The Unnaturalists

by Tiffany Trent

  Surely, she’d see reason if he could make her understand the urgency of the matter. He had, in fact, tried to return to Rackham’s to steal the toad back, but was astonished to discover that Rackham’s was now a burnt-out husk. The rest of the block had barely escaped going up in flames, and no one knew what had happened or where Rackham had got to. Some said it was the Raven Guard belatedly getting around to torching a hexshop. But if so, why hadn’t Rackham’s arrest and execution date been made public? The Guard generally made a big show. This quiet bit of arson wasn’t their style. Had the Architect come back later for revenge?

  Syrus sighed as he slipped down the alley alongside the witch’s townhouse. Whatever the circumstances, the toad was gone. She would just have to accept his apology and believe that he was telling the truth.

  He wasn’t sure which was her bedroom, but from the flower-printed curtains he could just see above him, he’d guess this was the one. He wished for a moment that Truffler was with him; his friend would have been able to sniff her out just as well as he did any rare mushroom. Not that she’d like being compared to a fungus, Syrus imagined.

  He waited until night fell completely to climb up the drainpipe and onto what he hoped was her window ledge. He listened for a while. As far as he could tell, everyone was still downstairs. Dinner was surely over and perhaps they were in the parlor, reading or—The sound of a pianoforte tinkled up the stairs. Syrus tested the window. It was closed but not locked. It only took a little force from his file and wedge to lever it up enough for him to slide through.

  He closed it quietly. An everlantern cast a dim glow over the room, and the myth radiator plinked and hissed near the window. A fire had been laid on the hearth against the chill; Syrus was thankful he wouldn’t have to worry over frightening a maid. He turned, taking in the flounced petticoats draped over a chair, the carelessly piled books everywhere. Definitely her room.

  Although he was more than used to picking pockets, he’d never quite graduated to outright thievery like many of the lads in Lowtown. It was uncomfortable standing here surrounded by all the witch’s things, knowing he could easily take more of her valuables, except for the fact that he was here to persuade rather than rob.

  The room itself was discomfiting to him just by its very existence. The bed looked warm and deep; he couldn’t help but press down on it with his palm—cloud-soft goose down. He had always slept cocooned in thin quilts with his family in the leaky passenger car, hearing Granny Reed get up in the night to feed the old potbelly stove, wondering if he would ever know what it was like to be warm all over all at once. This sort of luxury he’d never imagined, though he knew that by Cityfolk lights, the Nyxes were not rich. Still, there were paintings and other art on the walls, dried flowers in a vase, an embroidered dressing screen.

  Syrus felt terribly out of place. He looked for somewhere he could hide until the appropriate moment. He settled in a corner between the hulking wardrobe and a bookshelf. He didn’t want to hide in anything and unduly frighten her, much as the idea of springing out of a wardrobe amused him.

  He crouched down and stared at the spines of all the books with their indecipherable letters. He hoped he would never have to learn to read the Cityfolk’s language. The thought of their deadly dull thoughts pressing in on him made him dizzy.

  He stiffened and hunched as close to the wall as he could when the door opened.

  “Good night, Aunt,” he heard the witch say. With a swish of skirts, she and her maid disappeared behind her dressing screen. He tried to think of something else, so as not to hear her undressing. He had kissed a girl behind the train car before, but that was as far as things had gone. The thought of what a witch would do if she caught him peeping at her was quite unpleasant.

  The maid banked the fire and left. Syrus waited until he was sure the witch had climbed into bed and pulled the covers up around her. Then, he slipped out from behind the wardrobe.

  He coughed slightly. “Miss Nyx,” he said, “I must speak with you.”

  She sat bolt upright. It was hard for him not to laugh at her in her nightcap with the covers pulled up around her and possibly the most indignant look on her face he’d ever seen on any female. She narrowed her eyes.

  “You!” she said.

