The Unnaturalists (27 page)

Dearest Vee—

I hope this letter finds you settling in well. In honor of your pending birthday, I’ve sent Charles to bring you an early gift. He’ll also be staying at Virulen to work on the control portion of our experiment; Lord Virulen has graciously offered us space to complete our work at his estate.

I’m sorry there wasn’t time to tell you before of this arrangement. I sense you dislike Charles, but I hope this will be an opportunity for you to understand him better, darling. If all else fails in your endeavors, keep him in mind. He is, for better or worse, the heir to my work.

Your aunt and I look forward to hearing how you’re getting on when you can spare a moment.

Your loving,

Father

I can’t say anything in front of Lucy, but I know Charles must have put Father up to this. The thought is chilling. But what’s more chilling is that he’s here now, watching my every move. He’s looking at me with a sliver of malice in his horrid eyes, enjoying my discomfort immensely. Then he slides a tiny box out from his waistcoat. For a terrifying moment, I fear it’s an engagement ring. I can see by Lucy’s feline smile that she’s thinking the same thing.

“Go ahead,” he says, pressing it into my palm.

My tongue is thick with fear as I open it.

My little jade toad stares up at me, its carnelian eyes winking.

“My toad,” I whisper.

I look up at Charles. He’s smiling, a genuine smile that I can’t quite comprehend. As far as I know, he’s never done anything except for his own gain. Why would he return this to me? Where did he get it? Has he had it all along? I realize in a flash that Syrus was telling the truth, that he wasn’t keeping it from me. I blush.

Lucy is nonplussed.

I hurry to explain. “This is the only thing I have left of my mother. It was stolen from me a month ago. . . .” I stop. I feel uncomfortable calling Syrus a thief.

“I understand,” Lucy says. “And now Mr. Waddingly has somehow found it and returned it to you. How very kind!”

She gives me a look which is easily read. She thinks he’s in love with me.

Darwin and all his apes!

Charles bows, smiling, but his eyes cut viciously to me. He wants her to think he admires me. Can things get any worse?

I close the lid of the box without touching the toad. I’ll need to investigate this further, to see if he’s done any damage. There’s an old saying: Beware of Gremlins bearing gifts. I think this certainly applies.

I once again force myself to smile and say, “Thank you.”

Charles nods. “I sincerely hope that we can let bygones be, Miss Nyx.”

“That is much to be desired,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t shake.

“And now, ladies, much as I would like to stay in your delightful company, I must see to my work. Good day to you both.” He bows again to Lucy, and she inclines her head.

She squeezes my arm once he’s out the door. “Looks like you have a true admirer!” She claps her hands together. “And he’s perfect for you! Perhaps we can be married at the same time!”

It’s all I can do not to scream in terror at that suggestion, but I bite it back and say more calmly than I believe possible, “Oh, I don’t think that’s the case, Lucy. Besides, I wouldn’t want to dull the shine of your day.”

She giggles and bats at me, much like the cat playing with yarn. “Don’t be silly. I think he likes you. And rumor is, he’s on the up-and-up. Or did you have someone else in mind?” She narrows her eyes at me, as if I’ve been keeping secrets.

“Let’s just get you married and settled first,” I say. “No need to
be matchmaking just yet for me, eh? I’m not even properly out yet.”

“Very well, then,” Lucy sighs. “Spoilsport. Help me reply to Lord Grimgorn for my father.”

She leads me to her writing desk, where servants help us ready the everink and seals, but my mind is gnawing on what Charles has planned and what trap he must be setting for me. And how I will keep my heart from breaking every day I see Bayne by Lucy’s side.

C
HAPTER
20

W
hen Syrus had presented himself at the kitchens a few days ago, he’d been worried that Cook might not take him on. But Bayne had been right that the great estates always needed kitchen help. Cook had ushered him into the kitchen’s sweet-scented hell with barely more than a growl and a gesture of her hammy hand.

He had been put to work, first on a spit with a broken pulley system, then arranging trays and carrying them out, then flinging the kitchen offal to the Virulen hounds, and so on. Syrus wondered why the Virulens didn’t have more kitchen wights, as was the fashion these days. He’d heard rumors that, for all their finery, the Virulens were rather poor. It was hard to believe, looking around, but the state of the kitchens, the lack of wights, made him think perhaps the rumors were true.

He was sore today, and his foot ached. But the fever that Truffler had nursed him through showed no sign of returning. It was just the craving he couldn’t seem to banish. Every night since the bite, he woke with it—the urge to be in the Forest, to roam its dark byways, to discover things he’d never even thought to seek.

Bayne had asked him if he felt any ill effects from the bite, and
he had said no. And Truffler thankfully hadn’t needed to ask. Syrus couldn’t bring himself to admit his fear—that somehow the werehound’s bite was slowly changing him into one. He’d realized there was just too much at stake for his fears to overcome all that needed doing.

I won’t let it happen. It can’t happen again
. It became his touchstone saying as he hoisted the joints of meat, stirred and kneaded the giant buckets of bread, sliced and gutted the still-gasping river carp.
Nainai
had been fond of touchstone sayings, but he doubted she’d ever wanted him to have one like this.

Because last night was the first night he’d actually changed and knew it for more than a fever-dream.

