The Unnaturalists Page 7

  The hob’s great nose was even larger then usual—swollen and red with his crying. Syrus ignored him and his clutching hands and went up the steps.

  The smell was the first thing that hit him. That and the sound of buzzing flies. He held the torch as close to himself as he dared, so that he could only smell the scents of burning cloth and wood, only hear the crackle of fire eating linen.

  He stayed longer than he needed in the entryway, looking at all the things still hanging there—the weapons, coats, and other implements left undisturbed by the Guard in their passing. Standing in this entryway, seeing everyone’s things and noting who was in and who wasn’t had always been how he’d known he was home. And yet this would never be his home again.

  He took a deep breath, wrapping the shawl tightly around his nose and mouth. Then he stepped in.

  A macabre landscape of twisted blankets and bodies spread before him—a foot here, a dead eye gleaming there. Syrus wanted to retch, but his body was entirely empty. He could think of nothing to say, nothing to do that would somehow honor the fallen. He thought of Granny Reed’s stories of roaming, vengeful spirits, and he felt sure that these spirits would haunt him forever. Unless he somehow managed to free those who had been taken to the Lowtown Refinery.

  But to do that, he would need help. And to get help from the Manticore, he would need a witch.

  Something glittered nearby in the torchlight as he swung it around, something that was neither an eye nor the mirrors some of his uncles had sewed onto their hunting jackets. He stooped and saw the thing clutched in a small, pale hand. The hand of his cousin Amalthea.

  He pried the Architect’s summoning stone free from her palm.

  And then he yelled curses such as no thirteen-year-old boy should know. He blamed the Refiners and the Empress and her demonic Raven Guard. He blamed the damnable Architects and their magic that had brought this Cull to pass. But most of all he blamed himself.

  Syrus backed away from his cousin’s body and stood in the entryway again. He scanned the items that hung there, taking only the few things that he might need—fairy darts, a skinning knife, a hardened gourd canteen.

  Then he threw the torch through the door.

  He stood with Truffler at a safe distance, watching the train car burn. Other people came to stand nearby. He saw some people wetting the ground or their own cars so that the sparks wouldn’t catch. And then the low mourning chant began. Its call and response sang far above the roaring flames—a testament to the Reed clan, to all its members lost or taken, to the lone boy who remained.

  When at last the fire died and his former home was nothing more than a hulk of twisted metal on smoking wheels, Syrus turned his face toward New London. The dark Tower menaced him from its broken hill while the Refineries belched their ugly, green-tinged smoke. But still that secret Heart pulled at him, the promise of the great Dragon resting along the river—Tianlong of the old stories his grandmother would never tell again.

  He looked aside at Truffler, who stood wringing his hairy hands next to him.

  “You shouldn’t go with me,” Syrus said. “Stay here and work for another family who needs you.”

  He started toward the City road, but Truffler was at his heels, grabbing his trousers. “Bad place. Bad,” he said.

  “I know,” Syrus said. He squatted down next to the hob. “But the Manticore said I must find her a witch in the City.”

  Truffler sighed. He touched his nose. “I smell for you.”

  Syrus put his hand on Truffler’s shoulder. “I know you would, my friend. And maybe if it comes to that, I’ll call on you. But the Refiners would light on you in a heartbeat if they could. I’d rather you stay put where you could escape to the Forest, if need be.”

  Truffler sighed. He stepped back, tears running in rivulets down his big nose. “Be brave,” he said.

  Syrus nodded.

  He walked away from the smoking ruin and the little hob beside it, his spine stiff as iron.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next day, Father takes pity on me, much to Aunt Minta’s disappointment. Perhaps it’s the asymmetrical bit of lace I present him with over our porridge or the mournful expression that accompanies it, but he relents, saying I may go with him to the Museum every other day so long as I will attend to Aunt Minta’s lessons on the off-days without complaint. Aunt Minta makes the best of the compromise.

