“It’s the first time a prisoner”—losing his composure, the conductor floundered for words—“has been . . . abducted.”
“What was his crime?” the woman persisted.
“Madam, this one was a bad sort: forgery, stolen goods, a web of crime. A real goblin, he is.”
JIMSON SNORTED. “MY FRIENDS AT HOME WILL NEVER BELIEVE this. A prisoner escaping! Gunshots! And I missed it all. I heard something, but it just sounded like a series of pops. Wish I’d been in the dining car!”
Lena had just finished describing the ordeal, and she was still shaking. For the first time she was grateful for Jimson’s company. Now that all the excitement was over, she found it rather thrilling herself. Her appetite had disappeared along with the prisoner. She’d made her way back to her car as soon as they were allowed to move about. Every square inch had been thoroughly searched. Deputies with their guns prominently displayed swaggered up and down the length of each car, reassuring the few passengers who hadn’t been in the dining car. Jimson had been briefly questioned. He seemed to find that terribly exciting, Lena noted.
“And ‘goblin.’ It’s just an expression for anyone who’s up to no good. You don’t think there are real goblins, do you?” Jimson’s blue eyes were glinting. “You can’t believe those old superstitions.”
“Well, the conductor called him ‘a real goblin.’ He said he was involved in a web of crime.”
“Have you ever seen a goblin?” Jimson persisted. “Outside of a book, I mean?”
Lena shook her head. She wished he would drop the subject of goblins. It made her stomach feel sick. And it reminded her of her hands. Jimson had been staring at them when she left, so why hadn’t he mentioned them? She was prepared for the usual questions, the usual jokes. Perhaps he’d forgotten all about them in the excitement.
“Exactly my point. Science will overcome all this superstitious nonsense once and for all. Then only uneducated people will believe clap like that. You do know about the scientific method, don’t you?”
When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “It’s an empirical method of inquiry. There would have to be observable evidence of goblins. It’s all in Pierce.”
“Of course I’ve heard of the scientific method, but I’m not sure it works for everything.” Lena bent to loosen the laces on her boots so he couldn’t read her face. She found his supercilious tone grating. “Besides, how would you know if you’d seen a goblin?”
“Well, he’d look different—small and kind of craggy would be my guess. But it doesn’t matter, because there are no such things. Goblins are supposed to be Peculiars, right? Only superstitious, unenlightened people still believe in them or in any Peculiars. They’re old wives’ tales—like fairies. A successful, practical man needs solid, practical scientific knowledge. And I intend to be a successful, practical man.”
“Some educated people think Scree has Peculiars as well as convicts.” Lena deliberately folded her hands in her lap.
Jimson leaned forward but kept his eyes averted from her hands. Lena noticed for the first time that his nose was slightly lopsided, giving him a roguish air. “People—even some educated people—are afraid of what they don’t know. That’s why fairy tales fill the forests with all kinds of monsters. I’ve been hearing the rumors of Peculiars my whole life. There’s no such thing; evolution wouldn’t allow for it. Rumors of Peculiars are an excuse the government uses to control people. Just like sending convicts to Scree. It’s not as much about getting them out of our country as it is about getting cheap labor to colonize new territory and exploit the natural resources there. We want Scree’s coal.”
The train suddenly shuddered to life. Darkness had crept in slowly while they had waited. Now the gas lamps bathed the car in warm gold. Lena knew that most educated people were like Jimson. They believed that “goblin” was just a way of labeling undesirables, that real goblins no longer existed, if they ever had. Goblins and other Peculiars were inventions of fairy stories to keep children behaving themselves. Maybe they were right. Maybe there were no Peculiars. Maybe her hands and feet were merely an accident of birth and nothing more. Her grandmother and the doctor didn’t think so, but they were old and superstitious.