  “Listen, Miss Nyx, I . . .” he began. Such formal language coming out of his mouth was odd, but he didn’t want to offend her either. He knew the forms for dealing with Elementals, but a witch? He wasn’t quite sure what was proper.

  “Give me one reason why I should not sound the banshee alarm at once,” she said.

  “Because I’ve come to tell you . . . that is . . . we have reason to believe that you are. . .”

  She let the covers fall and crossed her arms over her chest, much as she’d done when the clan surrounded her carriage.

  “What?” she said.

  “In danger,” Syrus said.

  The expression on her face was indescribable. It was as though a mirror cracked, revealing something under the surface that was powerful but also very afraid. It was hard to tell in the dim room, but he thought her skin turned several shades of red until it was almost purple. The dimmed everlantern made obvious what day did not readily disclose—her features were very Tinker-like—high cheekbones, round face, somewhat tilted eyes. He’d never noticed before; perhaps it was her pale coloring or the way she wore her hair.

  Syrus wished he could move toward the window and flee, but his feet were rooted to the carpet. This was not going well at all.

  “You broke into my room in the middle of the night to tell me something I already know?” she said.

  “The window was mostly open,” Syrus protested. “And it’s not the middle of the night.”

  She glared. “The boy who stole my toad and won’t return it feels compelled to break into my room to tell me I’m in danger? That’s rich, indeed.”

  He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry now that I took it. You don’t know how sorry. I’ve tried to get it back, but the place where I sold it . . . well, it’s been burned to the ground.”

  Narrowed eyes again. The distinct and uncomfortable possibility occurred to him that she could shoot flames from her eyeballs and burn him to a crisp. This time, his feet managed to move a little. He shuffled toward the window.

  “You have ten seconds to hand over the toad or I’m sounding the alarm.”

  “I don’t have it!”

  “One-one thousand, two-one thousand . . .”

  “I really don’t!” He turned out his coat pockets.

  “Three one-thousand . . .”

  He unbuttoned the frog buttons of his coat and showed her the inner pockets. “I don’t have it!”

  “Vespa,” a voice called from the landing, “who are you talking to in there?”

  “Five one-thousand, six one-thousand . . .”

  “Look, I know you don’t believe me. I know you think I’m a no-good Tinker thief. Your father is planning to use you as bait to lure the Manticore. He wants her Heart for some dreadful purpose. She needs your help. If you’d just be reasonable . . .”

  “Nine one-thousand. Ten.” She smirked.

  Syrus dove for the window as she reached for the lever over her bed. He shimmied down the drainpipe as fast as he could. Just as he touched ground, the banshee alarm atop the house began its ear-shattering scream. It was soon taken up by other alarms along his route as he dodged between shadow and everlantern down through Midtown.

  CHAPTER 13

  Talk at every meal for the last several days has been nothing but building castles in the air. It’s almost as though the break-in with the Tinker thief never happened. Aunt Minta rambles on about the fine clothes and jewelry I’ll have, the engagements with Lady Whatsit and Viscount So-and-so. I talk with her of these things because it feels too dangerous to speak of anything else. I keep hearing the Tinker boy’s words in my head. Your father is planning to use you to lure the Manticore. I can’t begin to imagine what he means by that. And I’ve still hea
rd nothing from Hal.

  Discussing dresses and shoes is a relief, but there’s no greater relief than being allowed to enter the Museum at Father’s side. I have so much work to catch up on. It’s wonderful to pretend that life is as it has always been—no Tinker thieves or dangerous Architects, no witchcraft in my blood. I can even imagine that Lucy Virulen will forget about me. Somehow, I doubt I’ll be so lucky.

  I try to distract myself as we walk up the steps to the Museum’s arched entrance by asking Father what he thought of the strange, white-eyed man who leaped in front of the trolley. I haven’t asked at home because Aunt Minta wouldn’t find it fitting conversation for a lady.

  Father frowns. “White-eyed man?”

  “Yes, the one who caused the accident. What was wrong with him, do you reckon?”

