Boneseeker (18 page)

I try not to be amused as their identical lips curl into wry smiles at my retort.

“Be careful of Stygian,” John’s voice drops an octave.

Henry interrupts, “You worked that out on your own then? That he’s dangerous? I must admit, I’ve haven’t been giving you enough credit.” Henry laughs.

John shoots him a death-look. “I…found one of his papers in his office. He believes in L’uomo Delinquente.”

“Which is?” Henry and I ask in unison, playing innocent.

“It means he believes people’s physical traits can predict a person’s personality. It’s similar to phrenology, but instead of the skull alone, it’s applied to the entire person. One can imagine the potential problems of that premise.”

I nod. “Yes. Skeletons change for so many reasons. Trauma, birth, wear and tear. It may all affect a person’s appearance. A hunched back, a twisted spine—on and on.”

Henry nods ascension. “It seems very unpredictable. Too many variables to be called a real science.”

“You mean like phrenology?” I jab.

Henry shrugs. “I never said I believed it to be true science. It’s a lot of show.”

“A sideshow,” I mutter.

“Bella, really—”

John cuts him off. “Children, do pay attention.”

John leans in. “Take that chap over there.” He nods discretely. “According to L’uomo, his protruded, sloping forehead and cauliflower ears indicate he’s a biological throwback. A savage.”

Henry’s eyes tick over the gent. “Ridiculous. He’s reading the Philadelphia paper.” His eyebrows push together as he squints. “His shoes are polished to perfection and expensive. His hands and nails are smooth and impeccable. He has money and servants. The heading on the paper poking from his attaché would indicate he’s a barrister. If he’s a savage—then he’s a very well-educated one.”

I clap appreciatively. A flash of text appears in my mind and I bite my lip. Perhaps it is time to confess.

“I do remember reading of it in England. I’ve heard nothing of it here?” I prompt, fishing.

“Yes, it hasn’t caught on in the states,” John says.

“That would indicate Stygian has colleagues in Europe. His American accent rings false, somehow. I cannot place it.”

Henry nods. “Yes. It’s an odd mix of sounds. Neither Northern nor Southern.”

John’s eyes narrow. “Their society was not purely academic—as they portrayed to the public at large. There were murmurs of vigilantism in the halls of Scotland Yard.”

“I thought they merely wished to educate the public on the theories of Darwin?” Henry says.

John continues, “They were radical atheists with a leaning toward eugenics. Their members sought to maneuver political leanings toward their cause. They saw a new world of influence here, and plan to insert their candidates into the judicial system, to force change from within.”

“Better for the public to believe in
them
, in their version of government, than in a creator?” I offer.

Henry’s eyes flick to mine and away. “Yes, here men’s rights are endowed by the creator, as per their constitution. It would be necessary to undermine self-reliance, replacing it with government. Ultimate control, really.”

John seems confounded by our complete comprehension.

“Ah, my two youthful sleuths.” John gives Henry a wide paternal smile. “It couldn’t help but rub off, I suppose.”

Henry puffs, disgusted. “Hmm. Holmes may have the upper hand to me—but you, father. I’d say we’re evenly matched.”

John opens his mouth to protest.

“Boys. Save the spitting match for later.”

Henry meets my gaze. I now have no excuse for excluding John from our information. He suspects him of belonging to L’uomo Deliquente and hasn’t chastised me or insisted I return to the Mutter.

Our eyes hold a silent conversation. He nods.

My eyes flick away from Henry’s to his face. “John.”

“Yes, darling?” The sparkle in his blue eyes dims at my expression. “What is it?”

“Henry and I…have much to tell you.”

Memories, Resurrected

The Music Hall

Henry

“So the hand is safe, father?” My eyes dart around the music hall. I can’t shake the sensation we’re being watched.

“Yes. I delivered it myself this morning whilst you and the princess slept.”

Father’s eyes keep leaving mine. I know what he’s looking for. I raise an eyebrow. “Calm yourself old man. You’ll have a seizure. She’ll be along before the orchestra plays.”

Father’s head shoots back. “You little insolent—”

“John!”

Violet is rushing across the marble floor, a vision of color and lace. She moves with the grace of a much younger woman.

