The Peculiars (21 page)

Lena caught the early coach north and rode with an odd assortment of travelers who were bound for the borders of Scree. The night’s frost had created a white and sparkling landscape. The pumpkins no longer rolled through green fields to the sea. The fields had returned to brown earth,
striped with the black of dying vines. She had planned to travel before winter set in. It appeared as it was arriving early this year. Now with whatever guide the marshal provided, Lena would be making her way across Scree just when the first snows were falling. She would no longer delude herself that the marshal would be her private escort. How could he fancy a Peculiar? Well, there was no helping it now. She unfolded the letter from her father that she kept pinned to her chemise. Once she crossed the border to the north, there would still be miles of mountainous terrain to conquer. And she would need to know, as well, where her father had last been sighted.

Lena crunched her way up the gravel drive to Zephyr House. The early sun gilded the widow’s walk. The weather-vanes spun slowly in a light breeze from the north. She would need a heavier coat for traveling. The apple trees, now mostly harvested, were dropping their russet leaves. Despite everything, it was going to be hard to leave this place. One more day and the marshal should be prepared for the raid. He had said four days. Lena tried to picture it, but Mr. Beasley’s face with his ridiculous painted eyebrows kept getting in the way. What would happen to him? That was something she tried not to think about. How could someone who was good make such bad choices?

She caught movement from the corner of her eye. Mrs. Mumbles emerged from under the laurel bushes, stepping daintily across the frost-tipped grass, stopping periodically to shake a paw. Behind Mrs. Mumbles came Mrs. Pollet, a woven
basket over one arm and a thick shawl over a wooly sweater. She was tall and gaunt as a scarecrow in the garden. Lena’s eyes flew to her bony shoulders where she knew the scars from wings were hidden. Beside her walked the young woman Lena had glimpsed at the funeral. Hardly a woman, Lena realized; younger than she first appeared. Just a teenager.

“Well, I see you’ve come back.” Mrs. Pollet’s voice held no welcome; it was dry and empty.

Lena nodded.

“You set the house upside down when you left. I hope you’re satisfied with that.”

Lena stopped a few yards from the door. “I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t know what you mean, because you don’t understand anything. You think what you see is the whole story.”

Lena took a step closer. “I thought he was hurting you.”

Mrs. Pollet shifted the basket to her other arm. “Tobias Beasley saved my life and the life of my daughter Merilee.” She gestured to her silent companion. “He risked his own life to help us. But maybe you don’t think our lives are worth saving.” In her quiet wrath she seemed to grow taller. “Do you think wings make us any different from you with your strange feet and hands, or from anyone?”

She took a step closer, and Lena took a step back, almost tripping over Mrs. Mumbles, who had come to rub against her legs.

“Do you know what it’s like to work in the mines twelve
hours a day? You never see sunlight. You go down when it’s dark and come up after the sun has gone down. Children, too. You hear children crying and coughing. And you know that it will never change one day to the next, all because you’re different and they need someone to work their mines for them, to get their precious coal and copper.”

Lena was feeling faint. Blood pounded in her head. Why didn’t Jimson come out and save her?

Mrs. Pollet was close enough that Lena could feel puffs of breath as she spoke, see the mesh of lines surrounding eyes, the way one front tooth slightly lapped the other. “And some of us don’t make it out, like my little Arabelle. Arabelle got a lung sickness and died.”

“Arabelle died because of the mines?” Lena’s mouth was dry.

“We tried to come back and have a normal life, but there is no normal once your child dies. Then we heard about Tobias Beasley. We stayed here and worked until Merilee was old enough to need his help. Her wings came later than her sister’s, but they came just like we feared they would. Mr. Beasley gave Arthur a job. Arthur, who loved us and didn’t care what we were.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “What do you know about our pain?” Merilee put an arm around her mother’s waist.

Lena wanted to say that she knew pain, that she knew what it was to be different, to grow up without a father, to grow up not knowing who she was, but she had no words. “I
thought most Peculiars were just sent back to Scree to live.” Her voice sounded small and tinny even to her own ears.

Mrs. Pollet threw back her head and laughed. “Peculiars aren’t human. Didn’t you know? That’s what the law says.”

“Hush, Mama.” Merilee tried to draw her mother away.

But Lena could only think of Arabelle Pollet, who died in the mines of Scree because she had wings.

