy to report that she has been absolutely cured by the mesmerist Gabriel Navarre.

                                                        Marquess? He had seen only one by that title today. So Lady Annette was to be Miss Elliot’s patient after this seminar. That she’d stormed off with this note in her hands could only mean one thing: She was going to find his office and denounce him.

                                                        Ha. Let her try. But while Gabriel wasn’t worried in the slightest that Dr. Elliot could successfully discredit him (after all, he was certain that he was the only honest ‘charlatan’ in Central London), he was concerned about what sort of damage she might wreak if she found his office unattended. The angel imagined the venom in her words, turned to physical destruction as she tore through his establishment. He had to get back there before she did, if for nothing more than to defend himself. Stuffing the note into his pocket, he set off as a brisk pace, heading towards Navarre Mesmerist.

                                                        At least Abigale Elliot wouldn’t have a clue where his office was at first. Her father was just as against his mortal practice as she.



                                                        When he finally unlocked the door to his office, Gabriel was much relieved to find it exactly as he’d left it. The desk was still in order; the statues of Jesus and the archangels still fixed him with marbled stares; and the painting behind his desk depicting a flock of doves in the sunset still hung there, tantalizing as any dream. The only thing out of place was the rumpled covers on his patient’s chair: He hadn’t had the time to straighten them out between the marquess's departure and Elliot's lecture. The angel hung his top hat and coat on the clothes-stand next to the window and then moved to straighten the sheets. He preferred his office to be neat and orderly, after all.

                                                        As he switched the radio on and returned to his desk, a sudden knock at the door startled him. Who was it this time? Another walk-in patient? “Just a moment,” Gabriel called, rising from his desk.

                                                        When he opened the door, he was momentarily stunned to see the same woman from before standing there. This was unmistakably Bernard’s daughter; she was the spitting image of him from what he could tell from the portraits he'd seen; and what's more, she was the same woman he'd bumped into in the university corridors not too long ago. She wore the same dress and pumps as she had on the lectern, and her long brown hair, though returned to its proper place in front of her chest, was the same length and hue. He thought he could still detect the hint of a frown in her features and hoped, albeit halfheartedly, that the hostility was not aimed at him. “Dr. Abigale Elliot,” he said. By his tone, it was more a statement than a question. “I heard that you were presenting today at the University of London,” he added hastily, lest she realize that he had been in attendance. “Please, come in. What a pleasant surprise to have you here.”

                                                        In his final statement was the unspoken question: What are you doing here?
                                                        ***
                                                        (Dress shape referenced from Wikipedia.)

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                                        At her home in Hyde Park, Abigale retreated to her bedroom and found herself face-to-face with her mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashing. A few deep breaths to calm herself. Her housekeeper gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and a wordless vote of confidence before leaving her to her peace.

                                        She felt utterly stupid, primarily for letting Red Spearman undermine her good judgment... but also in a much larger, more vague sense, for presenting yet again on some quack medicine when she knew she was capable of so much more. In truth, Abigale was as gifted an academic and physician as the senior Dr. Elliot. Her patients knew that. But she found herself clinging desperately to the work that her father would never get to finish.

                                        With a sigh, she let her hair tumble down from it's neat knot and ran her fingers through it. It was the only semblance of traditional femininity that she truly cared for; her mother, long deceased, had always loved her hair. With deft hands, she pulled her tresses into a relaxed plait over her right shoulder.

                                        Abigale set out to soften her look and refreshed her face with a splash of rosewater. She opted to remain in her current dress, a linen number with an attractive silhouette and a light gray color that matched her keen eyes. In dusty stacks on her closet shelf were various hat boxes, each one a generous gift from various friends or family, from far away places like Paris and New York. Unfortunately, she hated gaudy hats. Not one of the boxes had been ever disturbed. Instead, on her way out, she plucked a worn-but-quality black bowler from her vanity and situated it carefully atop her head.

                                        Once she'd ascertained the address of the culprit Mesmerist, it was time to see what and who exactly had charmed the Marquess out of receiving legitimate medical care.

                                        ... ... ...


                                        When she arrived at the office, she was surprised by what she saw. It seemed a more reputable location than most; there were no sandwich boards on the sidewalk seducing the masses or shameless banners in the window. From the outside, it looked a bit like her own Piccadilly office. Even from the doorstep she could hear a soft piano tune wafting down from an upstairs window.

                                        Abigale gently tapped on the door, mentally preparing. She felt far more nervous than she ever did at a seminar or lecture. Undercover reconnaissance was not exactly her area of expertise: she'd never gone this far. For a moment, she wondered whether she was being altogether neurotic. Having already committed, the young doctor shrugged the thought away and pressed a hand against the small of her back as if in mild distress. Hello there, I'm Ms. Regina Williams. I'm hoping you can help me; I've really done myself in, as you can see... she rehearsed.

                                        Awful acting aside, if she had left the university an angry mess, Abigale was now of entirely different countenance. She had abandoned the purposely-severe demeanor that protected her from most gentlemen trying to chat up a lovely bit o jam. Though although she seemed much more authentic in her current state, she could not hide the slight concentrated frown that crossed her face as she repeated her opening line in her head.

                                        The door finally opened and it was quickly evident that her farce was moot. A tall man stood before her: young, blonde, and apparently as surprised as she was. God, his face was awfully symmetric.

                                        "Dr. Abigale Elliot," the man said, eyebrow raised, though he was not asking for confirmation. Lost for words, it was all she could do to nod in acknowledgement. As if a gentleman herself, she removed her hat and held it firmly against her chest, stepping inside the office as he beckoned her in. The gesture gave her just enough time to gather her wits. It didn't strike her as terribly odd that he'd heard of her lecture at the University, though she was curious as to why a self-proclaimed Mesmer wanted anything to do with academics-- and she was certainly made uncomfortable by his on-sight recognition.

                                        "Dr. Elliot to you," she responded rather sharply. Then, flinching as if remembering something forgotten, she sighed shortly. "Or simply Elliot, since I intend to be your patient." Despite her notoriously direct manner, Abigale couldn't seem to look him in the eye. Instead, she stepped past him and into his office, surveying her surroundings.

                                        The statues were a bit theistic for her taste, but the gentle notes coming from the piano above were pleasant. There was a vividly woven throw over the chaise, to which she assumed she would soon be directed. The sun filtered in through the tall windows despite the heavy red drapes and dust swirled in the beams of light that stretched across the wooden floor. Handsome artwork hung from the picture rails. It was a comfortable space, though she would not admit it aloud.

                                        In an effort to regain control of the situation, Abigale took a seat on the chaise, legs crossed, hat in lap, and looked expectantly toward the Mesmer. "I am in need of help; is that not what you profess to do? Doctor .....?" She waited for him to introduce himself, meanwhile willing herself to resist her nervous habit of toiling with the edges of the weary bowler.


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                                        ooc

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                                                        He had caught her off-guard; that much was apparent in her body language. Any words she had on her lips died the moment he uttered her name, her proper name; and it seemed to him that she held her bowler hat rather stiffly against her chest as she stepped over the threshold. Not to mention that such an act was commoner on a gentleman than a lady.

                                                        She certainly regained her fire quickly enough, though. “That’s Doctor Elliot to you,” she retorted sharply once she’d passed him by. The angel’s hand froze upon the doorknob. The venom he’d heard from her onstage had not diminished with time, it seemed—but then again, he shouldn’t have been surprised. To her, he must represent all the quackery in London and Britain—and the fact that he’d evidently stolen one of her patients didn’t help matters at all. The lady doctor promptly surprised him, however, by sighing shortly. “Or simply Elliot,” she said, “since I intend to be your patient today.”

                                                        Elliot? Just Elliot? Human societal standards dictated that everyone but lovers and children addressed themselves with title, and surname if not full. While her surname was not her given name, it still felt very strange and informal for him to refer to her as just that, especially since this was technically their first meeting. His internal debate lasted only for as long as it took him to shut the door (granted, he was doing so much more slowly than normal); the sound of the doorknob clicking masked his resigned sigh.

                                                        Before he could open his mouth to speak, however, Elliot had already seated herself on the patient’s chair and was facing him expectantly. “I am in need of help,” she confided. “Is that not what you profess to do, Doctor…?”

                                                        “Navarre, Ms. Elliot. Sir Gabriel Navarre.” His omission of the title she’d given him was silent acknowledgement of—and, dare she think, agreement with—the disdain with which academics regarded mesmerists. If he too were mortal, he would have opted to enter the same profession as he—but with the demon threat ever looming, this was the most effective way to keep watch over Central London, and London at large. Oddly enough, his words seemed to make the woman uncomfortable, and seeing her uncomfortable made him uncomfortable too. Had he been wrong to change his title? No; he’d seen how eagerly she’d attacked his fellow frauds onstage. That couldn’t be it. Could it be that he’d referred to her inappropriately…?

                                                        Gabriel shook his head. Now was not the time to lose himself in semantics. He had a job to do. Pulling up a chair, he sat down next to her so that they were more or less eye to eye. “Very well then. What brings you here to me, Ms. Elliot?” he asked.

                                                        There was nothing she should need from him. After all, she was a reputable physician, much like her father before her. Real medical personnel need not call charlatans to cure their ailments. The doctor’s arrival could only be a test of his abilities—one that he intended to pass with flying colors, no pun intended.

                                                        Again, he thought he saw the ghost of a grimace flit across her features, but when she pointed to her back, Gabriel wondered if the expression were merely related to that. “It’s my lower back, Doctor Navarre,” she answered, her voice just a bit too strained for belief. “I must have overexerted myself today. Something in there just won’t stop hurting.”

                                                        Hmph. So she too insisted on using his incorrect title.

                                                        Two could play at that game.

                                                        … Why in the world was he being so petty?

                                                        By now, it was quite obvious to the both of them that this whole visit was nothing more than a sham, but the angel knew that if he turned her away now, she would only go on to declaim him as just as ineffective as the rest. How ironic, he mused, a wry smile playing across his lips. The doctor pays a fraudulent visit to expose a fraudulent fraud.

                                                        He wiped the smile from his face a moment later, lest Elliot think he was toying with her.

                                                        In the background, the radio droned on with Franz Liszt’s Liebestraum Number 3: Love Dream. He tensed. There was nothing inherently wrong with that Hungarian’s song, Gabriel knew, but it had entirely the wrong connotation. Would that he had the power to change the current broadcast, but even angels were not omnipotent. Hopefully Ms. Elliot recognized neither the song nor its second name. She didn’t look like one of those romantics who listened to piano songs based solely on whether their titles were romantic as well.

                                                        “I see,” he said slowly. “I am sorry to hear that.” He gestured towards the head of the patient chair. “Why don’t you lay down on your stomach right here, Ms. Elliot? I’ll take care of it; don’t you worry. Just close your eyes and breathe slowly…”

                                                        The young doctor readily complied, albeit with less fervor than the marquess Annette had before her. Gabriel wondered if she was still watching him as he retrieved his magnets and bent over her. … Why in the world was he being so paranoid? Right now, he was doctor and she was patient. Anything else was pure speculation until firmly proven.

                                                        Just as he had with Marquess Annette, the angel began his routine from the small of her back and worked his way up. Elliot had claimed that her pain originated from the lower back; thus, he was obligated to start a little lower than usual, but Gabriel made sure to keep his magnets—and by extension, his hands—above her skirt line. (Even if he’d wanted to, he was fairly certain that that poofed skirt of hers would prevent any such shenanigans from all but the most determined… and those individuals shouldn’t even be practicing.) As he wove small spiral patterns up her back, he could feel the tension throughout her muscles. So she hadn’t entirely been faking when she claimed to have lower back pain. During his time as a mesmerist, he’d learned that sometimes, general pain would seem to manifest worst at one particular location and that sometimes an entire region of the body was to blame.

                                                        Having primed her body with the magnets (or so he told anyone who asked how he did it), Gabriel set them aside on the floor next to his chair. “I’ve aligned your humors,” he told her, his soft voice once again seeming to glide alongside the music. “I will now draw the pain without you.”

                                                        With that, he began massaging her, surely and gently, again making sure to keep above the skirt line. As he kneaded the knots out of her muscles, his palms became suffused with a pale gold aura. To the dulcet tones of Liszt, he withdrew her pain and negative feelings into himself, replacing them with health and calm. Every action had a reaction, every cause its effect. Whenever the angel cured his patients of malaise, he was actually drawing that malaise into himself. Most humans would be aghast to cure their fellows in such a way; but for magic beings, this was the only way. Besides, even fallen, his heavenly constitution prevented him from contracting their mortal illness himself, so long as he rested afterwards to reduce the risk of that happening. There was a reason why he never took patients after supper. Fortunately, everyone he’d seen today had had only minor complaints. No one had walked in complaining of tuberculosis or typhoid. He shouldn’t need to rest any more than three hours to dissipate mere muscle aches, and that was being conservative. The rest of the time most humans spent sleeping, he could use to patrol the streets.

                                                        Gabriel worked his way gradually up from her lower back to her shoulders. As expected, most of the knots were there, and predominantly in the right shoulder. His hands continued to glow faintly as he pressed into her, leaning slightly more over her right shoulder as he worked. He could feel her relax beneath his palms, and once he finished with her shoulders, he traced his fingers up her neck and massaged her hair, just as he had done with the marquess. The magic dissipated from his hands as he folded them in his lap. “There we are,” he said. “You may open your eyes now, Ms. Elliot. Your back pain shan’t be troubling you again soon.”