Father grasps both her hands, and leans in to kiss her cheek. I look around awkwardly.

“Henry? Is that you?”

I cannot believe I am actually relieved to hear Priscilla’s voice, but even speaking to her is better than watching my father and Violet
get reacquainted
.

I walk over to her. She is lovely, there’s no denying that. Her long blond hair adorns her head in a crown of curls.

I don’t
feel
anything, though. Admiring her beauty is simply like appreciating a glorious painting.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here. Father said you’d delivered another specimen to the Mutter.”

“Yes, just this morning. We’re only here till tomorrow, then it’s back to the dig.”

Her face puckers. “Where’s your
partner?
”

A stab of irritation heats my face. “
Bella,
should be along shortly. Why do you ask?”

Priscilla steps in, so close. Too close. I avert my eyes. Her hand trails down my chest. “I was hoping to have you to myself. Not that she’s really a rival or anything. I mean, look at her.”

“Pardon me?” I firmly grasp her wrist and and return it to her side.

Priscilla takes one step backward. “Really, Henry. She’s fine for the museum, but who would have her? The girl has no idea what is proper, what is ladylike—”

I hold up a hand, grind my teeth and spit, “Arabella has more integrity than anyone I know, and more honesty. You’re right—she’s not proper; but that is only because she is incapable of pretense.”

Her expression turns quizzical. “How do you mean?”

“She cannot lie, or pretend. Whatever is in her mind usually shoots directly out her mouth.”

Priscilla smiles. “Exactly. Who could want such a woman as a wife, yes? I do hope you’ve been thinking about our conversation. I’ve told father about it and I—”

“Priscilla. I should sugarcoat it. Convention tells me to do so, but I have not the time. You and I—
we
will not be venturing any further.”

Her mouth widens in a huge O. I’m quite certain by her look of horror that she’s never been spurned.

“You prefer her? That odd, unfashionable—”

Anger surges. “That’s quite enough. And yes, I prefer her to you. To anyone really, male or female.”

“What?” Her foot stamps beneath her ivory dress, sending shimmery undulations down the train.

“Did I stammer?”

A picture of white Foxglove pops to my head. Beautiful, deadly flowers. Like her.

I spin and tug at the collar of my shirt, knowing I’ve made a terrible enemy.

###

Bella

“Where is Henry?”

I smooth the dress and fidget with the vanilla gloves.

I duck into an alcove and close my eyes, sucking in deep, calming breaths.

I detest crowds. The opera house is sold out. Every seat filled with whining, fan-fluttering ladies and pompous men. I detest feigning interest, especially with women.

Their tedious tendency to tell too much makes me want to rip my carefully arranged hair out. My hand strays to finger it. It feels heavy and foreign and I resist the urge to tug at the pins.

After the hand was safely delivered, Henry and John insisted we do one night of entertainment before returning to the dig. I would’ve rather just departed.

A gilded mirror catches the light, sending sparkles and artificial rainbows as it catches glimpses of the ladies gowns as they pass the alcove.

I stare across at my reflection. My cheeks are high with color which shines brightly against the stark-white skin of my décolletage.

Violet chose the dress and had it sent to me. It’s perfect, naturally. Its vibrant cornflower-blue accents my auburn hair. Or so she told me.

“You can’t hide forever.”

I start and bang my foot off the wall. “One can try.”

Henry’s head pokes round the corner. He breaks into a smile and I lose my breath. He’s so lovely. Every feminine heart will break just looking at him tonight.

“Couldn’t I just stay here? Most of the music will filter to me, the acoustics are—”

Henry has rounded the corner, and swept me into his arms. My heart sings. So completely inappropriate. We will be a complete scandal if caught.

“Kiss me.”

“Here? Are you mad?” My heart throbs its wild-song, its rushing beat in my ears. Drowning out the crowd.

He leans in, and I smell him. Musk and pine. I breathe deeper, memorizing his scent. My lips part.

His lips brush mine, and then interlock in the space between. My fingers entwine in his coarse hair and I press myself flush against him; leg to leg, stomach to stomach.