  “I don’t know what you mean about white eyes.” He sounds irritated. Why? “But,” he continues, “I’d guess he was just a vagrant. No one to concern yourself with. You have much greater things to worry over now.” His smile is weak as he pushes open the heavy wooden door.

  He’s lying. He remembers just as well as I do. But why would he pretend that he doesn’t? As far as I know, Father has never lied to me. Why would he start now over such a trivial thing?

  Unless it’s not trivial at all.

  Might it have something to do with his Experiment?

  A chill slithers up my spine.

  We pass through the atrium with all my display cases filled with glittering wings and false eyes. I think again of Piskel stuffing his cheeks with jam cake, and I feel like a butcher rather than a skilled unnaturalist.

  There’s a commotion when we enter the Main Hall. I look toward the Sphinx, ready to engage in our customary morning battle of wills, pretending to forget that day when it nearly became a battle of life and death, but her plinth is empty.

  The Sphinx is gone.

  Father and I look around wildly, all conversation regarding the white-eyed man forgotten. Everything else is in order—the Wyvern, the Dragon hatchling exhibit, and the Griffin are all still in their places. There are no signs of struggle. Several Pedants and Scholars are examining the plinth and the nearby field box.

  “What happened?” Father asks.

  “She’s just gone,” old Pedant Tycho says.

  “Are you certain?” Father says. “You’ve checked all the Halls and places where she might hide?”

  Pedant Tycho nods. “’Twould be very hard to hide a Sphinx. And we’ve already seen how she might react were she set loose.” His eyes slide toward me. “Looks like an inside job,” he says. Despite his intimation, everyone can see that this is not my fault. I haven’t been here for several days.

  “Like the Grue,” someone else mutters.

  “Have the Architects infiltrated us?” another asks.

  I can’t help but look around for Hal at that, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I don’t want to believe he would be behind such a thing, but then again, he’s the only Architect I know. The Architects steal or release Unnaturals from time to time, saints only know why. Father has always been certain that’s what happened to the Grue when it disappeared last year shortly after Charles came. I think about the breathing I heard in the dark downstairs and shiver.

  Dim greenish light filters down onto the empty exhibit. It tricks out the scales of the Wyvern in the adjacent alcove. If the Architects are stealing specimens, what are they doing with them? And what will become of the Museum? I’m suddenly angry at Hal. If he is behind this, more than just his precious Unnaturals could be affected. I look at Father, who’s rubbing his chin with a gnarled hand. Ultimately, the responsibility for all of this rests on Father’s shoulders. I know there were repercussions from the loss of the Grue, though Father never speaks of it. I cannot imagine how he will fare with the loss of a prime exhibit like the Sphinx.

  Father shakes my elbow to make me pay attention. “I must go to my office now, Vee,” he says. “This security issue is very serious. Stay in the Cataloguing Chamber today, do you hear?” He mops sweat from under the Sheep of Learning with his handkerchief.

  I nod. His black robes swish down the corridor and off toward the old observatory.

  He’s not going to his office.

  Hm.

  I follow him, far enough behind that I can see the edge of his robe as he turns corners. He vanishes through the observatory doors just as I peep into the corridor.

  I follow, walking as softly as I can, but there’s no need. There’s a deep hum and rumble from within that obscures all sound. One of the doors is still ajar. I slip inside.

  I’ve always loved the old observatory and was sad when it was mostly dismantled. The Pedants of the Astronomy Division said the ambient light from the Refineries made it hard to see the stars, so they moved the telescope to one of the mountains outside Scientia. But the old orrery is still here; the planets on its skeletal arms are connected by long cobwebs. Near it rises the sleek dome of a hellish-looking machine I’ve never seen before. Hoses snake out from its center like tentacles toward laboratory benches. A glass container sits under the mouth of the machine, and in it stirs the restless black sand of the Waste.

  Father is over on the other side of the array. And there’s someone with him. Two someones.