                                                        As she opened her eyes and sat back up, Gabriel wondered how she would react. Her pain was gone now; he’d absorbed it into himself. Would she still declaim him, even after he had done exactly as she had asked?
                                                        ***

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                                                    “Navarre, Ms. Elliot. Sir Gabriel Navarre.” Though there was a shade of accusation in her own voice, his remained smooth and even. The name was alluring, perfectly suited to a Mesmerist. As she shifted her weight, she wondered how many patients had been charmed on to this chaise. Abigale did note that he did not profess to be a physician; and while she was to some degree placated by this fact, she was also still annoyed. Doctor or not, he claimed to be a healer: and that was just as dangerous.

                                                    As he continued, she bristled further. The lapses were certainly intentional: twice now he'd referred to her as Ms. Elliot. It was a title she did not identify with. If there was any hope of achieving successful word-of-mouth, it was best accomplished with a neutral name. And after such efforts to garner respect as a professional, she had long discovered that she had trouble returning to more feminine titles: she almost always introduced herself simply as 'Elliot.'

                                                    When she was able to escape her dwellings and return her attention to the present, Abigale found herself eye-to-eye with the blonde man. Her own eyes widened slightly, and she realized that he was pressing her for more information about her supposed malady. She pressed a hand into the small of her back and explained her misfortune to him, well aware of the fact that she sounded only halfway believable.

                                                    It was a bit of a half-truth, though. Since her father's death months earlier, Abigale had absorbed the entirety of his practice along with her own; she'd been scrambling to save face with the university; and she would not allow her poorer patients in East London and in the servant's quarters of her wealthy neighbors' homes go unattended. The young doctor's resolute unwillingness to sacrifice any of her duties for the sake of time or sanity had culminated in four to five hours of sleep per night at most, and the stress had likewise been building in her muscles.

                                                    “Why don’t you lay down on your stomach right here, Ms. Elliot? I’ll take care of it; don’t you worry. Just close your eyes and breathe slowly…” Abigale stretched across the chaise, though somewhat reluctantly. Why did he make her so... nervous? In the end, though, she was grateful for her specific arrangement on the furniture: as his hands gracefully began at the small of her back, her cheeks flooded with color. Though it had been her intention to carefully watch him prepare and proceed, she found herself only capable of burying her head firmly in the crook of her arm.

                                                    A tune she recognized, Liszt maybe, drifted from the radio. The soothing melody was recompense enough for his talk of 'humors.' The Mesmer's hands seemed guided by the notes, dancing skillfully up her spine. Her eyelids began to feel awfully heavy as the stress of the last three months melted away... as though he were absorbing it all for himself. The benefits of massage were not completely unbeknownst to the medical community. She personally knew of several physicians who were currently exploring the efficacy of such techniques for a variety of ailments.

                                                    Some of those techniques were things she would personally never condone, but others had thus far proven legitimate. Still, however, the golden-haired charlatan massaged her tired muscles in a way she had never... never experienced. It was as if he were magic.

                                                    "Very convincing, Dr. Navarre," she managed, with far less accusation in her voice than before. As he pressed firmly into her right shoulder, kneading away an area of tension she had never before noticed, a soft, low sigh escaped her lips. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but though he surely heard, he made no acknowledgment. Fairly professional, then? Or was this whole practice completely beyond professional?

                                                    She was unable to answer her own inquiries as the Mesmer ran his fingers through her silky hair, causing her already-loose braid to give way completely. He was speaking to her, but Abigale did not reply. His gentle, melodious voice and the relaxing harmony from the radio lulled her further and further from consciousness. By the time Navarre sat back from his patient, she was fast asleep.


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                                                    ooc I know this is short, but I mean, girl did fall asleep.

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                                                        Very convincing, Dr. Navarre.” This time, it was Elliot’s initial emphasis rather than the false title that set him on edge. Though she murmured the words as if in a trance, with much less vehemence than before, her tone was more than enough to inform him that despite the fact that she was succumbing to his ministrations, she still refused to buy them. While he knew in his head that it was what she perceived him to be that she was attacking, rather than what he truly was, it still rankled him that the woman could be so disbelieving. A brash and reckless part of him whispered that he should show himself to her right then and there. The larger, more reasonable part crushed it to oblivion. It cost him valuable energy to unfurl his wings, and though it would certainly lend credence to his skills (as well as amplify them), he didn’t need his full Heavenly strength just to relieve a few minor aches and pains. Not to mention he had no idea what sort of backlash he’d receive from Above if he revealed himself for such petty reasons.

                                                        It seemed this evening, however, that both woman and angel had parts of them that were all too willing to betray their secret thoughts. Before he knew it, a low and contented sigh escaped her lips. Her eyes were closed; he did not look down to see her blush. It amused him greatly to think that even one like Elliot, who’d come to him most likely to discredit him in revenge, was powerless before his healing magic. The grin maintained itself on his face until he withdrew her fingers from her silky locks at last.

                                                        Perhaps he’d weaved too potent a spell on her, for when he tried to make her wake, she responded to his prodding only with incoherent murmurs. Still seated, Gabriel stared down at her and sighed. What was he to do with her now? Two years he’d been staked out in Central London; yet oddly enough, he’d never met a patient who’d fallen asleep on the chaise. He cast a glance outside his window. The sun was falling, had been for quite some time now, and at 7 PM, it peeked just barely above the horizon to quilt the lower sky in red. The prudent thing to do would be to take her back to her office, but for all the Elliots’ fame, Gabriel hadn’t a clue where their practice was located. One look at the young doctor asleep on his couch told him that she didn’t have a business card on her person—not that he was too surprised. Female dress forbade women the luxury of pockets; and were he in her shoes, looking to trick a man into showing their tarnished wings, he would want to come incognito as well. But of course, he couldn’t just leave her here on the chaise—not only was it the only place his patients could sit when they arrived, but it would also give the entirely wrong impression were he to forget to move her when his first patient walked in and found her there.

                                                        There was nothing to it: He had to take her up to his quarters. Rising, the angel pushed aside the chair he’d been sitting on and knelt on the ground beside her. Carefully, he rolled her around to a supine position and slid his hands under her shoulder blades and knees. Whatever her poundage, he was not overly troubled by it as he lifted her up bridal-style and started for the exit door. Material matters could not adversely affect an angel overmuch.

                                                        Managing the door and stairs and especially the keyhole did, however, give him some pause, but after a time, he had settled her onto his bed and had draped a blanket over her sleeping form. Though unconscious, she’d squirmed around into a loose and sideways fetal position after he let her go, so that when she stilled, her head faced out towards the other wall. Gabriel watched her for a moment before moving towards his desk to handle the paperwork that had accumulated during the day. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t focus on the task at hand. His thoughts kept straying to Elliot. Would she be fine sleeping here like this? His bed was a simple one, long and comfortable enough to accommodate him should he need it, and his sheets should be more than enough to keep the cool London night at bay. But it was not her physical state that worried him; rather, he was more concerned for her emotional state when she awoke in the morning. How would she react to find herself in a strange bed? When she realized that it was not her quarters in which she’d slept, but his? Would she automatically think him a lecher, make him lose what little credibility he might have built with her thus far? Or would she see reason, see that he was not the sort to dally with women as he pleased?

                                                        It did him little to speculate on such potentially depressing matters. Perhaps he should play some music to soothe his frazzled mind. With that, he approached the pianola and settled onto the bench. His was veritably a one-of-a-kind creation; the contraption had only just been invented a year ago and had yet to catch on with the nobility or the masses, but as he bore the name of the Messenger, Gabriel had always felt a certain affinity towards music and simply couldn’t resist. He’d spent an entire month’s savings on it. As the pedals worked beneath his feet, the angel laid his hands delicately upon the keys and began to play. With every one key he pressed, three more depressed themselves in time. Soon, a tranquil melody drifted through the apartment—Mozart’s Sonata K381 in D Major for four.

                                                        If he expected this peace to last, however, he would soon be sorely disappointed.
                                                        ***
                                                        (I love piano. biggrin || This song takes about 12 minutes--It's perfectly fine to have him playing a different song when she wakes up. I Googled "Mozart four hands" to find this.)

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                                                    location dreamland > Gabriel's quarters
                                                    company Gabriel


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                                                    Abigale’s quickening footfalls echoed in the dark alley. Despite that she found herself in a pocket of East London so overcrowded and putrid it was called the Cauldron, her modest heels against the blackened brick were the only source of noise other than a haunting melody floating through the dense air. There were no drunken rabble-rousers, no children crying, not even a cat wailing to the shrouded moon. And still she felt icy breath against her neck, her heart pounding, the sense of somebody – or something – looming over her shoulder. Rather than the wonted stench of humans living atop one another, the air she drew into her lungs was heavy with a sulfuric odor. It was overpowering; choking. She could no longer run, she would have to face the beast at her heels. As the ghostly music reached a crescendo, she turned…

                                                    Abigale’s eyes popped open, and though her chest rose and fell rather quickly and despite her pulsing head, she remained otherwise still as she attempted to process her surroundings. Though the scent of the room was far more pleasant than in her bizarre dream, the same piano tune drifted on. The young doctor began to take account of her present state.

                                                    She was lying on bed. Oh god. Fully clothed? Yes, fully clothed, although her dark tresses spilled freely over the pillow under her head. A cotton sheet had been laid across her with some care: nothing seemed to be out of place, for even the high laces of her shoes were still in tact. Physically, she felt fine—in fact, Abigale would have enjoyed an unprecedented state of relaxation if not for the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Trying to quiet her breathing, her eyes flickered back and forth across the quarters. The sky was pitch black beyond the tall window, no moon or stars visible through London’s industrial fog.

                                                    Those tall windows, their dusty heavy drapes. At once, Abigale arose. As she suspected, there sat the Mesmer, culprit of the haunting music and perhaps, frighteningly, also her prudence. He started at her sudden movement, though his facial expression quickly softened and he offered her a small smile.

                                                    “Ah. Good evening, Ms. Elliot,” Navarre volunteered, his voice as calm and even as ever. He did not move to rise from his place at the instrument. “You must have been terribly exhausted.”

                                                    Abigale could hardly form words, her face flush with color. She scrambled to find her hat and satchel (the satchel that she has definitely had with her all along obviously), taking a seat on the edge of his bed as she rummaged through her kit, accounting for its precious contents. Hands deep into the contents of the beaten brown leather bag on her lap, she looked up to met Navarre’s gaze with her own steely glare. Her anger had replaced all bashfulness, though her words were still fragmented as she frantically checked the integrity of all her belongings.

                                                    “I came to you… I came to your place of… I came here with the intention of understanding how such irreverent practices could have possibly led the good Marquess Annette astray,” she breathed. “I could not possibly have prepared myself for this particular brand of impropriety!” Her words were vehement. Apparently satisfied with the state of her satchel, which contained all of her medical supplies, Abigale buckled the straps down tightly and rose quickly, swinging it back over her shoulder with fervor.

                                                    She stood firmly opposite Navarre, eyes wild and filled with accusation. The Mesmer, in an attempt to appear nonthreatening, had resisted the urge to spring up—but he could not control the indignant shock that flashed across his face. He raised a hand slowly. “Now wait one moment Ms----”

                                                    Abigale would not wait! “I woke up in your bed! What would you have me think!?” She cried incredulously, instinctively weaving her hair back into a neat braid... a far more proper fashion.

                                                    Now with both hands up at his chest defensively, Navarro stood slowly, simultaneously stepping back from the instrument and very purposely away from Elliot. “I only did what I had to do,” he responded gently, striving for an even tone. The angel had read recently that emotions could be contagious among humans and that hysteria was best addressed with a purposeful sense of calm. He could only hope that the young doctor did not interpret his intentions as patronizing or predatory. “You fell asleep on my chaise, I had to move you. I could not very well take you home, for I had no way to know your address and I would never violate the privacy of your belongings to search for clues, Ms. Elliot.” The Mesmer gestured toward the leather bag resting against her hip.

                                                    Abigale’s shoulders relaxed slightly, although her eyes narrowed. How genuine a courtesy should she consider his respect for her belongings when she woke up in his personal quarters where could have easily gazed upon much more private scenery? After an uncomfortable silence passed between them, she released a deep breath.

                                                    With obvious reluctance, she conceded. “Everything does appear to be in order, Navarre. Lucky for you.” The doctor was almost quick to chastise him and recommend that he resist situating any other future patients in his bed, but as the rush of adrenaline subsided, she began to feel very embarrassed about having fallen asleep on his chaise in the first place. The memory of his skillful touch was still vivid, the months of tension in her muscles still gone. Biting her lower lip to keep any regrettable words from tumbling out, she straightened the bowler on her head and tried to summon the humility to apologize for her own unprofessional behavior.

                                                    Then, the dark London night caught her attention once more. “Blast,” she exclaimed, pulling a pocket watch from the inside lining of her dress’s bust. Providing an explanation for the long-set sun, the face read 2134. Quickly, Abigale poised herself to leave. “Not only have I overstayed my welcome, but I am keeping patients waiting.” Though venturing into East London at night was not what one would expect of any sane person, it was the only time she was able to see her less privileged clients. For some reason, her paying patients expected her to pay house calls in the light of day. “Well, then, I… Thank… for… My apol…” she fumbled for words as she crossed toward the door, glancing back and forth between the watch in her left hand and the Mesmer behind her. Abigale abandoned her efforts to form an appropriate farewell.

                                                    “I’m already a half hour behind schedule and it will take me another half hour just to reach Whitechapel,” she muttered. “My cloak must be in your office still?” The junior Elliot inquired, eyebrows raised expectantly as she rested a hand on the crystal doorknob. She did not have time to pass further judgment on the Mesmer's bizarre practice, nor did she pause to recall her earlier nightmare. Those considerations would have to wait.



