The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,161
where he spewed the contents of his stomach upon the green lawn of Lord Wichcote’s garden.
By the time he returned to the belvedere, Longinus was once again wearing his hose and slipper. The tool kit was tucked away. He stood gazing at Quare with a look of concern. ‘Are you quite all right, Mr Quare?’
Quare managed a nod. ‘I-I’m sorry, my lord,’ he stammered.
‘Nonsense,’ his host replied, waving away both the apology and, it seemed, the offence that had prompted it. ‘You have seen something I have shown no one else, not even Magnus. Something that by all rights and reason should not exist. It would be a wonder if you did not have a violent reaction to it.’
‘But …’
Longinus raised a forestalling hand. ‘And none of this “my lord” business, if you please, sir. We have been over this already. You must get into the habit of calling me Longinus, for it is imperative that my true identity remain unknown to our enemies – whom we shall soon enough be facing.’
Everything was happening too quickly for Quare to process. ‘I…’
‘Come, Mr Quare,’ Longinus said, gesturing towards the house. ‘Let us go inside. I shall have this mess attended to. But there is more I must tell you. Much more.’
Quare allowed Longinus to shepherd him back into the house. They entered by the same door through which they had gone out some hours ago. The room where they had breakfasted was now arranged for dinner, but the sight and smells of the rich food that had been laid out upon a sideboard left Quare feeling as if he might become ill again.
Alert to his discomfort, Longinus led him through a side door and into a sitting room plainly used by Lord Wichcote and his male guests for card-playing, pipe-smoking and drinking. As with all the rooms in the house, and the belvedere as well, a variety of clocks were in evidence, none showing the same time, the soft, hollow clatter of their ticking like a gentle rain falling against the roof of an empty house.
Quare took the seat that Longinus indicated, watching as his host crossed the room and poured out a glass of brandy. This he brought back to Quare. ‘Drink it down, sir. You will feel better for it, I assure you.’
The warm burn of the brandy settled his stomach and rallied his reason. Longinus, meanwhile, went to the door, where a velvet bell pull hung; this he tugged, then opened the door to speak to someone Quare could not see: a servant, presumably. When he was done, he returned and seated himself in an adjoining chair. Quare observed closely as Longinus walked but could see no evidence that he favoured his false foot over the other; had he not witnessed it with his own eyes, he would never have guessed that the man was crippled in any way. It was extraordinary. He said as much to Longinus, who seemed to take his words as a compliment.
‘Whatever else, Wachter was a craftsman of the very first order. Not once in all the years I have worn this appendage has the mechanism failed or even faltered. In that time, it has caused me pain but twice. The first time was the same night I discovered it, when in my revulsion I thought to have the thing removed. Amputated. Repelled, I swore to myself that I would have it cut off as soon as I returned to London. I felt I should prefer a block of dead wood to such a monstrosity! But the mere idea of it so racked my body with agony that I never again considered it. And the same thing happened again some time later, back in London, when I made an attempt to probe the workings of the mechanism, to learn its secrets. In both cases, the prosthetic defended itself, you see. Just as the great clock in Märchen had done. Like that clock, Mr Quare, my appendage is not simply alive in some sense: it is aware.’
Quare could not suppress a shudder.
Longinus chuckled. ‘Oh, it does not speak to me, sir. I should be a fine figure of a man were I to engage in conversation with my foot. No, speaking with my footman is as far down that road as I care to go. And yet it does communicate after a fashion. It connects me to the realm Corinna spoke of: the Otherwhere. Some men sense changes in the weather by the ache