The Winter Garden

by Kara Jorgensen

  “Well, Mr. Winter, I believe our friend is ready for some varnish. You start with the head, and I will begin with the tail.”

  Immanuel dipped one of the brushes into the lacquer and carefully smeared it across the walrus’ skull.

  “You can do it a little more vigorously. You can’t hurt what is already dead.” He watched as his student nodded and picked up his pace. “Now that he is finished, he needs a name.”

  A small smile played on Immanuel’s lips. “Otto.”

  The professor’s gravelly laughter echoed through the empty museum. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bismarck does bear a striking resemblance to a walrus, doesn’t he?” When Immanuel did not respond, he went on, “Are the other lads treating you any better?”

  His student shrugged. “They aren’t mistreating me, sir. They don’t really bother with me. I do not like cricket or going to the pub after lectures. It is as much me as it is them.”

  Elijah Martin looked up from the walrus’ tail at Immanuel’s pensive yet pained expression. The young man reminded him of the faces and figures in stained glass windows with each delicate and comely feature carefully delineated by an artful hand. His countenance brightened in the light drifting down from the crystalline roof, giving his hair and eyes an almost metallic sheen, but he had seen the same reaction occur during class as his eyes lit up in comprehension or pride when only he knew the answer. While the professor often met his other students in town, he only caught glimpses of Immanuel Winter on the lawn sketching or tucked away in the library with a massive tome and his hands clasped over his ears despite the silence.

  “I am sure you do something enjoyable in your leisure time.” From the only response being the sound of brushstrokes, he assumed that was not the case. “Well, with your small, new-found fortune, you could at least see a play or go into London for the day and take the train back.”

  “I have never been to London,” he replied softly as he dabbed the brush into the grooves of a vertebra.

  “After three years, you still have not gone?”

  “No, sir, I— I worry I will get lost without a proper guide.”

  “One day when I go into London to visit my daughter, would you like to accompany me?” Professor Martin asked as he inspected his student’s handiwork. “I will show you the sites and make sure you can get back to Wimpole Street in time for dinner.”

  Immanuel stared into his mentor’s pale green eyes, unsure if he could trust his ears. “Do you mean it? Wouldn’t your daughter mind such an imposition?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. She was a medical student herself and is married to a coroner, so you will fit right in amongst us.”

  “Thank you, professor.”

  Old Professor Martin couldn’t help but smile when his protégé beamed at such a small favor. Three years away from his family must have been hard on him. “Mr. Winter, take it from a man of my years, life is too short to be unhappy or alone for very long. You should go out and do what makes you happy.”

  The younger man’s face suddenly darkened as he stopped the brush mid-stroke. “I wish more people felt as you do, sir, especially back home.”

  “Is that why you left Germany? Because you were not allowed to do what you wanted?”

  Immanuel turned away, hoping to suppress his sigh of desolation before it became audible. He couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. “I needed to leave to find out what really made me happy.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Articulating a walrus makes me happy.”

  ***

  Immanuel smiled to himself as he made his way across the lawns and between the medieval buildings, feeling the money from his professor jingle in his pocket. It was bittersweet to finish Otto’s skeleton since he enjoyed spending his afternoons with his mentor, but it would be nice to use the bit of money he earned to have a meal out or buy some new supplies. He wove between the throngs of students and strangers until he reached the massive entrance of the Bodleian Library with its gothic portal and school coats of arms. The warm smell of must and parchment engulfed him as he slipped inside. The cozy, cave-like atmosphere of the Bodleian calmed him on his worst day and had been his refuge since he arrived. The librarian barely looked up from his desk as the lanky, young German signed in and strolled toward a desk among the stacks. He wandered through the shelves searching for those who may be able to help him in his search. It had been weeks since the day at the Thames when the girl fell in and his heart stopped, but he couldn’t help but wonder what his alchemist ancestors created. Every spare moment was spent in the library researching what could have revived her. On a shelf of philosophers stood Magnus, Bacon, and Pseudo-Geber; all were men who sought to wholly understand life but, unlike him, took their studies toward the otherworldly. Immanuel hoped within their spines he would find the curious secret to what had been brewed and bottled in the necklace by his ancestors.

  For hours he sat at the desk in solitude and silence with his hands covering his ears and cupping the sides of his face like blinders. Most of what he read made little sense, but as he reached the section on Albertus Magnus, his eyes lit up. Another German had made an elixir of life. He reread the words, but they refused to sink in. The lapis philosophorum had the power to grant life. Immanuel’s eyes passed over the page until they reached the part about how it looked. The immature stone was white but would transform to its most potent form, which was red, with the addition of a reagent. The vial had been a murky milk until it morphed into a sanguine solution upon the addition of his blood. Could his mother’s forbears have left the lapis philosophorum for him as his inheritance?