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                                                    ooc don't mind me pretending she came with a bag and cloak thx

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                                                        location: Gabriel's Apt. > Whitechapel
                                                        company: Abigale, various


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                                                        Though he was not foolish enough to expect whatever grievances Elliot harbored for him and his mortal practice to disappear with a moment’s kindness from him, he could not have predicted the outburst he was met with when she awoke. He had expected her to rise in the morning, maybe even to understand why his actions had to be done; but the lady doctor defied him on both counts, arising perhaps two and a half hours after he’d placed her upon his bed and meeting his proper greeting with attacks upon his gentlemanly integrity. He tried to placate her; he really did; but she cut off his advances with a ferocious step up. “I woke up in your bed!” she shouted. “Would you have me believe that you lay me to rest with nary an imprudent thought in your mind?!”

                                                        “I only did what I had to do,” Gabriel pleaded, fighting to keep his voice level. He knew full well that emotions, like diseases, shot through men like wildfire. The best way he had to combat Elliot’s present hysteria was with purposeful calm—assuming that she did not interpret it as patronizing or, even worse, predatory. “You fell asleep on my chaise; I had to move you. I couldn’t very well take you home, for I had no way to know your address and would never violate the privacy of your belongings to search for clues, Ms. Elliot.” The angel gestured significantly at the bag resting against her hip, the one through which she had so recently dug.

                                                        Thankfully, the woman at last saw reason and sighed. “Everything does appear to be in order, Navarre,” she conceded begrudgingly. “Lucky for you.”

                                                        She had dispensed with the titles, it seemed; but if he had expected her to apologize for her rudeness, he was not immediately mollified. Another glance at the dark London sky and she hastily, if abashedly, rose to her feet. “Blast,” she muttered. “Not only have I overstayed my welcome, but I am keeping patients waiting.” Composing herself, Elliot stood and glanced at him. “Well, then, I… Thank… for… My apol…”

                                                        The angel would have been lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t waiting somewhat eagerly for her to complete her apology; but though she did at least begin it, she never finished it. “I’m already a half hour behind schedule and it will take me another half hour just to reach Whitechapel,” she grumbled. “My cloak must be in your office still?”

                                                        Her elegant brows lifted expectantly as she met his gaze once more. Gabriel shifted his weight. “No; it is actually here,” he confessed. He gestured towards the clothes-hook beside his bed. “I brought it up here along with you and your satchel.”

                                                        Elliot followed his hand to her cloak with her eyes. He neither missed the way she draped it over herself to hide her female form nor the steely glare she shot him as she tied it about her neck, but the latter motion almost seemed to him halfhearted. That, at least, was progress. As she turned the knob to leave, the angel trailed behind, making sure to keep two paces behind her as they descended the steps in tandem. Though he did his best to place his footfalls in time with hers, before long the lady sensed his presence and, at the base of the stairs, turned to face him irritably. “Can I help you, Sir Navarre?” she inquired archly.

                                                        Aha, back with titles and vehemence. The angel also halted, one step away from the landing. “Are you really leaving to tend to your patients in Whitechapel at this hour?” he asked.

                                                        “And what if I am? Some of my patients don’t have the means to come to my office during the day. Fortunately, the Cauldron never really sleeps.”

                                                        The Cauldron?! No wonder he’d thought he recognized the name! Of all the places she wished to visit at night, that dread place?!

                                                        There was no way he was letting her venture out there all by herself. Whatever hostility she’d borne him upon arrival, he couldn’t simply condemn someone to such a fate in good faith. “It isn’t safe for you to be wandering alone at this hour,” he told her firmly. “Please, if you must go, let me accompany you.”

                                                        Elliot answered him crisply. “I’m not some empty church bell, Navarre,” she admonished him exasperatedly. “I practice this routine almost nightly and I have yet to come to any serious harm. Besides, who might you protect me from—lechers who’d like nothing more than to get me in their beds?”

                                                        Impudent mortal! How dare she imply of him thus! Gabriel’s cheeks flamed crimson; there was no stopping the next words that spilled from his lips: “A pox on my head if I let any patient of mine go willingly into danger, and you a woman too!”

                                                        A stunned silence descended upon them both. Elliot fixed him with the same incredulous look that a parent might give to a child who’d overstepped his bounds. Only then did the angel realize what he’d done. The blood remained thoroughly concentrated in his face as he attempted to backtrack. “I… suspect you take offense at me pointing that out, but it is what it is, and London at night is not kind to young ladies such as yourself…” he hedged. “Not to mention you just came into my office two hours ago; and however effective a treatment might be, it is most unwise for a patient to be up and about so soon…”

                                                        It was impossible to miss the exasperated manner in which she rolled her eyes. “I know how to take care of myself, Navarre,” she said pointedly. She donned her bowler hat and turned towards the door out. “Good evening to you.”

                                                        As if he didn’t know how to take care of himself or others either—him being what he truly was? That was the last straw. “You know as well as I do that you only came here tonight to test me!” he exploded. “So why won’t you let me prove my good intentions to you?!”

                                                        If he thought the last silence was long, this one lasted for an eternity. Elliot’s cinnamon eyes were at once stunned and troubled, as if she were trying to piece multiple pieces of a complex puzzle together in her head. Her eyes narrowed. “Never mind why I came here,” she snapped at last. “The people need a doctor to heal them, not some wretched charlatan.”

                                                        What?! Damn her and her prejudices to hell! Gabriel caught the unsettling vein of his thoughts and flushed again, hastily offering up an apology to the Lord and archangels above. He wouldn’t be surprised if that little mental outburst had caused his wings to tarnish more (not that he knew when next he was safe to check). If he let himself slip too much, it was only a matter of time before his wings blackened and withered away entirely, and he would not even feel it until he flung himself from some parapet attempting to fly. How much longer could he remain here on this earth before he became no better than the humans he wished to protect?

                                                        The fallen angel watched in silence as Elliot turned around for the third time to leave. The air was tense as she laid her hand on the doorknob once more, with finality. Was that it? Would she leave him now to worry after her in wretched solitude?

                                                        He couldn’t have dared predict the words that next left her lips. “Fine. You may come along, Sir Navarre. But do me a favor and stay out of my way.”



                                                        The two of them walked together in silence for the better part of an hour, with only the gas lamps on the street to keep them company. Not even the alley cats prowled about to greet them, but had any of Elliot’s lechers seen fit to pounce upon them in the dead of night, Gabriel was more than ready to make them submit. He doubted that she’d gotten a bite to eat between her lecture, her unexpected visit, and her unanticipated arrival to his quarters, so he’d pleaded natural emergencies and disappeared back into his quarters to snatch up a heavier coat—and pack her something nonperishable to eat should she wish to make use of it. As an angel, of course, he did not truly need any sustenance, but for the same reason he traded his tailcoat for a heavier greatcoat, he packed a little extra food anyways—to maintain pretenses that he was no different and just as prone to physical shortcoming as she. Before long, the gloomy, rickety shacks of Whitechapel hove into view. His reluctant companion first disappeared into the hovel on her left through a back door; the angel promptly followed suit.

                                                        A wizened old man answered the door when she knocked; the smile with which he greeted her, however holey, was very much sincere. “Good ta see ya, Doc,” he rasped with all the warmth his decrepit vocal cords could muster.

                                                        “Good to see you too, Master Walters,” Elliot responded, equally warm. She hefted her satchel and nodded towards the corridor behind him. “As promised, I’ve brought you the usual: fresh fruits and soap.”

                                                        Fruits and soap? No wonder her satchel had been so heavy when he’d carried it up to his little upstairs flat.

                                                        Master Walters stepped aside to let her pass; when Gabriel accompanied her, he gazed at him perplexedly—perhaps even knowingly, since he was in the company of a woman? Egad—but let him pass as well. A young child ran up to her as she advanced, happily proclaiming that Auntie had come back. Only then did he realize that the old man was no widower, but the master of an orphanage. He had been wrong, he saw now, to base his perception of the slums purely on upper-class hearsay. So very wrong. If depravity did exist in greater quantity here, there was love as well; and in that, this place wasn’t terribly different from the main thoroughfares of Central London—save, perhaps, the smell. That such a wondrous sanctuary could exist in such desolate locales as this warmed his heart. The angel watched, fascinated, as Elliot swept the child up in her arms and played and laughed with the others that approached. After what he’d seen of her at the lectern and in his quarters, he would not have expected to see this gentle, loving side of her at all. For all her outward severity, she was just as caring as any human mother. So kindness did exist in her heart. Perhaps she wasn’t as cruel as he’d made her out to be. He smiled to himself as the old human adage drifted back to mind: Never judge a book by its cover.

                                                        When Walters’s children were finally put to bed and the two of them finally left the premises, Elliot, it seemed, could not resist dropping in a smug statement of her own. “Never underestimate the medicinal value of nutrition and hygiene,” she quipped.

                                                        “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he quipped back at her—not that he’d have been surprised if she did not believe him. Elliot must still think of him as just another Mesmerist, albeit one who had exceeded her expectations. Con-men were nothing if not crafty—no doubt she expected him to hold fast to his charms and snake oils ‘til the bitter end. But Gabriel knew very clearly then that had he been born a human, he would have taken up the doctorate just like Elliot and her father before her.

                                                        Too bad the Lord had other designs for him.



                                                        The two of them stopped next at a door-less house a short way into the Cauldron. The person who greeted them this time was a mother and her babe. He could tell by the way she clutched the infant to her breast that she’d borne him to this earth less than a month ago—even, dare he say, less than a week ago. Prior to entering, Elliot withdrew a small vial from her bag and held it near his lantern so that he could see. “This is silver nitrate,” she explained, swirling it slowly. “When babies are born, they risk picking up an infection from their mothers called ophthalmia neonatorium. It targets the eyes and can blind the infants before they even have the chance to really see. A doctor named Crede was researching a couple decades ago and found that applying this solution to the eyes after birth reduced the chances of infection almost entirely.”

                                                        Gabriel nodded to show he understood. He was impressed with her breadth of knowledge—he’d never before encountered such a malaise. The both of them entered the little hovel and after greeting the mother and child, the young physician disappeared into the privy with them. The angel, of course, did not follow, and to while the time away, he cast his gaze about the cramped quarters. The lodging was simple and damaged well beyond the realm of careworn. No light shone inside, for beside the lack of lighting, this place had no windows, making him feel quite claustrophobic once he realized. Perhaps one reason why his fellows loathed being grounded on Earth for any duration was because they were creatures of the sky. Just standing here, Gabriel was half-tempted to stretch his wings wide and press them against the walls, just to see if he could break them down and get free. A putrid stench invaded the air; its most probable source was some cesspool underground nearby. Though the dust and mildew bespoke many more picture frames upon the walls, only a few still hung, and whatever remained had been shattered, not unlike certain parts of the wall and floor. He was fairly certain that at least one of the holes in the ground had been punched out by a fist. Such a rough life this woman led… In an instant, he knew what her occupation was: prostitute. Such individuals were invariably forsaken by the Lord, for they’d forsook Him first to sell their bodies for money. So Elliot cared even for these wretches? His respect for her rose, and by no mere inch.

                                                        He was surprised to hear the lady promptly calling his name. Vexed, the angel wandered into the loo to find Elliot dabbing the colorless fluid from before onto the infant’s eyes. Though she’d regaled him with the full description minutes ago, to the mother, she said simply, “This liquid isn’t poison, but you mustn’t ever drink it. But if your child’s eyes ever get too pink, this is what you need. Dab this on and he will recover.”

                                                        Likely she’d only called him in here to make obvious her greater breadth of knowledge in medical matters than he, but Gabriel gave no further reaction than to nod thoughtfully, a frown upon his face as he watched her work. It was obvious to all that she cared deeply for her patients; but with a drive like that, he suspected that she barely managed to sleep more than five hours a day. For one so devoted to the health of others, she seemed quite willing to sacrifice her own. Perhaps next time she came to him, he would spell her into a sleeping trance, that she might get some well-deserved rest.

                                                        … Who was he kidding? Their rendezvous tonight had been pure happenstance. She’d wanted to test him, and he’d passed. He’d pressed her into letting him accompany her, and she’d caved. This was a one-time deal only. Most likely tomorrow, they would be but strangers once more.

                                                        Privately, he hoped that Elliot would see fit to test him again. Here, it seemed, he could see a side of her that no one besides her patients saw.



                                                        The young physician moved next to a massive condominium, which, at three stories tall, was the tallest building this side of the Cauldron. Gabriel stared up at it in disbelief. Did she mean to treat every last tenant in this place before she retired for the night? It was not uncommon for a single room in the slums to house five, six, or even more people at once. A building this size had to have well over a hundred tenants. Elliot could not possibly attend to them all in what little time remained to her. She couldn’t begrudge him if he helped her out… right?

                                                        So long as she didn’t know, perhaps, the better.

                                                        As they entered, he hung back, and when she disappeared into the first patient’s quarters, he walked away and headed for another. Certainly he was not as versed in the medical arts as she, but he had his healing magic and he had the energy of Heaven on his side. Whatever he might lack in technical know-how, he more than made up for in magical mettle.

                                                        The first ‘patient’ he saw was an old lady with a hunched back. Though addled with a terrible cough, she nevertheless found the strength to smile at him. Gabriel fancied she could see whatever holiness remained in him, though in reality, she was probably just pleased to be greeted by such a handsome young man despite her age. “Hello, Madame,” he greeted her, doffing his hat. “My name is Dr. Angelo. I’ve come today to treat you in Dr. Elliot’s stead.”

                                                        “I see. Thank you, Dr. Angelo. Please, come in.” Much like Master Walters before her, the old woman stepped aside to let him pass; but as he stepped over the threshold, she was overtaken by a violent coughing fit. The sound of it sounded off, even for an old human. Was that what the doctors called… diptheria?

