The Unnaturalists (38 page)

I
t takes a long while before anything in New London even approaches normalcy. Everything that we knew is gone—many of the buildings, the Emporium Bridge, the Walls, and the Refineries are smashed to oblivion. There will be no
myth
power ever again. All the evered and nevered things—silks, pens, lanterns, locks—cease to function. Nothing that had once been powered by
myth
works at all, and though many of us agree it’s for the best, there’s much grumbling from some survivors.

We’re forced to live like Tinkers. Syrus shows us how to build fires like them, how to tell which woods are inhabited by dryads and therefore off-limits, how to fix mechanical things that are broken and retrofit those things that had once run on
myth
if we can.

The predicament of the wights is perhaps saddest of all. Those whose bodies were still retained as wraiths in the Refineries were made whole again by the breaking of the Empress’s power. Those whose bodies had not been retained were less fortunate. They wander as ghosts, and a committee has been formed to find understanding families willing to house them. Bayne still has hope that we might find a magical solution that will give them peace someday.

Bayne and I sort through the magical things the Architects and
the former Empress had hoarded away. Since I have always been an excellent cataloguer, I dive into it like a natural. Syrus promises to help us translate the books written in the old language of his people.

And whenever we aren’t rebuilding, we search for those who have been lost. Syrus was devastated when he searched the ruins of the Refineries and found his people gone. But where are they? He says they can’t be dead, that he would sense if they were. One day, I fear, when the moon is full, he’ll run away like a white shadow over the hills seeking them.

We don’t find Lucy or Charles or Father. Bayne closes his eyes when I tell him about Lucy’s fate. “A terrible way to die,” he says quietly. I don’t look at him and I try not to think beyond just the moment. We both of us need time to mourn, to adjust to this very new New London.

Hardest to bear is Father’s loss. I still can’t believe he meant to do evil; I’m quite certain Charles had tricked him into thinking he was doing good. I know the Waste destroyed his body, and it saddens me that I will never be able to even visit his grave. The Empress—or more correctly, the Emperor—is also gone, but we find Princess Olivia sheltered by dryads in Fauxhall Gardens. I must confess that we embrace and shed tears together for our shared trials when we meet. I believe Olivia will be the Empress we need to rebuild the realm in the coming days.

Aunt Minta we find one day in the streets babbling over a broken music box. She has no idea who I am and shrieks in terror when I try to touch her. She wanders away to a group of people who gather around the bishop of the broken Church of Science and Technology. He glares at me as he takes her in, but at least I know
she’ll be safe. And where to look in on her if need be.

Bayne’s father and mother apparently took an airship out of New London not long after he went off with Syrus into Tower Hill. We’re working together at a town house we’ve commandeered in Lowtown—not far from where Rackham’s shop once was, oddly enough—when a letter arrives by a regular courier of the disheveled and disgruntled sort. The letter is damp and stained, the seals ragged. The courier drops them without a word and leaves.

Bayne opens it. I’m afraid to watch him, afraid of what it says, but I see that there are two letters inside, one folded within the other. He scans it and then lets them drift down on the scarred table.

Syrus looks up from where he and Piskel and Truffler are translating some of the old Tinker manuals by the hearth.

“What is it?” I say.

Bayne sighs heavily. He scrubs his chin, which is badly in need of a shave. “My parents have formally disowned me,” he says at last. “They’ve stripped me of my titles and the Grimgorn name. I suppose I shall be Pedant Lumin after all.” He pauses, rubbing his chin again. “They’ve also graciously included a dispensation letter from the Imperial Matchmaker, annulling my marriage to Lucy Virulen due to my ‘change in status.’”

“Not to mention that she’s also dead,” Syrus said.

“Syrus!”

“Good riddance,” Syrus says. “I never liked her anyway.”

“I think it’s awful,” I say softly. The look in her eyes as Charles drew her with him through the portal still haunts me.

Bayne slumps in his chair, staring at the rough-hewn ceiling. I feel badly when hope flutters in my heart—the hope that perhaps
we can forget all that has gone before. It’s not fair to think this way. It’s far too soon.

Another knock at the door. Syrus goes to open it, and in steps one of the new Imperial guard. His patchwork livery makes me smile. Our new Empress is behind him. Just yesterday, she stood before the grumblers and naysayers and reminded them quite plainly, “This is not our world. It never has been. We are guests and we must strive for balance with those who have been here long before we were. We have done great harm. It’s time we set it right.” Then she’d rolled up her royal sleeves and begun digging into a broken building with her shovel as willingly as any mason or farmhand. She will be long-remembered and well-loved indeed.

But today Empress Olivia is dressed in a simple cotton gown. She smiles and invites us out with a gesture. “I have something for you,” she says. We go out to find her guards, plain human guards, unveiling a beautifully crafted wooden sign. Above a winged clock, our names are painted in gold and black:
LUMIN & NYX, IMPERIAL UNNATURALISTS
.

Piskel flits around it, making small noises of approval between bites of honey cake.

