The Unnaturalists (10 page)

And, foolish though it might have been, he went back, because he knew his extended clan would expect it of him. Nothing would be done with the Reed clan’s passenger car until it was determined without a shadow of a doubt that all had been killed or taken. It was his duty as the remaining free member of the clan to dispose properly of the bodies.

He came when the cookfires leaped around the rusting wheels. There was no music and no laughter, and there wouldn’t be for a while. Uncle Gen had been right about it being a long time since the last Cull. Everyone had begun to think perhaps the Cityfolk no longer needed new bodies for their Refineries, that perhaps the clans could finally live in as much peace as they could expect.

Suddenly, Syrus hated them all for being so naive.

At the edge of the trainyard, he heard muted voices inside one of the passenger cars. The Thornishes were a new family, still without a clan, who lived on the edge of Tinkerville; no one knew them very well. A stewpot bubbled over an unattended fire; he guessed perhaps they’d gone inside to find salt or bowls or somesuch. He took none of the stew, but he did steal a shawl and old bloomers from their laundry line. He draped the shawl around his head and neck, then wrapped a branch with the bloomers. He set them alight in the fire and walked off before the Thornishes could find him.

He left whispering silence in his wake as he passed through the trainyard with the burning branch. No one spoke to him or tried to stop him. They all knew why he was here.

Syrus’s heart thundered, sure at any minute he’d be accosted by a Guard. He glanced toward the caved-in roofs of passenger cars and iron engines, searching for ravens, but there were none that he could see. When he came to his family’s former home, he saw Truffler sobbing by the steps.

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.

C
HAPTER
9

T
he 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.”