  Father doesn’t speak as we hurry down the steep streets of Midtown, nor does he say anything as we board the trolley to Chimera Park. I try to keep my expression as neutral as possible, though sometimes I put my face out in the glowing drizzle and grin like a fool.

  We wind down Industrial Way, past the entrance to the Night Emporium which spans the length of the Vaunting Bridge over the River. Little humps of land rise here and there like the back of an old sea serpent. Houses climb up and down them and the Empress’s Tower sits like a ragged crown on the tallest one.

  It’s said that when Saint Tesla’s Grand Experiment in the London Of Which We Do Not Speak (Old London for short) tore a hole in the Universe, buildings from every era were miraculously transferred here to New London. That, I suppose, accounts for all the different architectural styles and various states of disrepair from the Night Emporium to the Imperial Tower. It’s a bleeding mess, if you ask me.

  Some people whisper the Old Londoners called this place Fairyland or Arcadia or Elysium, that Saint Tesla drew our ancestors all through a door that should never have been opened. They say we don’t belong here. But people say lots of things. And whatever is true, it’s a fact that we’re here now and have been for nearly six hundred years. And it’s also a fact that if Old London isn’t just a tale, we can never go back to it. It’s been tried many times and many men have died in the trying.

  Still, I do love the swirling colors of the onion domes, and looking up at the ravens wheeling around the Empress’s Tower always gives me a creeping thrill.

  We alight at the last stop and make our way around the square to the University grounds. I smile when we pass under the great archway with its ever-watchful statues of Saint Bacon and Saint Newton. A scroll stretched between their stone hands bears our motto in Old Scientific: In Scientia Veritas. In Science there is Truth.

  We pass into the domed atrium and I’m surrounded by my own handiwork, all the glimmering wings, the glass-eyed faces, the milkweed-tuft hair. I think of the little sylphid Piskel glaring at me from Pedant Lumin’s pocket, and for the first time shame wars with pride as I look upon my displays.

  Father stops by one case and something about his manner keeps me silent. We both stare through the glass. I’m wishing for the key to this display so I can straighten one of the placards near a desert sylphid, when Father says, “I allowed you to come for a reason today, Vee. I’ve an errand that I cannot trust to anyone lightly, and I unfortunately can’t spare Charles.”

  I brighten at the thought that Father once again has important work for me to do. Perhaps if I do this well, I can regain his trust and all these silly notions of ladylike behavior and making a good match and so on will be forgotten.

  “I’m happy to do it, Father,” I say.

  He nods and pulls a thin envelope from the breast pocket of his robes. The neverseal tingles as it passes into my palm. Only the recipient of this letter may open it or else the letter will dissolve in hissing green flames. Yet another necessary, if alarming, invention of the Refineries.

  I look at the address. Arthur Rackham’s Antiquities, Rookery Square, Lowtown.

  Father is sending me alone to Lowtown? Excitement battles with dread. Though I love adventure, Lowtown is dangerous, especially for an unescorted young lady.

  “Don’t tell anyone. Your Aunt would have my head, but there’s no one I trust more than you, Vee.”

  He embraces me, resting his chin on the top of my head, while I curl against him. Father is so tall and gangly, it’s like being hugged by a tree. When he releases me, I secure the letter in my pocket. This is
a way for me to redeem myself for the failings of the other day, even though Father has never accused me of anything openly. Just how I shall get there and back is another thing entirely.

  “Send word of your return, eh?”

  “Yes, Father,” I say.

  He pats me on the shoulder and hurries off toward his office.

  I look back into the case at the sylphids among the dried mosses and stones. There’s a little one I’m particularly proud of that I managed to pose light as a leaf on a branch, but Piskel again has me wondering if I should be proud at all. I push those thoughts out of my mind with trying to think of the best way to Lowtown, as most drivers from this section of Midtown would simply refuse to take a young lady there. The notion of walking down there is even less appealing. Perhaps I should disguise myself as a Scholar. . . .

  A shadow slides across the glass. I stiffen, thinking of that mysterious push the other day that sent me through the paralytic field.

