The Winter Garden Page 8

  The doctor smoothed back the young man’s golden hair and smiled. “You are a remarkable lad. Close your eyes, and soon you will get better, my boy.”

  Dr. Hawthorne excused himself, leaving the young man in his wife’s more than capable hands. Standing outside the door, he drew in and released measured breaths until the adrenaline died away into the familiar, aching memory of panic and fear. Every time James closed his eyes, he saw the boy’s split face and skeletal body as he grasped for the life that seeped out of him. It had been several years since he had a live patient in need of so much care, and his first patient nearly died on his watch. School had taught him facts and treatments, techniques and causes, but they had never taught him how to tell a mother she no longer had a child. His stomach churned at the realization that if Immanuel Winter died, he never would have known whom to tell, and a woman somewhere would have always wondered why her son never came home. A potter’s grave for the mysterious boy would have haunted the doctor until they met again on the other side.

  ACT TWO:

  “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

  -Oscar Wilde

  Chapter Ten:

  Sickness and Soul-Stealing

  “Do you think they will go to the police?” Higgins asked, his voice crackling as he crinkled his papers and dithered between the back parlor windows.

  “Did she see you?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then, how could she identify you?”

  The scientist stared down at the nobleman as he languidly drew on his cigarette and let the smoke billow from his mouth and nose. “You’re awfully calm, Lord Rose. Aren’t you afraid the German boy saw you?”

  “No, and even if he did remember what I looked like, he does not know who I am.” Mashing the burned out butt into the ashtray beside the divan, he rose. Without breaking eye contact with the jittery little man, he drew closer until he loomed over him and Higgins could taste the ash on his breath. “What I am upset about is how your little experiment was an absolute waste of time! We gained nothing from it, and you promised me results, Higgins.”

  Higgins took a step back, but Lord Rose matched him step for step. He swallowed hard before double checking his creased notes for anything he could tell the imposing man to pacify him. “I could only change one variable at a time, but maybe— maybe phase two would have yielded better data. I was certain if we hit him, it would affect her. We should have started with her first.”

  Alastair snatched the papers from his shaking hands, ripped them in two, and threw them into the hearth. The man’s gaunt face twisted in agony as almost three months of work curled and crumbled into blackened dust before his eyes. As he reached in to gather what little bits he could salvage, a claw clamped down on his shoulder and dragged him to his feet. Higgins hung helplessly in Lord Rose’s grasp, forced to meet his patron’s jacinth irises, which seemed to absorb the glow of the hearth and reflect it back in a blaze of rage.

  “Forget the experiment, Higgins. We are no closer than we were before to understanding it. You said you had something else to show me. It had better be worth my time because I am in no mood for more of your idiocy. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir! Of course, Lord Rose,” he sputtered as he was released from his grasp and darted toward the two wooden boxes he brought with him to Mayfair.

  He unhinged the lid and withdrew a contraption of brass, glass, and wires about the size of a typewriter. The main apparatus resembled a pair of binoculars turned on end with an empty glass jar on one side and an identical one filled with a translucent yet brown-tinted liquid on the other. Holding them in place was a web of curved brass straps laid out like ribs to protect the delicate vessels, but at the shoulder, a long string of intertwined tubes and wires trailed from the solution to a gauntlet of black leather and shining metal. Rubber covered the delicate cables and branched into a strap that fit snuggly into the palm for better grip and comfort. A brace covered the first two fingers and terminated in three long, viper-like fangs. Lord Rose ran his hand over the skeletal apparatus before slipping it into the electric gauntlet. Shrugging the weighty device onto his back, he adjusted the straps and stretched his arm until the cord fell into place.

  “What is it?”

  “It is a portable version of the machine your predecessor created. Technology has advanced a lot in thirty years, and I couldn’t let you revive the prince consort with a bulky, outdated machine,” he answered with a grin, revealing his crooked and yellowed teeth. “If you can persuade Dr. Hawthorne to finish his part of the project, you won’t need the boy’s potion.”

  “How does it work?”

  “In the case of your business with the Crown, you simply load Prince Albert’s vial where the empty jar is, flip this switch,” the scientist explained as he turned it on and the machine awoke with a gurgling, crackling growl, “insert the prongs into the side of the corpse’s neck, and pull the trigger in the palm of the gauntlet. The more interesting aspect of this machine is it has the opposite function when the switch is flipped the other way.” His thin voice vacillated with excitement as he clicked it down. “If the prongs go into a living person and you pull the trigger, electricity will flood the body while the solution goes into the empty jar. This makes the jar the same charge as the body normally is and draws the soul out of the body and into the container.”

  Alastair watched as Higgins turned back to the second box and kept his voice level and calm. “This is quite ingenious, Higgins. I am impressed that you were able to condense Leopold’s creation from the size of a man into a breadbox. Do you have reserve jars and solution?”

  The self-satisfied smile refused to leave his lips. “Oh, yes, I have plenty of it in the lab.”

