Boneseeker

by Brynn Chapman

  Henry

  My eyes skip across father’s paper, strewn across the breakfast table. The headline reads, ‘More hospital admissions from tainted sausage.’

  My eyes narrow and I carefully fold it away and slip it into my pack for later-reading.

  “Describe him again, Arabella.” Father’s notebook is in his hand, his face serious.

  “Father, she’s already told you. Please, she should be resting.” My voice is more irritable than I intend.

  Arabella’s eyes flick to me and her stare manages to be both affronted and appreciative.

  “Henry, I told you. All is well. John is merely doing his job. I am no wilting flower. This is necessary data collection, as you are well aware.”

  Petal. Her expression digs up the assailant’s word and I grind my teeth together. I clutch and squeeze my hands together under the table, wanting to throttle someone. Anyone.

  Get ahold of yourself.

  The scent of morning coffee does nothing to ease me. She and father grasp their mugs and smile at one another as if it’s bloody afternoon tea.

  Arabella places her hand on my forearm, and I forcibly restrain myself from throwing her over my shoulder and running. I did not expect this. When I saw her hair dangling from his hand; something happened.

  Both wonderful and terrible.

  I stepped from a ledge of infatuation into an utter free-fall.

  I want to protect her and stop all harm from touching her. I want her away from here, away from Stygian, away from the danger of the expedition.

  Would he go to such lengths, just to remove her from the expedition? Or is something more sinister afoot…

  Her lips purse as she ponders a question from my father, which I didn’t hear. I should be hanging on every word, evaluating.

  Stygian has barely uttered a word. His black eyes skip around the table, taking in people’s expressions.

  “Most unfortunate, Arabella,” Dr. Earnest finally says. “Do you maintain your original wish, to stay on the expedition? No one would fault you, my dear, if you chose to return to the Mutter.”

  Just go, Arabella. Please.

  Stygian cuts across the murmuring. “Yes, Miss Holmes, after this turn of events, surely you must be in need of rest?”

  “Yes,” I agree. Bella’s eyes narrow and catch fire.

  I amend, “Perhaps just for a few days, to catch your breath?”

  “I am fine, sir. As I assured you, I am not like other girls. It is my firm desire to find that skeleton.”

  This will not do. Arabella will never sit at home, by a hearth, out of harm’s way.

  Nor would I have ever wanted that of her, when I was just her friend. It’s who she is, she breathes for adventure.

  My hand drags down my face. How am I to reconcile the two?

  Her need for danger and my new, mind-numbing fear for her safety?

  One of her hands drops below the table; her speech never falters—she delivers the blow by blow in a fluid river of words. “He was most definitely English, not American.”

  “However could you tell?” Montgomery asks with genuine interest. “His accent?”

  “Accents can be faked, but no. The cut of his jacket, the shape of his boots, were decidedly European. He’d ripped out a handful of my hair, and that’s when Henry arrived.”

  I am astounded by her Holmesian details, though I shouldn’t be. It’s completely Arabella.

  “Black hat, brown boots covered in a reddish mud. Small frame, white, thick scar from the left side of his lip down to his throat.”

  However.

  However, Arabella’s eyelids have drifted half-closed.

  She is lying. Or withholding information.

  My mind erupts in Bella-memories.

  Sherlock Holmes’s incinerating gaze and stern face. “Arabella? Did you and Henry remove the microscope from my laboratory?”

  Bella, tiny, maybe ten. “No, Papa. Why ever do you ask?” Her eyelids drooping, half-closed, like now.

  My foot taps out my impatience and her eyebrows rise with the sound.

  Unexpectedly, I feel her fingers in my lap, under the table, searching for mine. I release my death-clenched hands, to allow her one. Her fingers rub the length of mine, in small, concentric patterns.

  I feel the stare.

  I slowly raise my head and see Stygian’s gaze boring down. He raises one questioning eyebrow. It’s most definitely rhetorical, however.

