Tiffany Trent: The Unnaturalists

“My apologies, miss, for my rough treatment,” the Pedant says. There’s a glint of humor in his eyes that I mislike. “Do you require further assistance?”

I draw myself up and look him fully in the face. “I thank you, sir, for aiding me”—I cannot bear to use the word “rescue”—“but I require nothing further at present.”

There are gasps from the crowd. I suppose I’ve insulted him, but there’s something about his manner that’s far too familiar for my liking. Much as Aunt Minta and Father might want me to think differently, I prefer the life of a Scientist, working here at the Museum with Father. It is my most cherished, most secret dream to be the first female Pedant—well, the first in several generations—and no man will overshadow that.

He has the nerve to smile, an infuriatingly charming smile. “Very well, then. Until we meet again, I advise you to be more careful where you step, Miss . . . ?”

“Nyx,” I say. His eyes widen as he realizes whose daughter I must be. I will not give him leave to be even more familiar, and I do not ask his name in return.

“Miss Nyx.” He bows just as Father arrives, pushing through the crowd.

“Vespa!”

Father takes my hands in his gloved ones. He’s wearing his traveling coat and has replaced his teaching wig with a traveling wig and tricorn. I would ask him where he’s going, but my teeth are suddenly chattering so much that I can’t form words.

“I am grateful to you, Pedant Lumin.” Father says. His gaze is filled with concern, but his flat tone surprises me. He dislikes this new Pedant even more than I do. Why?

Etheric energy from the field courses through me, unbalancing my humors, jarring my nerves. I grip Father’s hands tighter to stop my fingers from trembling. I try to assess the new Pedant covertly while he and Father make small talk. The glow I saw has faded from him; I’m not sure it was ever there. Perhaps it was a trick of the dim light that sometimes filters in through the skylights. I shake my head. My wits must be addled by the power of the field and the dangerous magic of the Sphinx.

“I’m afraid we must be off,” Father says, nodding so sharply that his tricorn almost slides off. He releases my hand to right the hat before it can do so. The pressure of his fingers tells me we will speak of this incident later.

Pedant Lumin’s gaze lingers on me. I meet it with raised chin, clamping my lips shut to hide my teeth chattering, as he says, “And I, as well; it would be impolitic, I think, to be late for my first lecture.”

“Indeed,” Father says. His storm cloud brows descend. I am reminded that, doddering as he may sometimes seem to me, Father is still the Head of this Museum. Pedant Lumin is very aware of this as well, for he bows and hurries off, his considering glance flitting across me one more time as he passes.

I look up and see Father’s odious assistant Charles moving toward us through the crowd. He’s carrying a giant, iron-sealed trunk. I have no idea how he lifts it with his spidery arms and legs. Utter loathing for Charles replaces my irritation at Pedant Lumin’s familiar manner. His dull eyes meet mine—his regard is akin to having a chamber pot poured over one’s head.

“Are you well?” Father says. His fingers relax somewhat.

I nod at him.

“Vee, I thought we came to an understanding after the incident at the Seminary.”

“Father . . .” I do not wish to discuss this in front of Charles.

I use every bit of Logic and Rationality I possess. I must remain calm. He will never believe me otherwise, even though this time I’m telling the truth. “Father, I promise I didn’t trip the field intentionally. I was pushed .”

Father frowns. “By whom?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see. But somebody had to have done it. I couldn’t have just fallen on my own.”

“Mm-hm,” Father says. He releases my hand.

“What’s this, Miss Nyx?” Charles asks, obviously trying to pretend the strongbox isn’t nearly tearing his arms from his sockets. His last name—Waddingly—suits him very well. He has a waddish soul, like a lump of something one can’t shake off one’s boot. I secretly call him The Wad.

The trunk emits waves of dark energy. It’s not just nulled to mask the magic of whatever is inside; it’s nevered. A nevered object has such negative power that it has the potential to burn souls, so Aunt Minta says. I don’t know how Charles is holding it without pain, except that I’m fairly certain he has no soul anyway. I can’t bear to get near it. Not that I’d want to be near The Wad anyway.

“Did you not hear the commotion as you came in, Charles?” Father says. “Vee very nearly set the Sphinx free in the Great Hall. She says that someone pushed her through the field.” Charles looks around, as if both relishing the mayhem that might have ensued and regretting that he missed it.

“You could have died, Miss Nyx.” I can’t tell whether he’s disappointed or incredulous that I didn’t. To Father, he says, “Everything is in readiness, sir. The carriage awaits.”

Father nods, but his dark eyes are trained on me. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us, Vee. I’m worried about leaving you alone after such an encounter. Thank Saint Newton you survived it!”

“But, Father . . .” I begin. The trembling starts anew. I’m not sure I can manage the delicate work required to mount the new sylphs in their cases in my present condition, anyway. I allow him to escort me from the Museum by the elbow while Charles leads the way with his infernal trunk.

My fancies must be getting the better of me, for I’d almost swear the trapped Sphinx’s grin widens as I pass her.

Syrus Reed sat by the wheel of his clan’s rusting train car, cleaning an old music box he’d found in the City refuse pile. It was an antique, something that worked under its own power, rather than the mysterious myth -power of the Refineries. If he cleaned and replaced the missing parts, he was sure he could get the music box working again. Chickenfeet stew bubbled above the nearby cookfire, setting his mouth to watering. He hoped it would be time to eat sooner rather than later, but he didn’t dare steal a stewed foot for himself for fear of a sharp rap from Granny’s cooking spoon. Somehow, Granny always knew what he’d done no matter how he tried to hide it.

Inside the decaying passenger car, Granny tended to the fussy new baby just brought in from the roadside. The New Londoners abandoned any child who resembled a Tinker or had been born under odd circumstances—children whose laughter moved toys through the air or whose cries caused little rain clouds to form inside the City-dwellers’ lush townhouses before their talents could be squelched by nullwards. Anything that stank of illegal magic was left outside the City gates. Syrus wasn’t sure who would ultimately take the baby—he knew his Uncle Gen and Aunt Jaya had asked for another child whenever one became available.

Syrus sang a charm-song in the sacred language of their people. It was low and soft and sad, but it carried the sound of another world that Syrus could just barely envision through the train car’s open windows. High mountains, tall forests in which strange animals moved through the mists, and glacial plains where flowers bright as stars nodded. A world lost to his people now, but so rich in memory and song.

The baby quieted at last.

Syrus half-smiled. Of all the clan members in Tinkerville, he still had the strongest touch of the old ways. When he sang, even the shyest of Elementals drew near. He could speak to and understand them better than anyone, and he alone was bonded to one of them—the hob Truffler—as all Tinkers had once been bonded to Elementals of old. Such understanding was a dangerous talent that was best kept hidden, especially from the brooding New Londoners who sometimes took it into their heads to Cull the trainyard for new workers for their Refineries. In the last Cull twelve years ago, they’d taken Syrus’s parents. He had been barely two, and their faces were a distant memory to him, kept alive only by Granny’s tales. They had been victims, like every Tinker, of the Cityfolks’ fear and greed.