The Winter Garden

by Kara Jorgensen

  A shuddering breath broke behind him. “You— you didn’t let me live.”

  Alastair’s saffron eyes bulged behind his mask as Immanuel staggered to his feet with the help of the rail. Sweat glistened on his brow as he drew in another ragged breath and steadied his pounding heart. The muscles in his legs quavered and twitched with each step, but the electrical charge refused to dissipate.

  “I survived.”

  “How?” Alastair Rose snarled as he stared at the contents of the jar. It was there. How could he be alive while his soul was in there? With his claw, he tore open the thin membranous lid. A breeze blew past his hand before darting toward the younger man’s chest and down the street. “How can this be? You can’t—”

  “I can’t die.” The wound on his neck pulsed blood onto his collar in time with his heart. Immanuel teetered before straightening to his full height. “For all those months, you tortured me to find out if I could die, and now you know. You hold no power over me.”

  Without taking his eyes off his victim’s strained face, the creature’s stilted feet backed down the steps one clacking hoof at a time. Perspiration collected under the mask as he watched the blood from the triangular wound clot and seep through the white of his victim’s shirt until a hand-sized stain formed on his shoulder. Alastair looked down at the blood-tipped claws and the empty jar in his hand. The machine had lost its lethality and so had he.

  “Now, I know who you are,” Immanuel hissed as he matched the nobleman step for step, his blood boiling, “and I will not rest until everyone knows what you did.”

  Lord Rose broke his eyes away as a constable rounded the corner and charged down the street toward them, crying, “Stop! Stop, police!”

  Before the policeman could reach them, Alastair slammed the jar into the pavement and kicked off the steps. Lord Rose jumped into the air, propelling higher each time his heel landed on the ground. With a final bounce, he grabbed the narrow, brick ledge on the second story of the house across the street and scrambled up the façade. By the time the policeman reached the building, Spring-heeled Jack had bounded over the rooftops and disappeared into the night.

  Adam’s face paled as he jogged past Emmeline and Eliza to reach Immanuel’s shaking form. The younger man staggered down the last two steps, but when his companion put his arms out to steady him, Immanuel collapsed into his chest. Sinking down under his sudden weight, Adam broke his fall and held him on his lap. The world beyond them died away as he clasped his twitching limbs. His breath came in short gasps, and with each inhalation, blood soaked into Adam’s tailcoat, coating the pink rose at his lapel.

  “He’s Jack,” Immanuel whispered, his legs and arms contorting against Adam’s tight grip. His gaze drifted over his face, lingering on his glistening blue eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Eliza was calling to them from the top of the porch, but Adam didn’t hear as Immanuel’s eyes slipped into their sockets and his body twitched and gasped with convulsions. Hiding his face in Immanuel’s hair, Adam held him to his chest and clamped his hand over the hemorrhaging wound. Adam hefted the weightless man into his arms and rushed him inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  The Aftermath

  Pushing the tips of her nails into her bottom lip, Emmeline stood in the darkened kitchen and listened to the voices of her aunt and Mr. Fenice rising from below. When they carried Immanuel inside, they had rushed past her, leaving her at the threshold waiting to be called in to help, but no one seemed to notice her absence. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t needed by anyone. She was only a burden that needed to be dressed, fed, and chaperoned until she could be passed off to the next caretaker.

  For the first time since they arrived nearly a month ago, she wanted to be part of helping him, and she needed to speak to him, but now, she wasn’t certain if he was going to be all right this time. The door to the cellar laboratory stood open, and with soundless steps, she padded halfway down before settling on a tread where she could observe the others through the railing. Aunt Eliza hovered over Immanuel’s neck with a needle and thread as he lay on his side across the marble tabletop. Standing behind him was Mr. Fenice who held Immanuel’s hand with his left and soaked up the excess blood with a wad of gauze in his right.