  Lord Rose flexed his fingers until the gauntlet sat as comfortably in his hand as a pair of brass knuckles. The cords and veins in the scientist’s gaunt neck bulged each time he reached inside the bin, unaware of the other man’s probing gaze. As Higgins turned around with a second jar in his hand, Alastair plunged the fangs into the man’s neck and squeezed the trigger. Electricity rushed through his body, contorting his muscles and making his eyes pop further in their sockets. The nobleman stared into his eyes and watched as the light drained out of them. Higgins slumped to the floor, but his eyes and mouth remained open in surprise. On his neck were three red pinpricks arranged in a triangle that barely bled. Alastair removed the machine before powering it down and opening the latch that held the brass webbing in place. He unscrewed the jar with its self-healing membrane and stared into it. At first it seemed empty, but something inside shimmered as it drifted around the edge. Stepping over the body, the nobleman pulled the bell-rope and lit another cigarette.

  ***

  Adam Fenice held down the skeletal doorbell again as he tried to shield his bag of books from the glacial November rain. He was about to turn around and leave when the front door opened and a dark-haired young woman stood staring up at him. Her eyes ran over his coiffed henna hair and pencil mustache before surveying his bright blue eyes and handsome features with keen interest.

  “Hello, is Eliza home?” he asked slowly as she continued to eye his motley waistcoat.

  She stepped out of the way to let him in as she noted the family resemblance. “Are you her cousin?”

  “Yes, and you are James’s niece?” When Emmeline nodded, he bowed and gently brought her hand to his lips. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Jardine. I have heard so much about you.”

  Her cheeks reddened as he followed her into the parlor. “And you, Mr. Fenice.”

  As Emmeline moved to take a seat on the sofa, he offered her his bag. “I believe Eliza said you wanted some books to read.”

  The girl let out a high-pitched squeal of delight and snatched the leather satchel from his hand. She threw it open and pulled book after book into her lap with child-like abandon until her entire hoard was on display. There were
n’t any penny-dreadfuls or Jack Harkaway adventures, but there was plenty of romance and adventure to be had between the covers of Austen and the Bröntes to keep her occupied for a while. There was even a book of Shakespeare’s plays from which she could become all the passionate and witty women of comedy and tragedy. That was all she wanted, to be anyone but herself and escape for a little while.

  “Thank you so much,” Emmeline cried with a massive grin as she clasped Cleopatra to her chest.

  “Just remember, I want them eventually returned in the condition you got them. I do not want to find tea and chocolate inside them.” When the girl nodded and began thumbing through the first book, he asked, “Where are your aunt and uncle?”

  “Uncle James is out with some detective or something. Aunt Eliza is upstairs.”

  Adam left Emmeline on the sofa and quietly padded up the stairs hoping to sneak up on his elder cousin, but upon walking through the study and the bathroom, she was still nowhere to be found. Above his head, the boards creaked with her light tread, so he mounted the steps again and headed up to the floor of guest bedrooms. The redheaded man walked past the door at the top of the staircase but stopped and went back when he realized the usually shut room was occupied. Unlike the parlor downstairs, the guest bedroom was cool and dark with the curtains drawn against the glaring, grey afternoon. A soft groan came from the gloom, and finally, Adam’s eyes trailed to the man in the bed.

  Sweat drenched his forehead, entrapping the edges of his curly, yellow hair to his temples. The patient’s eyes were closed as he weakly tossed and clenched the sheets between his fingers in unconscious pain. The man drew in a strained breath that rattled his thin form as if he were shivering and echoed in a wheeze as he exhaled. Adam stood rooted in the doorway, unable to take his eyes off the stranger. His cheeks were sunken, and a deep bruise radiated from a stitched wound that distorted his left eye and forehead but faded near his nose. His throat and the rest of his face were painted in a deathly pallor and glistened with perspiration. He wasn’t certain what it was about the young man that held him so wholly. Maybe it was his features, which he could tell from the unblemished half of his face were delicate or his long, artistic hands. No, it was not the remnants of his beauty that held him; it was his suffering. His older brother George had been sick with consumption for months at a time, yet he had never been this sick, even at the end. Sleeping should have been an escape from such sickness, but the pain was evident in every shudder and gasp.

  “Adam, I’m sorry I did not hear you come in,” Eliza apologized as she carried a pile of linens into the guest room and placed them on the dresser.

  “Your niece let me in.” Adam followed close behind her as she felt the man’s forehead with her palm. “I received your letter and brought her some books. I even stopped on the way and picked up some ladies’ magazines she may like.”

  “Oh, thank you so much. I would have done it myself, but James is out with Scotland Yard, a suspicious suicide, and I could not leave him here by himself in this state.”

  Eliza rolled back the covers and stripped the man of his now dried towels before replacing them with fresh ones soaked in the wash basin. Adam averted his gaze as she tucked rolled up towels between his legs and laid several more across his thighs.

  “Emmeline has been driving me mad for days. I do not know if it is the grief or the captivity, but she is dying to go out. All she wants to do is shop or go to tea rooms, and she does not understand that he needs constant care right now.”

