Boneseeker

by Brynn Chapman

  Three rows of jealous feminine eyes turn to glare.

  My eyes meet John’s. He cocks his head slightly, his eyes screaming a silent message—manners, Arabella.

  I stand and walk up the aisle, which appears to have magically elongated, as several females shoot envious scowls overtop their fluttering fans.

  I resist the urge to snap them in half.

  Time seems to have slowed and I focus on not kissing the carpet as I pass the staring crowd.

  Henry and Stygian both study my face. My breath quickens, and the back of my neck prickles with panic.

  “And Miss Earnest, if you please,” Stygian says, staring over my head.

  Priscilla.

  Stygian is orchestrating a scene, baiting me. He somehow knows of our convoluted triangle.

  I raise my chin in defiance and stop at the foot of the small staircase. I force myself to meet his gaze. Stygian quickly walks down, extending his hand to assist me.

  The heat of a hundred sets of eyes sears my back as convention forces my hand into his.

  I sneak a glance at Henry. His eyes are forward on the audience, but a muscle bulges in his jaw.

  Stygian gestures me toward the plush, crushed-velvet chair.

  “Please, sit.”

  Says the spider to the fly.

  I sit carefully, almost expecting nails to jut out and impale me to the thick fabric.

  Priscilla arrives; all flounce and bounce as Henry escorts her up the stairs. She shoots me a smug little smile before arranging herself and her skirts before him.

  Priscilla’s whole body trembles; her long neck and face remind me of a high-strung greyhound, quivering in anticipation of his touch.

  Montgomery lopes up onto the stage, long fingers outstretched. Stygian slips off a heavy ring, placing it into his palm. I catch a glimpse of it before it disappears into Montgomery’s pocket. Gooseflesh rises on my arms along with a flash of recognition.

  I have seen a ring like that before, but where?

  Henry’s arms bend theatrically, referring to the diagramed phrenology head. His warm voice carries into the crowd, “Different parts of the brain perform different functions. Phrenology is based on the premise that when part of the brain is used more fully, the corresponding spot on the skull will rise to accommodate the growing brain beneath.”

  “May I?”

  “Of course Dr. Stygian.” Priscilla flashes the audience a winning smile.

  Stygian’s fingers slide through her blonde locks as Priscilla’s eyes drift closed. She exhales softly.

  “Miss Earnest lives up to her name. Her skull shape is indicative of perseverance and passion.”

  Both of their eyes flick to Henry. He looks aghast.

  Stygian continues, “Her child-bearing map is ample and her musical ability very prominent. I say, do you play, Miss Earnest?”

  She bats her eyelashes, “Why yes, I do. Amazing Doctor. Everything you’ve said tis too true.”

  I turn my head so only Henry might see and roll my eyes. I’m forcibly reminded of snake-oil salesman and traveling medicine shows.

  Stygian mumbles, “Henry, you must be thrilled to hear of that child-bearing map, eh, my boy?”

  Henry squints incredulously, but says nothing.

  Stygian removes his hands from Priscilla’s hair and strolls to my side.

  He tugs the singular stick from my hair, sending an auburn curtain tumbling into my face.

  His thick, heavy fingers thrust into my hair.

  I suck in a breath.

  Out of my peripheral vision, Henry takes one protective step closer. His fists ball at his sides.

  The audience is hushed, waiting. The expectation is palpable, as if every patron is holding their breath.

  The gaslights lining the stage suddenly seem to blaze like the sun and I fidget against their heat.

  Stygian’s fingers massage every bit of my head, from behind my ears to my forehead and back again.

  “Easy Miss Holmes,” he croons. “Mr. Watson, might you perform the measurements?”

  Henry steps in front of me, and I shiver as the cold metal of the calipers touch either side of my temples.

  He slips his boots alongside mine beneath my dress, and gives a little squeeze with his legs. Trying to reassure me he’s right there.

  My heart. How it twists when he’s near.

  I want to pull it from its protective box, still beating, and place it in his palm. To be done with it; give it to him.