  While Immanuel’s face was blocked by Eliza Hawthorne’s body, his voice rose through the stillness, high and strained as it had been when she found him in that filthy dungeon. “I— I ruined Dr. Hawthorne’s jacket. I promise— I promise I—”

  “Sssh, don’t worry about that, Immanuel. James will not be angry. He will just be happy to hear you are alive. Now stay still a little longer.”

  As Eliza brought over a magnifying glass in order to finish off the last few minute stitches, Emmeline finally saw Immanuel’s ashen cheeks and clammy forehead. Blood clotted in the ends of his hair and halfway to the scar that cracked his features. Even though his neck had been wiped clean, his collar and the shoulder of his waistcoat had wicked up the blood, staining them beyond salvaging. Her aunt moved back to his head to affix the final sutures, but Emmeline’s eyes traveled to the young man’s hand. When Immanuel’s breath sharpened, his companion laced his fingers with his and let him squeeze until he rode out the pain. The way the henna-haired man looked at Immanuel was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was similar to the way she gazed at her mother, with reverence and devotion, but there was so much more in the manner in which he regarded him. In his eyes, it was as if there was nothing but them, and she and Eliza were nothing more than shadows. His eyes caressed the one he dared not touch, sheltering him from the world that threatened them. That soft intensity and palpable yet wordless connection was what she longed for but never found in Lord Rose or any other man.

  With Eliza and Adam’s help, Immanuel sat up, teetering as the congealed blood was rubbed from the ends of his curls with an alcohol-soaked piece of gauze. Peering over the doctor’s shoulder, his weary gaze landed on the dark-haired girl who eyed him from the steps without contempt or repulsion.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Emmeline asked as her aunt followed her patient’s sightline to her perch.

  “Put on a pot of tea and get him something from the larder.”

  Emmeline left her aunt dabbing ointment onto the fresh burns that surrounded the torn, three-pronged wound. Averting her gaze from the scolded and singed skin, she returned to the kitchen and filled the spouted pot with water. As she picked through the cupboards for something to add to his plate, her hand lingered on the tin of biscuits. That was what she had been doing when it happened the first time, when her heart seized and her vision closed in until she thought her life would be snuffed out. It happened the night they arrived and he had slipped away from his injuries. No one had said anything, but she knew from the way the Hawthornes shook their heads in grief and then in wonder that he had passed that night even if it was only for a moment.

  This time, she saw him fall, watched him die right before her eyes. There had been no question of it. The life had drained from his eyes, and within seconds, her body shut down too. Then, the most miraculous thing happened. The strangle-hold on her body released and a tingling, tugging pressure pulled through her skin before flying away with a breeze that blew her hair. Suddenly, Immanuel Winter was alive again as if he had not been electrocuted and dumped on the porch. But what bond could they possibly share to make this possible? Searching her mind, Emmeline could not come up with anything that linked them apart from being kidnapped by the same people. She had never seen him before, so why kidnap them? Take him with you or you both will die. Her mother knew the link before he ever died or she hung on the edge of oblivion. Emmeline had to speak to him. Maybe he knew how their souls could be inexplicably intertwined.

  Filling the plate with cold ham and buttered bread, she loaded the tray and was about to carry it downstairs when the light from the basement was broken by the silhouettes of the men coming up the steps. Adam Fenice supported his friend as his legs buckled and fumb
led at the landing. Immanuel’s neck had been wrapped in gauze and bulged on the left side where the sutures and burns were padded with honey-soaked linen. Lingering with the plate in her hand, Emmeline listened to instruments clanking below as they were washed and loaded into the steam-sterilization drawer and knew her aunt would not be coming up any time soon. With a sigh, she walked up two flights of stairs with the teapot clanking and threatening to tip at each step. Outside Immanuel’s door, she stopped at the sound of Mr. Fenice’s voice cracking.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, I will change after you leave. It is too much to ask of you at this late hour, Adam,” the blonde replied in little more than a whisper. “What’s wrong? Don’t—”

  Emmeline peeked around the corner of the doorframe in time to see Adam’s black-clad back quaver as he covered his face. Sitting on the bed only a few feet away, Immanuel reached out and pulled him closer until Adam knelt before him. As he whispered in his ear, Adam nodded and stifled a sob with a sharp inhalation, but when the next cry worked free from his throat, he let his face fall against Immanuel’s neck, burying it against the bandage.

