Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart by George Mann Page B

fulfilled. Finally, she was blessed with someone to love her, and a life outside the dingy, oppressive walls of the orphanage.
    But time is a cruel mistress, and it was not until much years later that she would learn the truth: that there is no such thing as salvation, and escape is only ever an illusion conjured up by the hopeful.

 
    CHAPTER
    9
     
    The Queen, Newbury considered, was looking decidedly unwell.
    This in itself should have come as no surprise. Her Majesty was now living a mechanically assisted half-life, confined to a life-preserving wheelchair that wheezed and hissed and groaned as it pumped air into her lungs and fed nutrients and preservative fluids into her bloodstream. Large coils of tubing erupted brazenly from her chest, snaking away to the twin canisters mounted on the rear of the machine. Her now-useless legs were bound together around the calves and ankles, and a metal rod supported her partially collapsed spine. Newbury had even heard talk that Dr. Lucien Fabian, the man responsible for developing the remarkable equipment, had built and installed a clockwork heart in Victoria’s breast. He had no way of knowing if this was anything other than idle speculation, but it wouldn’t have surprised him to discover that the monarch was, in fact, as heartless as she seemed.
    Whatever the case, it could never be said that the Queen looked well. But today, even in the gloom of the audience chamber, Newbury thought her flesh had taken on an even more sickly pallor than usual, and her breathing was sounding progressively more laboured. This, he presumed, was a consequence of Dr. Fabian’s recent death, which meant that the physician was no longer on call to tend to his charge or the maintenance of his machine.
    Unknown to the Queen, Newbury himself had played a significant role in Fabian’s demise. Now, seeing the consequences of his actions, he felt a sharp pang of guilt. He let the emotion pass. The Queen did not deserve his pity. Her own machinations were what had led her to this point: her constant scheming, her emotionless exploitation of others, her unrelenting desire for immortality. She was the architect of her own downfall, and he refused to repent for the choices he had made. Even if they meant that her life-giving machines would fail and she would die.
    He stood over her now, both of them caught in a globe of orange lantern light in the midst of an eternal sea of black. She looked up at him from her chair, a sickly smile on her lips. “You took your time, Newbury.”
    He nodded, but didn’t reply. There was a reason he’d been ignoring her summons for weeks: He’d been unsure if he could face her following the events that had led to Fabian’s death. Upon arrival at the palace that morning, however, Sandford, the agent’s butler, had explained that, while Victoria did wish to speak with both Newbury and Bainbridge regarding the case in hand, she first desired an audience alone with Newbury. Thus he faced her alone, Bainbridge having been ordered to wait outside until he was beckoned.
    The Queen spluttered into a handkerchief. “We trust you have finished with your little rebellion?”
    Newbury swallowed. “I was … indisposed.”
    Victoria laughed. “Yes, chasing the dragon at Johnny Chang’s. Do not think your movements have gone unnoticed, Newbury. If we had suspected it was anything other than a temporary aberration, we would not have indulged you for so long.”
    Newbury smiled inwardly. He knew exactly who was watching him, and precisely what she had reported back to the monarch. Victoria wasn’t as informed as she liked to imagine. Clearly, the Queen had no reason to suspect the truth about what had happened at the Grayling Institute, or the fact that Newbury and Veronica had smuggled Amelia out of there alive.
    “I am at your service, Your Majesty,” he said, diplomatically.
    The Queen raised an eyebrow in haughty disapproval. “Do not attempt to dazzle us with platitudes,