                                                        He remembered the way Elliot had explained the silver nitrate to the prostitute mother. The people of the Cauldron were unlikely to remember the medical name even if he told them, so he’d best not waste his time naming something he barely knew. As the old woman continued hacking, Gabriel bent down behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Your body is trying to get rid of the bugs that are causing the cough,” he told her. “Go on; cough it all up. I’ll help you.”

                                                        As she coughed violently, the angel thrust his two-handed fist into her stomach. As he did, he willed his magic to pass from his chest to hers, imagining it permeating her lungs and flowing up her trachea until several large globs of phlegm splattered onto the floor. The angel looked at it in dismay. He should have known to place her in front of a sink, or at least a wastebasket.

                                                        Regardless, the worst of her cough has passed for now. Gabriel wanted very much to cure it right away, but he had no way of knowing if Elliot was watching, nor, indeed, whether this actually was one of her patients he was infringing upon. No one could know that he had power beyond the mortal realm; and however selfish he sounded for admitting it, it was specifically her patients with whom he wished to intervene. Releasing the old woman, he stepped back. “There we go. You should be feeling much better now.” Still squatted towards her level, he tilted his head at her. “Pray, do you have any lemon or licorice in here?” he asked. “I would show you a simple remedy if you do.”

                                                        Indeed she did—both of them too. Gabriel allowed the woman to enter the kitchen first; meanwhile, he hung back and, with a thought, caused the unsightly phlegm to disappear from her floor into the wastebasket he’d spied in the other corner. There. Hopefully she did not tread upon the spot the phlegm had lain with bare feet. Rejoining her in the kitchen, the angel instructed his patient on how to boil the ingredients in water to drink, or lick the unboiled material at need. She thanked him profusely as he left, wondering aloud whether he would come again. Gabriel smiled, but could promise her nothing. His joy at having accomplished something like this without magic was tempered by the very poignant realization that tonight was very likely his last chance to do such a thing. These people here had very real ailments that human medicine was hard-pressed to cure. Maybe as a doctor, he could have made so much greater an impact in these people’s lives, but so long as the demon threat loomed, he had to remain in London as a Mesmerist, to keep watch over the middle- and upper-class, who were prone to other, perhaps direr ills.

                                                        For the first and not last time, he wondered what would have happened had he not signed on to this mortal plane as a Mesmer.

                                                        The question plagued him as he attended to one, two, four, and five more patients. As time wore on, he was all too aware that very soon, Elliot would be looking for him; this urgency drove him to swifter yet still-potent ministrations which consumed greater and greater quantities of magic. Before long, he fell back into his ‘Mesmerist’ techniques, massaging patients as he drew their ills into himself. If the people of the Cauldron recognized how unorthodox his treatments were, they did not complain; after all, it banished their ills or another day or so, and that was all that mattered. He would pay for this come morning, he knew; and yet the angel couldn’t easily bring himself to stop. Strange how caring for the less fortunate could become so addictive. Had Raphael the Healer ever felt this way?

                                                        It was fortunate that when he left his final patient’s tenement, he paused outside the door from which Elliot departed. She gave him a funny look, as if wondering where he’d gotten off to, and he shrugged noncommittally, hoping she assumed that he hadn’t had the stomach to follow her around and had remained here outside. The two of them moved together towards another patient’s door—one that neither knew would be their last tonight. His companion knocked on the door again, and another young woman answered the door. “Doctor,” she breathed, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “You finally came.” She hardly seemed to take notice of the attractive new ‘assistant’ standing nearby: With a weary hand, she gestured inside before stepping out of the threshold. “I’m afraid he’s still not doing well. See for yourself.”

                                                        When the woman cleared the door, Gabriel’s eyes widened. The gaunt man there in the middle of the room sat almost corpselike; his breaths came raspy, laborious, and uneven. Though what remained of the hair on his head was straggled and careworn and though his sallow face looked old beyond his years, the angel knew by the angle of his back and the sharpness of his tragic gaze that he faced a man no older than his thirties. Only one thing in Britain could bring such a youth so low: that dread disease, the White Plague. Despite himself, he shot a glance at Elliot. How would she handle this one? Could she handle it? Bah; what was he thinking? The woman in the door acted like she knew her. She must have seen this man before—and if she had, she certainly had the tools to deal with his condition; he knew that now.
                                                        ***
                                                        (Pheeew-wee! Finally done! || Post-writing theme: Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Movement 3: Presto (08:05). Mother and babe theme: Clayderman’s Marraige d'Amour and, after he realizes the former’s occupation, Cortazar’s Silencio de Beethoven. Many more links in-PM. || I couldn’t work the “You should lecture on this” bit into this post, so I’ll save it for after she melts into his arms. emotion_dowant || Subbing in diptheria for pertussis, lmao.)


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                                                    location the Mesmerist's office > the Cauldron > various tenements > the sidewalk of a nicer street
                                                    company Gabriel > various > her father's ghostly image > Gabriel


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                                                    “So why won’t you let me prove my good intentions to you?!”

                                                    It was the first time the Mesmer had lost his composure despite all of her prior charges. The color that had earlier infiltrated his cheeks had been almost reassuring, in that she had nearly wondered if he was capable of feeling anything strongly at all. Though his comments about her gender had left her utterly incredulous, the humanity of his immediate blush had softened her slightly.

                                                    That he was now raising his voice was even more satisfying. Abigale felt her scorn fade completely, giving way to bemusement over his surprising, sudden concern for her opinion. Though she had shown up on his doorstep in her own state of personal desperation earlier that afternoon, he had apparently completely (and perhaps unwittingly?) shouldered the burden of proof she had bestowed upon him.

                                                    “The people need a doctor to heal them, not some wretched charlatan,” she snipped quickly, almost instinctively. Navarre did not seem to notice her half-heartedness. In fact, he seemed highly offended. Sensing that she could now leave peacefully, Abigale moved to finally exit the office. Unfortunately, she could not stop her cascading thoughts or the minute guilt that still hadn’t quite dissipated. He had not, after all, been the impetuous practitioner she had expected him to be. Did she owe him the opportunity he now beseeched her to grant him?

                                                    No, she did not owe him anything. Despite the internal conflict his earlier touch had created, Abigale was still reluctant. She feared, slightly, that by affording him the chance to prove himself, she would be conceding to his philosophies. And that was not something she was ready nor willing to do. However, she could lead by example. Perhaps it would be healthy to accept his accompaniment so that he could see the merit in the less glamorous work of a physician.

                                                    “Fine. You may come along, Sir Navarre.” Abigale extended the invitation without turning back. “But do me a favor and stay out of my way,” she added for good measure before finally departing the office, though there was no real vehemence left in her voice.

                                                    … … …


                                                    They exchanged no words during the journey, the young doctor distracted. A visit to the Cauldron always inspired a certain state of thoughtfulness, though any conclusions she might reach were never happy. If the silence between them made Navarre uncomfortable, she was unaware.

                                                    Though the trek to East London was not short, the transition from wealth to ruin was one of incredible brevity.

                                                    To Abigale, London was a study in the extremes of human existence. She found it both fascinating and heartbreaking that great wealth and abject poverty existed side by side, block by block; one half living in carefully cultivated nescience of its counterpart’s desolation, the other acutely and often painfully aware of such disparity. Even though it was surrounded by all manners of affluence, the Cauldron, blackened with soot and smothered by the heavy, polluted breath of the city’s industrial underbelly, was a world all its own.

                                                    The people of the Cauldron did not value charm nor pine for extravagance. Rather, they sought survival through the night, and perhaps for that of their children. It was a hard-scrabble existence beyond any need that Abigale herself had ever personally known. The Mesmer’s striking features and fine dress might catch the twinkling eye of every blushing Marquess and Lady in Hyde Park, Belgravia, or along Baker Street; but here among the most downtrodden and desperate of the city, he would be met by only scrutiny. He would be evaluated by scheming eyes from every dark alley and high window, each passerby wondering what they might in his pockets.

                                                    It wasn’t that anyone coveted him or his belongings: the waiting thieves did not want to don his silk embroidered vest or keep time on his golden watch. Abigale was convinced that instead of the greedy and sinister intentions of which they were popularly accused, most of the pickpockets and common criminals of the Cauldron were instead driven by sheer desperation. Here was a place in which each and every thing –as well as everyone—was part of a unique and dark economy.

                                                    A stolen watch or snuffbox were not items to be enjoyed, but gravely needed food for a young boy’s family. To a struggling widower, sex could mean rent; a place for her children to sleep in relative safety. There were, of course, truly ugly souls in the Cauldron: slum lords who preyed on vulnerable tenants, men who raped and murdered, abusive mothers. But largely, Abigale was convinced that morality was a luxury that London’s poor could not afford. Between maintaining sexual purity or providing for her family, which is the selfish choice for a girl to make?

                                                    In fact, Abigale had gone so far as to wonder whether true moral bankruptcy was easier found among those in her own social class, who imagine the strict, intricate moral code and enforce it via threat of eternal damnation? After all, they had the means to pursue their dreams and carry out their business with integrity and goodwill. With wealth came such options. However, time and time again, she watched her fellow man fail to choose the righteous path even though it was readily available. Perhaps greed did not live in the hearts of the impoverished thieves of Whitechapel or Shoreditch, but in the pockets of unscrupulous tycoons who built their empires on the backs of the vulnerable working poor and at the expense of struggling neighborhoods. Perhaps the randy, drunken gentlemen who stumbled into the narrow streets and velvet brothels for a quick poke ought to bear the burden of damnation more surely than the prostituted women with mouths to feed in the absence of opportunity.

                                                    The words of Abigale’s long-dead grandmother drifted through her head: Morality is as blind as justice. Regina Elliot, her namesake, had been a proud woman of great wealth who worked tirelessly to instill her granddaughter with a sense prudence. But now the young doctor believed that morality could not possibly be so absolute and she would wager dissent from any faith that professed it to be. Humanity’s greatest moral deficit was the blind eye with which its most privileged members regarded their own sin and the admonishment and damnation with which those same persons regarded their downcast brethren.

                                                    When Grandmother was through with her lectures of sanctity and propriety, Bernard Elliot would pull his young daughter close and whisper to her: Only compassion ought to be as blind as justice, darling. And it was with that compassion that the young doctor had first tentatively stepped into the streets of the Cauldron at her father’s side years ago.

                                                    … … …


                                                    Before long, she found herself at a familiar doorstep. The alley was narrow enough to inspire claustrophobia with partial credit to the tall, lopsided tenements themselves and the way that they seemed tower over the street. Aside from the gas lamps she and her unlikely companion carried, there was no light. Not even the full moon could permeate the dense black fog that mimicked the dark sky. The smell was foul, but it no longer gave the doctor pause. She was only a visitor to this world, capable of coping, might that she bear the burdens of its actual denizens for a mere moment compared to their lifetime.

                                                    After a moment, a short but stout old man answered her gentle knock. His cap was threadbare, his overalls dirty, and his left eye missing. His teeth, where not missing altogether, were yellow and rotted. Yet his appearance was no surprise: Abigale knew him well, for she had even fitted him for the eye patch he wore.

                                                    “Good ta see ya, Doc,” he wheezed, nearly-toothless grin across his wrinkled face. The words cost him and turned away to cough into a soiled handkerchief. Abigale knew his heart was failing him, it had been for a long time now. It could not pump oxygenated blood to the rest of his body, and so the fluid built in his lungs, taxing his lungs. Eventually, breathing would become impossible. It was hard to look at a friend and see their death awaiting them, looming so closely over their shoulder.

                                                    The doctor forced the gruesome thought from her mind, returning his warm greeting. “I’ve brought the usual,” she said, gesturing to the satchel under her cloak. The old man smiled knowingly and shuffled aside. Abigale was greeted by the eager faces of several children, all of whom clambered for a spot on her lap and called her Auntie. She hugged and kissed them all in turn, and then passed to each of them a large fresh orange.

                                                    The old man made some effort to chastise them for being awake, but mostly he leaned against the wall and watched them warmly. Before her visit was through, Abigale had set several bricks of soap and another bag of fruit on the table. Three years ago, she and her father had come here to treat a child with dilapidated bones… scurvy. They had not been able to reverse the effects of the nutritional deficiency in time and he had suffered a poor outcome, and while there were many on the streets of London who would never have enough vitamin C, the old man and his flock of orphans had stolen her heart and she never made a trip without bringing them fresh treats. Always one to make the most of any visit, she had begun brining soap in the hopes that they might practice good hygiene. They were terribly poor, but were fortunate enough to have a well practically outside their tenement. Had it been daylight, she might have taken the children outside to challenge them to show her how well they could wash their hands, but she settled for one more forehead kiss apiece instead.

                                                    “Alrigh’ ya rascals, getchur gigglemugs to bed now,” the old man prodded, shooing them all to the next room. Abigale pecked his cheek carefully and wished him well, offering a polite curtsy before departing. She liked the man dearly and as with any patient, she was careful to treat him with the utmost respect and dignity. It was amazing how common courtesy could empower others.

                                                    As she and Navarre stepped back into the cool London night, she felt the need to justify her ministrations. To some, it was perhaps the least exciting work a doctor could do: to her, it was the work that mattered. “Never underestimate the medicinal value of nutrition and hygiene,” she said, giving pause and almost speaking again before opting not to explain further.

                                                    “I wouldn’t dream of it,” came his reply, rather briskly. She had not meant to patronize him… this time, and found herself slightly vexed by his tone. Though she did not trust him, any remaining bitterness had been at least temporarily driven away by the warm smiles of the orphanage children.

