Adam watched as his companion’s eyes unfocused and stared through him before running along the beams and boards of the ceiling. “I remember the beams from when he brought me here.”
Finally they came to rest on the chair at Adam’s feet. “Immanuel, are you—”
His cracked eye clouded. “How could I ever forget that smell?”
***
Shutting out the horrors of their trip to Mortimer Street, Adam closed the door behind them. The entire cab ride home they hadn’t said a word. What could he say to make it better for him? Nothing he did would change what happened to Immanuel. He had seen a glimpse of his experiences in captivity but knew it paled in comparison to what Immanuel had gone through. The clawing, desperate handprints on the wall told a story more dreadful than anything his imagination could have conjured. After all that, Adam was ready to return him to Wimpole Street to allow him time to rest, but then he saw tears building in his eyes as Immanuel crunched and rolled his scarf between his fingers and bit at his lip. His companion was suffering again, reliving some awful memory Adam would never know about, and he couldn’t bear to leave him alone. Adam leaned the camera against the wall and pulled off his coat.
“Would you like some tea, Immanuel?” he asked softly.
Immanuel paused from unwinding his scarf but kept his eyes locked on the people and steamers passing the front window.
Touching his arm, Adam watched Immanuel lurch back with wide eyes, but upon seeing his friend’s familiar features, the panic momentarily abated. “Tea?”
“Oh. Yes, please.”
The accountant lightly pulled the scarf from Immanuel’s hand and removed his coat, knowing if he didn’t, he would still be standing in the hall when he returned. “Go sit. I will bring it to you when it is ready.”
Immanuel nodded and blindly wandered into the parlor, his eyes slipping out of focus once again. With a silent sigh, Adam hung up the limp coat on his way to the kitchen, feeling the dampness at the collar where sweat collected despite the winter cold. Filling the tea pot and loading the tray, he lingered beside the stove. He never knew what to say in these situations. His sister and Immanuel were better with words, and when he went into the parlor, he knew he would have to say something. There were no platitudes or ready-made phrases to make Immanuel feel better. The kettle whistled, and he mechanically transferred the water to the porcelain pot and returned to the parlor. He would have to say something.
Raising his eyes as he turned the corner with a measured smile, Adam froze. The room was empty. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm that Immanuel’s wool coat still hung over his own in the hall. A soft, sharp inhalation cut through the empty air. Carefully placing the tray on the end table, Adam inched closer to the fireplace and listened as one quick breath followed by another broke from the far side of the sofa. Tucked into the corner between the upholstery and the wallpaper, Immanuel sat with his knees drawn to his chest and his eyes locked onto the window. His body trembled and his chest heaved as he hyperventilated. Immanuel’s nearly iris-less eyes were transfixed on the glass, but when Adam followed his gaze, he saw nothing that should strike such terror in him, only a parade of shadowed steamers and faceless people.
“What is the matter?” he asked, keeping his voice calm as he dropped to his companion’s side. Reaching out to touch his arm, he hesitated, afraid he would spook him. “Immanuel.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the window and croaked, “He’s out there. I know he is.” His thin form rocked with each sudden inhalation. “He knows who I am, and he is going to find me. He— he is going to hurt me again. Please, please, don’t let him find me.”
Adam’s eyes burned at Immanuel’s plea. With one final look at the window, Immanuel buried his head in his knees and collapsed into hiccupped sobs. What could he do to make things better for him? For a second, Adam was not certain he should leave him in that state, but without hesitation, he rose and walked to the window. He looked up and down the street to confirm Lord Rose was not there before tugging the curtains shut. Going from room to room, he locked every window and door and blocked out the world. Now it was only them within the familiar confines of 124 Baker Street.
Kneeling down in front of his companion, Adam reached out and laid his hand on his arm. He jerked away without looking up, but when Adam rubbed his shoulder, he did not resist. “Immanuel,” he said, swallowing down his own fear, “I know you are afraid. I would be too, but you must believe that I would not let any harm come to you. You are safe here. Would you please come out of the corner?”