The rush of adrenaline was gone, and she regretted that she’d walked away from her dinner. It might be too late to find food when they reached Knob Knoster. Lena reached for the novel she had left on her seat when she went to the dining car, but the tufted red bench was empty. Then a dreadful realization hit. Her drawstring purse was gone as well.
She groped on the shadowy floor beneath her seat. Her fingers found the spine of her book. She drew it out and set it on the seat beside her, her heart hammering in her chest, and bent again to search the floor. Most likely, the bag had slid from the seat along with her book. Had she remembered to take it with her to the dining car? She couldn’t recall. She’d left in a hurry, worried about her hands. On her hands and knees now, she crawled under the table.
“What are you looking for?” Jimson’s face appeared next to hers in the shadows.
“My bag. It must have slid off the seat.” Her words were coming out in funny little gasps. Most of her money was in the bag. The rest she wore against her ribs—pinned into the lining of her chemise. Her carefully planned map, the address of the boardinghouse where she planned to stay that evening, everything—gone!
There was very little room for two bodies to maneuver in the cramped space under the table and between the seats. They bumped heads twice and one of Jimson’s sharp elbows jabbed her in her ribs. When she had covered every inch of floor, Lena crawled out and back to her seat. Her braid had come partially undone, and wisps of hair tickled like spiderwebs against her face.
“Is there anywhere else it could be?” Jimson’s face was pinched with concern. “Maybe you left it in the dining car?”
“I’ll go and look.” She smoothed her hair, forgetting momentarily about her hands. This time she noticed Jimson staring openly. She dropped them quickly to her sides and asked, “Has anyone been in this car besides you?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Just the conductor and deputy while I was here, but I left for a few minutes to refresh myself. Anyone could have come then.” He continued staring at her hands. “Are you a pianist?”
There was no point in asking why. Lena just nodded, and for the second time that evening, stood abruptly and made her way to the dining car.
The next passenger car was identical to hers. The curtains had been drawn against the night and only three people sat in the entire car: the silent man who had been reading the newspaper at dinner and the Jack Sprat couple. It was a domestic scene. The man was wearing a bandage on his head and his wife was pouring him a cup of tea. Glad to see that he had recovered, Lena hurried past. There were no passengers in the dining car. Fresh silver gleamed on tables. There was no sign of the previous disorder. Lena hesitated only a moment, and then hurried toward the table where she had been sitting. Nothing.
“I’m sorry. The dining room is closed for the evening, miss.” A waiter spoke to her from a corner table, where he was engaged in conversation with one of the deputies.
“I was just looking for my purse. I thought maybe I’d left it here.”
A bear of a man with a handlebar mustache and sandy hair rose from his seat. A badge gleamed on his chest. “And did you find it?”
Lena shook her head, afraid to speak in case her voice quavered.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m Marshal Saltre. Were you in here when the, eh, incident occurred?”
Lena nodded, wishing he would let her escape before she began to cry.
“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind my asking you a few questions, and perhaps you could describe your purse for me as well.”
What choice did she really have? Lena sat down in the chair he pulled out for her. He smelled of something spicy—cologne, perhaps. From his pocket he pulled out a small notebook and flipped through the pages. Up close, Lena realized th
at he wasn’t as old as his commanding presence made him appear.
“Let’s start with your name, then.” He looked at her expectantly from under shaggy brows. His eyes, Lena noticed, were pale and intense, as if a fire quickened behind them.
“Lena Mattacascar.”
“Well, now, that’s something.” He frowned, looked up, and then looked back at his notebook. He fired the next questions, one after another. Routine questions about what she had seen and what she had done. Lena found that she could answer them clearly and concisely. Even from under the dining table, she had been observant. A few times, he grunted in response. That was all.
Then he asked for details about her missing purse. He didn’t look up again until she had finished her entire account.
“And did you notice anything at all when the nun first came into the car?”
“I knew something wasn’t right. And then I saw the nun’s hands. They were a man’s hands.”