  When Immanuel finally surfaced from the massive volume, his neck was stiff and his hand was cramped beyond cracking. He sat back, clenching his eyes shut, but upon opening them, he suddenly noticed how dark the library had become even with the electric sconces. As he gathered up his belongings, a door opened in the distance, and the lights were extinguished. Immanuel quickly threw on his satchel and grabbed the book by Albertus Magnus to return it to the shelf when their voices rang out in the darkness. He peered around the edge of the bookcase, ready to yell to the librarian that he was still inside when his eyes fell upon three men in the shadows.

  “Are you certain he is in here, Higgins?” asked the man in the middle, his voice deep and urbane.

  “Very, he is the only one who has not left.” The second intruder’s voice vacillated nervously. “I should know, I have been outside for four bloody hours.”

  “Keep it down, or he will hear you. I do not want to have to chase him. Higgins, go toward the back. Thomas, go check the shelves.”

  Immanuel carefully padded backwards, keeping an eye on the shrouded men at the other end of the library as he darted toward the Seldon End. His chest tightened as he spun around, hoping to find a place to hide, but all he found was a dead end. He could hide under the tables, but even with the scant amount of light coming in through the windows, he would cast a shadow. Two pairs of feet were rapidly approaching. One of the men called out that the stacks were empty. Immanuel’s heart pounded as his eyes fell on the catwalk above his head. Holding his breath, he inched toward the hall where the men were regrouping and noiselessly climbed the steps on the tips of his toes.

  He flattened against the bookcase as the men came in and checked under the desks and near the shelves for any sign of him. What they could want from him, he couldn’t imagine, but he didn’t want to find out. From his hiding place, he watched the figures below move in the waning light. He didn’t recognize them as students or lecturers, and while they weren’t carrying cudgels or guns, it was clear they were hunting for someone. The two who were sent ahead stepped into the lantern light, revealing that they were both at least a dozen years older than he was and better dressed. The man who eagerly sought him under the long desks had a gaunt and haggard countenance with bulging eyes that darted nervously over every surface. The other was a stout man with spectacles, who appeared more fit for servitude or bank
ing than crime.

  As their leader emerged from the shadows of the hall, it became clear why they didn’t need to carry weapons. The robust man strode in like a Roman commander. He held his head high and marched past his inferiors. Immanuel swallowed hard as the man put his hands on his hips, causing his ribs to flare and push dangerously against the tailored fabric of his suit and waistcoat. As much as he wanted to monitor the men, he feared that if he looked at them directly, they would feel his gaze and discover him in his darkened corner.

  “He isn’t here, sir.”

  As the pudgy intruder spoke, Immanuel looked out over the railing toward the arched portal. If he could leap from the second floor and run toward the exit, he might just be able to outrun them, especially since he knew the terrain.

  “The German couldn’t have gone far. Thomas, go up there and tell me if you can see him.”

  His eyes widened in panic as the fatter man climbed the steps. Immanuel stared up at the inlaid ceiling, taking long, slow breaths to keep from hyperventilating. The fidgety man peered out the window for their prey while their leader lingered under the walkway on the opposite side of the room. The paunchy criminal looked out across the library, gripping the railing until his meaty knuckles turned white. With a final steadying breath, Immanuel knew what he had to do. He clutched The Theatrum Chemicum and began his silent shuffle toward the intruder. In the shadows, the man never noticed as he slunk behind him. Raising the tome high above his head, Immanuel brought it down so hard on the back of the heavy man’s skull that he crumpled against the rail. Immanuel dashed the book to the floor and jumped over the edge. His leg gave out under him as he stumbled forward, ignoring the pain radiating up from his ankle.

  For a few fleeting seconds, he thought he would be able to escape until he heard the sound of a bench crashing to the floor and boots thundering behind him on the ancient planks. His satchel slapped against his thigh as the shelves blew past him on either side. Immanuel slammed his wobbly ankle down step after step despite the pain. The door was only feet beyond the deserted librarian’s desk, but as he rounded the corner, the footsteps finally caught up with him. They collided in a pile of wool and leather and fell to the ground with the brawny man easily pinning him. Immanuel flailed and thrashed wildly until he was able to work his arms free from under the man’s body. The bug-eyed Higgins soon joined the pile, but as he reached for Immanuel’s arms, the younger man sent his elbow into the criminal’s nose. When his attacker fell back onto their commander, Immanuel rolled onto his stomach and scrambled to his feet. A claw wrapped around his sore ankle and yanked him back down. Immanuel lay on the floor panting, the wind knocked out of him by the fall, as the man knelt on his back and tightly bound his hands with the strap from his satchel.

  “I knew you were in there. Even if I could not see you, I could sense you,” their leader explained in a harsh whisper. His mouth was so close to Immanuel’s ear he could taste the puffs of hot tobacco-ridden breath with each syllable. “I did not expect such a fight from you.”

  “The money is in my pocket. I swear, I have nothing else of value,” Immanuel cried with his face pressed into the floor from the man’s weight, but his hands worked frantically against their binds.

  “Oh, you have something much more valuable than money that I want. Stop struggling, boy. We are just going to have a little talk.”