  Pedant Lumin’s face appears behind mine. I can see in my reflection that the damp breeze on the trolley has sent my curls springing everywhere, but I refuse to tidy them. At least my gown is still neat and my bootlaces are tied this time!

  His eyes meet mine. I see his face clearly, and the shock of his handsomeness initially takes my breath. I had not thought him handsome before; somehow his features have been difficult to discern. But in this moment, it’s as though the sun has come from behind a cloud. I manage to plaster a frown on my face before I turn.

  “Miss Nyx,” he says bowing. I peer at him; he’s plain and unobtrusive again, his features indistinct. I recall the Church instructing us in detecting glamours should we ever fall into the clutches of a rogue Architect. But the Church always said that glamours were used to make the warlock exceedingly handsome so that he could seduce young women. Not the other way round. Part of me wants to shout his true identity aloud and have him carted away for heresy. And yet, another part of me is thrilled to know his dangerous secret and even more thrilled to be included. My frown deepens.

  “Pedant Lumin.”

  Pedant Lumin clears his throat and says, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with your father as I was passing. If there is some important errand, I would be happy to escort you, as my lecture isn’t until this afternoon.”

  “To Lowtown?” I say, hoping my raised brow looks ironic rather than silly. “Thank you, but I think I can manage, Pedant.”

  His expression darkens. “You shouldn’t go alone there, Miss Nyx. It could be quite dangerous for one such as you.”

  “One such as me?”

  Pedant Lumin nods. “I can protect you as no one else can. Did I not do so the other day?”

  I glance toward the Grand Exhibit Hall. The edge of the field that holds the Sphinx captive pulses a vivid blue. I remember the ticking of her claws, how he stood boldly between her and me. If events had transpired in a logical way, I should be dead now. I look back at Pedant Lumin, unsure. His gaze holds mine and, for just a moment, it feels as if the atrium inhales around us, as if some secret breeze stirs the still wings of the sylphids into life. I can imagine them, floating around us in a shimmering column. . . .

  A patron tries to squeeze between me and the display case, jolting me back to the now. “Very well,” I say. “I’ll trust you just this once, Pedant Lumin. Let us hope you show yourself equal to the task.”

  Pedant Lumin bows again, his expression carefully neutral. “Thank you, miss. You will not have cause to regret it, I assure you.” He looks up at me and grins. For just one moment, I consider running away to my laboratory and locking myself inside, but the nevered letter pulses its slim warning in my pocket.

  “Shall we, then?” he asks.

  I nod and together we pass through the doors out into New London’s glimmering gloom.

  The hansom we hire is cramped, its cushions dusty and threadbare. I find myself picking at the seams, trying to ignore the fact that Pedant Lumin’s knees are nearly touching mine, so close is our confinement.

  The curtains are drawn and so his face is mercifully hidden from me. That is, until a tiny, glowing head pops up from his waistcoat pocket.

  Piskel floats toward me, lighting the entire hansom cab like a little sun.

  “Don’t make any sudden movements,” Pedant Lumin says. “Just let him have a look at you.”

  “He won’t bite me again, will he?” I ask, barely breathing.

  The sylphid makes a face at me. Then he darts back into Pedant Lumin’s pocket, where he shakes a shining fist before crossing his arms and glaring at me.

  “Did he understand what I just said?”

  Pedant Lumin laughs. He fishes around in another pocket for more bits of cake, which he feeds to Piskel with soft words. Then he looks up at me. “What do you think?”

  In the fey light, his eyes are again so brilliant I’m almost blinded.

  “Why do you keep changing?” I ask.

  He frowns and I realize it’s the first time I’ve really seen him do so. “I suppose I should have expected that you would see through my attempts at disguise.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what you are,” he says. His gaze is mesmerizing, but I can’t tell if that’s because he’s using forbidden magic on me or if it’s something else entirely.

  “A witch?” I raise my chin.

  “Not so loudly,” he says. “You can still be heard, even in here.” Piskel shakes a finger at me. “But yes. You see through illusion, among other things.”

