The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 6

The incense was thick and heady, and it lodged in the back of Amelia’s throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. She had no idea what the perfume was: lavender, most definitely, but something else, too, something unfamiliar, herbal, sharp. Accompanying this floral bouquet was a cloying tang of iron, which she really hoped wasn’t blood, but fully suspected was.

Not that she would have been able to tell. The room was shrouded in darkness. The heavy drapes were pulled across the windows to banish the watery afternoon sunlight, and the only other light source came from the five white candles arranged in a star pattern around her. She was kneeling on bare wooden floorboards at the centre of a strange pattern marked out in chalk: a complex geometric shape encompassing a five-pointed star, with unfamiliar glyphs and runes etched around it in a wide outer circle. She’d been told that she should never break the chalk pattern or step outside of its barriers while the ritual was being performed.

As a result she sat stock-still, despite the fact that the rough floorboards hurt her knees and her back ached terribly. She was worried that, should she make even the slightest of movements or unknowingly break one of the fine chalk lines with her hand or foot, she might disturb the ritual. She hadn’t been told what the consequences of such an action might be, but she was anxious not to find out.

Newbury sat opposite her within the chalk pattern, murmuring gently as he read from the pages of an ancient, leather-bound book. Amelia had tried making sense of the incantation, but had so far been unable to understand a word of it. It sounded as if Newbury was speaking in an eastern tongue, all glottal stops and rasping sounds made in the back of his throat. The book’s spine read The Cosmology of the Spirit, and from what scant glimpses she’d gotten of its contents, she’d ascertained that its pages were covered in an impenetrable scrawl, along with diagrammatic sketches and patterns akin to the one on the floor they now sat on.

Newbury traced his finger across a page, reading from right to left as if working backwards through the text. The concentration on his face was intense, his forehead creased in a deep frown. His head was slightly bowed, meaning she couldn’t see his eyes in the candlelight, just deep, pooling shadows. The effect was a little eerie, particularly when combined with the bizarre nature of their situation.

Amelia had to admit that she’d doubted Newbury’s motives more than once. Why was he helping her, and at such great cost to himself? Every instance of the ritual left him utterly drained. Diminished, even. It was as if the act-or else some vital preparation for it-left Newbury depleted of all his strength. Veronica had told her he holed up in his rooms for days following each visit, refusing to see anyone, apparently subsisting on very little but absinthe, laudanum, and cigarettes. Then, when he had gathered his strength once again, he would return to Malbury Cross for another round of “treatment” and the cycle would begin anew. It had been like this for months; Newbury repeatedly giving himself over to the ritual, treating her successfully, but putting himself through great torment each time.

Amelia couldn’t help but wonder what that meant, what was causing such physical and mental expenditure. Was he somehow sustaining her at his own cost? She’d tackled him on it, tried to draw the truth out of him, but each time he had brushed her off, waving his hand dismissively and informing her that he was tired and did not wish to discuss it.

Truthfully, she was wary of pushing him too far on the matter, partly because she was deeply unsure of the methods he was employing, but mostly because she was scared he would eventually admit the truth. And if things were as she feared-that he really was giving up something of himself to heal her-then it would have to stop. At the moment she had nothing but suspicions-suspicions that both Newbury and Veronica were unwilling to entertain. Having these suspicions confirmed, however, would mean she would have no choice but to demand an end to the treatment.

Amelia feared that more than anything else, because the treatment was the only thing keeping her alive. As unlikely as it seemed, whatever strange ritual Newbury was performing, it was working. She felt better than she had in years. The visions were still plaguing her, but they were becoming controllable, or at least containable. The seizures had become increasingly less violent, and she felt strong, well, alive. For the first time in months, Amelia had begun to think of the future, and, more importantly, a future with herself in it. She dared not put that at risk. But nor could she knowingly condone Newbury harming himself on her behalf.

Perhaps Newbury was right after all-perhaps it was better that she didn’t know. All the same, she couldn’t help feeling that not knowing made her weak.

