Heaven's Bones (34 page)

A sound, the clink of metal against wood, came from somewhere in the murk, and he peered uneasily through the haze. That noise was familiar, but he couldn't place it: a sound he'd heard in childhood perhaps, and never since.

He heard it again, and more: a long, slow grind, like wood rubbing against rock. It was difficult to determine what direction the sound was coming from—sometimes left, sometimes right, and sometimes all around him.

And there—he recognized that sound: the jangle of reins. And he caught a whiff of something now, besides the faint moldy funk of the mist and the grass he trampled underfoot.

The honest smell of horses, like a stable in the morning when dew still silvers the wood and lies on all the stones.

Movement to his right, and he glimpsed it for a fraction of a second: a dark bulk between streamers of fog, some large animal, moving slowly. Now he heard the tramp of heavy hooves, and the jangle of the bridle was very distinct.

He staggered toward it, but it was gone. No—there, ahead of him now. The bright cardinal siding of a gypsy's caravan rolling behind a coal-black draft horse.

Weldon's heart leaped into his throat; his chest hurt with the upwelling of memories. He knew that cart. He knew who rode it, upright behind the black horse; somewhere there must be another cart, green with gold detailing.

He ran forward, tripped and fell on the wet grass, bruising himself. Ignoring the pain, he pushed himself up again and staggered forward, arms stretched out, looking for the wagon.

It was gone, and the day was silent, bereft even of birdsong.

His eyes stung, and he pawed at them, smearing his face. The Mists closed on him triumphantly, and he closed his eyes, refusing to sob, refusing to give them that satisfaction.

Now he understood. He cared for no one, not his wife, not his daughter—he never felt much affection for either. His parents had been strangers to him, shrill and unpleasant. Land and house and money were pleasant to have, but if lost, there was more to be got somewhere else, where he was unknown, where he could rely on manners and charm to work his way into good society, and from there into the affection of the daughters of those that made good society.

But the memory of that day, all gold-drenched and perfect, that day he found the little kernel of peace that he later abandoned—that was his weak point, that was his one desire, and the Mists knew that. How, he couldn't imagine, but they did. Why they'd brought him here he couldn't know, but they had.

“You seem to be lost, Mas' Weldon.”

His head snapped up. Beside him stood a dark-skinned girl, wearing a simple cotton dress, her dark braids tied back with a flowered scarf.

“Sadie,” he breathed.

She tilted her head to the side, peering up at him.

“Oh no, Mas' Weldon,” she said, with a delighted chuckle. “Sadie is free now. Free of you.”

She reached out and ran her fingers down his arm and through his coat sleeve he felt her touch—nothing warm in it: it was cold, cold and damp like the fog. She grinned; her grin was much too wide, too wide for a human face, human skin. He watched frozen
as the skin peeled away from her, mouth first, exposing teeth and jaw and skull. Flesh gleamed wet for an instant, then dissolved away, and her body disintegrated as well, melding back into the mist from which it came. All that remained of Sadie was a mocking chuckle, and the ghost of a whisper:
free of you
.

That was its game, was it? Very well.

Did it want him to slink, cringing like a whipped cur, back to the plantation? He would not.

Limping slightly on his bruised leg, he pushed forward. The illusions didn't recur. Somewhere in this purgatory of the Mists there must be a way to find oblivion.

But now the fog was not quite as solid as it had been, and voids were appearing within it. Ahead of him he caught a glimpse of a house.

It vanished and reappeared with each shift of the fog. Weldon found with his new, sharp anger that he could think better, better than he had in years, and he wondered: Was the fog mocking him again, as it had with the vision of the gypsy wagons and Sadie? Or was it the nature of this particular place, this house, that it both existed and didn't exist at the same time?

With the clarity of his rediscovered anger, he walked forward boldly.

And found himself at the doorway.

The steps were solid under him, the door solid beneath his fist.

When Trueblood opened the door he smiled.

“I hope you have quite recovered,” said Weldon to the Vistana.

“Quite, sir,” said Trueblood, moving aside to let him enter. “I wondered when you might be visiting us.”

“It's taken me a while to get around to it,” said Weldon. “But I'm curious, I'm very curious indeed to see what you're up to here.”

“I'm sure Doctor Robarts would be pleased to make time for you,” said Trueblood, with a wolfish grin. “You will find much in common to talk about.”

