The Unnaturalists (7 page)

Normally, I wouldn’t allow anyone to do something like this for me. I don’t like showing weakness. But in this case, the sooner the unit gets upstairs the better.

I nod. “Yes, thank you.”

Pedant Lumin makes sure the hoses are secure and then starts hauling the ungainly thing back toward the lift. I hurry on to Father’s office, grateful that at least someone with manners stopped to help, even if said mannerly person annoyingly seems to find me a consistent source of amusement.

I’m slowed by Father’s new clerk, a boy younger than me who refuses to listen when I say that there’s an urgent need for Father up in Cataloguing.

“He’s in a meeting, not to be disturbed,” the boy says. His nose is so far up in the air I can see his walnut of a brain. Father keeps saying he’ll buy a reception wight to staff this desk, but he never has. Too expensive, I imagine. But a wight would be so much easier to manage than a person. They speak only when spoken to, don’t put on airs, and do exactly what they’ve been manufactured to do.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask.

The boy glares at me, ignoring my questions. “He said he was not to be disturbed, miss.”

“Look out there—can’t you see the Museum’s in chaos?” The clerk looks away from me. He’s not to be reasoned with. I turn swiftly and march straight through the arched corridor to Father’s office door.

“Miss!” the boy shouts behind me. “Miss!”

I knock, boldly and loudly. I glance back and see the boy’s head in his hands.

No one answers. I put my hand on the doorknob. Father hasn’t locked it, so whatever he’s doing can’t be that important.

I open the door. A small assembly of Pedants and Museum Directors turn and glare. Father looks up. I know it’s him only because his wig, which I secretly call the Sheep of Learning, cascades in white locks over his shoulders. His face is mostly obscured by nullgoggles over his eyes and a nullmask over his nose and mouth. He’s wearing thick gloves and holds a dropper in one hand, a beaker in the other. The gloves, dropper, and beaker are outlined in shadow—they must be strongly nevered for the shadow to show so boldly.

The mysterious strongbox is open. The gentle breeze from where I’ve pushed the door open stirs grains of black sand. The Waste. The Tinker was right—the box was indeed filled with a sample of the Creeping Waste. Stares of irritation, horror, and fear turn on me through several pairs of nullgoggles.

“Father.” My breath is a whisper, my gaze held by those gently stirring grains of sand. It’s as though we’re frozen in one of the Church’s instructive paintings, like
The Chastening of Athena
. I cannot help but wonder if someone will call our painting
Curiosity Kills the Cat
.

If anyone survives to paint it.

Will I feel myself turning into a pillar of salt as the Waste touches me? Or will it happen so fast I’ll feel nothing? One moment, flesh. The next, salt blowing across a desolate sea of black sand.

It occurs to me, too, that I might just have destroyed New London because I opened a door hastily.

“Vespa,” my Father says. His voice is muffled, but it’s so calm
and toneless that I understand him perfectly. “Shut the door very carefully. I will find you later.”

Everything I was about to say dies at the back of my throat. I nod. The grains are settling, and if I am as careful as he asks, they will stay in the box. Sweat glimmers on his brow.

I close the door slowly, oh so slowly, and back away from the alcove as if even the sound of my boots could stir the Waste. My face scalds with embarrassment as I pass the desk clerk. But I put my nose in the air just as high as his and march past.

I am full of questions, but the one that will not leave my mind is this: What is Father doing with the Waste?

I climb the stairs slowly. I’m not looking forward to being in that room with Charles again or listening to his recriminations. Or having to apologize to Father later. I just want to be alone in my laboratory, dreaming over the Ceylon Codex again. Is that so much to ask?

When I enter, I’m surprised. The Wad is nowhere to be seen, but Pedant Lumin is still there. I seem to have caught him in the middle of something. He swiftly puts a hand behind his back. Something shimmers at the edge of his arm.

He edges toward the door, clearing his throat. “I sent Mr. Waddingly with the unit back to storage. It unfortunately isn’t working properly,” he says.

I stand in front of the door. My heart’s fluttering in my chest, still thinking about what I almost did, but I force myself to speak. “Really? That’s the last working unit we had, as far as I know.”

“I shall speak to your father about it.”

I nod. Father doesn’t like this new Pedant. There was some grumbling over dinner the other night about being forced to make
appointments to unsuitable candidates, and I’m guessing he was referring to Pedant Lumin. The Board must have appointed him without Father’s full support.

I decide to focus on the issue at hand. “What happened to all the sylphids, then?” I ask.

I look around the room. All I see is a pile of dust glimmering on the laboratory table, a pile I don’t recall seeing before. Is Pedant Simian’s entire collection gone? That, I’m quite certain, will be enough to banish me from the Museum forever.

“All the sylphids?” Pedant Lumin asks. “I don’t know what you mean.” He’s still edging toward the door, but I’m between him and it.

A sweet smell wafts to me over the scent of preservative spirits and moldering tomes. Like plums and confectioners’ sugar . . .

There’s a soft plop on the floor behind Pedant Lumin. I step around him and see wadded paper wrapping and crumbs of jam cake. Something burrows inside the rubbish.

“Is that . . . jam cake?” I ask. Jam cake is my favorite.

A bright little head emerges. It’s a sylphid, cheeks engorged with cake. It tries to curse me, but only manages to spit crumbs.

I draw back, but Pedant Lumin scoops up the mess and stuffs it in his pocket. The little head pokes up again, unrepentant.