Veronica would tell her to stop worrying, that Newbury knew what he was doing. That she should trust him and enjoy the fruits of his labours, no matter how unconventional they might seem. Amelia saw something, however, that her sister did not … or rather, that Veronica was choosing not to see: that Newbury would do anything for Veronica, even if that meant giving up something of himself to save her sister.

Amelia watched Newbury as he stirred a bowl of pungent fluid with a wooden spatula, all the while continuing to read aloud from the book that was open on the floorboards before him. His lips moved almost silently, his voice just a low, monotonous murmur. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow despite the chill, and he looked pale, even in the warm yellow glow of the candlelight.

The only other sound in the room was the steady ticking of a carriage clock. It seemed to Amelia that time was passing differently in that room, with its fog of incense and ancient pagan rites. There was a sense of peacefulness, of stillness, a disconnection from the real world.

Suddenly, the murmuring stopped. Newbury looked up. “It’s time,” he said quietly, sliding the little wooden bowl across the floor towards her.

Amelia gave the briefest of nods. This was the moment she dreaded, each and every time: the consummation of the ritual, the acceptance of Newbury’s gift to her. This was the culmination of everything he had done in the past hour. She had to drink the foul-smelling contents of the bowl. The ritual would be wasted if she did not.

She stared at the strange concoction for a few moments, bracing herself for what was coming. The first time they had performed the ritual, Amelia had actually vomited the stuff back up, but she’d since learned how to gulp it down swiftly, to fight off the brief wave of nausea that ensued. She was egged on, of course, by the effect she knew it would have on her condition. It was the only thing that had worked since Dr. Fabian had experimented upon her at the Grayling Institute the prior year, and she had no desire to put herself through that sort of business again.

“Go on,” said Newbury softly, urging her on.

Amelia nodded and reached for the bowl, cupping both of her palms around it. It was warm to the touch. She lifted it hesitantly to her lips, fighting the urge to reel back as she drew in its scent. It was indescribable and exotic. She had no notion of the actual ingredients, save for a splash of Newbury’s own blood, evidenced by the thin gash he’d opened up in his left palm as he’d prepared the mixture.

Closing her eyes and holding her breath, Amelia parted her lips and took a long, gulping draught from the bowl. She swallowed urgently, forcing the coarse, viscous fluid down her gullet. She felt its warmth spreading through her chest like alcohol, and she tipped the bowl further, emptying it completely. With a shudder as its taste hit her palate, she replaced the bowl on the floorboards before her and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She raised her eyes to look at Newbury, whose own face was still shrouded in shadow.

“Good,” he said, swaying slightly. “Good.” He rocked forward as if he might topple over and Amelia leant in to catch him, supporting his weight in her arms for a few seconds while he regained his senses. He righted himself a moment or two later, mumbling an embarrassed “Thank you.”

Amelia nodded. “It’s the least…” She trailed off as she realised in horror that-in the sudden grab for him-she had accidentally smeared the outline of the chalk pentagram on the floor. “Sir Maurice, the chalk,” she gasped as she indicated the floorboards beneath her knees.

Newbury put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, Amelia. It’s over for today. We’ll draw a new one next time.”

“But…?”

Newbury shook his head. “It won’t change anything. The ritual was complete. We were lucky. I’ll know not to push myself so far in future.”

Amelia frowned. Already she could feel the warmth from the strange elixir spreading throughout her frail body, filling her with a remarkable sense of well-being. Newbury, however, was more weakened than ever by the gruelling process. “Once again, Sir Maurice,” she said, her voice quavering slightly, “I must insist that if this ritual in which we are partaking is in some way compromising your own health, you must put an end to it immediately.”

Newbury climbed unsteadily to his feet. He reached out a hand for her and she took it, pulling herself up beside him. “Come on,” he said, ignoring her statement. “Your sister and Mrs. Leeson are waiting in the kitchen for you.” He turned to her, and in the low light she finally caught the shine of his eyes. It suggested a smile that had yet to form on his lips. “And besides, I’m in urgent need of a pot of tea.”