  This time when Pedant Lumin smiles, I see it fully for the first time. It burns me so completely my face reddens. “Other things? What else can witches do?”

  He leans forward. “Anything they desire,” he says. The low pulse of his voice makes me clutch the cushion.

  He’s close enough to kiss. I’m trying to figure out if I should, if he will, trying not to think about the wrongness of this, when a squeak of protest startles us both. Pedant Lumin sits back so as not to crush Piskel. “Sorry, little man.”

  Piskel grumbles and burrows down into his pocket, taking his light with him.

  The darkness is a relief. When I speak, I try my best to maintain an even, businesslike tone. “Pedant Lumin, I could have you reported. I should. You are a heretic Architect. The Church and the Empress would reward my family handsomely for one such as you.”

  He’s entirely nonplussed by my threats. “But you won’t,” he says.

  “What do you mean I won’t?”

  “You won’t report me because I’m the only one who can help you.”

  “Help me do what?”

  “Survive.”

  I’m so angry I can feel sparks flying off my fingertips even if I can’t see them. I clench my fists over my knees. “Pedant Lumin, if you’re suggesting—”

  He reaches forward, slipping his fingers close enough to touch my fists. Close enough but not quite. Without touching me, somehow he draws off the anger, shapes it, lights it with a single breath. “Hal,” he says softly, holding the energy he’s transformed from me as though it’s a paper lantern. “The name is Hal.”

  The rush of emotions is too much. I can’t speak.

  “Tell me this,” he says. “How long have you known you were different? Has anyone else ever noticed?”

  I’m about to answer but his gaze encourages me to examine his questions. It’s there at the root of me—the inner wisdom he’s seeking. I always knew I wasn’t meant for the Seminary. I thought it was just because I wanted knowledge they didn’t possess. It was that, but . . . there’s more.

  A dim memory surfaces of looking with Father at a display of sylphids. Remarkably, they’d been kept alive. We walked through a tunnel engineered to allow us into their enclosure, my small hand clasped in Father’s. But something happened when we reached the middle of the tunnel. The protective field dropped. Suddenly, the sylphids were all around me and I laughed and let them play in my hair and sing to me, even though I couldn’t understand their words. Fa
ther didn’t laugh. Refiners came and turned the sylphids into glittering dust. And I wept because I knew they would never have harmed me. And then there was the kobold who bowed to me before he left Miss Marmalade’s . . .

  Could it really be true? Everything I’ve been taught, everything I’ve hoped for goes against it. If anyone finds out . . .

  “It can’t be,” I whisper. My words are harsh with rising tears. “It just can’t.”

  “Why not?” he says gently.

  “Because . . .” My voice cracks. Because if I am, there is no future. If I am, then even the dream I dare not speak is lost to me. If I am, then I am a heretic and damned to an eternity of sand. . . . It is all I can do not to break down sobbing.

  “Miss Nyx . . .” His hand brushes mine. “It is not so horrible as you might imagine. Your fate is still your own if you have the courage to see beyond your fear.”

  That straightens my spine a bit. I find voice enough to ask: “But how did it happen? And what do I do?”

  “You act as if being a witch is completely unnatural. Nothing could be further from the truth. Wielding magic is normal. What is not normal is how the Empress hoards all of the magic herself, turning it to her own evil designs and persecuting anyone who tries to use it for good. What you do about it is up to you. You can try to hide or you can fight, as we Architects have chosen to do.”

  I digest this in silence. Then I freeze.

  He senses the change in my demeanor. “What?”

  “I think someone pushed me through the field the other day. I think they wanted to see what would happen to me.” I think again of Charles’s horrid smirk and shudder.

  “Someone was trying to test you.”

  “But why would it matter? What could they gain? And how could they have done it when no one but a fussy woman was standing next to me?”

  “The answer to all those questions is simply this: magic. And if you are still unschooled, as I’m quite sure you are, you’re vulnerable. Your power is therefore accessible to any warlock or witch unscrupulous enough to seize it.”