I'm pleased to welcome Kara Jorgensen back to my blog to celebrate her latest steampunk release, The Winter Garden. She has a marvelous excerpt for us below. Check it out!
The Winter Garden; Book Two of the Ingenious Mechanical Devices
by Kara Jorgensen
Blurb:
Can
death be conquered?
When
Immanuel Winter set off to the banks of the Thames, he never thought his life
would be changed forever. Emmeline Jardine, a young Spiritualist medium,
drowns, but the potion given to Immanuel by his mother brings her back from the
dead and irrevocably intertwines their souls.
But
Emmeline and Immanuel aren’t the only ones aware of his ancestors’ legacy.
Understanding the potential of such an elixir, the ruthlessly ambitious
Alastair Rose knows securing the mysteries of death will get him everything he
desires: power, a title, but more importantly, dominion over the dead and the
living.
Unaware
of what the dashing madman is capable of, Emmeline follows him deeper into a
world of corrupt mediums, unscrupulous scientists, and murder. All that stands
between Lord Rose and his prize is the boy who refuses to die, but both men
know the key to stopping him lies within the girl who shares Immanuel’s soul.
When Immanuel
Winter begrudgingly set off from the dormitories all the way to the bank of the
Thames to sketch and label the native flora for his botany class, he never
thought the day would have ended in anything more exciting than sunburn. As the
blonde man sat tucked under an oak tree with his sketchbook resting on his
narrow thighs and the August sun scorching the side of his face, he listened to
the voices on the other side of the copse. On the way to his spot near the
river, he had passed a large picnic of well-dressed families and their
servants. At first he thought the merry group may have been the professors and
their wives, but then he noticed the banner welcoming the guests to the 1891
Annual Oxford Spiritualist Society Picnic. The young man’s stomach growled at
the thought of it. Oh, how he wished the professors were the ones having a
feast. With a sigh, he once again applied himself to sketching a stalk of water
mint that peeked from the water’s edge. He smiled as he inspected his
handiwork. His mother was fond of flowers, and he hoped in a few months when
the term was over to send her a great folio of English botanical prints to go
along with her collection of German ones.
“I like your
necklace.”
Immanuel looked up
to find a young woman staring down at him. Her strigine brown eyes and soft
porcelain cheeks gave her an inquisitive expression that made her appear more
like a child than the young woman she was. As she tucked a curl behind her ear,
he followed the girl’s coffee hair across her cheek and down to her shoulder
where it drizzled onto her white gown. His hand instinctively reached for the
chain hanging around his neck. He had always considered the pendant quite ugly,
but his mother insisted he wear it to England to keep him safe. It was a vial
no bigger than his finger wrapped in curled gold vines and tarnished silver
leaves. Etched into the stopper were the words “Miscē cum Cruor.” His
mother said to use it if he was ever injured, but from the murk of the liquid
within and the vial’s ugly exterior, he always joked that it was probably
filled with poison.
“Thank you,” he
replied, his German accent gone after over three years on English soil.
Her gaze traveled
over him, scrutinizing his face and taking in his deep-set blue eyes, angular
cheekbones, and sandy hair before migrating to his sketches. “Are you an
artist?”
“No, I’m studying
to become a scientist.”
She plucked the
sprig of blue and yellow flowers from her hair and held it out to him. “What
are these are called?”
“Myosotis
scorpiodes, true forget-me-not,” Immanuel replied as he flipped to the
page where he drew them earlier and held it up for her to see.
“I like
forget-me-not better.” As she went to put the flower back in her hair, it was
as if she noticed the fabric parcel in her hand for the first time. “My mother
sent this for you. She thought you looked hungry.”
He gratefully took
the bag of food she dropped into his lap, unable to suppress his shock at the
unwarranted act of kindness. “Thank you. Please, miss, tell your mother thank
you for me.”
With a nod and a
smile, she turned and strolled back to the picnic, running her hands over the
trees and grasses as she went. Immanuel untied the linen bundle to reveal a
roast beef and a Welsh rarebit sandwich along with a turnover pastry. He
ravenously dug into the spread, savoring the rare meat as it bled down his lips
with each bite.