He shook his head and held his knees tighter. “He will find me.”
“I locked the doors and covered the windows. I promise, he cannot see you.”
“Don’t leave me, Adam,” Immanuel whispered, his voice thick with tears.
“I won’t. Now, give me your hand.”
Taking a shuddering breath, Immanuel held out his hand and allowed Adam to pull him to his feet. The muscles of his thighs locked and quavered as Adam led him to the sofa, and his ribs ached from the strain of hyperventilating and sobbing. All he wanted were the tears to stop and Lord Rose to leave his mind, but no matter how many times he closed his eyes, he was still there, lurking in every half-glimpsed shadow. Adam still held his arms even though he was safely deposited onto the couch cushions, yet he could scarcely see him through the tears gumming his eyes. How could Adam stand him when he was being such a fool? With a whimper, his lungs convulsed back into a series of sharp, shallow breaths.
“Sssh. Immanuel, you need to take a deep breath or you are going to faint.”
His face and chest burned with fevered heat, yet his neck was clammy as Adam loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Adam’s hands slipped around his shoulders and tugged the jacket from his arms before draping it over the back of the armchair. With his eyes locked on Adam’s, Immanuel forced the air down one slow, constrained breath at a time until finally his chest loosened enough for him to speak.
“I’m— I’m sorry, Adam.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about. Let me get you some water to wash your—”
Immanuel’s tear-burned eyes widened as Adam rose to leave. “Please.”
“I’m not. I promise.”
Grabbing the now cold teapot, Adam dipped his handkerchief into the water. With light strokes, he wiped his companion’s sticky cheeks and swollen eyes. Immanuel stared miserably at his lap as he steadied his breathing. Thoughts swirled through his mind, surfacing as broken images of the catacomb and pangs of smell or pain, but thankfully, his head was pounding too much for any of them to be pursued. Adam swept the curls out of his companion’s face, running his fingers along the curve of his cheek where the heat finally began to dissipate.
“Why don’t you rest? You will probably feel better after.”
“Will— will you stay with me?”
A small smile spread across his lips. “Of course.”
Wrapping his arms around him, Adam pulled him closer until they were cheek to cheek. Immanuel closed his eyes and gave into the reassuring pressure. There was no question in his mind that Adam would do anything in his power to protect him even if the monsters only lived in his imagination. No one else would be so patient with him during these fits of hysteria when reality slipped away only to be replaced by a nightmarish scene. The familiar smell of lavender and the inherent spices of Adam’s skin quieted him as he buried his head against his neck. Adam ran his hand down Immanuel’s side until his thumb settled into the knick in his ribs. When his companion finally met his gaze, Adam pressed his lips to his and ran his fingers through his soft curls with his free hand. There was so much he wanted to say, but instead, he pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa and laid it over Immanuel’s legs.
“I will be right here while you sleep.”
Immanuel’s eyes rested on his companion as he settled into the armchair less than an arm’s length away. “Thank you.”
As he pulled the blanket
closer, he reached out and Adam took his hand, rubbing it between his palms until finally his breathing fell into a slow, sleepy rhythm. Watching Immanuel’s face finally slacken, Adam released a sigh. Though the fear had finally left him, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would ever be free of Lord Rose or if he would always cast a shadow over Immanuel’s life.
Chapter Thirty-Three:
Vulnerability
Hadley paused with her hand on the front door, waving as Eilian smiled at her from the back of his steamer. She kept telling herself it was only a few more months of dealing with his mother and her endless litany of questions she couldn’t answer. Only a few more months and it would all be settled. When the steamer finally disappeared into the evening gloom, she tried the knob but found it locked. As she rummaged through her carpet bag, the door opened to reveal her twin staring back at her with tired eyes.
