Transference (part 1) - A short short

Since it's been a long while since writing has happened, I'm approaching M^6 like any other workout.  Need to build back up to things, so, as an effort on my part, here's a short-short for a warm-up.  It ain't pretty, but then, it really is not meant to be.  

"Papa!" Annabelle Hestingford called out from her laboratory.  It had, in earlier days, been a rather well organized study.  Annabelle's father, the Honorable Lord Hestingford, had given it over to her sole use when she reached ten years of age.  His infectious curiosity and love of invention took to Annabelle as a much younger girl, and as such, many blamed him for his daughter's decidedly unladylike interests.
"Papa!" she called again, not expecting a reply.  Most likely, he was working on his own devices at the opposite end of the house.  To her distinct pleasure, the family's aging butler Wilfrid answered her call.
"Miss Anna?" he inquired with his usual taciturn manner.
"Wilfrid, you are a Godsend," she greeted him with genuine enthusiasm.  An astonishingly educated man for his trade, and as capable a mechanical hand as either herself or her father.  He was, fortunately for Annabelle, surprisingly progressive for his age.  Where Lord Hestingford encouraged her to embrace the innovative, Wilfrid very often aided her in its execution.
Her former nanny, generally at odds with Wilfrid on all occasions, had quite severe opinions about young ladies with ideas.  Had it not been for the need to educate the young Miss Annabelle in matters of etiquette, the harsh woman would been sacked far earlier.  As it were, she left a lasting impression in that Annabelle still dressed appropriately for her social station.  Only acquiescing to her father's imploring that she wear something more functional while conducting her experiments by way of wiping her hands clean on her pinafore.
Alas, Wilfrid remained, her nanny did not.  Annabelle made certain of that.
"Did you require your Lord Father Miss Anna?  Or is there something I can assist with?"  he asked her, an odd tick causing his eyebrow to twitch in a most amusing manner.
"Wilfrid, forgive me for intruding, but is something amiss?  Your face seems to be..." she trailed off.
His eyes darted about the room, looking for the source of his discomfort.  They fell upon a gramophone, currently playing the latest recording of The Blue Danube, her favorite waltz.  "Miss, I believe there's something wrong with your gramophone."
She huffed.  Part of her was proud of his deduction, part of her disappointed that her frequency modulation device failed to work.  "Not the gramophone but an invention attached to it," she led the butler over to the machine.  Pointing to a small box with several antennae, she explained, "I'm trying to find a frequency pleasing to all ears that plays below the music.  It doesn't bother me in the least."
Wilfrid smiled, "Perhaps a different tune to accompany the music, young Miss?"
Annabelle smiled back, then returned to her workbench.  "You old charmer, you.  Fetch my father would you?"
"Of course, Miss," Wilfred bowed and walked away smartly to retrieve her unresponsive parental.
After the butler's departure, Annabelle retrieved a newly acquired leaded crystal jar to place lightly into a large brass Faraday cage.  The jar had nearly fallen into her lap earlier in the day while she was out shopping with Elizabeth.
  Elizabeth had seen only the craftsmanship of the thing, while Annabelle considered its potential use with her current invention.  Fortunately for Annabelle, her best friend had convinced her to appraise the jar.
Too expensive was Annabelle's first thought.  Her second and third thoughts consisted of a bit of precision haggling with the young store clerk running the shop.  At only 16, Annabelle was blessed with a generous decolletage and curly blonde hair that some of the older ladies might've killed for.  She never passed an opportunity to apply a carefully performed shrug or toss of her curls to accomplish a goal.
Elizabeth's shock at the clerk's almost immediate request for a kiss in exchange for the crystal nearly caused her to faint.  Annabelle took the jar with the promise that she would return in a day's time to deliver payment, noting at the time that the regular price had seemed wildly outrageous in its own right.
"Wicked," Elizabeth scolded her with the merest hint of a smirk.  "That was simply wicked.  To prey upon that poor boy, shame on you Annabelle Hestingford."
"Oh, but wickedness is so droll, don't you find?  Whereas purity," Annabelle adjusted the lay of her assets, eliciting a bout of scandalized laughter from her friend, "is so boring."
Thus, with the final piece of her puzzle found, and placed, she waited to show off the completed device to her loving father.
"I'm told," came a deep voice from the open door, "my genius daughter has something new and exciting to demonstrate."  Lord Hestingford swept into the room to give Annabelle a hug.  When he released the embrace, his fingers crept to his ears, as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant.  "Do you hear something?"
This huff of disappointment was more pronounced.  "That would be the sound of abject failure, apparently."
"Is it?"  When his questing fingers did nothing to alleviate the unknown irritation, he gave up and grinned at the girl.  "I disagree, I could stand to listen to this waltz for at least another several minutes."
"Ever the humorist," though she was secretly pleased he'd not begun bleeding from the ears like Wilfrid looked about to.  "Please stand there," she directed with a beck towards an ugly platform comprised of a copper plate and a haphazard tangle of wires.  "This," Annabelle announced as he positioned himself, "is my Essence Transferal Machine."
He adjusted his spectacles to take everything in.  Apart from the platform on which he stood, there seemed to be a Faraday cage connected by glass tubes and more wires, a small steam generator that was softly hissing, a boiler belching puffs of coal smoke at regular intervals, and several contraptions all outfitted with gauges, pipes, vents, more glass tubes, all connected to a single panel switch at Annabelle's desk.  After a quiet minute of inspection, a pleased look crossed his handsome face.  "Well, my dove, how does it work?"
"Like this," and with a flourish, Annabelle flipped the panel switch.