                                                    … … …


                                                    The next stop was an even smaller, sadder room that belonged to a young widow and her freshly born babe. When last she visited, Abigale had determined that the infant’s arrival was imminent. She would have liked to birth the child herself, but had no such luck.

                                                    Before entering, she rummaged through her bag and withdrew a small vial. Holding it up to the light of the Mesmer’s lamp, she rolled it betwixt her fingers. “This is silver nitrate,” she explained, watching the solution carefully as she agitated it. “When babies are born, they risk picking up an infection from their mothers. Such a phenomenon affects their eyes. It’s called Ophthalmia Neonatorium and it can cause babes to go blind before they even have the chance to really see. A doctor named Crede was researching a couple decades ago and found that applying this solution to the eyes after birth reduced the chances of infection almost entirely.”

                                                    When Abigale was satisfied with the state of the silver nitrate, she pocketed it and ducked through the small doorway. She found her patient resting on a makeshift mattress, babe cradled in her arms. Despite the young woman’s filthy hair and obvious exhaustion, her face was flushed with a mixture of love and pride and she greeted her physician with a smile.

                                                    As Abigale knelt next to the woman, she looked back to make sure that her companion had the sense to linger on the other side of the door. Turning her attentions back to the young woman, she smiled warmly and gestured toward the infant, beckoning for permission to hold the sweet young thing.

                                                    Absolutely trusting, the new mother passed the tiny child to the doctor’s arms. Gently, Abigale brushed her hand atop the baby’s head to feel the sutures of its skull and assess the softness of its head. All seemed to be in order and the infant did not stir. It’s hands and feet were pink and warm and she lightly rubbed her thumb against its cheek, the baby turned its head appropriately.

                                                    When she was finished with her examination of the infant and content with its condition as well as the woman’s, Abigale pulled the silver nitrate from her pocket and called to Navarre so that he might see its application. As she gently swiped over the infant’s closed eyelids with the thin ointment, she explained its purpose to the new mother in simple terms while she watched carefully. The babe stirred slightly with the cold touch, but did not fret in any way. Gratefully, the mother received her child back into her arms and thanked Abigale profusely.

                                                    … … …

                                                    “This is my last stop for the evening, as we experienced a later start than usual,” Abigale told her tall, blonde traveling partner. They stood before a large tenement building, three stories tall and several rooms wide. It loomed formidably over the block like a penitentiary. The doctor took pause before going further. Though she could find a need to address in any given resident of the wayward building, there was only one family she had come to see.

                                                    With a deep breath, Abigale led Navarre into the building. As they made their way in, they had to step over rubbish of all nature. Rats scurried from an old burlap sack as the doctor brushed it with her foot. She knew exactly where her patient awaited her, but instead of ascending the crooked, creaking staircase to the second floor, Abigale instead knocked on the door to her immediate left, hoping to be greeted by a welcoming individual with a malady she was equipped to address. And old woman opened the door, recognized Elliot’s face, and ushered her in. Before she disappeared into the ramshackle flat, Abigale looked back over her shoulder for Navarre. Where had he gone? Why had he gone?

                                                    … … …


                                                    Several spontaneous patients later, Abigale stood at the top of the stairs, looking down the shadowy corridor. There was no more avoiding it. Suddenly, Gabriel appeared on her left, looking slightly worse for wear. She had half-expected his face to be made of porcelain, resistant to the toils of labor. Somehow the metaphorical crack in his otherwise flawless façade made him seem more human and more… believable. With a shadow of concern in her features, she raised an eyebrow in his direction. The man’s only response was a vague gesture of his shoulders, and then his eyes followed her original gaze to the door at the end of the dreary hall. As they made their way toward it, rodents scurried underfoot.

                                                    The doctor was filled with a sickening sense of foreboding.

                                                    When the door creaked slowly open, the pair were first met by dark eyes of Sully Granger’s wife, Hannah, staring back at them. The heavy circles immediately betrayed her exhausted state. With a sigh of relief, the woman opened the door further and beckoned them in.

                                                    “Doctor,” Mrs. Granger breathed as Abigale moved to embrace her tightly. “You finally came.” Her weary words weighed heavily on the physician’s conscience. As Abigale released the woman and stepped back, she quickly scanned the familiar surroundings.

                                                    "I'm here to help in any way I can," she offered carefully, knowing it would not be enough.

                                                    The air in the room was oppressive. Immediately past Hannah slept four young children, the oldest no more than ten. They were huddled together in the evening chill, one woolen blanket to share between them.

                                                    Resting feebly on a mat in the middle of the warping wooden floor was a whisper of a man. His sallow face and skeletal body bespoke months of suffering, wasting. Beads of sweat wept from his forehead, his cheeks could not even achieve a feverish flush to indicate the battle that raged inside him: a sign that his body was losing to its invaders. Instead, he looked altogether ghostly. The doctor’s heart began to ache, for only three months earlier he had been a robust thirty-five year old man. Today, not even his remaining beard could hide the gaunt angles of his practically protruding cheekbones.

                                                    “I’m afraid he’s not doing well. See for yourself,” Hannah whispered, her voice cracking. Abigale grasped the woman’s shoulder comfortingly before stepping past her and toward her ailing husband. Though she need not use her stethoscope to hear the rattle in his lungs, Abigale donned it anyway as she knelt beside him.

                                                    As she pressed the bell to his chest in several spots, listening to his labored breathing, she felt acutely aware of his wife. Hannah stood some feet behind the kneeling doctor, arms wrapped around herself, chewing anxiously on the fingernails of her left hand. Abigale could feel the terrified woman’s expectant, heartbroken gaze boring through her as she worked.

                                                    To her surprise, Sully’s eyes fluttered open. They were blue, but their characteristic bright, piercing quality had dulled considerably. His dry lips moved, but he could not manage a sound. Abigale held his gaze meaningfully, returning the stethoscope to its most comfortable place around her neck. She rested the back of her soft hand against his clammy forehead. For a man otherwise so cold, his face was hot to the touch. Though typically thorough in her examinations, Abigale needed no more data. Her hand dropped to gently caress his cheek, her mouth pulled into a tight line.

                                                    Hannah knelt at her husband’s side, opposite the young doctor. There were words she wanted to speak… needed to speak, but Abigale could not yet try lest she betray the sorrow building within her. As she looked down into the dimming eyes of her dying patient, she saw the ghost of the last man who had died in her arms.

                                                    This wasting disease, with the prolonged torture of its victims and the inescapable heartbreak of imminent loss for those who bore witness to its wrath, was called tuberculosis. It ran rampant throughout London and the world, claiming numerous lives daily. Though it was more prevalent among the poor and overcrowded, like the Grangers, it did not discriminate.

                                                    This she knew very well, for it had been her father’s taker.

                                                    Abigale reached across her patient for Hannah’s hands, pressing them carefully into Sully’s. She searched the woman’s eyes for evidence of understanding. Hannah blinked away tears, nodding slowly, and then collapsed closer to her husband. The doctor had wordlessly told the broken woman what she had prayed not to hear: there was nothing more to be done.

                                                    Every ragged breath pierced Abigale’s heart. Sully’s eyes went wide, for Hannah was not the only one to understand what was coming. The doctor held fast to her countenance, grateful that the woman’s head was buried in his neck and the she would not see the terror that registered briefly across his sunken features.

                                                    Abruptly, the young man’s eyes flashed and his chest rose violently with wheezing gasps. Respiratory distress had set in, Abigale noted. Hannah let go of her husband’s hands and threw her arms around his shaking frame. Though the turbulent breathing continued for an excruciatingly long moment, his soul had departed.

                                                    A small voice arose from behind them: “Is papa gone?”

                                                    "Oh god," Abigale breathed quietly in response.

                                                    Hannah sobbed across her husband’s still body. The world fell away from Abigale as she swept the small child into her arms, holding him tightly against her chest and away from the wrenching scene. The squalor of the tenement ceased to exist; the memories of her arduous day vanished; the rest of her present company, including Gabriel, all but disappeared. She was lost to the moment, though her own face remained still.

                                                    … … …


                                                    Some time later, after she and Gabriel had helped restore order to the small tenement, Abigale found herself walking quickly, quickly away from the crooked building and through the winding streets. They had stayed to comfort Hannah and put the child back to sleep, though the newly widowed woman had rather quickly regained her composure. Such was the endlessly impressive courage with which the most disadvantaged of London's citizens faced the world.

                                                    “We’ll manage alrigh’,” she’d said, when Abigale had offered any possible assistance. “We always ‘ave. Sully raised a good family, he did.”

                                                    When Abigale had finally willed herself to move from her place on the wooden floorboards, she had done so with the same professional grace she’d carried all evening. She was not a mortician, and Sully would not receive a real burial, but Abigale had done what she could not let Hannah do. She’d closed his eyes and washed him carefully before wrapping him gently in a thin linen sheet. Gabriel had helped with the lifting, for which she thanked him softly. Otherwise, she remained focused on the grieving family.

                                                    She also seldom spoke. Abigale was good at maintaining a stoic facade and a steady hand because she could put the needs of her patients before her own. She'd not met a crisis she couldn't handle. But today, with the image of Sully's dying eyes burned into her memory, she would not trust herself to open her mouth lest she be carefully prepared.

                                                    "I will call on you soon," she promised succinctly, pulling the widower into a final embrace before they'd finally left. Gabriel had been there, standing near, and she swore that perhaps his closeness gave her strength.

                                                    Now, though, she had to escape the Cauldron. The doctor had found no relief from the oppressive, stale air of the apartment when she’d spilled into the street. After a moment, the heavy cloud of death at her back, her brisk walk gave way to a run.

                                                    “Whurs a jampot like ya runnin’ ter at this ‘o clock?” A drunk reached out for her from a shadowy crevice as she passed, but he lacked the coordination to catch her. Abigale paid no mind at all, her mind too far away to notice. Her beloved bowler fell to the dirty bricks below as she leapt over the legs of some other unconscious inebriate.

                                                    After what seemed like forever though it was only several blocks, the air began to freshen and she was met by the warm glow of streetlights. The Cauldron lay behind her, a nightmare. Breathing heavily, her shorter hair falling down across her red face, the young woman folded slightly, hands braced against her waist. She only wore the lightest of corsets, because she found them cumbersome and useless, so she couldn’t now blame the one around her midsection for how closely she felt to suffocation.

                                                    In the back of her mind, Abigale remembered bitterly something she'd recently read about the physical manifestations of panic. The cranky coot of a doctor had called it 'hysteria' in women, which really annoyed her because it was in reference to the latin word for 'uterus.' As she stared fixedly at the stone beneath her feet and tried desperately to calm her breathing, she was pretty sure she was not suffering because of her uterus. Each time the doctor blinked-- let alone allow her eyes to close for more than a fleeting second-- she saw the face of a dying man.

                                                    Careful, measured breaths now, Abigale, her father's voice echoed in her head.

                                                        In. 1, 2, 3, 4.
                                                        Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.
                                                        In. 1, 2, 3, 4.
                                                        Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.


                                                    Gaze still cast aground, she inhaled deeply and let the air go slowly. The pounding in her head began to subside and her legs began to feel sturdy once more. With a sigh, she straightened herself, only to see that Gabriel stood before her wearing the slightest hint of a frown. It caught her by surprise. Had he honestly run behind her this whole way? Was that weird?

                                                    "Abigale," he started softly. She recoiled with surprise almost imperceptibly at his use of her name. "Are you alright?"

                                                    For a moment, the doctor could only blink at her unexpectedly steadfast companion.

                                                    "You've given such a light to these people," he continued.

                                                    "I could do nothing," she said, as if it were a logical reply. "Nothing! What use was I?" Abigale shook her head, her words exasperated. She ached with failure. She had hoped that she might be able to show the Mesmer the respectable ways of medicine, and instead, she had failed her patient. "I don't believe in lying to my patients, but to stand idle as they slip away? What comfort does that bring?"

                                                    Her questions were not for Gabriel, but for the version of herself that knelt at the side of her dying patient and his heartbroken wife, completely and utterly powerless for the second time in her life. Had she failed her profession? Or had the profession to which she had devoted her entire livelihood failed her?

                                                    "... to die at home, surrounded by those he loved," Gabriel offered, beckoning her back to the present. His comment barely registered.

                                                    "He shouldn't have died at all," she snapped, angry tears building in her eyes. Abigale tried to blink them away. What an absolute disgrace!

                                                    Bullocks.

                                                    It was all for naught. Her hands flew to her face to hide her shame as a frustrated cry escaped her lips. Whether in that split moment Gabriel expected her to fall to the cobblestone or to him, Abigail didn't know. Neither had particularly been her intention; she never was the fainting type. The poorly coping, occasionally irrationally angry type, but not the fainting type.

                                                    What was plainly evident was that she had been drawn against him reflexively. He could not possibly know how deeply she was fractured; how haunting an evening she'd really had. Death was part of her life as a physician, but tonight she had come face to face with a foe that had again bested her. To Gabriel, she must seem little more than a hysterical woman, unable to handle the basic challenges of her professed practice.

                                                    Utterly defeated, she allowed herself to remain in place for at least a moment, unable now to hold at bay the tears she hadn't spilled as Sully died at her knees waiting for help she couldn't provide.



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                                                    ooc OKAY SO I FKING BOUGHT INTO THE CLICHE SUE ME. Anyway. I'll definitely be shaping up the first part of the post (that overlaps with yours) because frankly its kinda crap. But more importantly I am happy with the bit that matters. Feel free to involve Gabe more and write Abigale into it as necessary, especially with the 'afterwards' bit. Definitely with the 'afterwards' bit. I just didn't want to take too much liberty with him on my own. Also notice that she is now thinking of him as 'Gabriel' rather than 'Navarre' or 'the Mesmer' emotion_dowant

Devout Bibliophile

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                                                        location: outside Whitechapel >> University of London
                                                        company: Abigale >> various


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                                                        Gabriel didn’t like to think himself brazen enough to think that after one night in the slums, he’d seen the worst of what humanity had to offer, but the events that transpired under Sully Granger’s roof were utterly unanticipated. Even Elliot, it seemed, had been unable to deal with it all: While she had conducted herself with admirable calm in front of the dead man’s wife, almost immediately after they left the three-story tenement, she’d broken into a dead run, leaving the startled angel far behind.

