Chapter 1: Prima Facie

"At first appearance."

December 6, 1894

Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?

Tolstoy's text garnered a slow smile from Rosalind. It was possible, oh yes, but only if the impossible was achieved first—the impossible being, of course, that one rip a hole in the fabric of reality to meet another version of themself.

Herself, she corrected.

If the laws of the universe could bend to her will, so could grammar. She had created the device, and found someone who understood her more than she did herself. And she understood him. Most days. There were anomalies, but they were slight; an extraneous scar here, an acquired taste there.

The differences between her and Robert caused her no grief, only intrigue. He was marvelous; truly extraordinary in ways she could only comprehend within herself, without form or language. The manner of it rose from different things. Often they were mundane, like tapping his brow the same time as she, starting a staircase on the same stride, or arranging utensils by size and not usage. And there were instances that were overwhelming, like when she lay still in the silence of night, and the pitching of the city in the air is the only remedy when the doldrums of thought seized her mind.

She had listened to Robert describe it once, a year ago, when the dissonance of his mind plagued him frequently in the newness of his arrival, and she knew then, that she was bound to this man in a way she could not be to any another.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden clamor from the parlour; the sound of the door opening roughly, a frock being draped on the coat hanger, footsteps running up the stairs.

"Rosalind?"

"Drawing room," she answered, sitting up straight from her recline on the couch. With a sigh, she closed Anna Karenina, not bothering to mark her place. Once she set down something, she was bound to never pick it up again unless it caught her interest once more. This novel was mildly interesting to her at best. She stacked it on top of two others on the end table.

Robert entered in a mad dash, nose, lips, and cheeks reddened by the winter breeze. The effect made it quite difficult to discern if he'd been running. Either way, he was in quite a mood to tell her something immediately.

"What is it?"

He sniffed. "Have you seen the papers?"

She glanced at the growing stack of unread issues of the Chronicle near the stairs.

Robert followed her gaze and made a noise of annoyance. "Of course. I'll just tell you then," he said, offering her a crimson bottle before moving to stand in front of the fireplace. "Fink's made another one."

Rosalind leaned forward to examine it properly. It was heavy, like a full bottle of antiseptic. She fiddled with the tag and arched an eyebrow. "Devil's Kiss?"

"Just in time for Christmas," he added sardonically, rubbing his hands.

"Theatrical." Right down to the nude succubus seductively breathing fire. Prurient, like its predecessor, Possession. No doubt a great many gentlemen enjoyed handling the bottle.

Finally warmed up, Robert moved to sit beside her on the couch. "That's not even the half of it. It allows one to generate balls of fire and project them."

She looked up at him, slightly alarmed. "Project them at what?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Exactly."

"Hmm," she sounded, examining the bottle again. "I don't like it. I don't like the spread between this new product and the last."

When Jeremiah Fink had first introduced his newest product, these vigors, not two months ago, she and Robert were wary. Of what, exactly, they were unsure. They were less concerned with the effects the vigors gave, and more with what the vigors are. Fink was a businessman and an opportunist, that much was certain, but the delicate balance needed to refine something of this caliber was beyond Fink's talents. And theirs, currently.

Robert seemed to pick up on her thoughts. "Perhaps he's hired someone?"

She glanced at him, unconvinced. "Perhaps. If that's truly what's going on then, I also wonder how much he's paying them to put his name on the product?"

"Indeed."

With a final glance and decidedly contemptuous frown, Rosalind placed the offensive bottle on the table, ending their conversation about it.

"Enough of that, then. Now that you're here, we can continue working on our infusions. Have you the list from the botanist?"

He looked confounded for a moment before getting up from the couch so quickly, his knees creaked.

"Ah! My apologies. I was in such rush, and the crowd for that vigor in front of the apothecary caught my attention. I'll get them right away," he said, and before she could answer, he was out of the room and back in the parlour putting on his coat.

Rosalind sighed. He was like a young boy sometimes, and she his mother; all the unbridled, gregarious parts of her.

"Don't forget about the apothecary as well," she called out to him.

"Yes, Mother," he drawled, but she heard the smile in his voice. "I shant forget."

The corners of her mouth tugged upwards. "I shall have to scold you if you do."

Robert chuckled, and it grew faint as he stepped out into the foyer. When the door shut, leaving her in solitude once more, she took a mental triage of the drawing room. Their infusion was on hold until Robert returned, and the equation on the blackboard near the window annoyed her with its blank variables. Her novel, perhaps? Resignedly, she looked to the table where she set it down, finding instead, the tawdy libation blowing its fiery breath in her direction.

Rosalind thinned her lips, grabbing the vigor and heading towards the kitchen. Robert had better get back soon, she grumbled to herself.