His eyes flutter shut and his nostrils flair and he moans quietly against my lips. My breath hitches hard and fast. I forget my fear of crowds. My itchy gown. Nothing remains except Henry.

My mental equations and chemistry scatter around his image, letters and numbers fall like snowflakes, hovering and fading in and out. As if perturbed at no longer having my mind’s center stage.

My leg slides up, wraps around his. He moans again. But I feel his warm hand spread across my knee and press it back to stand. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and leans his forehead against mine.

He swallows. “Why is it I cannot convince you, but once you start…”

“I cannot stop. It’s like.” I close my eyes, searching for the right words. “Like a sea-swell of emotions batter a barricade in my mind. And when you’re here. When you touch me. I drown.”

Henry grinds his teeth. “You. Do not know what you do to me. This is madness. Just—be mine. Now. This waiting is intolerable. I cannot concentrate on the dig, on anything but you. Bella, can you not alleviate this infernal suffering?”

My lips open to say yes. Does he mean marry him?

The heart box inside slams shut like an iron guillotine.

I stare at him. His eyes twitch with anticipation. And I realize we’re both holding our breath.

“I cannot. I. I don’t know. My feelings for you are so very confusing.”

A flicker of pain pinches the corner of his eyes, but then an expressive curtain falls, leaving his face smooth and unreadable.

He puts his hands on my shoulders, putting distance between us, which I immediately want to close again. My body already aching to be next to his.

“Come, the others will be waiting for us.”

We step out of the alcove, into the overwhelming fray of satin, cigar smoke and buzz of loud voices.

I lace my arm through his, and only then notice it’s shaking. Henry’s eyes stray to mine and they soften as he pats my arm in reassurance.

“Arabella!” Violet’s warm voice rises over the crowd. She rushes toward me, shimmering and resplendent in a deep jade gown.

She claps her hands together, smiling. “My dove, you look perfect. Henry, have you been keeping her from us?”

Henry blushes. “Of course not. Have you located our seats?”

I see John’s eyes narrow in response to Henry’s blush. They quickly flick to mine. And I quickly look away.

Looking in John’s eyes is like a reflecting pool. I might as well give him the blow by blow of the past half hour.

He clears his throat.

“Our seats, Vi?” I wrap my arm in hers. Unhappy about relinquishing Henry, but more concerned about putting distance between John and my guilty face.

When Violet leads me into our box I let loose a sigh. The isolated seats are a temporary reprieve from endless female prattling and weighing my every word.

The four of us slide in just as the chandeliers flicker and dim. Violet squeezes my hand and turns her lovely face toward the stage.

The orchestra begins; a low thrum which vibrates to my core. I’m unprepared. It’s been years since I’ve attended a live performance.

Aside from father and his insomnia-induced, midnight violin sonatas, that is.

The maestro raises his wand and the orchestra erupts to life.

The music washes over me. Layers of soothing sounds, licking at my skin. Filling in damaged crevasses in my mind, my heart.

The violins call, and my heart tugs and aches with every stroke of the strings. Emotion clenches my stomach, raising the hair on my arms. The music brings
pain
. Pain that I so carefully box and wrap in metal in my mind.

The violins wrench it off, piece by steely piece till I see my heart beating in the center of the box, exposed and vulnerable.

Henry is staring, I can feel him.

But the music. All I see, hear and feel, is the music.

My chest rises and falls in time with the emotion embedded in the notes.

Tears.
They fill my eyes and stream down my cheeks, instantly dripping off my chin. I feel them splash against my collarbone, and slide into my dress.

“Bella?” Henry whispers.

Fear floods my mouth. A hot mortification blazes the side of my face.

Crying.
I am crying. In public, no less.

I hear father’s voice, caustic. “Scientists
do not cry
Arabella. Logic and tears are oil and water.”

I cannot recall the last time. Henry’s face is horrorstruck, his fingers fidget with mine.

The cello pleads, interrupting the violin, and the tones weave in and out. My head swims, vertigo
pressing and fading
,
pressing and fading,
with every weave of the bow between the strings. Every melodic adjustment of the musician’s fingers along the instrument’s neck feels like a stranglehold on my windpipe.

A whimper leaks out.