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
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
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