The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Twenty – Seven

Amelia Hobbes rocked back in the carriage seat, brushing the window drape aside with her hand. She stared out at the city beyond. The streets rushed by like a series of still, blinking images; grey, unfamiliar. It had been so long since she had left the grounds of the sanatorium, she'd lost al sense of time. Was it months? Years, even?

Sighing, she allowed the drape to fall back into place, casting her once more in darkness. She felt tired and weak, yet fil ed with a new sense of optimism. She had yet to see that optimism reflected in the eyes of others, however. Dr. Mason had been kind, as always, seeing her off at the sanatorium gates, even suggesting that – time permitting – he would consider making the long trip to the Grayling Institute to pay her a visit. But Amelia could see what was really reflected in his eyes: he did not think that she was long for this world. Perhaps he was right.. but perhaps not.

She knew little of the mysterious Dr. Fabian, but Veronica spoke highly of his reputation, and Amelia was well aware of his status as the personal physician to the Queen. She could hardly be bestowed with a greater honour. She had much reason to thank the enigmatic Sir Maurice Newbury, although she didn't doubt that his motives had been less than altruistic, more to do with winning the affections of her sister than with truly aiding Amelia in her plight. But that was by-the-by. Whatever his motive, Sir Maurice had given her hope: hope that Dr. Fabian might see her visions as more than just a facet of her supposed insanity; hope that in doing so, he might help her to find a way to control those visions and prevent her body from descending further into wrack and ruin. Not that there was much of her body left, she thought bitterly, glancing down at her bony knees, clearly protruding through the thin fabric of her dress.

Amelia had once been pretty, as pretty, at least, as her sister. But now, emaciated, subjected to a harsh life in the sanatorium, and covered with scars from wounds she had earned during her numerous "episodes", she looked older, worn out. There were lines on her face, dark rings beneath her eyes. And she was disgusted by her own fatigue. Above al else, she hoped that Dr. Fabian could help her to restore her energy, her enthusiasm for life, her desire to want to get out of bed in the morning. Dare she consider that Dr. Fabian might even find a cure for her? No, that was too much of a fantasy. But nevertheless, she felt the little germ of hope seed itself in the back of her mind. If she chose not to acknowledge it, perhaps it could grow unimpeded.

Tired, Amelia rested her head against the cool leather of the seat back, and closed her eyes. She would sleep now. Soon, she would have much to remain awake for.

Amelia came to as the carriage juddered to a brisk stop. She sat forward, urgently scrabbling for the window drapes. The carriage had come to rest at the far end of a long, gravelled driveway, and through the window she could see the corner of a grey, stone mansion. They were here. She felt her heartbeat quicken. This was it. Her new home. The Grayling Institute.

Amelia clasped her hands on her lap, letting the curtains fall back into place. It wouldn't do to display her impatience. She waited. Unbearable minutes ticked by, although in truth she had no way of judging how much time had actually passed. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel outside. Someone cal ed up to the driver, but the words were lost in the breeze. The footsteps approached the cab. She realised she was holding her breath, as the handle turned slowly and the door of the cab was pul ed open. Light flooded in through the open doorway, stinging her eyes. She blinked away tears, momentarily bringing her hand up to her face to shield her eyes from the glare. She had spent too long in darkened rooms at the sanatorium.

Framed in the doorway was a diminutive man, no taller than five foot four, balding, with trailing wisps of dark hair still clinging, resolutely, to his temples. He blinked up at her through the smal, wire-rimmed spectacles that were perched on the end of his nose. He was dressed in a smart brown suit, with a white collar and black tie. His face split in a wide grin. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Dr. Lucius Fabian."

Amelia smiled, edging forward in her seat. "Good morning. Dr. Fabian. It truly is an honour. I -"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No need, Miss Hobbes." He looked her up and down.

