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2: THE PROCEDURE

In which Rupert is distressed at the thought of red wine.

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Rupert awoke to the feel of a cold slab under him. That's strange, he thought. I don't sleep in the vaults. His head felt muzzy, as though someone had replaced his brain with wool. He lifted a hand to his forehead. Or, at least, he meant to, but the aforesaid hand wouldn't move. Strange. He tried again. Nothing doing. His hand seemed to be restrained in some way.

"Bit dim, isn't he?"

Rupert's head threatened to split open at the loud voice, which paid no consideration to his fragile state. He wondered whether he'd been drinking. But no, he hadn't had any blood for three nights now, and certainly not enough to give him this kind of headache. Through the fog of pain he became aware of a seductive scent invading his nostrils. He took a curious sniff. Then he remembered.

Rupert's eyes creaked open and were instantly assaulted by the flame of a candle being held before his face. He squinted up at the person holding it.

"He's awake, Father," the girl said, looking anxiously down at Rupert.

There was a faint bubbling sound followed by a metallic clatter.

"Father?"

"Yes, I heard you! Just dropped my vial of sprite ears. One moment."

The girl turned back to Rupert, who closed his eyes again. Keeping them open wasn't worth the pain. "Light..." he croaked.

"Oh, sorry!" She jerked the candle away.

The tread of heavy footfalls announced that the girl's father—who had called himself Lord Winkton—was approaching. The girl leant down close to Rupert and whispered, "Don't worry, it won't hurt."

Questions formed on Rupert's lips. Hurt? What won't hurt? Why would you tell me it won't hurt? Doesn't that usually mean it will? But before he could ask them, Winkton's voice boomed out again.

"What are you doing? Get away from him. Stand back."

Rupert turned his head to the side and dared to open one eye. He found that he was in a cramped, dank chamber, its stone walls unbroken by windows. Shelves lined the room, crammed with dusty books, glass jars, and other paraphernalia. The eye of a drooping peacock's feather regarded him sadly from one corner while the dull gleam of brass winked from a shadowed recess.

Rupert angled his head down to look at himself. From this position he could see the thick leather straps binding him onto the slab and also the jumble of bottles, books, and unpleasant-looking instruments lying beside him. A pair of hairy hands hovered above these objects, rubbing themselves together and emanating an air of smugness too great to be allowed. These hands, of course, belonged to Lord Winkton.

"Right," Winkton exclaimed, much louder than was necessary. "Let's start, shall we?"

No, thought Rupert, let's not.

The hands in Rupert's vision hesitated. A tiny spark of hope kindled inside him.

"Where are my gloves?"

"Father?"

"My gloves, where are they? Ah, yes, hand them over. I wouldn't want to soil myself by touching the vile creature."

Rupert's spark of hope was extinguished by a quantity of water quite disproportional to the size of the flame. He closed his eyes again wearily.

"Now we're ready," said Winkton.