  “Should I leave?” he asked as she lightly wiped the patient’s cheeks and neck down.

  “No, I will be done in a minute.” She stared down at the sleeping patient, who coughed weakly in his sleep. “Actually, we should talk up here. I do not want to go too far in case he needs something.”

  “Is… Is he going to be all right?”

  Her lips straightened and her eyes swept toward the floor before coming up to meet her cousin’s concerned gaze. She leaned closer and whispered, “We do not know yet. He is doing better, but he is still in very poor condition.”

  “Oh, is there anything I can do to help?”

  Eliza sighed, shaking her head as she followed Adam’s eyes to Immanuel’s battered face. “All we can do is hope Immanuel’s body still has some fight left in it. There is nothing more we can do for him, except try to bring down his fever and keep him comfortable.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but the right words never came. No words would make the young man better and even the actions of two doctors didn’t seem to do much to keep him in the land of the living. When he looked up from his lap, Immanuel’s clear, blue eye was locked onto his. For a moment, they held each other's gaze. A conversation in a wordless language surged between them and bound them together in the knowledge that he would fight. Immanuel took in Adam's face, but slowly his eyes slid shut as his energy began to wane again. As his cousin complained about Emmeline’s restlessness and Scotland Yard constantly calling her husband away to a crime scene, Adam continued to watch Immanuel hoping he would awaken. He couldn’t help but wonder if the mysterious stranger, no matter how hard he tried, would still die without ever knowing his name.

  Chapter Eleven:

  The Price of Freedom

  The sun shone through the curtains of Immanuel Winter’s bedroom, settling its warm rays across his split cheek. Apart from the chirping of a bird on the sill and the dull clattering chug of steamer carriages, the house was silent. Licking his chapped lips, Immanuel opened his eyes. While his left eye was still blurry and ached each time he blinked, his head was clear for the first time in months. He remembered his name, his cramped room back at Oxford, and even his mother’s smiling face and the information appeared at his command without hesitation or confusion. Then, he thought of why his face and side hurt and shuddered as the blows came as vividly as the day it happened. With a heavy hand, Immanuel wiped the clammy film of sweat from his forehead and cheek before slowly sitting up. The room spun around him, but after a few seconds, his body adjusted to the altitude change. His eyes ran over the sturdy oak furniture, the empty hearth, and the intertwining brocade wallpaper until they came to rest on the porcelain basin beside his bed. Where was he?

  As he washed the cold sweat from his face and neck, he noticed his forearms were bare and realized what he thought was a shirt were merely thin swaths of cotton clinging to his flesh. He peeled them off and cringed at the sight of the stitched wounds on his sides and breast. Near where his ribs ached there was a pink and puce bruise the size of his fist. How long have I been here? Immanuel wondered as he swung his stiff legs over the side of the bed, but when he tried to stand, his knees buckled. His chest tightened as he staggered toward the dresser on legs that barely cooperated and shook as if he had never taken a step before. In the top drawer were several clean, white shirts and pairs of dark trousers. When he held them up, they looked to be his size, but upon finally putting them on, they were too loose and threatened to fall from his hips.

  Immanuel shivered as the December chill swept in beneath the open window. After becoming winded getting dressed, he knew he would not be able to force it shut. Craning his neck, he could see that the street below was filled with steamers rushing by. People of all ages stopped at houses with doctors’ names engraved on brass plaques beside the doors while men in long, wool coats and top hats hailed cabs. His heart quickened with panic; he didn’t recognize the houses or people. It was definitely not Oxford, but if he was not in Oxford, then where was he and where was the man in the devil mask? His ribs tightened. No, he was gone. He escaped, that much he remembered. Drawing up to his full height, he shuffled toward the hallway.

  It was the first time he could remember being alone, but as he neared the stairs, he could hear papers shuffling and metal clicking below. From the bottom of the steps, he had a clear view of the dark-haired doctor as he peered through his glasses at a ledger before pecking at the keys of a massive, black typewriter. Immanuel held back the coug
hs that tickled his throat during his walk to the threshold. Every inch of the colossal desk was covered in scattered papers, books, or ribbons of ink for the typewriter. The shelves behind and to the side of him were filled with books by leading scientists, ancient physicians, and lesser know doctors from all over the planet, but holding the books in place were jars filled with curious specimens. There were anomalous organs that had been twisted from birth and others that were riddled with disease. Mummified heads and limbs sat under bell jars while a fully articulated skeleton wearing a derby stood in the corner opposite his desk. Others would have shied away from the morbid depository of death, but to Immanuel, it was a comfort to see so many objects he could name and describe without hesitation. The doctor looked up from his work and spotted the tired young man standing in the doorway.

  A wide smile spread across his face at the sight. “Mr. Winter, I am pleased to see you up and about. You gave us quite a scare. Please, have a seat.” He motioned toward the wooden chair in front of his desk, and Immanuel gladly sank into it after his first walk in over a week. “How are you feeling?”