Despite Merilee’s grip on her arm, Mrs. Pollet took a step closer to Lena. “Do you believe what the law says about us, you with your funny hands and feet?”

Lena didn’t hear the front door open until Jimson cried out, “She’s back! Lena’s here!”

Jimson was down the steps in a flash, followed by Mr. Beasley. He stopped just short of Lena. “We thought you might not come back.”

Mr. Beasley rested a hand on Jimson’s shoulder. “Why don’t we let Lena come inside, Jimson? I think we could use a second breakfast.”

Lena, Jimson, and Tobias Beasley sat around the dining table, and Milo refilled their cups with tea and served up toast and jam while Mrs. Pollet and Merilee cleaned up the kitchen from the first breakfast.

“Jimson and I had a talk last night, one I wish that you could have been here for as well,” said Mr. Beasley. “I suppose I should have explained everything to you from the start, but I truly believed that not knowing about my side occupation might keep you safe. At least, I thought that about Jimson.
I thought I’d hired someone who would be content sorting books.” He passed Lena a pot of raspberry jam. “But Jimson turned out to be more perceptive than I ever anticipated. And then you came along, Lena, and it was obvious that you were in some distress. I thought that I might be of some help to you as well. At least, give you a place to sort things out.” He sighed. “I didn’t expect either of you to be so . . .” He paused, then said, “. . . curious.”

Lena shifted in the chair. She couldn’t meet Mr. Beasley’s eyes, didn’t want his words to confuse her decision.

He continued. “Once I got to know both of you, I suspected that you would be people I could trust, but keeping you ignorant as long as possible seemed the safest thing. Try the marmalade, Jimson. Leticia made it herself.

“I have been assisting Peculiars for several years. Some decide to stay here at Zephyr House. Others want to continue living in the towns they came from. So, I do what I can to make them as inconspicuous as possible, so they can blend in. Others want to go to Scree, but for obvious reasons do not want to end up working in the mines. I have ways to get them the necessary papers to freely cross the border.” He spread his hands. “Now you know my secret. I’m afraid my little operation has been discovered.”

“Now that I’ve met Mrs. Pollet and Merilee, I can’t deny Peculiars exist. But I can’t pretend it wasn’t a shock,” Jimson said as he looked from Mr. Beasley to Lena. “Last night Mr. Beasley explained a few things to me. Did you know that there
have never been any true medical studies on Peculiars? All this talk about them not having souls and being predisposed to violence is just talk. Nobody knows much about them. Anyway, I’m in. What I mean is that I’ll do anything I can to help Mr. Beasley with what he’s doing. What about you, Lena?”

She looked at Jimson’s eager face. Mr. Beasley said nothing, but watched her with sympathetic eyes. Lena covered her face with her hands, fingers curving over her brows and digging into her hair.

“Lena?”

She shook her head without looking up. “I’ve done a terrible thing.” A dreadful certainty filled her. Even if Peculiars were dangerous or criminals, as the marshal believed, they didn’t deserve death in the mines of Scree. She thought of Mrs. Pollet and Arabelle and pictured the marshal as a steam train churning toward them. Lena raised her face and looked Mr. Beasley in the eye. “We need to prepare for a raid on Zephyr House. It should be tomorrow—October thirty-first.”

It took her only a few minutes to explain about her meetings with the marshal and about the letter she had left with Margaret Flynn.

Mr. Beasley locked Lena in his gaze. “Thomas Saltre is obsessed with the elimination of Peculiars. It has been his single-minded pursuit for years, ever since his father was killed in Scree. That’s why he trained and became a marshal at such a young age. Despite what he says, he has no intention of letting them return independently to Scree.” His next words
made the tears spill. “You did what you thought was best, based on the truth you knew. That’s all anyone can do.” He pushed away from the table. “Even if you hadn’t left the letter for the marshal, we were already at risk. He’s had his eye on me for some time. Now it’s just sooner rather than later. And we’d better prepare ourselves. Fortunately, Pansy left early this morning. At least that’s one person out of harm’s way.”

Lena turned to Jimson.

Jimson’s face, usually so open and easy to read, was shuttered. Only his lips moved as he spoke. “She said she couldn’t stay with people who were breaking the law. That if Peculiars weren’t bad, the government wouldn’t be arresting them. She stayed only one night.” He looked away.

“But most people would agree with her,” Lena said.

Mr. Beasley nodded. “You can’t blame her. She’s had no evidence to the contrary. It was wise, Jimson, to think of her safety. However, I’m afraid Pansy will feel compelled to share what she witnessed here at Zephyr House.”