His eyes, pale blue under the bushy sandy brows, sought her own. “Ah, very observant. And something you would be particularly aware of, no doubt.” He looked pointedly at her gloved hands. Lena balled them into fists. “Mattacascar is an unusual name. I knew of a man once named Saul Mattacascar. My father tracked him for years.” The marshal’s voice was mild. “Could it be that you’re related to him?”
Lena’s heart was hammering so hard that she was sure the marshal would hear it. “My father’s name is Saul.”
“Is that so?” Fire danced in his eyes now. “Would you know where I could reach him?”
“I—no—I mean . . . I haven’t seen him in a while.”
The marshal nodded his head as if satisfied. “Just how long a while would that be?”
“He left home when I was five.”
“So, the stories were true. Old Saul vanished. And he had a daughter.” He exhaled noisily. “Have you heard from him recently?”
“No.” Her voice was low now and she was thinking furiously. “How do you know of him?”
“Everybody in my line of work knows Saul. I grew up on stories about Saul. My own father died when I was twelve. Let’s say there’s some unfinished business between my father and your father. But I find it hard to believe even a man like Saul wouldn’t be in touch with his own daughter.” As he fastened her with his eyes, his mouth quirked into a smile. A dimple flashed. His voice softened. “Come now, tell me the truth.”
Lena could smell coffee on his breath as he leaned forward. She curled her fingers. “It’s true. I haven’t heard from him.”
“Your mother, then—has she heard from him?”
“No.” His eagerness unnerved her.
He closed the notebook with a snap and put it away. “And you’re traveling to Knob Knoster on the borderlands. That’s not where most attractive, respectable young ladies want to go.” The marshal’s inquisitive eyes traveled slowly down from the crown of her head to her waist.
As if her legs had turned to water, Lena rose shakily. “I have a cousin there.” She tried to sound like it was a family trip and nothing more. What unfinished business did this man have with her father?
The marshal ran his index finger across his wide mustache. “And her name is?”
“Amelia Crane. She’s my mother’s cousin.” Would he try to find her there?
“That’s all for now, Miss Lena Mattacascar. Let’s hope you take after your mother.”
JIMSON WAS DOZING WHEN SHE RETURNED AT LAST, STILL SHAKING, to their passenger car. Not only was her purse missing, but now the loss was compounded by her unsettling conversation with the marshal. She looked at Jimson. His lips were parted, and his head slumped against the curtained window. Was he handsome? She couldn’t decide. What would Emily, her one friend from school, say? She would say that his nose was lopsided and that his chin was too sharp. But she’d like his eyes, as thickly lashed as a girl’s.
Lena buried her face in her hands. There was almost no chance the marshal would retrieve her purse; she was sure of it. What had her father done to be known by the man, to make his eyes burn with such intensity? When she looked up, her eyes sloppy with unshed tears, Jimson was sitting upright watching her.
“You didn’t find it.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“No.”
“Have you talked to the conductor?”
“I talked to a marshal. He questioned me about the shooting in the dining car.”
Jimson quirked an eyebrow. “And?”
“And nothing. He doesn’t have any idea where it is. He says that the train was in so much chaos that anyone might have taken it.”
“Can you do without it? I mean, do you have enough to get by until it’s found?”
Lena bit her lip to keep from crying. “For a few days, maybe, but there were other things—addresses, and a map, some private papers . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she stared at the brocade curtains.
“I’m sure Mr. Beasley would be willing to—I could help you out if you need anything.”
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” Her voice was cold. She couldn’t risk becoming dependent in Knob Knoster. It was only a launch point for her quest. But now she would be seriously hampered by her lack of funds. How would she afford to purchase the things she needed for the journey into Scree?
Jimson was looking at her with perplexity, and Lena realized that he had asked her a question.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“I asked you about your hands. Were they burned?”
“Burned?” The question caught her by surprise. “Why would you think they were burned?”
“Because you keep them covered all the time. But perhaps it’s just to protect them. You said you are a pianist.”