“What is—”
Adam raised a finger to his lips and nodded toward the parlor. Craning her neck to see over the armchair, she found Immanuel Winter sleeping under a blanket on their sofa with his knees drawn close to his chest and his hand dangling from the edge of the cushion. His jacket and tie hung over the back of the chair while a tea service sat abandoned on the end table on top of a pile of penny dreadfuls. The afghan tucked up to his chin obscured his features, but from the relaxed rise and fall of his chest, she confirmed he was asleep. For a man who was two inches taller than her brother yet gave the illusion of added height from his willowy build, he seemed incredibly small curled up on the chair.
“Is he all right?” she asked as she hung her coat and hat on the last unoccupied hook.
“Not really. We went to the house where he and Miss Jardine were held.” He swallowed hard and rubbed his wrist. “I went in, and he followed me. I was foolish to think he would stay in the cab. He looked so distressed on the way home that I couldn’t bring him back to James and Eliza’s house.”
Tiptoeing past her brother, she picked up the tea tray and watched as Immanuel’s eyelids and arms clenched in time. “Poor Immanuel.”
“He once said he feels safe here. I would like for him to believe that. Had, you should have seen him before. I thought he was having a fit. His entire body was shaking, and he was gasping for breath. I didn’t know what to do. He was so afraid Lord Rose was going to find him and hurt him again.” Following Hadley into the kitchen, he leaned against the doorway to keep an eye on his companion. “I shouldn’t have taken him there. The fear in his eyes was—”
Hadley looked up from the dishes in time to see Adam’s blue eyes moisten. Stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets, he set his mouth into a firm line and stared at his shoes. It was still odd to see her brother display any emotion apart from anger, but it was a needed change Immanuel Winter brought into their lives. When she put her soapy hands on her brother’s arms, he didn’t pull away.
“You cannot blame yourself, Adam.”
“I should have known better.” He finally stepped out of her grasp and wiped at the wet patches on his sleeves. “Does Lord Sorrell ever talk about the accident?”
“Sometimes, but losing your arm in a dirigible crash and being tortured are two very different things.”
“I know. I only wish he would tell me what he sees when he is so afraid, so I could know how to comfort him better. From the look on his face and the scars, I know it was horrific.”
Sighing, Hadley followed Adam’s gaze to the thin outstretched arm jutting from the sofa. “You need to have patience with him. If you push him, he will run. Remember what happened when I asked you about your inclinations? For weeks, you refused to speak to me. Immanuel will open up when he is ready.”
“But—”
The sofa creaked under Immanuel’s weight as he shifted onto his back and slowly sat up. His sweat-drenched shirt clung to his skin, and his collar hung open at the top of his vest. Immanuel rubbed his throat as he surveyed the room with pink, blurry eyes, unsure for a moment where he was.
“Adam?” he called, his voice tentative and low.
“What should I say to him?”
“That everything will be all right.”
***
Immanuel mounted the steps, his body aching and cold from the aftermath of spent fear. After sharing dinner with the Fenice twins, the tremors in his hands and legs finally subsided, but his knees still snapped and jolted with each step.
“You look horrid.”
At the top of the steps Emmeline stood in her purple dressing gown with her hair framing her owl-like eyes in wayward curls. With her head cocked and her eyebrows scrunched in a concerned frown, she didn’t seem like the indolent child who refused to so much as look at him only weeks ago. He knew she was staring at the sore, scalded skin around his eyes and nose and could tell he had been crying. Immanuel kept his head down; he couldn’t let the Hawthornes see him in that state.
“I know.”
When Immanuel moved to slip past her, she stepped in his path. “Did anything happen? When you didn’t arrive in time for dinner, I thought something happened to you.”
“No, we—” He paused to listen for any creaking boards or voices rising from other rooms. “Where are your aunt and uncle?”
“Aunt Eliza went to bed, and Uncle James is in the basement.” Emmeline dropped her voice. “The thing arrived today.”
“What thing?”
She put her finger to her lips and beckoned him to follow her into her room. Closing the door behind him, she answered, “The king’s dead body.”
Immanuel’s eyes widened. Somehow he had expected them to go to one of the palaces to reanimate the prince consort rather than have the corpse come to them. “You saw it?”