Amelia grinned. “Very well. I’ll make it fresh myself. Thank you, Sir Maurice.”

Newbury nodded as he reached for his candle snuff and set about smothering the still-burning flames.

With a shrug, Amelia crossed to the door. She opened it just enough to slip through, then stepped out into the hallway, shading her eyes against the dappled sunlight streaming in through the glass panel above the front door. She could still taste the foul mixture in the back of her throat as she headed off in the direction of the kitchen in search of Veronica.

* * *

Veronica reached for her teacup and turned it around in its saucer, tipping it towards her and peering inside as if expecting to discover that it had miraculously refilled itself while she wasn’t looking. As she’d suspected, it was still empty.

“That’s the third time you’ve looked at that empty cup in the last five minutes, Miss Veronica,” said the rotund, middle-aged woman who sat across the kitchen table from her. “Would you like me to make you a fresh pot?”

Veronica looked up, a wan smile on her lips. “No, thank you, Mrs. Leeson. Let’s wait for the others. They should be finished soon, and I’m sure they’ll both welcome a cup.”

Mrs. Leeson shrugged. Her eyebrows were raised and she looked somewhat startled, but Veronica knew this was only a symptom of the manner in which she insisted on wearing her platinum-grey hair, scraped back in the severest of buns. She was a kindly woman in her late forties, and had once been independently wealthy, but had fallen on hard times following the unexpected death of her husband a few years earlier. Veronica had come to rely on her enormously in Amelia’s care over these last few months.

They both turned at the sound of approaching footsteps from the hall. “Ah, Miss Amelia!” announced Mrs. Leeson happily, pushing her chair back on the tiled floor and standing to welcome her charge with an expansive gesture. “You do look sprightly. Whatever it is that Sir Maurice is treating you with, it’s certainly making a difference. I haven’t seen so much colour in your cheeks for weeks.”

Amelia, hovering in the doorway, smiled warmly in response. “Thank you, Mrs. Leeson. Sir Maurice is a remarkable man.” Her arms were folded across her chest and she rubbed them unconsciously, hugging herself as if cold. She glanced at Veronica. “I said I’d make him a pot of tea.”

“Oh, don’t you be worrying yourself with such things, young lady,” said Mrs. Leeson, bustling over to the stove. “I’ll see to that. You set yourself down with Miss Veronica here for a minute.”

Veronica nodded and beckoned Amelia over to join her while Mrs. Leeson set about filling the kettle. “You’d better leave her to it,” whispered Veronica, just loud enough that Mrs. Leeson herself wouldn’t hear. “If you start making the tea she’ll complain she has nothing left to do!”

Amelia laughed as she lowered herself into the chair opposite Veronica, placing her palms flat on the tabletop before her. Veronica could tell immediately that something was bothering her. “What is it?” she asked, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Amelia’s face creased in concern. “I don’t know. It’s Sir Maurice. He … well, he collapsed in my arms after he completed the ritual. He’s not himself. I’m worried for him.”

Veronica put her hand on top of Amelia’s and squeezed it in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. “You shouldn’t worry, Amelia. Sir Maurice knows what his limits are. He’s probably just tired. He’ll be fine in a few hours. You just concentrate on getting better.” It didn’t sound as convincing as she’d hoped.

Amelia glared at Veronica in warning. “Don’t patronise me, sister,” she said. “I know how much he’s giving up for me, for you.”

Veronica suppressed a scowl. “Then you also know it’s far more complicated than that,” she replied, her tone level.

Amelia sighed. “Yes. I rather suppose I do.”

“But it’s working? Whatever it is he’s doing, it’s helping?” Veronica asked.

Amelia nodded. “Last year, when you brought me to Malbury Cross, I thought I had come here to die. But now … now I think I might have come here to live.” She leaned back in her chair. “Yet Sir Maurice is paying a grave toll for his efforts.”

