Back in his own home once more, Palmer became all but consumed by the pursuit of answers. He attempted to coax a glow from every living thing he could get his hands on. None cooperated.

The question rested heavily on his thoughts as he went about his days and even as he attempted to sleep. He thought upon it as he ate his meals and as he dressed for the day and undressed for the night.

Early one morning as he brushed through his hair, now a bit overgrown and less well-kept than it had once been, a spark of light emitted, jumping about between the strands of hair. He’d seen such a thing happen before but had paid it little heed. Until now.

The same thing happened on occasion when pulling a nightshirt on or off. A bit of a crackling feeling would emerge. The spark would follow, only to disappear as quickly as it had appeared. Could not the various lights he’d seen on bogs and on faces be related to this?

And thus he spent weeks rubbing together various materials, pulling out strands of his own hair, applying various substances, attempting to determine what, precisely, could force the spark of light to return. Linen rubbed against skin sometimes worked. No matter the amount of hair he pulled, only that left upon his head ever showed any success, and that only rarely.

He might have continued his experiments indefinitely if not for the whisperings of two strangers he passed on the street as he returned from seeing a patient, something he did with less frequency. The two men were discussing the widely held belief amongst those of the lowest classes that human bodies could produce light . . . after death.

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Gemma had never imagined she’d one day find work cleaning a wax museum. But Madame Tussaud’s displays were interesting, and the job paid a fair wage. Baker Street weren’t in the rummest part of London, but it was a far-sight better than other places she’d worked and lived in. And it was reliable work. She’d soon have money enough for leaving London.

You ought to try making things right between you. She’d not managed to rid her mind of her discussion with Stone. He’d insisted Baz didn’t know how to bridge the gap. And he’d implied that Baz wanted to. Móirín said it weren’t such a lost cause as it seemed.

But what if they were wrong? What if she rebuilt that bridge only to have it crumble beneath her again? And if there was hope of building on their fondness, that’d make it all the harder to leave London when the time came. But if she didn’t leave, her family would eventually find her. And if she was with Barnabus, finding her meant they would find him. Sometimes life didn’t allow for any good options.