Bryani House, Cornwall, 1882

It was surprising, certainly.

Henry Thorpe stared in horror at the girl sitting in front of him, the Angel who had once been Lydia Dare. He took in her hollowed-away abdomen and the spaces between her ribs.

Then he turned, hypnotized, and looked at Seriah, who stood nearby, her flaps of skin dangling from her back.

He turned away, just in time, and vomited.

Only a short time ago, when the carriage, driven by the useful Trueblood through an unnaturally heavy fog, rumbled to a stop before Bryani House, he had been impressed at the quiet dignity of the residence, with its age-colored bricks and the noble vines twining over it. Dr. Robarts had welcomed him with great affability, a man with sadness in his eyes—that's right, he'd lost his wife, hadn't he?—but an open manner, and he seemed delighted at the prospect of sponsoring Henry's research and grateful that he had come to Bryani House.

And then Trueblood had suggested in a slightly gloating manner that Henry didn't quite understand, that Mr. Thorpe should have a chance to see Dr. Robarts' researches. And Robarts had agreed. And so he was taken upstairs, where Robarts maintained his laboratory, and he was shown Robarts' Angels.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Thorpe?” Trueblood asked solicitously, as Henry kneeled over his mess and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“My God,” said Henry. The Angel with the drooping, useless wings moved beside him with a cloth, wiping up the vomit. She shot him a sympathetic glance.

“Not pretty, like the birds when you broke your leg, is it?” she said, as she mopped it up.

He managed to rise and stagger away.

“My God, what have you people done?” he gasped.

Robarts was unperturbed.

“I can see it's a shock at first,” he said, cheerfully. “But you'll get used to them, and you'll see how you must help them, as I wish to help them. They are Angels, every one of them, but they need wings, don't you see? They are incomplete without their wings.”

“The police,” Henry managed. “You have been mutilating these women. I must get the police.”

“I don't think so,” said Trueblood, as Henry stumbled to the door, looking for the way out.

Robarts looked puzzled. “He doesn't seem to like my proposition,” he said, sounding slightly hurt.

“He needs to get used to the idea, sir,” said Trueblood, with equanimity. “Remember how confused you were, at first, when you realized the work you must do.”

Robarts brightened. “You're quite right, of course,” he said. “Go explain things to him a little, there's a good fellow. I have some work to do here.”

“Of course, sir,” said Trueblood, closing the door carefully behind him.

Henry passed mutilated creatures in the hall, down the stairs, in his mad rush for the door. They all looked at him, confused, and he was torn with horror and pity.

Mad. Robarts was completely mad. And Trueblood?

He must be mad too, because if not …

Then he must not even be human.

He reached the massive oak door, and flung it open, and froze.

The fog had multiplied. Before him, where the pastoral Cornish meadows had stood, was a horribly-roiling murk that was like no fog he had seen before. It was so thick as to be solid-looking, and seemed to be composed of thick tentacles that twisted and writhed on themselves.

He recoiled.

“It doesn't seem you're going anywhere,” remarked the calm voice of Trueblood, just behind him.

“Come, Mr. Thorpe,” he continued. “Consider the possibilities. These women are, for the most part, the dregs of your society, to be discarded and tossed away. Robarts has given them a second chance, a chance to be the creatures of myth and story, to soar above their common lot. It would be a shame to throw away the chance for real experimentation.”

Henry stared at Trueblood. Something tickled in his mind, and whispered that
yes, yes, it's true, think of what you could do …

He shook away the thought and opened his mouth to protest.

“And in addition,” continued Trueblood in a darker voice. “It would be a shame if, without your assistance, we were to experiment on our own and make irreversible and … painful … mistakes. It would be even more regrettable if we were forced to involve your pretty little cousin, Sophia—or I should say, Doctor Huxley. I know that Doctor Robarts has struck up an acquaintance with her in town. I believe he has a certain affection for her. The same sort of affection he has for his Angels.”

Henry blanched.

“Come now, Mr. Thorpe. I believe I mentioned this house has an extraordinary library. And recently I've obtained some remarkable documents that I'm sure you'll find of interest.”

He reached out and took Henry by the arm, and pulled him along down the hallway.

“Some amazing diagrams of gears. This way, Mr. Thorpe.”