Tiffany Trent: The Unnaturalists

I nod. “Yes, thank you.”

Pedant Lumin makes sure the hoses are secure and then starts hauling the ungainly thing back toward the lift. I hurry on to Father’s office, grateful that at least someone with manners stopped to help, even if said mannerly person annoyingly seems to find me a consistent source of amusement.

I’m slowed by Father’s new clerk, a boy younger than me who refuses to listen when I say that there’s an urgent need for Father up in Cataloguing.

“He’s in a meeting, not to be disturbed,” the boy says. His nose is so far up in the air I can see his walnut of a brain. Father keeps saying he’ll buy a reception wight to staff this desk, but he never has. Too expensive, I imagine. But a wight would be so much easier to manage than a person. They speak only when spoken to, don’t put on airs, and do exactly what they’ve been manufactured to do.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask.

The boy glares at me, ignoring my questions. “He said he was not to be disturbed, miss.”

“Look out there—can’t you see the Museum’s in chaos?” The clerk looks away from me. He’s not to be reasoned with. I turn swiftly and march straight through the arched corridor to Father’s office door.

“Miss!” the boy shouts behind me. “Miss!”

I knock, boldly and loudly. I glance back and see the boy’s head in his hands.

No one answers. I put my hand on the doorknob. Father hasn’t locked it, so whatever he’s doing can’t be that important.

I open the door. A small assembly of Pedants and Museum Directors turn and glare. Father looks up. I know it’s him only because his wig, which I secretly call the Sheep of Learning, cascades in white locks over his shoulders. His face is mostly obscured by nullgoggles over his eyes and a nullmask over his nose and mouth. He’s wearing thick gloves and holds a dropper in one hand, a beaker in the other. The gloves, dropper, and beaker are outlined in shadow—they must be strongly nevered for the shadow to show so boldly.

The mysterious strongbox is open. The gentle breeze from where I’ve pushed the door open stirs grains of black sand. The Waste. The Tinker was right—the box was indeed filled with a sample of the Creeping Waste. Stares of irritation, horror, and fear turn on me through several pairs of nullgoggles.

“Father.” My breath is a whisper, my gaze held by those gently stirring grains of sand. It’s as though we’re frozen in one of the Church’s instructive paintings, like The Chastening of Athena . I cannot help but wonder if someone will call our painting Curiosity Kills the Cat .

If anyone survives to paint it.

Will I feel myself turning into a pillar of salt as the Waste touches me? Or will it happen so fast I’ll feel nothing? One moment, flesh. The next, salt blowing across a desolate sea of black sand.

It occurs to me, too, that I might just have destroyed New London because I opened a door hastily.

“Vespa,” my Father says. His voice is muffled, but it’s so calm and toneless that I understand him perfectly. “Shut the door very carefully. I will find you later.”

Everything I was about to say dies at the back of my throat. I nod. The grains are settling, and if I am as careful as he asks, they will stay in the box. Sweat glimmers on his brow.

I close the door slowly, oh so slowly, and back away from the alcove as if even the sound of my boots could stir the Waste. My face scalds with embarrassment as I pass the desk clerk. But I put my nose in the air just as high as his and march past.

I am full of questions, but the one that will not leave my mind is this: What is Father doing with the Waste?

I climb the stairs slowly. I’m not looking forward to being in that room with Charles again or listening to his recriminations. Or having to apologize to Father later. I just want to be alone in my laboratory, dreaming over the Ceylon Codex again. Is that so much to ask?

When I enter, I’m surprised. The Wad is nowhere to be seen, but Pedant Lumin is still there. I seem to have caught him in the middle of something. He swiftly puts a hand behind his back. Something shimmers at the edge of his arm.

He edges toward the door, clearing his throat. “I sent Mr. Waddingly with the unit back to storage. It unfortunately isn’t working properly,” he says.

I stand in front of the door. My heart’s fluttering in my chest, still thinking about what I almost did, but I force myself to speak. “Really? That’s the last working unit we had, as far as I know.”

“I shall speak to your father about it.”

I nod. Father doesn’t like this new Pedant. There was some grumbling over dinner the other night about being forced to make appointments to unsuitable candidates, and I’m guessing he was referring to Pedant Lumin. The Board must have appointed him without Father’s full support.

I decide to focus on the issue at hand. “What happened to all the sylphids, then?” I ask.

I look around the room. All I see is a pile of dust glimmering on the laboratory table, a pile I don’t recall seeing before. Is Pedant Simian’s entire collection gone? That, I’m quite certain, will be enough to banish me from the Museum forever.

“All the sylphids?” Pedant Lumin asks. “I don’t know what you mean.” He’s still edging toward the door, but I’m between him and it.

A sweet smell wafts to me over the scent of preservative spirits and moldering tomes. Like plums and confectioners’ sugar . . .

There’s a soft plop on the floor behind Pedant Lumin. I step around him and see wadded paper wrapping and crumbs of jam cake. Something burrows inside the rubbish.

“Is that . . . jam cake?” I ask. Jam cake is my favorite.

A bright little head emerges. It’s a sylphid, cheeks engorged with cake. It tries to curse me, but only manages to spit crumbs.

I draw back, but Pedant Lumin scoops up the mess and stuffs it in his pocket. The little head pokes up again, unrepentant.

“Pedant Lumin,” I say, “why have you got a sylphid eating jam cake in your pocket? And where did the other sylphids that I’m to mount go?”

“I don’t know,” he says almost sheepishly. “I found this one and coaxed him out of his hiding place behind a cabinet.”

The little sylphid starts squeaking again, pointing and spewing crumbs.

“Perhaps Charles found a way to dispose of them,” I say.

“Perhaps.” Pedant Lumin’s hands move, shifting so that they look like they’re cradling a ball. One hand is still sticky with jam cake. I see a blue glow on the edges of his fingers, like what I thought I saw the other day during the episode with the Sphinx.

I swallow hard and back toward the door. I don’t know what Pedant Lumin’s doing or why, but I think it best if I retreat. “Shame,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “I should have liked to study them. And Pedant Simian will be furious at the loss.” And I will most likely be dismissed .

Our eyes meet. He’s looking at me in such a peculiar way, as if he expects something to happen. Nothing does, except that the little sylphid continues to glare at me from his pocket. He swallows and resumes his miniature tirade.

Pedant Lumin’s eyes narrow. His hands drop, one of them covers the sylphid’s head and gently pushes him down into his pocket. He brushes his hands along his robes, leaving a trail of crumbs and jam.

“His name is Piskel. I’ve made peace with him,” Pedant Lumin says.

“Peace? With jam cake?” It’s an interesting concept, one that would certainly work for me, but the door handle is at my fingers now. I’ve only to slip out in one swift motion.

Before I can, Pedant Lumin’s gloveless fingers slide along my temples. His grip is strong but gentle. I sense he could break me, but he holds me as if I’m fragile as an egg. His brilliant eyes bore deep into mine as he bends closer. I can’t look away, and for a strange moment I fear he might kiss me. Except I have no fear at all; in fact, I think I might like it. He smells of crushed roses and jam cake. I’m utterly terrified.