                                                        He made no move to shout after her at first. Tonight, it seemed, the air, already thickened from the soot in the Cauldron, had sunk even closer to the ground, as if mourning Sully’s departure the way no one in upscale London, or maybe even in the Cauldron, save his immediate family, would. She’d been so kind to everyone in Whitechapel, so eager to help; and in the end, she couldn’t save the one who most needed saving. How could he, disconnected as he was from death, know how heavily it weighed on Elliot’s—Abigale’s—mind? Somehow, it didn’t feel right for him to be the one to interrupt her grief… But the fact of the matter was that she’d dealt with it by running away, possibly into greater danger, and he hadn’t run after her, thus failing his first duty as a former guardian angel.

                                                        That lone thought sent him plunging back into reality. Abigale. Where had she gone?! The phantom muscles at his back itched to fly; but he knew that he could not give in. However much easier it would be to search for her even in the dead of night from above-ground, he could not show his hand when too many unknowns lurked in every shadow. And so he ran, in the only direction the physician could have gone. The slap of his leather shoes against the cobblestone joined with the rapid beating of his mortal heart to create a terrific din that made it even harder for him to concentrate. Visions of cesspools and death swirled before his mind’s eye. In his haste, he did not notice that one of the piles of rubbish he’d stepped on contained more cloth than offal.

                                                        He could see himself drawing near a bent figure, and as he approached, the figure straightened and turned to reveal Abigale. Her face was red and her hair disheveled; he strongly suspected that not all of that was due to her wild flight from the Cauldron. The bowler hat she’d brought with her to the slums was missing, but he had far more important things to worry about right then.

                                                        “Abigale,” he started softly, advancing a step towards her. “Are you alright?”

                                                        She said nothing, merely staring at him with wide, unseeing eyes. Uncertainly, he continued. “You’ve given such a light to these people—”

                                                        “I’ve done nothing,” she retorted. Nothing! What use was I to Sully in the end—to anyone I let die before?” Abigale had averted her gaze at some point during this tirade; she was trembling slightly as she addressed the gloomy, empty streets. “I don’t believe in lying to my patients, but to stand idle as they slip away? What comfort does that bring?”

                                                        To this, he had no ready answer. How could he? Gabriel had only ever been a guardian angel; it was not his place to interfere when his charges’ lives expired. Even Azrael, that famous Angel of Death, could do no more than sever the soul from the body’s pain and guide it to the Afterlife. Angels did not die and so treated death with an impersonal air—how could he, a fallen angel hiding in upscale London, ease the pain in the heart of a human who faced death potentially every day?

                                                        He didn’t need to look at her face to know that he had to at least try. “Sully probably wanted nothing more than to pass in the company of those he loved,” he offered lamely. “That includes you. You must have looked after him for a while now. He was probably hanging on so that you could be there to say goodbye.”

                                                        “He shouldn’t have died at all,” she snapped back at him. Such was the fury in her voice that Gabriel recoiled slightly. Though she hadn’t lashed out at him once during their time together in the Cauldron, he didn’t know her well enough yet to be certain that none of that ire was directed at him. His fears were allayed, however, when a long moment later, the doctor gave a frustrated sob and fell right into his arms. He’d lunged forward the moment he saw her sway, but the weight of her hit him so fast, he could not ascertain whether his body had betrayed him and he’d moved far enough to steal the hug from her himself. He could feel the raw emotion rolling off of her in choppy waves. Above everything, he could feel her anger: anger at the world, anger at death, anger at her own inability to cheat it. Emotions, he knew, were contagious in man, but Gabriel was no mere man. And so, as he held her there in the darkened streets of London, he did his best to project an aura of sympathy and calm.

                                                        “You did all you could,” he whispered into her ear again, consolingly.

                                                        “Even my all is not enough,” she grumbled back.

                                                        The angel said nothing, merely stroked her hair in silence. He couldn’t rid the image of Sully’s panic-stricken face as he’d countenanced death from his mind. What if he’d met the man before today? What if he had reached out then with all the healing arts his kind possessed? Only the Lord, of course, could revive life where it had passed; but could he have healed the man enough to forestall his death to a more reasonable age? Such selfishness was almost worthwhile if it meant that Abigale did not have to suffer—but even he was powerless if the Fates had decreed that the man should die today; nor could he glue himself to her to prevent all such instances from rattling her composure. How strange to think that in this, even he could be as impotent as any human! His hand stilled for a moment, fingers still entwined in her chestnut locks, aghast. He hastily resumed his stroking, as if nothing had happened at all.

                                                        Now that he knew what she faced on a daily basis, however, he would not stand still. One day soon, he promised, he would learn more about this profession she loved so much—and if he could not intercede on Abigale’s behalf, then at least he could share her burden so that she wouldn’t have to grieve alone.

                                                        Until then, however, all he could do was remain calm. After all, a rock did not need a brain to withstand the furied waves.



                                                        They parted ways in the midst of London. The last leg of their journey, much like the first, was walked in silence. Abigale didn’t seem to notice his continued presence until she halted outside the entrance to Hyde Park and turned about to see him still there. He asked if she wished for him to walk the rest of the way with her to her office or house; with a weary smile, she had declined. Even now, he knew not whether her unspoken emotion was from witnessing death (again) or from having sought, and received, comfort from her foe. Perhaps it was both; perhaps it was something else entirely. Perhaps it even had to do with the missing gray bowler she could not place upon her head. Human emotions were so complex.

                                                        He heard little of Doctor A.B. Elliot the next day, nor the day after. That did not stop him from worrying about her. Gabriel still saw his ‘patients’, still cured their minor (and sometimes greater) ills with aplomb in the way that only he could; he still received their payments, tips, and more as they whispered promises to return. None of it truly registered, for his mind was distracted, wandering, adrift. The angel couldn’t stop wondering how Abigale was coping. She made no appearances at the University of London over the weekend, though he drifted by once each day at 1700 just as he had that fateful Friday; and she made no attempts to visit him, as patient or otherwise. He tried his best to put her out of his mind—after all, she was just another human of the many who called London home. He could not afford to choose favorites when he had the whole of London to defend; it ran counter to his role here as Watcher. Yet why did she stick in his mind so, even for one whom he’d grieved alongside?

                                                        Late that Sunday evening, it hit him: She resembled the late Madeleine Beau, the Countess of Essex. He didn’t want to believe it, but the similarities were too much. From her unfathomable gray eyes to her cascading chestnut hair, and even the way she carried herself… The only real difference was that Madeleline had been a noblewoman, and Abigale was a physician.

                                                        The official records stated that the countess had died of assault in a brothel, that in a fit of hysteria she’d wandered in there and laid herself bare. Gabriel knew better: She’d been driven insane by him, by what she knew she’d seen but could not see again. The realization frightened him. He’d harbored some affection for Madeleine, not so unlike what he held for Abigale; and hardly twenty-four hours ago, he’d considered, not once but twice, assisting her in a fashion similar to what had brought about the former’s untimely death. Accursed slipp’ry slope; evil flight of fancy! Were even angels doomed to repeat the failures of the past? Or had he fallen so low that he too was now subject to Fate?

                                                        No. Gabriel could not believe that. He was older now, wiser in more ways than one. If it had been his angelhood that had doomed the countess, then all he had to do was be human for the doctor. He could still share in her burden, so long as he did not tip her off to the fact that there was more to him than she could ever know. Compassion and empathy were not angelic qualities alone—and though he hadn’t disbelieved it before, he had a face to put to the virtue now.



                                                        He always treated the greatest number of patients on Mondays, when the work week began anew. As usual, they came to him complaining of bothersome aches and pains; occasionally, someone arrived who was creative enough to feign a cold. Fully half of them asked him for a doctor’s note to grant them reprieve from work. Gabriel wondered why he never noticed before that the ones who requested this most tended to be more upper-class.

                                                        Somehow after yesterday, his work left him feeling somewhat… hollow.

                                                        When his final patient left him at 1630, he donned his tailcoat and hat once more and headed out. He needed to get some fresh air, find time to sort his cloying thoughts. Perhaps the oppressive soot of the Cauldron had not entirely left him, for he wanted nothing more right now than to jump off a building somewhere and fly off into the distance. Of course, that was foolishness: London was far too large and crowded; he would be spotted within moments of the attempt. So instead he settled for a very rapid clip, hardly aware of the path his feet led him down.

                                                        Before he knew it, he was once more on the grounds of the University of London. What’s more, he had halted before the very auditorium in which he’d met Abigale three days ago. He blinked and gazed around him. Not a soul seemed to notice the wayward angel blown in by the wind; everyone was much too busy hustling off to destinations unknown. Such was the nature of human mortality, he mused, turning back towards the auditorium doors, that they needed to hurry as if every moment might be their last. And it very well could be. Again, poor Sully drifted into his mind. Gabriel smacked his head with an open palm; the volume of his sigh caused at least one head to turn. He’d left his office to get away from that! What business had a dead man in haunting an angel? Shaking his head once more, he banished him from his mind for the umpteenth time and opened his eyes.

                                                        Scheduled Lectures: Dr. A.B. Elliot, Monday, 12 Nov 1901, 5:00 PM.

                                                        For a moment, Gabriel could only stare. Abigale… Had she truly recovered so swiftly, to be able to give a talk just three days after Sully’s passing? Her resilience amazed him, though he would not have been surprised if her topic today was death.

                                                        Opening the door, he wandered in and settled into a seat in the middle right. He had nothing more he needed to do with the day, and it felt right for him to be here in the audience today again.

                                                        Besides, he never had gotten to see if denouncing charlatanry was all she could do on the pulpit.
                                                        ***
                                                        (tbh, I couldn't really add too much to your end/my beginning bit because you covered it pretty well already. Hopefully this is fine!)

Tipsy Conversationalist

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                                                    location the Mesmerist's office > the Cauldron > various tenements > the sidewalk of a nicer street
                                                    company Gabriel > various > her father's ghostly image > Gabriel


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                                                            Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled.
                                                            Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear?
                                                            See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven,
                                                            See, my desire is fulfill’d in thee, for it fills the earth.

                                                            Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn’d I from the window,
                                                            Turn’d to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street,
                                                            Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me,
                                                            None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.

                                                                William Scawlen Blunt
                                                                A Desolate City
                                                                1898


                                                    Whether she had failed her profession or her profession had failed her, Abigale could not ascertain. In the hours that followed Sully Granger’s death, this crisis befell her with deafening silence. She could not hear the words of others nor any thoughts of her own as the storm in hear heart also roared in her head.

                                                    After departing Gabriel’s company with a sullen smile, the weary doctor had wandered on. When at last she managed to surface from her despondent state, she had somehow found her doorstep. Rose was there to receive her, to pull her into the warm glow of the parlor’s gaslights, and to guide her immediately to the refuge of her down bed. Many an evening the housekeeper had waited late for the doctor’s return, staving off her own fatigue with the printed words of favorite authors and poets. When, however, the sun threatened to rise and Abigale had not yet come in, Rose abandoned her books worriedly and stationed herself like a sentinel behind the stained glass pane of the door. Then as her beloved girl had finally appeared at the gate, spent and defeated, the housekeeper immediately sensed her tragedy and wordlessly rushed to meet her at the step.

                                                    That night, Abigale dreamt as she slept.

                                                    She dreamt of walking with her father as they had done many times before. The street was lined with flowering trees, their contented silence accompanied by gentle birdsong. As the sunlight filtered down upon their heads, she felt warm and happy.

                                                    And then white petals began to fall, coaxed from their branches by a chill breeze. Just as she had done all throughout her youth, Abigale looked to her father for reassurance that all was well. Instead she found that his healthful glow was fading, his features weathering as if years were rushing past. With wild eyes she searched the horizon for salvation from the autumn that descended upon them.

                                                    She pulled her father desperately ahead, but for all her might, he only slowed. Soon, the trees were barren, their wilting petals littering the ground, waiting to be trampled underfoot. The chirping birds had long subsided, ushering in a silent wintry still. As grey clouds enveloped the faltering sun, Abigale felt her happiness fade. She cried for her father to have strength to carry on, but her words were carried away on the icy wind. He was all but frozen now, each step painstakingly fought.

                                                    The only sound was the beat of horses’ hooves against the cobbled street. They sounded of impending doom. For the first time she looked behind her. Gaining on them quickly was a black coach with no driver at the reigns. It was pulled by six galloping beasts; winged and of immense speed. The soot they trailed behind them turned the once-white petals as black as ash.

                                                    Soon the phantom coach was upon them, grinding to a stop. Abigale clutched her father tightly as he finally fell to his knees. The stinging wind abated, time suspended in the air. As she raised her eyes to meet their fate, she found that her view was obscured by thick black fog rolling out from the coach’s open door. From the murky depths emerged the skeletal hand of Death. Slowly and purposefully it beckoned. Again the sound was stolen from her mouth as she tried to plead their case.

                                                    Her father began to rise, and as he did, he held her gaze. Once again he stood tall, though as tendrils of black fog began to curl around him, his life force began to drain. He kissed her forehead softly, his eyes urging her to remain. But Abigale reached for him frantically anyway, bewildered and angry. It wasn’t time! This wasn’t the place! The horizon held promises for them both, not she alone.