Transference (part 2) - End

  There was a flash of actinic light.  The waltz skipped twice.  Her father fell limp to the platform, as if he had been a marionette and his strings were unexpectedly cut.  Anticipation wound itself hurriedly into nerves.  Slowly, reverently, she opened the hooded brass enclosure.
Inside, a soft green glow ebbed within a leaded crystal jar.  Its nebulous form bounced gently against the walls of its confinement, and sensing the open top, began floating upward.  With only slight hesitation, a testament to her awe, she stoppered the jar.  It only took the work of a moment to seal the thing with lead infused wax.  If she was correct in her estimations, the element was the key to containment.
Annabelle held the container in both hands, bringing it to eye level.  With an avenue of escape no longer apparent, the confused cloud of her father's soul had coalesced into a nearly perfect sphere of emerald green light.  "Pa-pa," she exclaimed in delight.  "You are more beautiful than I could have imagined!"
The orb, looking as delicate as a soap bubble, vibrated to sound of her voice.  She spared a moment to look at the disheveled form of the currently soulless Lord Hestingford.  "Oh dear," Annabelle sighed, wondering, perhaps too late, if she should have developed a method to return the soul to its body.
"Father," she addressed the ectoplasm, "I declare the Essence Transferal Machine a resounding success!"  The green light brightened momentarily, causing Annabelle to wonder if it had been the content of the declaration or her enthusiasm that tendered the soul's rejoinder.  "Unfortunately," the light dimmed, "it shall be some time before I discover a way to reverse the effects."  Guilt, a concept foreign to her regardless, was immediately shunted away by the thrill of scientific discovery.
His body would perish, if it had not already, but there was nothing for it.  Still, the proper steps must be taken, lest the authorities determine, correctly, that the fault lie with her.
For now, Annabelle sat what remained of her dear father on the window ledge.  His soul casting its warm light against the frost limning the outside panes.  Having one last time ensured the seal was whole, she sashayed about her lab in time with the waltz in manner Elizabeth would have thoroughly disapproved of, cleaning up her odds and ends.  The single discordant frequency emitted by the gramophone never once unpleasant to her ears.
With nothing left to be done, Annabelle positioned herself comfortably in her chair, screamed bloody murder as shrilly as she was able, and feigned fainting.  Soon, her loyal Wilfrid would walk in to discover the scene, see her dear papa collapsed due to some unknown malady, and assume his darling Anna's innocence.
Green light danced in titillated response to the commotion within the house, bathing every surface in beautiful shifting color.  Tomorrow, she thought to herself as the tread of rushed footsteps approached, tomorrow I shall invite the store clerk.