  It’s as if my entire inner monologue is laid bare on the table, and he’s shifting through the words.

  He knows. My heart has apparently left my sleeve and is now a sign hanging about my neck.

  Arabella senses it too. I feel the muscles in her arms grow tense. Stygian turns toward Montgomery, who is murmuring in his ear.

  Bella’s eyes flick and return to father. It was no longer than a single beat of my heart.

  It was enough.

  Stygian’s normally-pristine clothing is rumpled, having been roused from bed at this ungodly hour.

  A dark, black streak, an inch across, pokes out from his unbuttoned shirt sleeve.

  A tattoo.

  ###

  Bella

  The steamship slows, easing its way into the first port. Henry stands at the rail, staring down the rickety dock with uncertainty.

  This new Henry was reluctant to let me retire to my room without him, which is very much at odds to my memories of youthful Henry. If anything, he was always goading, always testing the limits of my courage—the bigger the risk, the better, really.

  I picture myself, hanging upside down from a tree, skirts awry and oblivious, and cringe. As a girl, I had no idea what was appropriate. At times, I still don’t.

  He turns when he hears my footsteps. His eyes immediately soften. My heart stutters in my chest.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Much, thank you.”

  The boat shakes as it slides into port, and the sailors swarm the deck to begin the securing process.

  Local fishermen dot the shore as well, manning a small fleet of canoes. All eye our boat with suspicious interest.

  “How long are we scheduled to be here?”

  My bag feels heavy, laden with picks and brushes and spades.

  “As long as necessary.” His forehead is wrinkled into a deep set of lines that match his downturned mouth.

  I have only moments before Dr. Montgomery and the others arrive from below deck.

  “Henry, are you cross with me?”

  His lips pull to the side as he bites the inside of his cheek and he gives me one terse head-shake in the negative.

  Bad liar, Henry. I hope you haven’t inherited John’s inkling for gambling. You will lose your shirt.

  “You have everything you need, then?” Stygian arrives, dark as a murder of crows.

  Black boots, black coat, black hair and eyes.

  To match that black heart.

  “Yes. We’ll send word as to whether we’ll stay at the farm, or will be back for the evening.”

  Stygian smiles. It takes me off guard, as it almost appears genuine. “Dr. Watson will be staying on board. He’s examining the men’s stateroom and the deck.”

  “We’re off, then,” Henry says.

  I bite my lip. Henry doesn’t shake his hand. An out-and-out rebuff.

  He’s either mad about me, or mad in general to cross Stygian.

  My mind clicks into surveillance. Deciphering expressions was never my forte, nor father’s. He actually developed a chart, based on human observations for us to memorize.

  Henry is cross, despite his assurances. His jaw is locked, his hands in fists and every rigid step screams his displeasure as he heads towards the tethered horses on shore.

  Two sets: one for Stygian and Montgomery and the other for us. Two separate locations have been identified for potential burial grounds.

  The hairs on my arms lift and I shiver. I d
iscretely glance behind me. Stygian was watching. He is not now, but I absolutely felt it.

  Gusts of wind push hard against my face like autumn water sprites skittering across the river’s surface.

  I hear the squawk of geese and turn to see their V flying south across the water.

  The Hudson rushes by; a reassuring constant.

  My eyes flick to it. There’s something off about the color today. Its normally murky waters appear to have the slightest tint of color.

  “Arabella. We’re wasting daylight.”

  I smile. “Why what perfect impatience; you sound precisely like your father.”

  He grimaces as I swing into the saddle. “I have the directions. You have the map?”

  “Of course.”

  He clucks his tongue, easing the mare up the hill. Her hooves shift through the blanket of downed leaves and the sound reminds me of a crackling fire.

  I follow, rubbing the horse’s neck beneath his mane.

  We venture into upstate New York, winding down a main road until we reach the small goat-path leading to our destination.

