Amelia sighed. “Well, I suppose being dead isn’t such a disappointment.” She looked up at Veronica and smiled, changing the subject. “How is Sir Maurice?”
Veronica raised her eyebrows at the question. “He’s well enough. I think the whole affair has rather exhausted him. Being incarcerated beneath Packworth House put a terrible strain on him.” That, she thought, coupled with the fact he hadn’t yet reconciled himself to the notion that the Queen-the monarch he had supported and admired for so long-was likely to die soon as a direct result of his actions. Worse than that, though, was the despondency that had stolen over him as he’d grappled with the truth about the Queen’s motives. That she’d been so fundamentally involved in Amelia’s plight was a betrayal of everything he had held dear, and he was struggling to understand his allegiances and the new world order that resulted from them. Veronica was concerned that, if left unchecked, that despondency might draw him back to the Chinese weed. She couldn’t allow that to happen, not under any circumstance whatsoever.
Amelia frowned. “Veronica, I know about the laudanum.”
“You do?” said Veronica. She met Amelia’s steady gaze. Of course you do, she thought. You’ve seen it in your dreams.
Amelia nodded. “How is he?”
Veronica sighed. “He’s… he’s bearing up. It’s difficult. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.”
Amelia smiled. “He’s a man! Of course he doesn’t want to talk about it.”
Veronica laughed, and Amelia joined her.
“He knew, you know. That’s why we came to the Grayling Institute in the first place. He wanted me to talk to you, to see if you’d seen something in your visions. He’d been experimenting, dabbling with things he shouldn’t have been. A mummified hand, laudanum… whatever.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He said that something dreadful was coming. And it was.”
The blood drained suddenly out of Amelia’s face. She went deathly white, paler than Veronica had ever seen her. She looked frightened. Truly petrified.
“My God, Amelia, what’s wrong?” Veronica glanced over her shoulder, panicked that Amelia had seen something behind her that she’d failed to notice. But there was nothing there.
Veronica dropped to her knees before her sister. She put her hand to Amelia’s face. Her skin felt cold to the touch. “Tell me what’s wrong!”
“He saw it, too?” Amelia asked quietly, as if scared of the implication of her own words.
“What? Amelia, what’s the matter? Are you talking about Newbury? What do you think he saw?” Veronica was growing concerned. Something was very wrong.
Amelia’s eyes flicked round to look at Veronica, and what Veronica saw in them filled her with dread. She’d never seen anyone look so scared in all her life. She didn’t know what to do, how to help.
When Amelia spoke, she could barely stammer out the words. “Veronica… it’s not what you think. Whatever happened, however bad it was… it’s going to get worse. Newbury was right. Something dreadful is coming.”
“But what about the Grayling Institute? What about the Bastion Society and the duplicates, what Fabian was doing to you? Surely that’s what he meant?”
Amelia shook her head. “No. That’s not it. I’ve seen it, too, lurking at the edges of my dreams, always just out of focus. Something horrible is looming. The future is already taking shape, Veronica, and I’m frightened.”
Veronica clutched Amelia to her, hugging her tightly. “It’ll be alright, Amelia. I know it will.”
“No, Veronica. It won’t.” Amelia sobbed, and Veronica stroked the back of her head affectionately. “If Newbury has seen it, too…” She trailed off.
“Seen what? What is it?” Veronica frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand, Amelia. What is it you’ve seen?”
“I don’t know!” The frustration in Amelia’s voice was evident, as if she were desperate to explain but didn’t know how, couldn’t find the words. “All I have is a single word, a word that’s still there when I wake: ‘executioner.’ That’s it. That’s all there is. That and a feeling of utter dread.” She was weeping now, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“An executioner?” Veronica tried to wipe Amelia’s tears with the back of her hand but her sister batted her away. She wouldn’t meet Veronica’s eyes.
There was a rap on the door and Mrs. Leeson burst in, carrying a tray bearing teacups, a teapot, and a neatly folded towel. When she saw Amelia she hesitated, unsure whether she’d interrupted something she shouldn’t have.
Veronica stood, beckoning her in. “Come in, please, Mrs. Leeson. I’m sorry if we startled you. Amelia’s not feeling terribly well. If you wouldn’t mind popping the tray on the table there, I’ll look after things from here.”
“Of course, Miss Veronica,” Mrs. Leeson said, clearly thankful for the reprieve. She did as Veronica had requested, setting the tray down carefully and then beating a hasty retreat from the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Amelia hung her head. “I’d hoped it wasn’t real. I’d hoped my mind was playing tricks on me, after everything that Dr. Fabian had done. I wanted so much to ignore it, Veronica. But it’s true. And it’s awful. Whatever it is, it’s truly awful.”
Veronica slumped into an armchair opposite her sister. An executioner? For a horrible moment she wondered if it wasn’t all to do with the Queen, if Victoria had discovered the truth about what had happened at the Grayling Institute and was planning to seek retribution. Would the Queen send someone after them? Could that be the executioner Amelia had referred to? She had no way of knowing. But she’d learned to trust Amelia’s instincts, and the thought filled her with trepidation. Something dreadful is coming… She shivered, suddenly cold. After all they’d been through. Hadn’t that been dreadful enough?
Veronica watched Amelia as her thin body convulsed with tears and she curled up in the wheelchair, her face buried in the crook of her arms. Whatever, or whoever, this “executioner” was, Veronica resolved to fight it. Despite what Amelia had said, the future was still malleable, and if Amelia had seen something in it… well, that was only one likely outcome. It could still be altered. The vision was a warning, nothing more. Everything would depend on what they did next.
Outside, the rain continued to hammer against the windows. Veronica rose from her seat and reached for the towel Mrs. Leeson had left for her, dabbing her face.
She needed to talk to Newbury. His experiments might have to continue. And that, she realised, was a sacrifice they would both have to make.
CHAPTER
30
The audience chamber was shrouded in a blanket of impenetrable gloom, so dark that he had no real way of discerning the true size of the place. It might have been as small as his own drawing room or as large as a dance hall, but without a point of reference, without a light source to anchor himself, he had no way to be sure.
He supposed that was precisely the point. The Queen, he had been told, had a flair for the theatrical. He supposed she did it to unnerve her callers, to remind them of their insignificance, their place in the grand pecking order of the Court.
He peered into the stygian depths. There might have been a hundred other men in the room with them, or there might have been none at all. Not that it really mattered to him. He was here to see the Queen.
He had been there only once before, a meeting that-as far as any official records were concerned-had never actually occurred. He supposed he would have to get used to that. It had been dark then, too. He’d hardly even seen the Queen during the course of his interview. But it had most definitely been her. That sharp, acidic voice, the sound of Fabian’s labouring machine: they were unmistakable.
The man could hear the machine now, wheezing noisily as it inhaled and exhaled on behalf of the monarch, accompanied by the creak of the wheels as the Queen herself slowly rolled the life-giving chair towards him.