Not many people asked about her hands or feet directly. They stared. They whispered. They made sideways remarks: “You must be quite artistic.” Or they asked jokingly if she planned to grow into her feet the same way a puppy grew into oversized paws. Not many had the gumption to ask her a real question. It was always easier to joke than to be sincere. She admired Jimson’s directness.
“No, they’re just rather . . . long.” Her face flamed.
“But that’s good for a pianist, isn’t it?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“I didn’t grow them this way to make me more accomplished at the piano.”
Soft light flickered in the car. The brocade curtains had been drawn against the dark. They were entering a deeper dark now, the first of three tunnels blasted through rock.
“Each finger has an extra knuckle. I was born that way. That’s the only reason I’m a pianist. I thought I’d better put them to use.” She feigned a laugh as if it didn’t matter and splayed both hands on the table, exposing their full mannerist length.
Jimson didn’t laugh or make a smart comment; he seemed genuinely curious. “You were born that way?”
She nodded. “A disorder, an accident of birth.”
“They’re so thin. Do they hurt?”
“Sometimes, but not much.”
The chandelier overhead cast shadows across her gloved hands. When Jimson looked up, his blue eyes were also shadowed.
“May I see them? Without the gloves?”
Again, Lena was surprised by his directness. Coming from anyone else she would consider it rude, abrupt. What did it really matter here in this car, hurtling through the dark? The worst that could happen, the very worst, was that she would see the revulsion in his face. She’d seen it in people’s eyes many times before, but it was never something she grew used to. This time she felt reckless. What he thought wouldn’t matter. In another hour, she would never see him again.
“All right.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she deliberately rolled the black fabric of the glove down the length of her left arm. In the gaslight, her skin was moon-pale and smooth. The gloves had protected her hands not only from prying eyes but from the scorch of sun as well. Hesitating at the wrist, and then with determination, she peeled the fabric from her
palm and down the length of her fingers until the pale pink skin of her hand lay bare. Only then did she look up to read his expression.
Jimson’s eyes rested on her hand. His lips were slightly parted, as they had been in sleep. His gaze was so intense, she curled her fingers.
“They all bend? Each joint, I mean.” His voice had a breathless sound.
“Of course they bend,” she snapped. “They work like normal hands.”
“It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re amazing, so long and delicate.”
Lena checked to see if he was mocking her. But his face was serious, reverential almost.
“They’re ugly. ‘Goblin phalanges,’ my nana calls them.” Why did she say that? An almost imperceptible sob escaped her lips. She had come to terms with her differences long ago. She tugged the covering back over her fingertips.
“No, they’re not. Ugly, I mean. And you don’t have to do that. It must be annoying to have to wear gloves all the time.” He leaned back against the seat and looked her full in the face.
“It is. They itch and they’re hot in the summer. But I don’t like having to explain my hands to everyone. I don’t like people staring.”
He nodded as if he understood. “I won’t mention your hands again, unless you do. Take both your gloves off. I won’t even look.” He closed his eyes.
“We’ll be to Knoster soon, and then I’ll just have to put them on again.” But the offer was tempting, and Lena peeled the gloves from her right hand as well as her left. She flexed her fingers, then leaned her head back against the seat. But she kept her feet hidden in the shadows.
When the train stopped an hour later, Lena was startled awake. Her mouth was dry and her head felt thick. Her bare hands were curled in her lap. Across from her Jimson was brushing off his ridiculous hat. Hurriedly, she yanked on her gloves and smoothed wisps of her hair behind her ears. Then she remembered her purse. It was gone. Her head ached. There would still be enough money for a few nights’ lodging, she calculated, but not enough to purchase the supplies she needed. Not enough to hire a guide. She stood and buttoned her green jacket. At least she could remember the address she needed—Miss Brett’s for Women, 22 Thistlewaite. Only blocks from the train station, according to her lost map.
The Peculiars Page 3