  In the space of a breath, the caliper and his reassuring touch are gone. His fingers scribble down the measurements. He hands the clipboard to Stygian, stepping out of the way.

  “Mr. Watson, record my observations, if you please.” His eyebrows rise, and he pushes the clipboard back to Henry.

  Stygian’s fingers probe again and I shiver, remembering the unmistakable lust in his eyes as he cornered me in the lab.

  His fingers locate a lump on my skull and hold, palpating back and forth, back and forth.

  The world swirls and blackness presses against my wits. I inhale deeply, trying not to swoon.

  Quietly, so only we on stage might hear, Henry whispers, “Bella. Are you alright?”

  Stygian growls, “She’s fine, Henry. She’s just not used to masculine… contact.”

  Priscilla quietly snickers.

  I am very poor at discerning people intentions, but not so with animals. I am seized by the impression that his behavior is like a dog’s, marking his territory.

  I swallow compulsively, again and again. Trying to maintain control.

  Tension rolls off Henry. His legs bend and tense, reminding me of a tightly-coiled spring, ready to explode with the slightest nudge.

  He steps toward me, as if to strike Stygian, right now, right here on stage.

  I give him a quick look. His chest is heaving. He’s furious.

  I picture the headlines in the Philadelphia Examiner.

  Dr. Watson’s son assaults Mutter Professor.

  He’ll be fired and publicly humiliated in one impulsive punch.

  His life and promising career over at the ripe old age of nearly-twenty and three.

  “I’m fine, Henry. It’s alright.”

  Priscilla’s eyes flit back and forth, watching our exchange, and her full pink lips draw into a scowl. She flips her blond curls forward, huffing and crossing her arms like a child.

  Henry steps to Stygian. “Miss Holmes doesn’t look well. Please hurry so that she may return to her seat. If she loses consciousness, you’ll be hard-pressed to find more willing victims,” Henry forces between his gritted teeth.

  Stygian turns away to address the audience. “According to my assessment, Miss Holmes has a good deal of pride, a greater deal of intellect, and an extraordinary memory.”

  Henry points to the map of skull attributes as Stygian ticks off my proposed personality. His nostrils flare and his fingers tremble slightly where he touches the poster.

  The audience applauds. I search and find John’s pinched face embedded in the crowd. His walking stick is propped and he’s leaning forward as if he’s prepared to stand.

  “She also seems to have no inclination in the child bearing map, a serious lack of forethought, but is gifted in music.”

  My chest flushes with hot-red embarrassment. So far, he’s spot on, except the musical predilection. He has confirmed my own suspicions, but to have him proclaim I’m not fit for motherhood, though, to an entire assembly is…

  Flashes of sneering boarding school girls detonate in my mind. My breath rattles in and out and I try desperately to maintain control.

  Their taunts are spatial whispers in my ear, coming and going as if they’re in the room.

  “Babbage’s adding machine. That’s how warm you are, Ar-a-bellllaaa. Is your heart made of coal, Ar-a-bellla?”

  Stygian finally looks alarmed; I know for his lecture, not my welfare.

  “Y
ou are dismissed, Miss Holmes. Mr. Watson, would you like to choose more volunteers?”

  Henry’s eyes are slits. “No. I think you should do it, sir, as you have so much more experience. I’ll escort Miss Holmes from the stage.”

  Priscilla scoffs, muttering her displeasure.

  Henry takes my arm and motions to Montgomery to take his place.

  I lean on Henry as the audience applause bombards my ears. I wince. The loud voices are physically painful; as if someone is jabbing a fiery poker in the center of my ear.

  I fight the urge to cover them. As a young girl, I would’ve bolted. I grind my teeth.

  Just make it out of the auditorium.

  Henry is staring at my expression, his mouth contorted with worry.

  We mercifully exit, stage right, and my breath exhales in a whoosh.

  The world upends and I’m disoriented and I’m blinking, but it feels slow and deliberate.

  Henry has scooped me into his arms. His heart pounds against my arm.