The hair on the
back of his head prickled. Looking around the trunk of a tree, he spotted a
middle-aged version of the young woman watching him from the picnic nearly a
quarter of a mile away. She sat perfectly still beneath her parasol in the
midst of the prattle and bustle of the other guests, a statuesque queen in
white lace and silk. He mouthed, Thank you, and held up the remnant of
his meal as she gave him a stately nod. Once the remaining sandwich and pastry
had been devoured and the evidence licked from his fingers, he went back to his
book and weeds.
***
Immanuel
stretched, cracking his neck and long fingers, before readjusting the wool coat
canopy he created using the reeds and bushes he was sitting between and his
jacket. He looked toward the river as a familiar voice sweetly sang and hummed.
The owl-eyed woman’s ivory parasol bobbed as she stooped to add wildflowers and
pretty weeds to her bouquet before plopping down onto the lawn. As she sat near
the bank only a few yards away and picked stray blades of grass and bugs from
her hoard, Immanuel lightly sketched her form. For a few moments, his eyes and
hand worked in unison, tracing the curves of her hair where they melded with
her cheek and back. With his pencil, he darkened in her hair but frowned when
the arabesques muddied into a grey graphite clump. Immanuel glanced up from the
paper to study the pattern of the lace on her dress when his eyes met only an
empty patch of grass and a pile of flowers. His eyes roved from the thickets on
both sides of his den to the group of picnickers, but the woman with the
curious expression was nowhere to be found. With a sigh, he slowly began
packing up his supplies to head back to Oxford before dinner. Out of the corner
of his eye, he caught something moving. A parasol floated lazily down the
river, twirling as it became entangled in the plants at the water’s edge. He abandoned
his tools and grasped the ivory handle, but as he brought the umbrella out of
the water, the unmistakable flutter of white fabric and dark tresses wafted
near the other bank.
“Ach mein Gott!”
he gasped as he searched for anyone nearby who could help her. The words in
English suddenly escaped him as his eyes locked onto the young woman’s lifeless
form.
Taking a step
back, he ran off the edge of the bank and plunged into the brisk water of the
Thames. Puffs of silt erupted around him, obscuring his vision, but as the dirt
settled, he saw her suspended above him just below the water’s edge. Swimming
closer, he found the young woman’s eyes shut and her face a deathly pallor.
Tendrils of inky hair and the lace of her gown drifted with the current while
her arm still hung above her as if she had reached for the surface before
succumbing to the River Isis. Immanuel wrapped his arms around her, but her
body refused to budge. With a sharp tug, her foot broke from the roots and
reeds, sending out bits of debris and mud. Immanuel’s chest tightened and the
urge to open his mouth grew almost too strong to ignore as he kicked toward the
surface but was hampered by the weight of her waterlogged petticoat. Closing
his eyes, he fiercely writhed toward the warmer waters in one last effort to
save them. His lips broke open in a gasp, drawing in not only the Thames’s
earthen waters but the thick summer air. Holding head above the surface, he let
the tide carry them down to the bank.
Immanuel laid her
against the bed of wild flowers before hauling himself onto the grass and
dragging her onto the bank. Leaning close, he patted her cold cheek, which had
blanched to the color of her dress. Her lax, blue lips refused to move or draw
a breath, yet behind her ear remained the sprig of forget-me-nots. He touched
her face and shook her shoulder begging her to return to consciousness, but her
body and face remained still. His heart raced as he touched her neck, feeling
his own frantic pulse against her artery. No beats of blood fought against his
fingers. Finally Immanuel put his head to her breast, but the familiar tug and
pull of life were gone.
“Hilfe!
Please!” he cried desperately toward the faceless picnickers as he picked up
her listless form, but with the dense between them and the chatter, they
couldn’t hear him. Tears burned the backs of his eyes as he helplessly held her
against his chest, wishing someone would hear his pleas. The right words
escaped in a stifled shout, “Someone please help!”
The woman’s head
lolled over his arm, and as it rolled, her hair wrapped around the chain of his
pendant and nearly pulled it from his neck. The necklace. Carefully
laying her down again, he uncorked the vial but hesitated. Could he trust his
ancestors or was the potion was merely a family hoax? Immanuel looked from the
murk to her lifeless features. It couldn’t hurt her now even if it was poison.
