The Bones of Ruin

by Sarah Raughley

  And played music.

  A melancholy, romantic tune filled the room with the sound of tinkling bells.

  “Iris!” Max was frantic. “Iris!”

  Iris could hear Max hopping in her direction. The assistant backed off immediately when Max made a threatening move toward him.

  “Sir,” said the assistant to Doctor Pratt, who simply held his wounded arm to stop the bleeding. “Sir, I shall mend your—”

  “I can tend to myself,” said the doctor with a dismissive wave.

  If only Iris could reach the revolver still bound to her thigh, covered by her billowing dress. Tears stung her eyes, but she would not let them fall until those disgusting men were gone.

  “The sedative!” said the assistant.

  “The one we have isn’t quite strong enough to knock them out…,” said another man.

  “Never mind that,” the assistant shot back. “Hurry!”

  One among his group pulled out a needle and shoved it into her arm without the slightest bit of kindness. Iris gritted her teeth as she forced herself to bear the pain. From the sound of Max’s grunt, they’d given him the same treatment before finally leaving the room. Doctor Pratt’s small black eyes were the last to disappear behind the door.

  “Damn, they really got me good.” Max knelt beside her, still chained. His face was drained of blood. The sedative would likely kick in soon for both of them. But for Iris, despair had already extinguished whatever fire she had left.

  “Iris?” he said softly, trying to see her face. “Iris…”

  The music within the pocket watch filled the silence.

  “That was dangerous. You know that, right?” With labored movements, Max lay down beside her. “You could have been killed.”

  “I can’t die,” she answered softly.

  “Ah, really? I thought you just healed quickly.” He chuckled. “If I’d known that in the Pit, I would have asked you to save me.”

  Iris appreciated his attempts, but her heart was just too heavy for his cheerfulness. Though the wisps of new memory faded from her, she could still feel blades piercing her skin. Were they once held by his hands? That Doctor Seymour Pratt?

  She didn’t know. How could she? She didn’t know anything about herself.

  Coolie shooting her in the head, hunting her down like a dog, and auctioning her off to the highest bidder. Pratt’s assistant measuring her as if she were some kind of specimen…

  “This body is mine,” Iris whispered, tears dripping down her nose. “This body is mine. Why won’t they let it belong to me?”

  Her weeping added the hint of despair needed to complete the pocket watch’s light tune, turning the music minor. Max was quiet for a moment.

  “My mother,” he said finally. “My mother sent my sister, Berta, and me to England because a merchant had promised her that he’d give us an education.”

  Sister? Iris listened.

  “As it turned out, we were to be displayed in an exhibit. Somewhere along the way, my sister and I were separated. She was only five years old. And I was seven. Too young to try to find her. I couldn’t even speak the language here. I couldn’t do anything for her.” Max paused, collecting himself. “I don’t even know whether she’s still alive.”

  Iris blinked back her tears, thinking of the two tiny siblings in a foreign land.

  “I do not know the depth of your despair, Miss Iris,” Max told her. “But I understand despair quite intimately.”

  Despair. Iris stared at the tearstains on her ripped dress. How silly she must have looked to those men, dressed as an aristocrat when they didn’t even view her as human.

  “It’s why I’ve been trying so hard to raise money,” continued Max. “Now that I’m old enough, I’m going to find her. I’ll… I’ll do anything.” He stayed quiet for a long time. “Maybe that’s why I was given these powers. To reunite my family. I have to, no matter what the cost.”

  Iris gazed at the clockwork gears shifting inside the pocket watch.

  “When I lost my sister, my world ended,” Max continued. “I don’t expect to be understood. Or even… even forgiven for what I choose to do to get her back.” He rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. “One thing I do know is that you have to do what you can to keep your world from crumbling. That goes for you too, Iris. Don’t lose hope. It’s all right if you don’t know yourself yet. You’ll find it one day. I’ll…” He paused. “I’ll help you however I can.”