He’d woken at dawn, curled in the low window of the communal servants’ quarters, stark naked. He’d found his clothes all around the room and had collected them red-faced before anyone else was awake. In the process, he’d nearly stepped in a relatively fresh pile of dog turds.

The door was bolted from the outside. There was no dog here. He’d looked frantically around again, but everyone was still asleep. He’d gotten the mess into the chamber pot as best he could, but the fear still lingered.

Syrus was certain he must have changed. It couldn’t have been anyone else. And certainly no dog could be hidden in the gallery that passed for a room, unless it had been smuggled in and out during the night.

Cook grabbed him by the collar, shaking every thought out of his head. Her giant arms were lobster-red, one of them tattooed with an anchor. “Get out there!” she yelled over the roar of the roasting fire. She slammed a tray of jellied calves’ feet, pickled eels,
and salmon roe, among other things, in his hands and shoved him toward the dining hall door.

He recovered himself from stumbling just before the door swung open and spat him into the dining hall. The maitre d’ coughed and gestured discreetly toward his hair. Syrus smoothed it with one hand as best he was able. He straightened the jacket of his itchy new uniform. He longed for his Tinker clothes, but they had been taken from him almost as soon as Cook dragged him into the kitchen. Luckily, he had hidden his darts and knife outside Virulen before he’d walked up to the servants’ door.

One of the ladies nearest him saw his fidgeting and frowned.

He set out his dishes, looking for the witch.

She was farther down the table, exchanging pleasantries with a man twice her age. She looked pale and uncomfortable.

How to get her alone?

Syrus moved around the table, setting out the little salvers and dishes of roe, jelly, and eels. A woman leaned across the table and snatched up the dish of eels almost as soon as he sat them down. She very nearly caught her hair on fire in the old-fashioned candelabra.

He leaned between the witch and the gentleman she was speaking to, causing the old man to harrumph in consternation. He caught her eye, heard her swift intake of breath as she recognized him.

For once, she didn’t scream at him about her toad. She just looked at him, her eyes full of words, her fork hovering above her plate.

WC,
he mouthed.

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

He continued down the table, not looking in her direction again, hoping everyone was too busy in their food to have noticed. He stiffened when he passed Charles Waddingly, but the warlock didn’t look at him or give any indication that he knew who he was. The urgency of his mission nearly made him drop his tray, grab Vespa’s wrist, and run for the Forest. If Charles was here, that meant it was only a matter of time before he pressed Vespa into getting the Heart for him. Syrus didn’t even want to think about what he would do to achieve that.

Syrus snuck back into the kitchen, sliding the tray onto a table and looking around before slipping toward the corridor exit. Cook was screaming at one of the scullery maids who had cracked some of the fine plates in the washing tub, and the maitre d’ was outside the door, his hawk eyes on the table. If Syrus didn’t go now, he probably wouldn’t be able to.

He snuck out into the corridor, making for the ladies’ water closet. He waited a few minutes, his every sense on pins and needles. If he was caught here before he had a chance to speak with her . . .

The witch tiptoed out in her fancy shoes, her skirts whispering along the stone floor. Her hair was done up fancy too, so high that it seemed to double the size of her head. He liked it better down.

The look in her eyes made Syrus back up a step. “You’re not going to pull the alarm again, are you?” he asked.

For an answer, she shook her head and opened her palm. On it sat the jade toad.

“How did you—?”

“Charles Waddingly returned it to me,” she said.

Syrus frowned. Granny Reed had said the toad was terrible bad luck. He’d been only too happy to sell it and now here it was again,
having survived the burning of Rackham’s hexshop. Charles must have taken it when he took the cursed jar. “Get rid of it,” he said, his voice rising in fear.

Vespa looked around. “Come,” she said and dragged him by his elbow into the WC before he could protest.

It was a large, spacious water closet with its own sink and even a fainting couch, but it was still a ladies’ water closet. Syrus shrank against the door, wishing he hadn’t suggested it. A toilet wight offered them a towel and a mint and looked perplexed when they refused both.

The witch peeled him off the door and latched it.

“Syrus,” she said. “That’s your name, isn’t it? You can just stop now, because I’m not getting rid of that toad. It belonged to my mother. It’s the only thing I have left of her.”

“Miss Nyx . . .” he began. He scratched his head; he was still thinking about how and why Charles would have returned Vespa’s stolen toad to her. Charles seemed the sort who would want to withhold things from people who wanted them, just for the sheer pleasure of tormenting them. Syrus was worried that this boded very, very ill for what they were about to do. He resolved to steal it back from her again at the first opportunity and dispose of it once and for all.

“Now, let’s not speak of this toad thing further. You’ve tried several times to speak to me and I’ve not listened,” Vespa said. “But Bayne said I should, so . . . I’m listening.”

Syrus swallowed. He eyed the wight hovering by a basket of toiletries. Would it report their conversation? He’d never heard of such a thing, but he was beginning to understand that one could never be too cautious.

“I realize this is a most inconvenient place for conversation, but don’t be tongue-tied,” she said. “We haven’t long!”

He cleared his throat. “Well, like I said before, the Manticore wants to see you. She says she needs a witch to help free the Elementals and I’m to lead you to her.”