  I creep a little closer, hoping I’m well-hidden in the shadows of the entryway. I know I should be writing my letter of apology to Pedant Simian about the loss of his collection or perhaps helping the Scholars search for the missing Sphinx (if they would allow me), but I want to know what Father’s doing. He used to tell me everything; I don’t understand why he won’t now.

  Charles leads a girl to the table, a girl with a checkered headband and long, dark hair. A Tinker? What is Charles doing with a Tinker girl?

  “Don’t you have other things to do besides skulking around your father’s laboratory?” someone whispers behind me. All the hairs on my neck shiver.

  Hal.

  I do my best to turn slowly and keep my expression icy-calm.

  “Don’t you have better things to do than sneaking up on people?” I retort.

  “Vespa, if you have any sense at all, which I begin to doubt, you will come with me now before we are discovered and all my work is in vain.”

  He’s so close to me now that I can smell him—crushed roses, ink, a whiff of jam cake. Piskel looks up at me from his pocket, nodding fiercely.

  I turn and walk out of the observatory and down the corridor back toward the Main Hall. Reaction makes my knees hot and wobbly. If the Sphinx leaped at me from some corner right now, I don’t think I could run fast enough to get away from her. Hal catches up to me in silence.

  “What do you want, Pedant?” I say, finally.

  He slides a cream-colored, neversealed envelope into view. “This was delivered to your Father’s office. The clerk asked me to give it to you when he passed me a bit ago; he couldn’t find you,” he says.

  The invitation from Lucy Virulen. It’s sealed with a tiny Manticore.

  “Just in time, it appears,” he says, looking back toward the corridor where he found me.

  My hands shake. I touch the seal and it dissolves. The letter unfolds like a living creature and rests lightly in my palm.

  “Yes,” I say. Words with all their arabesques and illuminations swim before my eyes.

  “What were you doing back there?” he asks. His voice is stiff.

  “Why are you angry? Because I was about to discover information you haven’t dared to find out for yourself?”

  Hal looks around at the flood of Pedants and Scholars moving through the Main Hall on their way to morning lecture or laboratories. A search party is still wandering through the halls, but I’m guessing they’ll call in the Raven Guard when they get desperate enough. Or else just forget about it and hope nothing untoward happens, as they did with the Grue.

  “Not here,” he says. He takes my elbow. A little shock zips past my sleeve and beneath my skin. Before I can protest, we’re on the stai
rs toward the storage basement.

  I clutch the letter like a limp bird in my hand as we descend. Fear slips through me—why should I trust Hal? He is an Architect and a heretic. He’s had every chance to use my own powers (about which I know nothing) against me. And yet he has risked his life for me more than once. He has kept my secret. Whatever else there may or may not be between us, he’s the only person in the world who could possibly understand me, perhaps even help me. Why, then, is he so angry with me now?

  We go to a storage room beyond the iron gate. I peer down the narrow stair as we pass. That elusive breathing haunts me with thoughts of the lost Unnaturals.

  A single everlight wanders an endless circuit around the room Hal chooses. Skeletons, collection boxes, and specimen jars cast strange shadows, but the musty smell of ancient things is infinitely comforting. I would like to hide here for quite a long while.

  Hal releases me. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake here? Do you have any idea how much you risk if we are exposed?” His anger flashes cerulean in the gloom.

  I raise my chin and arch my brow in the way the Instructor of Refinement once taught us at Seminary. “We?”

  “Yes, damn it,” he says. “You are part of this now, whether you like it or not.”

  “Why? And I don’t particularly appreciate your cursing at me, Pedant Lumin.” I would almost swear the boggle fetus in its jar trembles at the frost in my words.

  Hal closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with a long sigh of frustration. Piskel peeks out of Hal’s waistcoat pocket. He glares at me and shakes his fist, as if reminding me that he’ll bite me again if I don’t cooperate, even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m to cooperate with. He slips out of Hal’s pocket and floats over to examine the specimens on the shelves.