  “I nearly lost you. I did lose you,” Adam whimpered as the taller man wrapped his arms around his back and kissed the side of his head. “I cannot believe I fought with you. The last thing— the last thing we would have talked about—”

  “Don’t think of it.” Immanuel wiped his own eyes as Adam straightened and wiped his face between sniffs. “You need to get home before your sister begins to worry about you.”

  With a nod, Adam raised his gaze to Immanuel’s reddened eyes and brought his face closer until they touched. Emmeline’s hands shook as Mr. Fenice cupped his companion’s cheek while their lips lingered. After a second, they parted, locking eyes again. Even from twelve feet away, Emmeline could hear the wordless phrases flowing between them, the unspoken endearments and promises of tomorrow. If only someone loved me like that, she thought as she backed away from the door and waited for Mr. Fenice to slip past her. It wasn’t her place to interrupt them.

  ***

  The gentle glow of the hearth warmed Hadley Fenice’s hands as she read her fiancée’s latest book on mechano-archaeology. Pride bloomed in her chest with each passage on the automated mechanisms found in Etruscan and Greek temples. Eilian Sorrell was more intelligent and eloquent than she ever thought possible in a member of the nobility. Down the darkened hall, the grandfather clock struck one. By the end of the chime, the front door squealed opened with a rush of icy air that made her shudder beneath her blanket. With a smile, she remembered how Adam had waited for her to come home after she visited Eilian.

  “You’re home late. Did you have a good time?”

  Adam’s footfalls stopped at the parlor’s threshold, but her question was met with a sharp intake of breath and a thunk. Glancing at her twin brother, Hadley did a double-take before kicking off her blanket and dropping the book to rush to his side. His top hat lay at his feet as he stared at her with pained, misty eyes. Drawing closer, she realized the back of his glove was spattered with blood and the black fabric of his jacket was darker and stiffer over his breast. His boutonnière had been flattened and dyed red with the pink only peeking out where the petals had fallen away. Before he could say a word, his sister patted his hair for wounds before unbuttoning his collar and shoving her hand beneath his shirt to find the source of the blood.

  “Good lord, what happened to you? Were you robbed?”

  Pushing her hands away, he shook his head and took a deep breath. “Immanuel was attacked on the way home.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes, he— he was bleeding a lot,” Adam’s voice cracked against his will, “but Eliza stitched the cut on his neck closed. That creature from the paper, Spring-heeled Jack, attacked him.”

  Hadley gasped. “How can that be? How can Spring-heeled Jack be real?”

  Adam slipped off his jacket with shaking arms and let it drop before unbuttoning his vest. “I don’t know, but I saw him. He is as real as you or me.” Biting his cheek, he stared down at the bloodstain on his shirt. A vision of Immanuel’s body contorting and snapping passed across his eyes. “I think he is the same man who tortured him. He grabbed Immanuel by the neck and electrocuted him. I— I watched the light go out in his eyes.”

  Her brother's face flushed and his eyes reddened until his blue irises glowed. No sound broke from his lips as he clenched his eyes against the foreign wetness and dug his thumb into his wrist. As he met Hadley's sympathetic gaze, a slow tear slid from the corner of his eye. It had been nearly ten years since Adam came running out of the studio with tears streaming down his cheeks after speaking with George.

  “Are you crying?”

  “I don't know what's wrong with me, Had,” he croaked, his voice faltering.

  Ten years was far too long for anyone to repress their emotions. Wrapping her arms around him, her brother tensed beneath her grasp, but when she didn't let go, he closed his eyes and hung his head. His body rocked against hers with each stifled cry.