"I'm sure you are tired after your long journey. I think it best that we see you to your new rooms inside the Institute, where you can take some time to rest and recuperate. Then, later, we can talk of how we intend to manage your.. affliction." He grinned. "Come now. Are you able to walk?"

Amelia sighed. "A little, perhaps. I fear that, these days, I am rather weak."

Dr. Fabian searched her face with beady eyes. "Yes. We'l have to see what we can do about that. Now, if you can manage to climb down from the carriage, there, we have a wheelchair at hand to assist you to your rooms."

Amelia nodded. With a huge effort, she lifted herself up from her seat, clutching at the sides of the cab to lend her support. Dr. Fabian stepped up onto the footplate and offered her his hand. She took it gratefully, noting that his fingers were fat and soft and well kept. Hesitantly, leaning on the doctor for support, Amelia stepped down from the cab onto the driveway below. She glanced up at the building as she dusted herself down. The Grayling Institute was an enormous country house, probably two or three hundred years old, once the domain of princes and kings, but now given over to science and more practical pursuits. This was Dr. Fabian's private establishment, managed on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen. This is where he did his great work, where members of the Royal Family themselves were brought for treatment, whether it be a dose of syphilis or a case of the

"family sickness". She'd learned all this from Veronica, and consequently, she found herself in awe of the place, of the doctor and of her wondrous surroundings. To live in a palace! Already she felt her spirits lifting. How could she not recover here? Just the look of the place was enough to imbue her with energy.

Dr. Fabian adjusted his glasses. Amelia wondered if it was a nervous tic – it was the third time she'd noticed him do it in as many minutes. He glanced at the open doorway of the institute, which sat behind four Corinthian pillars at the top of a long slope. Amelia suspected that there had once been a set of stone steps, but these had now been replaced by a ramp to improve access for the infirm. Dr. Fabian's reedy voice echoed out in the empty courtyard. "We're ready now, Mr.

Calverton."

Amelia sensed movement in the shadow of the doorway. She watched intently. Sure enough, a moment later, a figure appeared, brandishing a small wicker wheelchair, which she assumed would be used to escort her into the premises. But as the figure emerged from the shadows of the doorway, Amelia felt her breath catch in her throat. The man with no face! The figure she had seen in her visions. She felt suddenly gripped with panic. The man pushing the wheelchair barely had the look of a man about him at all. His face was entirely hidden behind a featureless, porcelain mask, designed to give the impression of a blank human face. Two slits allowed his startling blue eyes to peer out from behind the mask, and his head was closely shaved, covered in a fuzz of auburn stubble. His upper torso was still human, and he was wearing a smart black jacket and a cravat.

Beneath the waist, however, Mr. Calverton was more machine than man. His legs had been replaced by gleaming brass contraptions that parodied their biological counterparts, pistons spitting furiously in the thighs, servos grinding in the knees.

Mr. Calverton cocked his head as if to acknowledge Amelia, but otherwise remained mute.

There was a long, silent pause, before he edged forward with the wheelchair, his pointed metal feet scraping on the flagstones. The servos squealed and whined as he slowly descended the ramp. When he reached the gravel path, he rolled the wheelchair forward, as if gesturing for Amelia to take a seat. She noticed he was wearing white gloves.

Amelia felt a shiver run along her spine. There was something about the man, something she'd seen in her visions, but was not yet able to place. He had a story. A story that had not yet come to an end. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know what that end might be.

Dr. Fabian seemed to notice Amelia's alarm, and put a steadying arm around her shoulders.

"Come now, Miss Hobbes. There is no need to be afraid. Mr. Calverton will see to your every need."

Trying not to grimace, Amelia allowed herself to be led forward towards the entrance. Mr.

Calverton came forward to greet her. She studied his blank expression, realising that it was this, more than anything, which had inspired her sense of unease. She was unable to read his face. She had no idea if, behind that plain, porcelain visage, the man was smiling or frowning at her. His eyes seemed vacant. Dead. Suddenly, she felt a longing for her old room, back at the sanatorium. She closed her eyes and tried to suppress her fears.