  Before Immanuel could reply, a sharp pain followed by a flood of cold ran through his arm. Then, the world went black.

  ***

  Hours later, Immanuel’s blue eyes finally fluttered open and roamed across the brick walls of the catacomb and up to the beams and floorboards of the house only a few feet above his head. His back hurt, but as he shifted uncomfortably, he found his hands and legs were both tied to the back of the chair on which he was seated. He blinked and groaned, still too groggy to panic.

  “Good, you are awake.”

  Immanuel turned toward the voice and came face-to-face with a man in a leather mask and golden eyes. From his voice, he recognized him as the muscular man from the library. “What do you want from me?”

  “Information. What was in that potion you gave to Emmeline Jardine?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl at the river. If you tell me what was in the vial, I will let you go, and you will never see me again. That way we both get what we want.”

  “But I do not know, I did not make it.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Immanuel stared at him, picturing his dear mother held captive in this place. “I found it in my grandmother’s attic.”

  His voice took on a hard edge as he enunciated each word, “Who made it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The blow came so hard and fast across his cheek he didn’t register what occurred until he felt the lingering, stinging ache.

  “Is that all you know how to say? You don’t know,” he spat mockingly back at him. “What do you know?”

  Immanuel closed his eyes against the abashed warmth flushing his cheeks where the handprint burned as he replied through clenched teeth, “Nothing about what was in it or what it did. I only used it because I had no other way to help her.”

  The gentleman in the mask gripped the younger man by the jaw and pulled his face to his until their eyes met. Immanuel defiantly held his gaze as his captor squeezed until his nails punctured the soft flesh of his cheeks, drawing blood and tears. The devil’s eyes flashed, and he roughly released Immanuel’s face before casually walking toward the door with the lantern at his side.

  “Where are you going?”

  The man ignored him as he slammed the door shut and slid the bolt. “Maybe a night down here will make you more cooperative. You better have something useful for me tomorrow, or this will not end well for you.”

  “But I do not know anything!” he called desperately.

  His heart pounded in his throat as he stared at the barred oak door. How was it going to end for him? Immanuel had nothing to tell his kidnapper. No one would believe him if he said he had a necklace filled with liquefied lapis philosophorum. He wanted to know why they wanted the secret of the potion so desperately, but more importantly, he wondered how they were able to find him after nearly a month. The young man’s blood ran cold as he realized the man with the yellow eyes had been there that August day. He had carried the girl away after her mother arrived.

  The wind whistled through an unseen crack and wafted down his neck in an icy draft, snuffing out any tatter of warmth or hope he had left. Immanuel shivered against the darkness of the stone sepulcher as it rose around him, engulfing his senses until all that was left were his thoughts in the musty earth. Everything else disappeared from his mind as it raced to the girl with owl eyes. What would happen to her if the man realized he didn’t have anything to tell?

  Chapter Three:

  Samhain Night

  “I don’t know,” Emmeline frowned as she scrutinized her reflection, her eyes running over the dark tendrils of hair that hung down from the sides of her coiffure. “Is this style what a fairy would wear?”

  Her long-suffering lady’s maid sighed as she held up the hand mirror, so her indecisive mistress could inspect the back of her head. It was the fourth style of the night, and the tips of her fingers were beginning to grow numb from the constant stab of hairpins.

  “Oh, yes, just like a fairy princess! It will be perfect for the ball,” Abigail tittered as she pressed in beside her queen at the looking glass and adjusted her own hair.

  At Emmeline’s insistence, the small group of girls all dressed as flower and crinoline clad fairies with Miss Jardine as the leader of their little band. She eyed the light-haired faces behind her reflection before staring at her countenance contemptuously. Why did she, the oldest of the four girls, have to look like a child? Abigail and Annette Raleigh were twins born over a year after her, but they were half a foot taller and were already beginning to fill out into curves. Adele, their younger sister, was Emmeline’
s size but had waves of angelic hair while Emmeline had thick, dark curls and dark eyes. She stared at her chubby cheeks and small mouth, envying their high cheek bones and swan-like necks. If she couldn’t be an ideal beauty, then she only had one hope, to grow up to be just like her mother. Despite her dark features, Madeline Jardine appeared radiant and even stately with her exotic looks and majestic bearing. Everyone adored her, but while she accepted their praise, she never took a second husband. The freedom of early widowhood had been her reward for marrying strategically, placing her among high society and garnering clients at the height of the Spiritualist Movement’s popularity.

  “Do you think there will be a séance?”

  Emmeline arched one dark brow in disgust. “Don’t be vulgar, Abigail. We don’t hold séances during parties. How would we hear the spirits over the music?”

  Abigail’s cheeks reddened. “How should I know? Unlike you, our parents only started going to the Spiritualist Church last year. It’s as boring as regular church. All we do is sing hymns and listen to old men drone on about responsibility and God. I always hope the vicar will perform a séance since I have never seen one, but apparently only mediums do that.”

  “We believe in other things besides talking to the dead, you know,” Emmeline snapped.