Then again, if his mother said it could save him, then he had to trust that it
would.
He reread the
words incised into the top, cruor. He needed blood. The scientist
quickly checked her body but found it to be pristine. Rushing over to his art
supplies, his wet shoes slid out from under him and sent him to his knees.
Immanuel scrambled to his bag for a pen. The moment it was in his hand, he dug
the nib as hard as he could into the skin of his palm. With a final twist, the
blood hesitantly dripped from the shallow wound. He removed the top, his eyes
stinging with the astringent odor of the brew, before letting his blood trickle
into the milky liquid. The fluid bubbled as the red droplets spread and with
their invasion came the sweet smell of honey. Immanuel carefully supported her
head as he poured the fizzling potion between her lax lips. Voices were coming
through the trees as he called out again for help, waiting and hoping what his
mother told him was true.
Then, he felt it.
His pounding heart seized. The chambers froze one after another until his
heart, for the first time since the womb, stood waiting for the spark of life.
With a final exhalation, all the air seeped from his lungs. Had he forfeited
his own life to save hers? Immanuel hung precariously on the verge of darkness
as every muscle in his body froze. When the sound of voices ceased, his
fleeting thoughts turned to death. At twenty-one, he never thought he would
recognize death with such clarity. A shudder passed over him as thousands of
minute fibers prickled through his body and skin like a spider web. The moment
the last thread escaped, his heart jolted back to life and his lungs inflated.
He doubled over, catching his breath, and watched the girl’s big eyes flew open
in pained confusion. Water gurgled up from her throat as Immanuel patted her
back to sooth her ragged coughing sobs. His body shook with spent adrenaline,
leaving only empty fear. The scientist stared at the empty vial and then at the
woman. There was no plausible explanation for what happened, but at least they
were both alive.
“Emmeline!
Emmeline!” her mother cried as she clasped her sunhat to her head and sprinted
toward the young man cradling her daughter. Only when she drew near did she see
the pink of their flesh shining through where the river had reduced their
clothing to muddy veils. “What happened?”
“Mama,” the young
woman called from Immanuel’s lap as she tried to stand but fell when her
shaking legs gave out. Tears mixed with silt streamed down her cheeks. “I fell
in.”
As the other
Spiritualists reached the river, Immanuel gathered her up as best he could with
his quivering arms and handed her to the blonde man standing beside her mother.
The gentleman’s honey eyes narrowed as he searched Immanuel’s features before
coming to rest on the empty vial at his feet. Emmeline’s mother embraced her
weeping child, coaxing her into quiet with consolatory promises of her safety.
She closed her eyes as she pressed Emmeline’s damp face to her breast and held
her against her heart, feeling the weight of what could have been. Finally, she
let her go, and the gentleman carried her daughter back toward the tables on
the other side of the trees.
“You saved her?”
the woman asked as she worked a handkerchief in her grasp but never brought it
to her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Staring into his
eyes, she rested her hand on his damp shoulder. She studied his face to ensure
she would always remember the boy who rescued her only child when she could
not. “Thank you.”
About the Author:
Kara
Jorgensen is an author and professional student from New Jersey who will
probably die slumped over a Victorian novel. An anachronistic oddball from
birth, she has always had an obsession with the Victorian era, especially the
1890s. Midway through a dissection in a college anatomy class, Kara realized
her true passion was writing and decided to marry her love of literature and
science through science fiction or, more specifically, steampunk. When she is
not writing, she is watching period dramas, going to museums, or babying her
beloved dogs. Currently, she has two
steampunk novels out: The Earl of Brass
and The Winter Garden, but her work
has also been featured in Selfish and
Literary Orphans.
Connect with the author online:
Website:
http://karajorgensen.com
Twitter
@authorkaraj
Pinterest:
https://www.pinterest.com/thevampirelock/
Amazon
Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Kara-Jorgensen/e/B00L4KTO0W/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1423590212&sr=8-1
Awards:
The first book in the Ingenious Mechanical Devices series, The Earl of Brass, was designated as IndieReader Approved by the
IndieReader.
Get Started with the Series:
Or Purchase Here:
Very cool cover; story sounds great.
ReplyDelete