“Pedant Lumin,” I say, “why have you got a sylphid eating jam cake in your pocket? And where did the other sylphids that I’m to mount go?”

“I don’t know,” he says almost sheepishly. “I found this one and coaxed him out of his hiding place behind a cabinet.”

The little sylphid starts squeaking again, pointing and spewing crumbs.

“Perhaps Charles found a way to dispose of them,” I say.

“Perhaps.” Pedant Lumin’s hands move, shifting so that they look like they’re cradling a ball. One hand is still sticky with jam cake. I see a blue glow on the edges of his fingers, like what I thought I saw the other day during the episode with the Sphinx.

I swallow hard and back toward the door. I don’t know what Pedant Lumin’s doing or why, but I think it best if I retreat. “Shame,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “I should have liked to study them. And Pedant Simian will be furious at the loss.”
And I will most likely be dismissed
.

Our eyes meet. He’s looking at me in such a peculiar way, as if he expects something to happen. Nothing does, except that the little sylphid continues to glare at me from his pocket. He swallows and resumes his miniature tirade.

Pedant Lumin’s eyes narrow. His hands drop, one of them covers the sylphid’s head and gently pushes him down into his pocket. He brushes his hands along his robes, leaving a trail of crumbs and jam.

“His name is Piskel. I’ve made peace with him,” Pedant Lumin says.

“Peace? With jam cake?” It’s an interesting concept, one that would certainly work for me, but the door handle is at my fingers now. I’ve only to slip out in one swift motion.

Before I can, Pedant Lumin’s gloveless fingers slide along my temples. His grip is strong but gentle. I sense he could break me, but he holds me as if I’m fragile as an egg. His brilliant eyes bore deep into mine as he bends closer. I can’t look away, and for a strange moment I fear he might kiss me. Except I have no fear at all; in fact, I think I might like it. He smells of crushed roses and jam cake. I’m utterly terrified.

“Who are you?” he asks. His voice is less sure than usual; there’s a tremor in it. Hope? Uncertainty? Fear?

I might ask the same of you,
I try to say. But I can’t. Blue light fills my peripheral vision, and an odd pulse of energy courses through me, holding me still and silent. It’s like that moment again of falling eternally forward through the paralytic field. Only this time, there is no screaming, no smiling Sphinx, only his steady breathing and his mind fluttering soft and golden through my own.

I stiffen. If he doesn’t let go of me in approximately two seconds, I will kick him in his well-shaped shins. My cousin Manny taught me that trick long ago.

“Unhand me, sir,” I say, with as much icy calm as I can manage.

He does so, albeit reluctantly. My left temple is sticky with cake. I wipe it with my gloved hand, but I think I only succeed in smearing jam everywhere. I feel a terrible strangeness, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“How dare you treat me so?” I say. I’m suddenly furious, but I’m not sure if I’m more furious because he didn’t kiss me or because he seized me so rudely. I’ve never had thoughts like these before. Never. I don’t want to start having them now.

He grins and, bowing, hands me a handkerchief from another of his robe pockets.

“I had to be certain,” he says. “Forgive me.”

“Certain of what?” I ask. I refrain from using the handkerchief to clean off the jam cake. Instead I draw myself up as tall as I can. My eyes are almost level with his.

“Miss Nyx, I do believe you are a witch.”

I stare at him. I don’t know what I thought he was going to say, but that certainly wasn’t it.

“How do you know?”

His lips twitch. “I think that will be obvious to you soon enough. I will keep your secret. I trust you will keep mine.” He bows again and leaves me standing there with jam and crumbs drying in my hair, his handkerchief clutched in my hand, my nose throbbing again where Piskel bit me.

I look down at the handkerchief. Embroidered in the corner are two
A
’s linked at the center in a cross-hatched diamond.

The Architects of Athena.

I stare at the closed door in shock. Pedant Lumin is an Architect. And he has revealed himself to me. Not only that, but he is also under the delusion that I’m a witch.

At least one thing is certain.

The world has gone mad. Absolutely and utterly mad.

C
HAPTER
6

T
he need for the stone came sooner than Syrus could have imagined.

Two nights after his encounter with the Architects, he settled gratefully into the nest of old quilts between uncles, aunts, and cousins. Granny Reed was at the rusting potbelly stove, feeding it carefully gathered wood and pony dung. As it often did when winter approached, the passenger car smelled of bodies that hadn’t been washed in a while. But Syrus didn’t mind so long as everyone was warm.

The summoning stone was secure in an inner pocket of his jacket and he patted its hard circle one more time just to be sure it was there. In a family of pickpockets, he’d be an absolute idiot to keep the stone where it would be easy for one of his cousins to steal it. He hadn’t told anyone about his encounter for just that reason. He was hoping to be able to tell Granny when all the others weren’t around; he just hadn’t found a chance yet. Perhaps tomorrow.

Evidently, Granny hadn’t told the story of the Manticore’s Heart last night because he heard her say, around her corncob pipe: “It was quite some time ago that a Tinker witch made a bargain with a Scientist from a City in the World Before. He asked her to steal
something very powerful for him. And what he asked her to steal was none other than the Heart of Tianlong, the heavenly Dragon that rested on the banks of that river yonder. For it was said that the Heart of Tianlong was a well into the Universe, and if a man held that—well, then he held the power of the Universe in his hand. But only a powerful witch could remove the Heart.

“So, she took the Heart and sold it to the Scientist who in turn used it to bring his City here. And one of the Scientist’s followers called himself Emperor, and his descendants still rule to this day.