“I’m so sorry.” Lena snuffled.

Jimson shrugged, and to Lena it looked more like a shrug of defeat than a shrug of indifference.

“We have twenty-four hours to get prepared. Leticia, Merilee, and Abel are my main concerns. And there are things that need tending to.” Mr. Beasley rose and dropped his napkin on the table. “Be available.” And he strode from the room.

“Abel?” Lena crinkled her brow.

“He’s your red-haired man from the train. Abel Guthrie.
He’s been helping Mr. Beasley refine titantum. That’s what I saw in the laboratory.”

“He’s a Peculiar? Isn’t Guthrie the name of the family who used to live here?”

Jimson nodded and slurped the last of the tea, still avoiding Lena’s eyes. “Yes and yes. Do you have any conception of what you’ve done? How many people you’ve put at risk?” His voice was cold and remote. “Come on, there are some things we need to do in the library.”

Lena followed silently, muffling her sobs.

The sun shone weakly through the lead-paned windows of the library. Gray flannel clouds gathered on the horizon to meet a flint and choppy sea. Even in this weak light the library was the most magnificent place Lena had ever seen. “What will happen to the library?” She pictured the marshal and his men ransacking the bookshelves, pawing through files looking for clues, thumbing through the jewel-encrusted books with pages fragile as old skin. And at that thought there was suddenly not enough room for her heart in her chest.

“That’s why we’re here. We’ve got to save as much as we can.” Jimson surveyed the room. “What would interest them the most?”

Lena’s eyes flew from display to display. Irreplaceable objects. How could they choose? Then her gaze settled on the wooden box. “The book from Cloister. It must be important.”

Jimson nodded and retrieved the key from his desk. “We’ll
take the book and leave the box. It will be easier to carry that way.” He placed it in his canvas knapsack. “Whatever it is, Mr. Beasley thinks it’s valuable.” He picked up a book of early medical illustrations and thumbed through it. “What about that sketchbook? You gave it back to Mr. Beasley, didn’t you?”

Lena twisted a lock of hair. “It’s still in my room.” And then, in the spirit of confession added, “I showed it to the marshal.”

“You what! Lena, don’t you ever think before you just rush out and do something?” Jimson ran his hands over his face.

“I didn’t know—”

“No, I’m sorry. Why don’t you just go get it, so we can be sure we don’t leave it around? I’ll go through the files.” Jimson’s voice was deliberate now, as if he were speaking to a child, as if he could barely disguise his disgust.

And he was right, Lena thought. She had been impulsive. But he hadn’t done much better. He was so caught up in being a man of science that he hadn’t been able to see what was staring him right in the face. She stalked down the hall. All that mattered now was getting everything and everyone out safely.

The low ceiling of gray was closing in quickly. Lena paused at her window looking out over the apple orchard. The trees, almost leafless now, stretched their twisted limbs. Beyond, the sliver of sea was churning with whitecaps. She reached under her mattress, closing her fingers over the slim sketchbook. Next she retrieved the money she had saved from her work
at Zephyr House, then sat on the bed to think. Would it be enough? She couldn’t work the extra weeks. Circumstances had changed, but not her plans for Scree. She would be crossing the border without the hoped-for guide, and she would have to do it quickly, before the marshal realized she had betrayed him. Perhaps he had never intended to provide her a guide. It wasn’t immoral to lie to a Peculiar. She was nothing but a liability at Zephyr House. Jimson and the marshal both would be glad to be rid of her. She tapped her fingers against the cover of the sketchbook. A young single woman traveling alone would hardly go unnoticed, especially if that woman was traveling into Scree.

She pinned the money inside her chemise, next to the letter from her father, and thought longingly of the money and papers left inside her stolen purse. Then she selected her warmest garments and stuffed them into her valise. It would raise even more suspicion for a woman to travel without a bag or trunk. Perhaps she could claim that she was a teacher, volunteering to work in the remote lands of Scree—but she would need a letter from a school board. She recalled the missionary ladies from Miss Brett’s. They probably had no trouble crossing the border to minister to the heathens. She would leave tonight before the raid, before the marshal rounded her up with the others and forced her into the mines of Scree. Before her departure, she’d do whatever she could to help Jimson and Mr. Beasley prepare. Hurrying, valise in hand, she descended the stairs.