Olivia tells me in an aside that she’d wanted a winged heart, but her carpenter had scoffed at such a thing as unbecoming for Pedants. It seems she took his advice, though I don’t know what he meant by Pedants. Only one of us is a Pedant. She unrolls a scroll with the Imperial seals stamped in beeswax upon it—simple parchment without everink or everseals.

“Let it be known that by this royal decree, I do declare Pedant Bayne Lumin and Vespa Nyx Imperial Investigators of Unnatural Phenomena with all the titles, privileges, and honors accorded
thereunto. Together they shall act as our advisors on all items magical and heretofore deemed unnatural, liase with said Unnaturals, and generally”—here Olivia smiles—“help us to learn to live more wisely together throughout the realm.”

She signals to her men.

“Vespa,” she says, motioning me forward.

A robe is draped around my shoulders along with a hood and a braided cord; they must have foraged it from the rubble of the University. Olivia herself fixes the tasseled beret over my hair, fussing a bit with my chignon.

She hands me a scroll, sealed with tassels in University colors. Startled tears spring into my eyes.

“I bestow upon you the honorary title of Pedant of the Realm. Our second female Pedant in all of history. May you serve us well.”

There is much shouting and cheering. I’m clapped on the back and then feel Bayne lifting me over the heads of the crowd and carrying me while my name is chanted all through Lowtown. I look over them all while his eyes, brilliant as suns, mirror my joy.

I am a Pedant; I am a witch. And I am proud.

A
UTHOR’S
N
OTE

M
any things inspired this novel, among them a lifelong fascination with the Victorian naturalists and their propensity for collecting anything and everything from all over the globe during the late nineteenth century. Baroque fashion and sensibilities, as demonstrated in movies like
The
Duchess, Dangerous Liaisons, and
Marie Antoinette,
also shaped the culture and customs of New London. Tesla, while he isn’t a main character here, is definitely so fascinating that I couldn’t help at least making him responsible for everything. Not to mention the City of London itself. I’m indebted to the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) for making possible a trip to London as part of their Work-in-Progress grant. My visit to the British Natural History Museum was foundational for this and other books.

There are also many authors who inspired this book. I would be remiss not to mention Peter Beagle’s
The Last Unicorn
in particular. I only recently saw the movie again, not having seen it since I was twelve years old. Those images must have been burned into my brain; we share a very similar mythological aesthetic. And of course there are also echoes of Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast, C.S. Lewis’s Narnia, the tales of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne, and, of all things,
Dr. Who
.

I’m certain people will assume that the Tinkers are lifted from Rom or Gypsy culture. While perhaps there is a little of the Gypsy
in the Tinkers, the true progenitors of the Tinkers are the Baima people of the Sichuan highlands in the People’s Republic of China.

The Baima, or Duobo as they call themselves, are a Tibetan ethnic minority who live on the very edge of the Tibetan plateau. I spent a summer with the Baima and other Sichuanese while living with my husband at Tangjiahe Nature Reserve. I will never forget the kindness the Baima showed us when we visited their village. I was most distressed (though not surprised) to discover that the simple beauty of their culture was disintegrating under the weight of modern progress; only one ancient shaman still knows how to read their religious language and no one else is interested in learning. Their young people are fading away to the big cities in hopes of work.

In my own small and perhaps strange way, I hope at least to preserve some of their beauty in the pages of this book. While my Tinkers speak Chinese as their sacred language, it’s only because I was never fortunate enough to learn the Baima language or alphabet.

They gave me a song that summer about the green hills of their homeland because I was missing my own. This is the song I give back to them.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
his book is a testament to persistence—mine and the many people who’ve shared the journey with me. My agent, Jenn Laughran, persevered tirelessly to make sure my equally tireless editor, Navah Wolfe, found this book the one she couldn’t live without. It was a long journey, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t stumble here and there along the way. I also very much appreciate the dedicated staff of Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers: production editor, Katrina Groover; production manager, Michelle Kratz; and the wonderfully talented designer, Chloë Foglia.

Though this book is dedicated to Tricia Scott, I also can’t thank her enough for her abiding enthusiasm and support, sometimes given literally from what we all were sure was her own deathbed. I’m so proud of her for conquering breast cancer and so grateful every day she is still with us. If this story belongs to anyone, it’s hers.

I must also thank other writers for their support, good humor, and friendship—Stephanie Burgis, Ying Lee, Lisa Mantchev, Gwenda Bond, Mark Henry, Richelle Mead, Caitlin Kittredge, Cherie Priest, Kat Richardson, Stacia Kane, and Nicole Peeler, to name quite a few! Early drafts were read by Tessa Gratton, Maggie Stiefvater, and Natalie Parker—I appreciate their excellent comments and suggestions. Thanks to J. Kathleen Cheney for the epigraph. I’m very grateful also to Jeff Mann, Kelly Fineman, Cheryl Ruggiero, and Sue Hagedorn for some damn fine poems and meals, to boot. Big hugs to Synde Korman for the beautiful and inspiring jewelry based on scenes from the novel. Thanks to my dear local friends—you know who you are. And of course for all years of unfailing love, belief, and devotion, endless thanks to my Jewel.