  “What are you doing?” I try to sound incensed, but I’m honestly too weak to care.

  “Taking you to your cottage. No arguments.”

  Chapter Seven

  Six Impossible Things

  Henry deposits me gently on the bed, shooing Newton onto the floor. As soon as he stands, the dog leaps back up, draping his black and white body across my legs. He rolls on his back, pink tongue lolling to the side.

  “Good boy.” I scratch behind his ears, avoiding Henry’s eyes. “Don’t you have to get back?”

  I finally look up. His intense stare elicits a falling sensation.

  “No. I’m staying till I’m satisfied you’re alright.”

  He walks around my room, fingers dragging across the furniture tops. His eyes skip across my bookcase, and halt…and squint.

  I hear my heartbeat in my ears. The Antiquarian Journals.

  He turns to face me with narrowed eyes. “I’ve read those journals. You’ve been studying—”

  “Yes, the oversized skeletons found in different regions of these states.”

  His lips twist into a triumphant smirk. “Pray tell, how long have you been mad-keen for oversized skeletons?”

  “Speak plainly.”

  His expression turns black; I envision dark thunderclouds rumbling across his forehead.

  “You are researching the Nephilim. Admit it.”

  I sigh. “Science makes sense, Henry. Please quit ruining my world.”

  He steps closer. “You mean your very structured, barricaded, do-not-touch-my-heart-world, makes sense.”

  My heart gives a violent pitch; my hand strays to my chest before I can stop it. My heart quivers inside its metal case, rumbling like a kettle drum. I swallow and admit, “Rules are my comfort.”

  The bed depresses as he sits, blue eyes boring into me. “Rules are made to be broken.”

  A foreign wanting stirs in me. I picture my hands entangled in his thick, tousled hair.

  I clear my throat. Terrified I will do it. My heart is a wild-bird in my chest.

  “For instance, women permitted on expeditions. One rule that should be broken.”

  He slides so close our legs are touching, my skin burning at the contact. I don’t answer so he prompts again. His eyebrows pull together, creating a deep furrow between them. “The best parts of life are the sticky parts, Bella. The ones you’re strategically avoiding.”

  He stands abruptly, and I’m ridiculously out of breath.

  Stygian was right. I am not used to human contact.

  Affection was the exception rather than the rule in my household.

  There was love, after a fashion, but not affection.

  Henry is still and staring. I follow his gaze and brace myself.

  He’s spied my map, stuck to the wall.

  He strides across the room, head whipping comically back and forth, his mouth agape.

  At least twenty sets of pins jut out in clusters from the map. His fingers trace over the pinheads in wonder, starting with the grouping in Ohio, to Tennessee, all the way to Arizona and California.

  He whirls. “Out with it.”

  I cross my arms and defiantly shake my head.

  His eyes narrow. “No. No. This will not do. You’ve obviously been doing even more digging than I, despite your protests of the impossibility of such creatures. What do you know?”

  His face changes abruptly, his voice lowering; apparently changing tactics.

  His voice suddenly drips like honey. “If I am to accompany you, would you place me at risk, without all the data?”

  I bite my lip. “Fine.” I chuck a book at him.

  He deftly deflects and flips it to examine the spine. “Life among the Piutes. I don’t understand?”

  I slither out of bed and walk to the map, pointing to the congregation of pins in Nevada.

  “A woman named Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins wrote that book, chronicling Indian histories. Piute legends describe very large visitors with flaming auburn hair, and double rows of teeth. At this site, twenty-three skeletons were unearthed in 1883. They were discovered in Lovelock Cave and all were between seven and eight feet tall. The Piute called them, Si-Te-Cahs.”

  Henry’s jaw drops. “Really?”

  He begins to pace, hands twisting furiously. He whirls. “What do the different colors signify—the red and green pins?”

  I smile. Only he would notice my classification system in one minute flat. “Red are for double rows of teeth. Green is for six toes.”

  He steps back for a wider look, as if seeing the map for the first time. His mouth works furiously.