  It’s been a lonely ride, save the traveling carnival we passed. Its bright colors looking distinctly out of place in the barren countryside.

  The sky is dark and brooding, much like Henry.

  He’s barely uttered a sentence. He’s contemplating, trying to work out what he wants to say. The weather seems to mimic his mood, as if the breeze holds its breath in similar anticipation.

  I shiver as the wind whips across the road, pulling my hair from its Gibson-girl bun. I know the hairstyle to be fashionable, but truth be told, my mane of hair is merely more manageable piled on my head than fluttering about my face like those blasted butterflies.

  A multi-colored shower of fall leaves spiral down and dance in circles as they’re caught in the updraft.

  “The farm is about two miles due north. You handled yourself remarkably well with the…attacker. Tell me the history of that boot. I’ve read of such contraptions, but never seen one first-hand.”

  I smile and resist the urge to finger the knife strapped to my thigh. “Father, you know. Before he would give his blessing, for my appointment at the Mutter—he insisted I undergo certain…trainings.”

  “Really. Why am I not surprised? Such as?”

  Henry’s eyes soften, but the rest of his face remains stubbornly rigid.

  “He had a retired military friend tutor me…in cane fighting, and self-defense.”

  “Would that retired-military-friend be my father?”

  I ignore the question. “Together, they created several contraptions, all to ease his mind. It doesn’t seem to have worked. He still writes me constantly, and becomes incensed if I don’t immediately respond. I am quick about it, as I don’t fancy a visit until I am certain my position is secure.”

  Henry’s eyes turn queer. An expression I cannot place. “As we are a scientific team, we must discuss our differing opinions. And it is best to do it now, before anyone can overhear our disagreement. We must be, or at least appear, united.”

  “Proceed.”

  Henry’s eyes sharpen. “When my father finally gave his blessing that I could accept the position at the Mutter, I visited every museum and library in London ... ” His voice is cautionary as he attempts to sound diplomatic.

  I feel the irritation burning around my collar. It’s irrational, but I can’t seem to stop it.

  “What, pray tell did you find?”

  “Have you read nothing? You are just accepting the assumption of Darwin’s hypothesis of natural selection?”

  “Yes.” I turn my chin up in defiance and meet his gaze. “Darwin’s theory is scientific. Not a bunch of voodoo, designed to temper the sting of death.”

  Henry’s mouth spasms. He jerks back on the reins, halting the mare. A rare blaze of emotional comprehension flares.

  His mother. He’s thinking of his mother. I must sound so very cruel.

  My mind flashes a memory of a crumpled little Henry. Three crumpled men, really.

  John, cradling the boys to him, while father paced helplessly before them.

  The telegram from my uncle Mycroft, wanting to visit. They argued viciously, then. I’d never seen John so angry.

  “No, do not let him come,” John told father. “Our lives are complicated enough right now.”

  “He is concerned…”

  John’s voice was fierce, “So am I. He lost his say about her, remember?”

  Father nodded, and stared at me. “Too True, Watson. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  It took years till the Watsons were sound, once again.

  I wondered for many years, why father stared at me that day. How did I figure in with Uncle Mycroft?

  Henry flips his bag around to his front, returning my mind to the present. He reaches in and extracts a stack of parchments in his gloved hand.

  He clears his throat. “I may not have a map with pins, nor a photographic memory—but I am perfectly capable of doing my own research. Apparently the United States has had many archaeological discoveries involving giants. In Minnesota, in 1888, seven skeletons were unearthed, each seven to eight feet tall. In West Virginia, in 1884, a skeleton measuring seven feet, six inches was found in a temple-like chamber. This was a report from the Smithsonian. I have a friend there. You think The Smithsonian is forging data?”

  “No, of course not. Those skeletons are Neanderthal men. A race that developed prior to humans, from apes.”

  Henry shakes his head. “This isn’t like you. The Arabella I knew would never-ever write a conclusion or form an opinion till that red-head was bursting with facts. You are thinking with your heart, not your mind. There’s something deeper. What’re you not telling me? As your scientific partner I demand your honesty.”