Veronica eyed her younger sister. “You cannot be thinking of giving it up?” she said. “You don’t know the lengths he went to to retrieve that book, Amelia, the enemies he made. It would slight him if you turned away his help. More than that, it would make light of everything he’s been through-that we’ve been through. Not to mention what might happen to you. Don’t forget, everyone thinks you’re dead. There’s nowhere left to turn.”

“You don’t have to remind me of that,” replied Amelia hotly. Mrs. Leeson coughed politely over by the stove. As if on cue, the kettle began to whistle shrilly. Amelia lowered her voice. “Of course I’m not about to turn him away. I’m concerned for him, that’s all. You didn’t see him, Veronica. He didn’t seem at all well.”

Veronica nodded, relieved that she wasn’t going to have to persuade Amelia to continue with Newbury’s regime. “Look, I’ll go and check on him now. I’m sure he’s just tidying everything in there.” As she said this she felt the cold stirrings of concern in the pit of her stomach. Newbury never tidied anything. His life was a perfect merry-go-round of chaos and disorder. Perhaps something was wrong. Typically he would have emerged a few seconds behind Amelia to join them in the kitchen. What might have delayed him?

Veronica suppressed the urge to leap from her chair and dash to his side. It wouldn’t do to startle Amelia and Mrs. Leeson, and more importantly, to concern Amelia any further by demonstrating her own fear.

She stood, forcing herself to smile. “You stay here and keep Mrs. Leeson company. I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, coming around from behind the table and crossing the hallway as quickly as possible.

The door to the dining room was ajar. She pushed it open, stepping inside and allowing it to swing closed behind her. The room was still shrouded in darkness, the heavy drapes pulled down over the windows. No candles or lamps burned, and for a moment it reminded her uncomfortably of the Queen’s audience chamber, always cast in a murky, impenetrable gloom.

“Maurice? Are you in here?” She remained close to the door while she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She could make out very little, save for the edge of the drapes and the thin strip of pale light seeping in from behind them. It wasn’t enough to illuminate more than a foot or so of the room, in which she could see the silhouetted shapes of the paraphernalia used in the ritual: candlesticks, bowls, sprigs of holly.

Just as she reached for the light, there was a groaning sound from somewhere close to her, on the floor by her feet. “Maurice?” She stooped, reaching out until her outstretched fingers touched the fabric of his jacket. She dropped to her knees, clutching for him with both hands. Her eyes were finally beginning to adjust to the low light and she could just about make out the slumped form of Newbury on the floorboards. He tried to move, and she helped him, supporting him under the arms as he pulled himself upright. She propped him against the wall, his legs splayed out before him. She couldn’t see his face clearly enough to read his expression, but his head was lolling in clear exhaustion. He must have collapsed on his way to the door.

“It’s alright, Maurice,” she said, putting a hand against his forehead. It was clammy and cold. His pulse was slow and steady. Most likely it was exhaustion, then, rather than anything more fiendish. Nevertheless, Amelia was right. This wasn’t typical. Not by any means.

“Veronica,” said Newbury, the relief evident in his voice. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a few moments.”

“You need some rest,” she said.

“I need to write to Aldous first,” he replied, doggedly.

“No,” Veronica’s tone was firm. “That can wait another hour or so. I’ll set you up on the couch in the living room. You can sleep it off, and then write to Aldous later, before we return to London.” She cupped her hand on his right cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll see the letter on its way myself.”

He nodded slowly. His breath was coming in long, laboured gasps. “Alright,” he said, quietly. “I’ll rest for a while, but you might need to help me up.”

“Don’t I always,” she said, standing and offering her hands to help lever him up onto his feet. She heaved and took a step backwards, and a moment later he was standing unsteadily beside her, still semi-conscious. She draped his arm around her shoulder and led him to the door, staggering slightly beneath his weight.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she said determinedly, but she knew it was more for her own benefit than Newbury’s. She waited for his confirmation, for him to assure her that she was right. But he said nothing, simply allowed himself to be led, in a daze, to the couch, where he could rest and attempt to regain his strength.