  Keeping him close, Hadley whispered, “Don't fight it. Sometimes you need to feel things, and crying isn't something shameful. It's a way to show how much he means to you without saying it.”

  Adam nodded. He tightened his lips against the words that urged to break free. Never had he thought a relationship, a real relationship, was possible, but he found that in their few short weeks together, he cared for Immanuel Winter. He cared for him more deeply than tears could suggest.

  ***

  Even with his head down, Immanuel could feel Emmeline Jardine’s owl-eyes boring into him. Looking up from the tray of cold odds and ends of food, he met her gaze as she sat in the chair across from his bed. Once Adam headed home, he changed his bloodied clothes, but when he opened the door, there she was with the tray. Now, she wouldn’t leave.

  “If you are staying for the tray, Miss Jardine, I can bring it down later.”

  She smoothed her red velvet gown. “I do not care about the tray.”

  “Then why are you still here? I thought you could not stand the sight of me.”

  Opening her mouth to speak, Emmeline faltered as she paused on his blotted eye. “I— I am here because I want to ask you a question.”

  Immanuel looked at her expectantly, mimicking the expression she had used so many times on him.

  “How are we related? I mean, before we ended up in… that place.”

  “Why do you believe there is some deeper tie between us?” he asked as he watched her face, hoping to discover how the seed had been planted in her mind. Could she have really come up with the idea on her own or had Lord Rose sent her to fish for information?

  “Something strange happens to me when you die. If you die, I feel as if all the air is being squeezed out of me, and for a moment, I fear I will die too. Then, you come back to life, and I'm fine. That does not happen to normal people. You are a scientist, aren’t you? You must know what is wrong with me. Maybe that is why they held us together. They knew there was a connection.”

  Emmeline stared into his face, searching for the answer, but his brows were knit in annoyance while his shoulders sagged with fatigue. Usually the answers to her questions were written across his features, yet tonight his guard was up. He had to know what the tie was, otherwise he would have answered.

  Her father had died before she was old enough to remember him, but from his portraits and pictures, she knew he was a plain, average Englishman she could have easily lost in a crowd. Even his looks had been lost in her when mixed with her mother’s. She swallowed hard. Immanuel Winter was only a few years older than her. There were countless stories of noblemen with illegitimate children.

  “Are we related by blood?”

  Immanuel flinched but kept his gaze hard. “No.”

  “But you know how we are.” She balled her fists, her voice sharpening. “What are you hiding from me? Tell me. I am not a child.”

  Putting the tray
aside, Immanuel met her gaze as it softened with fear. “You died, too. That is how we are connected.”

  “I— I didn’t— I never— When did I die?”

  “Last August. You drowned in the Thames, don’t you remember?”

  Emmeline’s eyes fell as she slipped back to that summer day with the balmy breeze blowing through her hair and the grass crunching beneath her feet. There were flowers in a pile that she planned on giving to her mother later as a pressed bouquet. A pale purple ball of petals poked from the edge of the bank, but when she reached out to grab it, the marshy ground gave way under her feet. Colliding with the water, her body sunk down, sending out puffs of silt from the edge of the bank as her heavy skirts were engulfed by the River Isis. She desperately tried to paw toward the surface, but something held her foot. Her chest tightened in protest, and suddenly her mouth opened against her will and cold, muddy water flooded her lungs. Wrenching and kicking, she struggled against her binds until her vision tunneled and the world darkened into nothingness.

  “I thought I only fainted. How do you know I died?”

  Immanuel stared into her wide, brown eyes. She really didn’t remember. “Because I pulled you out.”

  No, it couldn’t possibly be him. There was no way the handsome boy whose face she stared into was the same as the creature that crawled around the basement dungeon in his own filth. Immanuel picked up his empty plate and covered the cracked side of his face. A gasp broke from Emmeline’s lips. It was true. His angular features and bright blue eyes had always been there, but she had never been able to look past his disfigurement and the ugliness of his imperfections.