The Winter Garden (IMD #2)

Chapter Eleven: The Price of Freedom

Chapter Eleven:

 

The Price of Freedom

The sun shone through the curtains of Immanuel Winter’s bedroom, settling its warm rays across his split cheek. Apart from the chirping of a bird on the sill and the dull clattering chug of steamer carriages, the house was silent. Licking his chapped lips, Immanuel opened his eyes. While his left eye was still blurry and ached each time he blinked, his head was clear for the first time in months. He remembered his name, his cramped room back at Oxford, and even his mother’s smiling face and the information appeared at his command without hesitation or confusion. Then, he thought of why his face and side hurt and shuddered as the blows came as vividly as the day it happened. With a heavy hand, Immanuel wiped the clammy film of sweat from his forehead and cheek before slowly sitting up. The room spun around him, but after a few seconds, his body adjusted to the altitude change. His eyes ran over the sturdy oak furniture, the empty hearth, and the intertwining brocade wallpaper until they came to rest on the porcelain basin beside his bed. Where was he?

As he washed the cold sweat from his face and neck, he noticed his forearms were bare and realized what he thought was a shirt were merely thin swaths of cotton clinging to his flesh. He peeled them off and cringed at the sight of the stitched wounds on his sides and breast. Near where his ribs ached there was a pink and puce bruise the size of his fist. How long have I been here? Immanuel wondered as he swung his stiff legs over the side of the bed, but when he tried to stand, his knees buckled. His chest tightened as he staggered toward the dresser on legs that barely cooperated and shook as if he had never taken a step before. In the top drawer were several clean, white shirts and pairs of dark trousers. When he held them up, they looked to be his size, but upon finally putting them on, they were too loose and threatened to fall from his hips.

Immanuel shivered as the December chill swept in beneath the open window. After becoming winded getting dressed, he knew he would not be able to force it shut. Craning his neck, he could see that the street below was filled with steamers rushing by. People of all ages stopped at houses with doctors’ names engraved on brass plaques beside the doors while men in long, wool coats and top hats hailed cabs. His heart quickened with panic; he didn’t recognize the houses or people. It was definitely not Oxford, but if he was not in Oxford, then where was he and where was the man in the devil mask? His ribs tightened. No, he was gone. He escaped, that much he remembered. Drawing up to his full height, he shuffled toward the hallway.

It was the first time he could remember being alone, but as he neared the stairs, he could hear papers shuffling and metal clicking below. From the bottom of the steps, he had a clear view of the dark-haired doctor as he peered through his glasses at a ledger before pecking at the keys of a massive, black typewriter. Immanuel held back the coughs that tickled his throat during his walk to the threshold. Every inch of the colossal desk was covered in scattered papers, books, or ribbons of ink for the typewriter. The shelves behind and to the side of him were filled with books by leading scientists, ancient physicians, and lesser know doctors from all over the planet, but holding the books in place were jars filled with curious specimens. There were anomalous organs that had been twisted from birth and others that were riddled with disease. Mummified heads and limbs sat under bell jars while a fully articulated skeleton wearing a derby stood in the corner opposite his desk. Others would have shied away from the morbid depository of death, but to Immanuel, it was a comfort to see so many objects he could name and describe without hesitation. The doctor looked up from his work and spotted the tired young man standing in the doorway.