                                                    Her efforts were in vain. As Death withdrew his coaxing hand, her black fog began to recede. With it went her father, into the phantom coach. At her last glimpse of him he breathed his last labored breath. Abigale willed herself to her feet and threw herself towards the closing door.
                                                    She was met by a blinding light. When at least it subsided, Death’s carriage had pulled away. In its stead stood an angel with massive feathered wings so white and gleaming that she had to keep her eyes downcast. The angel radiated like the missing sun. In his presence, the trees came back to life. A soft familiar melody overcame the silence and the beating of his wings seemingly forced away the looming clouds.

                                                    Still Abigale had reached for Death, felt the tendrils of its breath. She tried again to chase it, though this time the angel held her fast. In defeat she acquiesced. Beyond his embrace she watched her father’s carriage disappear. But just as surely as her heart was breaking, Abigale felt the angel’s warmth begin to heal the gaping, painful wounds. Though it hurt her deeply, she could feel herself becoming whole.

                                                    … … …


                                                    As she woke, the warmth of her angel’s arms faded away as did any memory of the dream and all that remained was the ache in her chest. With a heavy sigh, the doctor rolled onto her back and stared up at the woven canopy stretched across her bed’s four posters. She didn’t even want to know what time it was.

                                                    Ever the faithful housekeeper, Rose was not about to let her remain in denial.

                                                    “It’s 0830, Abby,” the Irishwoman offered loudly, as in response to Abigale’s thoughts. “Get yer lazy bones up or ye might become down stuffing yerself,” she added, throwing open the blue velvet drapes to let the sun splash across the room. Most housekeepers were careful to address their employers by title and show some sort of reverence, but Rose McGilly was not most housekeepers.

                                                    Rose pulled the comforter from the bed, unearthing Abigale from her warm cocoon. “Yev been sleepin fer over a day, ya’d best get up before ya ferget how ta move at all,” she implored.

                                                    Abigale groaned and sat at the edge of the bed. As Rose gathered the rest of her laundry and left with the basket, the young doctor basked in the warm sunlight on her face. When she recalled the way she had lost her composure in front of a veritable stranger, she felt slightly nauseas. Actually, very nauseas. She could handle her reputation for being fiery. “Bricky,” her father had called her. But a sentimental, slobbering mess? In the arms of somebody she didn’t even know? Somebody who represented much of what she hated? Somebody who surely doubted her ability as a physician after all the rabble she had roused? How could she ever face him again?

                                                    There was a hint of something comforting there, too, though, in the way that she had been held. When she closed her eyes and remembered that feeling, it alone was safe and calm. Then, Abigale had felt Gabriel’s sincerity. Now, however, all she felt was absolute embarrassment. She could not even imagine his face without coloring. But enough of that.

                                                    Outside the large window was a new day. Hopefully, she’d never have to see Gabriel again. Abigale had never been particularly good at being vulnerable, but she had really made a fool of herself to him.

                                                    She would not look a fool again. Nor would she let down her time-honored profession. Though Sully’s death would always haunt her, she promised herself that if death ever bested her again, it would not be because she had failed. If the limitations were those of medicine, so be it—she could not change the nature of mortality. She could, however, deliver the best possible care that the profession afforded.

                                                    … … …


                                                    Two days later, Abigale again stood at the mahogany lectern. The crowd was somewhat sparser than it had been earlier in the week, but it was still healthy. This time, she wore a dress of powder blue, a smartly tailored gray jacket, and a handsome linen tie. Her hair was pinned up, which had been quite the controversy earlier that morning when she realized she’d lost her hat. Rose had affixed a small sprig of baby’s breath flowers aside the knot in the bowler’s stead. It was a look that suited her far more than dull-hued, high-necked gowns she usually opted for.

                                                    Even her facial features were less severe today, as she greeted her audience. There was genuine confidence in her demeanor. This time, she had promised herself, her professionalism would stand on its own in the form of her lecture.

                                                    She would not present on Gabriel Navarre, fraudulent Mesmerist today. While she was still quite conflicted about his entire practice, Abigale had decided to move on and present to the community what she truly did well rather than what others supposedly failed at. If, deep down, she had other motivations for sparing Gabriel, she did not admit them—even to herself.

                                                    The doctor held to the crowd a small vial.

                                                    “This is silver nitrate,” she began. With eloquence and passion that had eluded her for months, Abigale began to lecture on the use of silver nitrate as a preventative measure against potentially-blinding infections among newborns. She cited the research, reviewed the etiology of the infections, and then presented the data that she herself had compiled over nearly a year.

                                                    “The estimated rate of Ophthalmia Neonatorium in infants was one in seven. Of those, thirty percent would suffer unilateral or bilateral blindness. Over the past year, I have administered silver nitrate to over 50 newborns: none of whom contracted any ophthalmic infection.” She went on to propose that it be instituted not just in hospitals, where the cure had originally been instituted, but by all privately practicing physicians.

                                                    As Abigale drew her presentation to a close, she felt a surge of pride. The audience responded with a hearty round of applause, as if they had been waiting for this kind of work all along. There were no whispers of her tired topics and the only mention of her father came from the Dean.

                                                    “Your father would be very proud of you, Dr. Elliot,” Carver had offered as he relieved her from the stage. As she descended the steps, she looked out over the audience once more. Red Spearman stood in the back, arms folded, lips pressed into a hard line. A satisfied smile spread across Abigale’s own face. She had not banished her demons, they still threatened her happiness, but today she would not allow them the privilege.

                                                    Or so she thought.

                                                    Abigale’s heart stopped. Her eyes were locked with those of the man that consoled her in his arms just nights before. What was he doing here? She had paused just long enough for the gentleman nearest her to ask whether she was okay. Ripping her gaze from Gabriel’s, she did her best to disappear into the crowd of people. She would be damned if she let him get the best of her again.

                                                    Not to mention that the mere sight of him made her wildly uncomfortable.

                                                    Willing the puzzling man into the back of her mind, Abigale made her way throughout her peers, answering questions and receiving largely enthusiastic feedback. Realizing that she was drifting perilously close to Red Spearman, she decided to excuse herself. The young woman stepped backward gracefully as she expressed niceties toward the ancient Dr. Leonard Holmes and his unfortunate-looking grandson, Dr. Leonard Holmes III.

                                                    When she had finally put enough distance between herself and the excruciatingly boring pair, Abigale took account of Red Spearman far to her left and sighed with relief. She had done what she came to do, and while she looked forward to next week’s lecture, she was ready for a more agreeable company. Chuckling to herself, Abigale turned around and moved to step outside of the lecture hall only to find herself face to face with Gabriel Navarre.

                                                    An actual, uncensored expletive escaped her. Why did he always seem to be right there??? With a deep breath, Abigale stepped back and managed a nod of acknowledgement. He just looked down at her with an expression somewhere between concerned, impressed, and downright quizzical. She couldn’t read his face at all.

                                                    “Dr. Elliot,” he started, though he gave a brief pause as if carefully choosing his next words. “How are you coping?” To Abigale, his voice sounded almost clinical, as if he were simply following up after their appointment and not as if she had accused him of charlatanry, impropriety, and impetuousness before letting a patient die in his presence and then actually becoming a sniveling mess in his arms.

                                                    She cringed.

                                                    Mortified. She was mortified. But for once, the doctor did not become angrily defensive. She sort of thought she might prefer anger to the nauseas fluttering in her stomach, but nonetheless.

                                                    “I’m fine,” she replied, rather gently, sweeping back a lock of hair that had fallen from her pins. Where was her damn hat? Gabriel looked at her still. What, was he assessing her? If he wanted more from her, he would be sorely disappointed. She was not going to say anything she’d regret. Instead, Abigale punctuated her response simply by straightening her jacket.

                                                    He looked as if were about to speak, but before he could utter anything more, he was abruptly interrupted.

                                                    “Could it be? Navarre the Magnificent in our very midst?” An infuriatingly familiar voice drawled from behind Abigale. Red Spearman stepped past her, shaking Gabriel’s hand with exaggerated gusto. “A Mesmerist, right? My sister just can’t say enough of your services,” he oozed melodramatically.

                                                    Red shifted toward Abigale slightly. “And Dr. Elliot! I’m surprised that you of all people indulge in a Mesmerist yourself. I wouldn’t think you the type, but he does seem to have quite the reputation among your sex.” He grinned, looking her up and down. "But then again, maybe I do think you the type."

                                                    Abigale did not even attempt to hide her exasperation. Could this have possibly gotten any worse, any faster?



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                                                    ooc I feel like I had something important to say but I can't remember it probably because it's 6:30 in the morning.

Devout Bibliophile

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                                                        location: University of London
                                                        company: simpering fop, Abigale


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                                                        “This is silver nitrate,” Abigale intoned. “When babies are born, they risk picking up an infection from their mothers called ophthalmia neonatorium that affects their eyes, causing them to go blind before they even have the chance to really see.”

                                                        Gabriel was surprised—and not to mention a little relieved—when he saw the young physician withdraw the same vial she’d shown him the night before from her bag and show it to the crowd. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected by coming here, but somehow, hearing the name of that familiar chemical brought a smile to his face. It was almost as if, by presenting on it, Abigale had made peace with the events that had transpired that night they spent together, and seeing her at peace—confident, even—put him at ease as well. The girl was more alive there on the lectern than he’d ever seen her before as she expounded upon the virtues and efficacy of this wondrous little drug, citing various observations from her own experience as well as a small handful of others. Behind the podium, she commanded power, made all the more incredible by the fact that she had witnessed trauma just two days prior.

                                                        Much like her last speech, she concluded this one with a call to action, to incorporate the use of silver nitrate in private practices throughout London. Her words were met with much applause, and it seemed to Gabriel that this ovation was more raucous than the last. Perhaps even the audience could tell that this was what she was meant to do.

                                                        He glided smoothly between various attendees as he worked his way towards the front of the room. He wanted to talk to her, however briefly, make sure that she was okay after his own handful of compliments. If her performance today was any indication, the lady had most definitely recovered, but sometimes, even the smoothest façades were too easily fractured. But if he hoped to find her still onstage, he was soon to be disappointed, for Abigale had already departed. He pressed his lips into a frown, but thought little more on the matter. Most likely the other inquirers had already swept her away.

                                                        The angel turned instead for the refreshments table at the edge of the room. Upon the table stood several varieties of cake and fruit, but what caught his eye the most was the sight of wine and cheese together on the last table-leaf. He didn’t need to draw close to smell the aromatic bouquet. There was a reason why wine was known to man as Bacchus’s sweet nectar—some types, rich enough for the more fanciful to proclaim that they had been stolen from Heaven itself, had aromas strong enough to make even the angels lightheaded. Not to mention that Gabriel himself was a notorious lightweight. He’d figured that Abigale would eventually make her way here, since no human could go without eating for long, but even here she eluded him.

                                                        He lost no time in melding right back into the crowd, lest the smell of the wine become overpowering.

                                                        Somehow, lost in the gradually-shrinking crowd, he ran into her where all his attempts to find her in more open spaces had failed. The angel had been milling aimlessly about with the rest of them, wondering where the next most likely place would be, when suddenly Abigale was there right in front of him, looking as surprised as he to have found him there. A sudden expletive left her lips as she took a step back, but she very quickly made up for her unladylike behavior with a nod of acknowledgment.

                                                        Funny how now that they were face to face, he had no idea what was so important about he’d wanted to say to her that he would squander a whole half-hour looking for her at all. Try as he might, Gabriel could not remember, and so he spouted the first thing that came to mind. “Dr. Elliot,” he greeted. “How are you coping?”

                                                        Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was by no stretch of the imagination a physician, and yet he’d already managed to come off sounding as stiff as one. This was not the way he’d wanted to greet her.

                                                        Abigale, to her credit, did not notice his mental discomfiture. “I’m fine,” she responded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Instead of a bowler hat, he noticed she had a delicate garland of flowers in her hair, their small white, understated blooms only serving to make her even more lovely. The sight of them reopened a wound Gabriel had thought already healed by time. Lady Madeleine had frequently done the same; indeed, she preferred these smaller blooms to the ridiculously ornate headdresses some other women of her class wore. For a moment he could not speak, so spellbound by memory was he; and when he finally regained his tongue, his speaking rights were appropriated by an unlikely visitor.

                                                        “Could it be? Navarre the Magnificent in our very midst?”

                                                        Now when had he acquired such a grandiloquent title? As one, Gabriel’s and Abigale’s gazes shifted towards the drawling man behind her. His ginger hair was neatly combed, with a fanciful curl on the right side of it, and the breast pocket of his twill jacket bore a neatly folded napkin. The man advanced and took Gabriel’s hand before he could offer it, shaking it with such oily zest that he almost wanted to wipe his hands as soon as the gesture was done. “A Mesmerist, right?” he asked. “My sister just can’t say enough of your services.”

                                                        And just who are you again? Gabriel wanted to snap in return; but the portentous man had already turned his attentions on his companion. “And Dr. Elliot!” he exclaimed. “I’m surprised that you of all people indulge in a Mesmerist yourself. I wouldn’t think you the type, but he does seem to have quite the reputation among your sex.” He leered at her as he scrutinized her form. “But then again, maybe I do think you the type.”