  He gesticulates, rapid-fire at the states, first to Arizona. “This one?”

  My mind rifles through the files. I see the pages perfectly, just as I read them. “Stone sarcophagus housing a twelve-foot, six-toed skeleton.”*

  He touches the one in Tennessee. “This one?”

  “Human footprints, preserved in rock, measuring thirty-three inches, and six toes.”

  “I must see your notes.”

  My eyes open wide, my hand shooting to my hip. “I don’t have notes.”

  “Of course you don’t.” He sighs. “Would you write some for me?”

  I walk back to the bed and sit. “I suppose.”

  “We lesser mortals appreciate notes. Besides, you will need them for references in your paper.”

  I tap the side of my head. “Easily transcribed.”

  He rolls his eyes and half-smiles. He reluctantly turns from the map, heading back toward me.

  He reaches my desk and picks up a paper.

  It’s my Neanderthal thesis. I can tell by the pinched look on his face.

  Our eyes lock again. “Arabella. Do you really assume we are the greatest creation? Even after… all those pins? Doesn’t that seem arrogant to you? I mean let’s consider the laws of gravity—up, down. We’ve witnessed evil, surely there must be good.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know what to think, Henry.”

  “That’s a first.”

  We both laugh out loud.

  He walks back to my bookshelf, fingers tracing the titles. He lifts Alice in Wonderland and cracks it open.

  “Do you remember—?”

  “Reading it in the barn, acting out the scenes by candlelight? Of course.” My smile is so wide it’s painful. It’s as if I am bearing my soul.

  But I love this memory.

  It lit so many lonely, dark days while Henry was away at school.

  I’ve had so few friends, and the ones I did were mostly male.

  To women, I’m a foreigner, unable to speak their language of pin curls and parasols. I must pretend, pretend to be normal.

  He sits beside me on the bed, much too close.

  I smell him; woods and musk. I feel my stomach pitch and bite my lip again.

  My mind shifts, slowly, deliberately; like emotive clock-cogs, from data…to him.


  His fingers brush the back of my hand in a singular stroke.

  “What about six impossible things before breakfast?”

  “That’s child’s play, Henry.”

  “Is it? How amazing is it that we’re both here, after all this time? That can be one.”

  He grasps my hand out of my lap, gently pulling up one of my fingers.

  I shake my head, but can’t help the smile that breaks through. Can’t help being pleased. How does he always convince me that the world might hold more than my eyes can see?

  We shall be dismissed if we’re caught alone in my room. And him sitting on my bed. Touching me.

  Not to mention the chastisement from father and John.

  But my heart throbs with raw, unfamiliar demands.

  “This possibly-preternatural hand shall be two.” He flicks up another finger. “We shall see what else transpires. I expect we’ll make six before a fortnight.”

  In a blink the teasing is gone; he’s deadly serious. His hands fidget, twirling his pocket watch, considering.

  I sigh. “Go ahead. I know you wish to ask me something. Something dreadful by the way you’re mucking about.”

  He smiles. “You honestly don’t know the meaning of small talk, pleasantries—”

  “Wastes of breath. Speak, Henry?”

  “Your mother. I’ve never asked about her, not in all this time. Do you know who she was?”

  My face boils with heat. “I believe your father actually knows more than I. I know she was…an opera singer.”

  Henry’s eyes widen as his brows disappear beneath his hair. “Really?”

  “Yes. Apparently I was a burden, so off to the Holmes’s I went.”

  Henry’s fingers steeple. He’s lost in thought, staring past me.

  “Ahem?”

  His blue-green eyes flick back. “So, do you show musical inclination?”

  I know what he’s thinking. Stygian’s predictions from my skull, and now, the revelation I’m descended from musical blood.

  “I never had much time to find out. All science and math and Latin and—”

  “Yes. Well, perhaps we should find out.”

  “You only want to test the phrenology’s prediction. That I’m gifted in music.”

  He shrugs. “Perhaps. We will go to the theater, when the expedition allows.”