“He doesn’t like to talk about his failures,” Jericho said, stepping over to examine the machine.
Mabel’s brows came together in a V. “You don’t like him much, do you?”
“I admire what he’s accomplished. I respect his achievements. But he’s not a man who thinks about the cost of those achievements.” Jericho paused. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Sure would be great if we could include a demonstration of this beauty in the exhibit. I wonder how you make it work.”
“Will’s letter said it measures some sort of ghostly electromagnetic radiation. So I suppose if there are no Diviners and no ghosts, you get a quiet machine.”
“Suppose. Of course, it’s been living in the cellar all these years. It might not work at all,” Mabel said, thumping the glass. The needle didn’t budge. “Oh! I found some photographs, too. Here. This one is of Mama Thibault. Let’s put her picture with her letter. Perhaps we can find other pictures and pair them all up. Did you find anything useful?”
“Um… here. This one was promising,” Jericho said, grabbing a letter from a stack he’d put aside.
St. Eloysius, Louisiana
June 21, 1906
Dear Cornelius,
I do not know whether or not the fires of hell actually exist, but I can tell you that, if so, the cotton fields of Louisiana on a hot summer’s day are good practice for those torments.
“Ha!” Mabel said. “The professor has a sense of humor. Or he did once. Sorry. Go on.”
Today we met with a young sharecropper, Guillaume “Big Bill” Johnson, who has the extraordinary ability to hasten a peaceful death for ailing animals. While we watched, he entwined his fingers in the mane of a horse with a broken leg. “Shhh, now. Don’t fuss, Clara. Be over soon,” he murmured sweetly. The horse trembled mightily for a count of three, and then she slipped into death as if going to sleep. The effort took the wind out of young Guillaume, too. Though barely nineteen, he stands well over six feet and possesses an intimidating strength but a gentle nature. He seemed rather enamored of Margaret and consented to a sample.
I do hope New York’s stifling heat hasn’t inconvenienced you much.
Fondly,
Will
“Guillaume Johnson… Hmm. No picture of Mr. Johnson, I’m afraid. I’ll keep looking. What are these samples he keeps referring to?” Mabel asked, leaning back in her chair by the fire. “It’s mentioned in quite a few of Dr. Fitzgerald’s letters.”
“I noticed that, too,” Jericho said, sitting across from her. “Hopefully one of the other letters will make it clear.”
Mabel glanced at Jericho shyly. It made him nervous, like he was supposed to do something, but he had no idea what that was.
“Right. Back to it. I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” he said, carrying his crate up the spiral staircase to the second-floor balcony. From behind the stacks, Jericho watched Mabel at work. Her blue dress was smudged with dust, but she hadn’t made a fuss about it. Of course she wouldn’t. Mabel Rebecca Rose was too solid for that. Her only crime was being sweet on him. Why couldn’t he return her affections in the same way? She was certainly smart and clever. How many girls knew about mining disasters and labor strikes?
The bedeviling thing about Mabel was that she always seemed to do what other people expected of her. She was the very definition of a perfectly decent girl—earnest and helpful, with an unshakable faith in her constructed belief that people were, at heart, good. Jericho wasn’t sure he shared that sentiment.
Since the night Evie had ended their brief romance, Jericho had resented Mabel. If not for Mabel, he’d told himself, he and Evie might’ve had a chance. But now he wondered: Had Mabel just been a convenient excuse? Had it been Sam all along?
Mabel caught him looking. She patted her hair self-consciously. “Did you need something?”
“No,” Jericho said, and quickly turned back to Will’s letters, coming to one that intrigued him.
October 1, 1907
Hopeful Harbor, New York
Dear Cornelius,
It has been quite a time here. Earlier this week, members of the Founders Club, a private eugenics society, visited as invited guests of Jake’s. They were quite interested in our findings about Diviners, and over dinner, there was much spirited debate. The gentlemen of the Founders Club argue that we can create the strongest, most exceptional America through the careful selection of superior traits, as one would with livestock. They believe Diviners are this superior stock. But only white Diviners. No Negroes, Italians, Sioux, Irish, Chinese, or Jews need apply. They argue that these people lack the correct moral, physical, mental, and intellectual properties to advance our nation and make her the shining city on the hill.