                                                        “Excuse me, good sir. You forget that just two days ago, Dr. Elliot was lambasting the proprietary snake salve I use.” The angel’s voice was icy as he glared down at the man (for though they were of similar height, such was the look in his face that Red may as well have been a mouse). “I’m afraid the only thing she will be indulging me in is debate, for I intend to explain to her exactly why she is wrong and how it works.” He tilted his head and extended a hand, palm up, towards the man in a manner that bespoke only condescension. “Have you, perhaps, come to support me, seeing as your sister is one of my patients? Or, perhaps, were you so enamored with her testimony that you came looking for me, that you might arrange your first appointment with me directly?” From his waist pocket, Gabriel produced a small memo, one that he kept there at all times to jot notes or sketch whatever beautiful moments of nature he happened upon (not that this man needed to know that), and pretended to consult it. “Normally I close at 5, but for you, I’ll make you an exception. 7:30 pm, my office. Surely your sister knows the way.”

                                                        Caught off-guard by the ready defense, the man sputtered sincere apologies, for he had already arranged to share dinner that night with his beloved fiancée, whom he had not seen enough of due to the bothersome long hours he worked as a physician. But he wasn’t finished yet: The hint of a dangerous smile on his lips, Gabriel feigned sympathy with the man, for he too shared those bothersome hours; he had actually come straight here after his last patient today for the debate; but however much he might want to pass the time griping with his beloved new accomplice about the perpetually invalid, he simply couldn’t keep his poor woman waiting any longer than he already had. As a final blow, he sent the man off with one of his business cards, pulled from between the rear pages of his memo, and fancied he saw the proverbial tail between his legs as he slunk away. Once he was certain the dandy had left, Gabriel turned about to find Abigale regarding him with an intense look, the only emotion from which he could read was betrayal. The sight unnerved him, and he held his hands up in front of his face defensively. “Please don’t glare at me like that,” he entreated her. “I only said what needed to be said. I don’t actually carry the stuff in my office. You can even search it if you like.”

                                                        The first part was something of a lie, for Gabriel had actually taken great satisfaction in shooing his quarry off. The man was so obviously fake, so openly horrid to her. In sending him off, he may have gotten slightly carried away. Gradually, he became aware how much he sounded like a con-man exposed by his latter words and tried his best to change the subject. “That was a wonderful performance onstage just now,” he told her, lowering his arms back to his hips with forced ease. “I wouldn’t have expected you to present on a chemical you used the very day you and I…” The angel trailed off. Mentioning Sully’s death so soon after the event was most definitely a bad idea. He cleared his throat. “Anyway. You seem very knowledgeable about this sort of thing—of course, given your hands-on experience with it. Why not lecture on this, instead of on how the egos of greedy businessmen and charlatans reveal themselves in their marketing campaigns?”

                                                        The memory of her last lecture still rankled now that he reminded himself of it, and Gabriel needed to know where she stood on the matter. Where she and Madeleine stood on him. It couldn’t be coincidence how much the two resembled each other… could it?
                                                        ***
                                                        (Heehee. Also, don’t mind me pretending he came there with a notebook kthx)

Tipsy Conversationalist

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                                        location University of London > the River Thames outside of her father's office company lots of doctors > Gabriel

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                                        Abigale and Red were similar in age and they had apractically grown up alongside one another while their fathers studied at (and eventually became leaders at) the University. Bernard Elliot, secure in his work though he was, had possessed an inexplicable, almost innate rivalry toward the senior Dr. Spearman. Bernard frequently sought to collaborate with his peers but had never gelled with his nemesis, even from their beginning days in medical school.

                                        Red’s father, George R. Spearman, Sr. (his namesake), had thought Elliot foolhardy in his goodwill approach to medicine. He believed that the poor were too damned—not by god but by their fellow man—to be helped, and that any physician who wasted his time and talents trying to address their infinite incurable woes risked losing his reputation and his sanity. Instead, George believed wholeheartedly that the best and only way to achieve anything in medicine was to make the most of the opportunities they were afforded as prominent physicians: wealthy clientele. Working with high-profile people and deep wallets ensured that his name was well-known, his income steady, and his professional interests funded. Working with the poor, he’d contended, served no purpose in such capacities.

                                        That Spearman could achieve such notoriety and success without acknowledging his professional duty to serve all those in need frustrated Elliot to no end; that Elliot still managed to cultivate and maintain a plethora of high-society patients despite his do-gooder attitude (ultimately infringing upon his own client base) was the bane of Spearman’s existence.

                                        What the two did share was their determination to contribute to the field of medicine in a meaningful way. They were each remarkably intelligent, charismatic, and driven… which made them only detest one another more. Though never overtly rude or aggressive, their rivalry was well-known, consisting of stiff niceties, subtle jabs, and endless time spent privately thinking the other an unbearable thorn.

                                        Bernard had done better in raising Abigale, never discussing the matter with her or defaming his colleague in her presence. His keen daughter, however, perceived the tension and naturally adopted her father’s values as she grew within the profession in her own right.

                                        Red, however, had been privy to every rant and rave about the holier-than-though Elliots, their lameness in self-sacrifice, and whatever other snarky turn of phrase his father could muster. If Red felt any affinity for Abigale or sympathy in the wake of her father’s death, he did not show it. That his own father was now an irreproachable figure within the London medical profession and especially within the University seemed only to further entitle him.

                                        The junior Spearman seemed to be particularly bothered that his inherited rival was a woman. He hoped, at least outwardly, that for his sake, she would fail without her father’s status to preserve her. A week ago, he had felt confident that she would soon be awash; today, he was threatened and thusly motivated to strike at her.

                                        Red’s wicked gaze upon her, though likely exaggerated, made Abigale feel violated. Rather than withdrawing, she became angry. If he had hoped his words specifically to sting, he was met with disappointment as they went unregistered.

                                        Not by Gabriel, though.

                                        Abigale’s attention shifted to her blonde counterpart as he lambasted the smarmy ginger physician and made him feel a fool… though he had initially done so by lying about the nature of their interaction.

                                        Her thoughts were a jumble. Initially, she was relieved that Gabriel had absorbed the accusation and deflected it gracefully. Though Abigale was certainly more than capable of handling Red, it was nice for another to share in the burden. Then, however, she began to sour. It would have been truthful and simple enough for her to have negated Red’s accusations by informing him that they had only bumped into one another and were exchanging civil pleasantries. That would have been easy enough!

                                        Abigale grew more curious. Why had Gabriel felt the need to create such a farce?

                                        Brown brows knitted slightly and eyes narrowed, her appraising gaze shifted as Gabriel’s movement caught her attention. He plucked a card from his memo book with exaggerated delicacy and tucked it into the breastpocket of Red’s jacket, giving the square a few hearty pats for good measure. “Normally I close at 5, but for you, I’ll make an exception. 7:30pm, in my office. Surely your sister knows the way!” As he finished his last jab, Red was already retreating, mumbling his sincerest regrets and excuses as he went.

                                        Why had she found that so satisfying?

                                        Questions abound. Her brow furrowed further.

                                        “Please don’t glare at me like that… I only said what needed to be said. I don’t actually carry the stuff in my office! You can even search it if you like!”

                                        Again, Abigale had conflicting responses. At first, she found it rather endearing: his hands raised defensively, his tone earnest, and his obvious concern for her opinion. But then her thoughts circled back round to the ‘what needed to be said’ bit. She realized then that she was frowning deeply and attempted to resurrect her neutral façade. She couldn’t have known what Gabriel made of her intensity, but it was more about the questions flying around in her head than it was about his ‘confession’ to using snake oil. She decided to stop overthinking. What was it about him that had her head racing so?

                                        “So who was that man?” Gabriel asked, dropping his hands slowly as Abigale’s expression softened.

                                        “An a**,” came her reply, automatically.

                                        Her cheeks colored just slightly as she clapped a hand over her mouth, failing to stifle her soft laughter over the reflexive response. Sometimes her sharp tongue got the best of her.

                                        Gabriel chuckled, offering her a smile. She was a little embarrassed, and hoped that his amusement was genuine and that he didn’t find her imprudence offensive. Not that she cared what he thought of her at all of course…

                                        Abigale breathed in, trying to regain her composure and will away the flush in her face. Her own cheeky, slightly embarrassed grin was impossible to supress.

                                        Seizing the moment of friendly energy, Gabriel expressed his sentiments regarding her lecture. “That was an outstanding performance on stage just now,” he told her. Abigale inwardly pricked with pride, but before she could reply, he botched it.

                                        “I wouldn’t have expected you to present on a chemical you used the very day you and I…” his sentence died.

                                        Whatever playful pink remained in the apples of Abigale’s cheeks washed out quickly. Gabriel cleared his throat. She prayed he did not continue where he left off.

                                        “You seem very knowledgeable about this sort of thing,” Gabriel tried again, to her relief. “Of course, given your hands on experience with it. Why not lecture on this, instead of how the egos of greedy businessmen and charlatans reveal themselves in their marketing campaigns?”

                                        While she appreciated the compliments, that wasn’t the most valuable suggestion she’d ever heard. Obviously she had already started lecturing on it. Abigale was about to quip at him in reply when she reconsidered. In the way he watched her carefully, she sensed a hint of anticipation for her response. The doctor recognized that as much as he was encouraging her to continue presenting on topics that suited her well, he was asking about her appraisal of him.

                                        His question had been rhetorical; more of a comment. It hadn’t been anything that should have stopped her cold. But she feared that it would lead to more questions… ones she wasn’t prepared to answer. Just days previously, she had thought him a greedy charlatan.

                                        Today… things were not so black and white.

                                        Desperate to change the subject, Abigail’s eyes fell on the memobook Gabriel held at his side; the one he had poured over for Red’s benefit. A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth.

                                        “Is that really just full of appointments with adoring fans like Ms. Spearman?” She asked coyly, gesturing.

                                        “Well, perhaps not quite as many as I’d have Red believe,” he answered lightheartedly, absentmindedly thumbing through the pages. Before he could continue, Abigale interrupted. She’d spied a the briefest flash of a drawing on a loose-leaf page as he’d rifled through it.

                                        “Wait!” She exclaimed, reaching toward the book. Without giving him the chance to recoil, Abigale grasped the protruding page and slipped it out. It was a gorgeous sketch of a riverbend. Somehow, with just graphite, he’d managed to capture the flowing rapids, blossoming wildflowers, unruly brambles, and otherwise vibrant foliage along the banks. He’d even detailed the extensive, twisting roots of an old, massive fallen tree that had come to rest in the waters.

                                        The most unique thing was the perspective: an aerial view. Nobody Abigale knew had ever had such a talent: to imagine what the world looked like from up above. Maybe such views existed on rooftops in London, but she imagined the only sight to see would be more brick and mortar. From what vantage point could he have captured such a scene?

                                        As she continued to stare at his graceful handiwork, she realized that the riverbend looked familiar. The fallen tree and it’s beautiful, knotty roots… the three large boulders in the middle of the river, creating the white crested turbulence.

                                        Abigale’s eyes widened.

                                        “I know where this is!” Her excitement took over and she brushed past him toward the back exit of the hall, eyes trained on the artwork. She’d been to this place many, many times. Countless times!

                                        The doctor turned to look expectantly at Gabriel, wordlessly directing him to follow. As she led him out of the lecture hall and through the adjacent building, she turned her attention back to his handiwork. Abigale shook her head slightly in disbelief. When they reached an imposing door, she cast the paper down to her side and dug through the satchel on her opposite hip.

                                        Abigale retrieved a small brass key and unlocked the door. It was an office, stale and dusty. She coughed slightly upon entry, too focused to dwell on the half-finished papers that had been on the desk so long that the sun from the window had bleached them. She took no account of the tweed jacket that hung undisturbed from the hook by the door or the book on the window sill that was still opened to a particular page.

                                        Quite purposefully, the woman did not stop to look at the engraved plaque on the wall: “Dr. Bernard Elliot, MD.”

                                        Instead, she strained to lift the window open—finally succeeding with a loud, quite unladylike grunt. It had been nearly stuck. When the pane had been pushed all they way up, the opening was large enough for her to climb through easily. What awaited on the other side was a rare, biophilic oasis: a peaceful bit of the Thames River bank, carefully manicured but rarely disturbed.

                                        Abigale held the sketch out at arm’s length once more as she strode across the grassy space. From the wildflowers to the brambles, this was the spot. The tree was the dead giveaway; as was the S-curve of the river that was apparent even from their vantage point. Of course, she noted, the most obvious clue was that it was lovely and filled with nature; not polluted and overcrowded.

                                        She could not understand. Turning to face Gabriel, she made a sweeping gesture to the lovely scenery around them. “This is the only place in London that this picture could be… But the only access is the groundskeeper’s shed and those four office windows,” Abigale said, nodding toward the four large, identical, evenly spaced windows along the eastern wall of the brick building. “Even I haven’t been here since… I haven’t been here for a long time,” she finished, struggling; still finding herself unwilling to disclose too much. She assumed that Gabriel knew her father had died; everybody seemed to know. But thus far he had not questioned her, referenced him, or offered any lame sentiments. Whether that was intentional or not, Abigale was grateful for it. Not only did she not want any of those things, it was also proving impossible to disclose the information herself... as though it would be betraying a very personal part of herself, a wound that still ached thoroughly. How could she share that pain with anyone if she herself had not discovered how to address it?

                                        Abigale wrested her thoughts to the present, her eyes to the beautiful sketch.

                                        “How could you have possibly imagined this so well?” She breathed, lightly tracing the steady, skillful lines of his pencil with her small fingertips.

                                        To Abigale, the question was largely rhetorical (if for no other reason than she could not even imagine to comprehend what fantasy any explanation other than uncanny coincidence would imply). She could not imagine what answer he might provide.



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                                        ooc I'll add the speech formatting in tomorrow. I'll also re-read it and probably heavily edit/improve a lot of it, but I just didn't want to keep you waiting. I would also like to emphasize that she is NOT running off to this place, just walking. This time she actually wants Gabe to come with her lol. Also, we can change the nature of the drawing and scenery if the river is doesn't work for you.

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