Dr. Fabian gently placed his hands on her arms and lowered her into the wheelchair. Amelia gave him a brisk nod of acknowledgement, and then together, the small party wound its way slowly inside the stark edifice of the Grayling Institute.

Inside, the reception hall retained many of its original features: the bold, galleried staircase, the glassy marble floor and the high, decorative ceiling. Rooms and passageways branched off from the hallway all manner of illogical directions, like arteries winding away from a heart. It was quite different from the sanatorium, and briefly, Amelia allowed herself a smile. Perhaps she had been hasty. Perhaps her earlier hopes had been right. This was a place to heal.

Dr. Fabian led them away down a small passageway to the left of the staircase. The space had obviously been converted from old servants' quarters, and now, Amelia realised, the rooms that stemmed off from the main corridor had been remodelled as apartments for the patients. The wheelchair creaked as they rolled on along the corridor, the sound of Mr. Calverton's clicking feet a constant distraction.

Presently, Dr. Fabian came to a stop. He gestured through an open doorway on the right-hand side of the corridor. Mr. Calverton brought the wheelchair to a stop. Dr. Fabian coughed into his fist.

"These shal be your rooms, Miss Hobbes, for the duration of your stay. I hope you find them to your liking." He stepped to one side, allowing her a clearer view. Amelia gasped. The apartment consisted of two rooms, linked by an internal door, with tall sash windows that looked out upon the perfectly manicured gardens at the rear of the old mansion. Topiary sculptures described creatures from ancient mythology, and birds wheeled in the sky above a glittering lake. The rooms themselves were panelled in dark oak and well furnished. A four-poster bed filled the antechamber, and in the large drawing room an ornate marble fire surround dominated one wall, a low fire crackling in the grate.

Two armchairs, a chaise longue and a sideboard completed the arrangements, and an ancient portrait hung on the far wall, showing a regal-looking fellow in plate armour, standing beside an immense globe.

Amelia began to climb out of her wheelchair, but Dr. Fabian waved her to remain seated, instead ushering Mr. Calverton to wheel her forward into the room. "Really? This is really where I shall stay?"

Dr. Fabian's lips curled. "Indeed it is, Miss Hobbes. I am sure you will be comfortable. Now," he stepped back, as if suddenly galvanised into action, "we shal take our leave. No doubt you're tired after your long journey. Perhaps this evening we could dine together, and I could tel you a little more of our work here at the Institute?"

Amelia nodded. "I'd like that very much."

"Excellent! I shal return to escort you to dinner at seven o'clock. In the meantime, your belongings wil be delivered shortly. Good day to you, Miss Hobbes."

"Good day to you, Dr. Fabian." She glanced, warily, at the other man, who stood to one side, regarding her, unblinking. "And to you, Mr. Calverton." The masked man remained silent, turning to stomp unceremoniously from the room. Dr. Fabian gave a curt bow, and then also took his leave, pul ing the door shut behind him.

Amelia gazed longingly out of the window. Then, surprised, she turned back to regard the door as she heard a key pushed into the lock and bolts slide shut in the doorframe. The doctor had locked the door behind him. Why should he do that? She wheeled herself over to the door and tested the handle. It was locked firm. She was trapped.

Frustrated, Amelia considered her situation. The lavishly furnished room, then, was nothing but a lavishly furnished cell. What was this place? It certainly didn't seem like a hospital. And what of Mr.

Calverton? What affliction had he endured to wind up in such a way? Amelia gave an involuntary shudder. Perhaps, with him wandering the premises, it was better that the door to her room was locked after all.

Easing herself out of the chair, Amelia crossed to the chaise longue and took up a position at the foot of the window. She watched the birds dancing in the sky above the lake, and hoped it would not be long before her sister, Veronica, was able to pay her a visit.