  Hot, searing anger floods my nose and cheeks. “I believe in myself. I’ve seen no evidence of a higher power in my score of years. There is only science and rules.”

  Henry glares back, nostrils flaring as he jams the papers back into his pack. “No evidence? You’ve never seen anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Every day. There is always an answer.”

  He smirks and I want to slap it off.

  He’s staring behind me. Chills erupt. I know what is there. I don’t want to turn.

  “Really?”

  His eyes dart over my head and lock. “Always an answer. What about them, Arabella?”

  I finally relent, and turn.

  The blasted butterflies.

  The branch is cluttered with five hundred black and blue wings—wings beating in an ordered, beautiful, taunting synchrony.

  Explain us. Explain us. Their little black bodies proclaim.

  I bite down hard on my bottom lip and taste the blood as my chest heaves with anger.

  Henry moves the horse closer, his eyes calm now. His voice drops. His tone is low and melodic, like a lover. For a brief second, I picture our bodies intertwined.

  “How do we explain them, Arabella? Your scent notwithstanding—it’s too late in the season, and their multitude? I’m beginning to see a pattern…”

  Emotions battle in my heart; the Holmes side flares in anger at my inability to rationally explain away their wretched existence, the other, the missing side…makes me feel sad and hopeful and scared that I’m hopeful.

  Another bolt is thrown on the heart-box. And I struggle not to wrench it open.

  Just be done with it and give it to him.

  I shake my head, releasing his gaze. “You win, Henry. I cannot explain them. They defy every hypothesis I’ve ever formed.” I glare at them.

  His gloved hand takes mine. “It isn’t a contest Arabella. I just want to illustrate that science cannot explain everything, and at times, I abhor its arrogance. Amazing, unexplainable events happen every day. Let’s just keep our minds open. To possibilities.”

  The flock of black lifts, darting and swoop
ing across to the open field beside us.

  My lips twitch in a small smile, and I nod. “To possibilities, then.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Inklings

  Upstate New York

  Henry

  Our horses clop into a long, meandering lane shielded by a carriage path of gigantic oaks. At its end is a crooked, white farmhouse; it’s chimney out of point and leaning.

  Arabella shivers hard enough I hear her teeth rattle. The overhanging tree-tunnel is so thick and overgrown the sun’s rays are almost completely blotted out. Our horses step over dappled spots of sunlight.

  My mare shudders and with a violent shake of her head, halts and whinnies. I lurch sideways, grabbing the saddle horn as she stutter-steps.

  “Whoa, girl.”

  Arabella’s mount skitters, backing up. She pats its neck. “Shh. Shh. What’s wrong?”

  The horse rears and Bella grips the saddle horn as its front hooves slam back into the dirt.

  The mare’s ears flick flat against her head, twitching in panic.

  “Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Arabella croons, leaning down onto its neck, unflustered despite almost being unseated.

  The mare’s ears tick up, one at a time. She reluctantly steps forward at Arabella’s urging, still chomping her bit.

  Gratefully, my own follows suit. I decidedly do not have Arabella’s gift with animals.

  “That’s odd.” I scan the fields, the trees, the house, looking for danger.

  Arabella’s eyes are sweeping, identical to mine. “Not really, Henry. Animals’ senses are much more acute than our own. For instance, before an earthquake, dogs often act queerly.”

  I smile, but don’t pull my eyes away from the house. “I hadn’t heard that.” She detects the hint of mirth in my tone.

  “Nothing other-worldly. It has to do with gravity.”

  “Of course.”

  She meets my gaze, long enough to shoot me a dagger-eye.

  My breath catches as we leave the tunnel. To the right of the house is a massive green cornfield. And to the left…

  Arabella has halted the horse and stares. Pumpkins.

  A sea of orange rolls out to the horizon.