“Well, no, but I saw a crate arrive, a big one, and there were more men there than were needed to carry it inside. Some of them haven’t left. They have been outside the house since it arrived. Look.”
Going to the window, Emmeline drew back the curtain. Over her head, Immanuel could make out a constable walking his beat but, much like the men at Katherine Waters’s crime scene, his uniform was far too clean and crisp for everyday use. Another man sat in the back of a dull grey steamer a hundred yards down the street with his eyes trained on the house. When the flutter of the drapes caught his eye, Emmeline pulled them shut and bumped into Immanuel as she backed away.
“What other dead person comes with body guards?”
“You are probably right. I will ask Dr. Hawthorne about it in the morning to be sure.” Immanuel pulled the wad of rolled up penny dreadfuls from his breast pocket. “Here, I found these at the house. I thought you might want them.”
Emmeline stared down at the stack of flimsy novels. When she first arrived at Wimpole Street, she would have covetously devoured them, immersing herself in an adventure far, far away from the memories of what happened. To be someone else somewhere else was all she wanted during those days where she measured her life by hair pin scratches and Immanuel’s muffled cries, yet now the penny dreadfuls had lost their appeal.
“Thank you, Immanuel.” She laid them on her vanity and sat before the looking-glass to finish brushing her hair. “How did it go? Did you and Mr. Fenice find anything?”
He shrugged, not wanting to linger on that place long enough for his imagination to take over again. “Adam took some photographs of the cellar and servants’ quarters. After they are developed, we could take them to the authorities, but that will take some time and they aren’t exactly proof of Lord Rose’s guilt. We weren’t particularly successful.” Reaching into his pocket and pulling out the scrap of paper from the fireplace, Immanuel stared down at the name. It seemed vaguely familiar, yet he couldn’t place it. “Adam also found this. Do you recognize the name?”
Claudia Leopold Rose. “No. Maybe it was Lord Rose’s mother. Where did you find it?”
“In the drawing room fireplace. Adam said there were other papers burned there, but this was the only one of value he could salvage. How did your meeting with Lord R
ose go?”
“Better than your outing. I was able to sneak into his bedroom while he and Aunt Eliza were having tea, and when I was there, I found this.”
Emmeline slipped the necklace over her head and held it out for Immanuel to see. His tired eyes widened as they ran over the delicate leaves of precious metal that grew over the now empty glass vial. Running his fingers over the letters engraved into the stopper, he couldn’t help but smile. He had never been so happy to see that ugly pendant.
“Where did you find it? I thought I lost it in Oxford.”
“Lord Rose had it hidden in a box.” Drawing in a deep breath, Emmeline remembered Katherine’s vacant eyes and silent pleading. “He keeps them in jars.”
Immanuel looked up to see Emmeline’s lips tighten like Adam’s did when he was upset. “Keeps what?”
“The people he kills. It sounds bizarre, but he has a crate with jars in it, and when I touched one, I saw Katherine Waters. She was begging me to free her, but I couldn’t. He would know I did it if they were all gone.” She swallowed hard. “It’s like their souls are trapped when he uses that machine, the one he used on you. Don’t you find it odd that you are still here and whole after what he did to you?”
“The only reason I survived was because we are tied by the potion, but,” Immanuel remembered the look on Alastair Rose’s face when he began to climb to his feet with the wound on his neck still pulsing blood, how his eyes traveled from the sealed jar to his victim, “he opened the lid. Part of me would be there too if he had not opened it to make sure I was inside. Now, it makes sense. That is why when I touched Miss Waters and Miss Wren I could not see anything. He has their souls.”
When he glanced up from fiddling with the pendant’s clasp and saw that Emmeline had no idea what he was talking about, he continued, “When I touch a dead body or a skeleton, I can see the last moments of the person’s life. It happened in Oxford with a walrus skeleton and here with a dead body, but when I touched Miss Waters and Miss Wren, nothing happened.”
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 51
