Houdini and Doyle Fanfiction

Where we left off…

As the ship cuts through the water toward England, the night air is brisk and whips through the hair of Constable Adelaide Stratton.  The events of the past couple of days weigh heavily on her like a boulder upon her chest.  She leans over the hand rail, looking out at the stars and listening to the water splashing against the vessel.  The moon plays upon the dark abyss and dances on the ripples.  The truth of her husband being a spy and his recent death fills her mind.  She thought she had lost him years ago.  She mourned him every single day since then, desiring to have him once again in her arms.  But not like this!  She fights to reconcile it all in her mind and in her heart.

Adelaide had boarded the ship with Harry Houdini and Arthur Conan Doyle.  Doyle, himself, is limited in his mobility and took to resting most of the trip.  His mind turns to his wife and children waiting for him in England.  Touie is still fighting for her life against tuberculosis and he is anxious to get back to her.  The wound from the bullet that had ripped through him is tender and burns as though the muscle and flesh are ripping each time he moves.  The injury is a reminder to him of his failed attempt at stopping Adelaide’s husband and his plan to assassinate the President of the United States of America.  Doyle is an excellent writer and doctor, however his skills at gun fighting are lacking.  Thankfully he will be able to make a full recovery pending rest and some relaxation.  The trip across the Atlantic looks to be the perfect remedy.

Houdini, on the other hand, is quite the opposite of rested.  Restlessness stirs within him and he passes Adelaide on the deck as he strolls about the ship.  He has taken to wandering but there is only so far one can go while trapped on a boat out at sea.  He pulls his coat tighter about him as he watches his breath roll from his mouth.  It is a fleeting steam that disappears in moments.  He gazes past it at the stars and moseys over to a deck chair.  The other fixtures block the wind as he reclines.  His thoughts have been a circus of acrobats flipping about the ideas of death and the beyond.  The passing of his mother covers him like morning dew upon the ground.  Even if it disappears for hours at a time, it still returns the following day.  Generally, when someone dies, the memory of them gradually becomes light as air and drifts into the heavens.  His mother, however, sits like a dense London fog refusing to lift.  He buries himself deeper in his coat and surveys the scenery.  A mysterious woman has come to sit in the chair next to him.  Though deep in thought, a courteous smile draws up the corners of his mouth.  The woman acknowledges him and gazes at him with love filled eyes.  It is his mother!  But how can this be when he is not lost amidst a dream?

To be continued…