  The sedative was starting to work, sapping the dwindling energy within her. Iris shifted her head, looking over her shoulder. “Find it?”

  “The truth of your world.”

  The watch’s music played on

  12

  BY THE TIME THE SEDATIVE began to wear off, it was nightfall. Rough-looking men in suits unlocked their chains, leaving only their wrists bound. And so began their march toward the auction hall. Max was whispering to himself in Spanish. Praying? Swearing? Iris couldn’t tell.

  While the men dragged them by the chains, the haughty auctioneer walked behind.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” Iris demanded him. “This can’t be legal.”

  “The clientele we’re serving tonight is of a special kind,” he said. “With special tastes.”

  Special clientele. The “esteemed guests” Coolie had invited to their Astley’s show, perhaps. And she was right. As they entered the auction hall, she could see them in their black jackets and petticoats, with their canes and white gloves, holding the program for this evening’s entertainment. Benini, Adam’s eccentric colleague, sat in the front row, now in a brand-new robe: sparkling emerald green over his unbuttoned white shirt and black trousers. With a wineglass in hand, he used the auction program to fan his face in the stuffy room.

  His golden locks blew into the face of the woman on his left—a woman she recognized: the wealthy-looking heiress-type who’d sat next to Adam at Astley’s. Her flaming burgundy bun clung to the base of her neck, a black hat with white feathers finishing her look.

  “Will you stop it, you fool?” The woman smacked his program to the floor.

  Benini huffed. “Such a violent woman you are, Madame Bellerose. I wonder how your husband even stands you, you beast!”

  Madame Bellerose, as she was called, folded her arms, exasperated.

  The auction hall was divided into two columns of seats. Paintings and extravagant light fixtures adorned the walls along with busts of naked Greek men who watched over the macabre proceedings with their hollow white eyes.

  The guards pushed Iris and Max onto the platform. A painting of green hills and valleys, so very nostalgic for industrial England, hung behind the wooden podium where the auctioneer was to stand. And in front of the podium—

  Iris narrowed her eyes. “Coolie.”

  Coolie shifted awkwardly to the side as she was shoved to the front of the stage beside him. What could he be thinking, she wondered, as he saw her bound up in chains, a former employee treated more cruelly than the animals in his own company?

  “Why, Coolie,” she said once the men had dropped her chains and left her standing in front of the hungry crowds. “I thought slavery had been abolished? Or didn’t you hear?”

  At the very least, he showed a little bit of shame, his puffy cheeks swollen red as he stepped off the platform to further the distance between the two of them.

  “Thank you, my dear guests, for coming tonight,” said the old auctioneer, taking his position at the podium. His voice echoed off the high ceiling, moonlight streaming through the windows above him. “We here at Wilson and Wilkes Auctioneers welcome you.”

  “How could you do this?” Iris hissed at Coolie. “I gave you ten years of my best work.”

  “You were the one who left me no choice,” he hissed back, straightening his bowler hat. “I told you I needed the money, and yet you still stabbed me in the back. The debtors and I came to an agreement. They get paid double what I owe, and I keep the rest.”

  “A heartwa
rming collaboration.”

  “Well, unlike you, I can’t survive without my fingers.”

  The auctioneer continued. “First, I’d like to say that unfortunately, we have not yet been able to install the new security system purchased from the Bosch Guns and Ammunitions Company.”

  Disappointed grumbles.

  “Yes, yes, I know.” The auctioneer put up his hands to calm the crowds. “It’s a complicated system designed by a complicated inventor. But rest assured, even without it, there shall be no intruders.” He gestured to the thugs meant to be their security. “And because I know your esteemed time is valuable, we won’t waste another moment. I introduce to you the first lot of the evening, courtesy of Mr. George Coolie, owner of the Coolie Company.”

  At this, that crook Coolie dared to take off his hat and bow as if it were their last call. The only upside to this sick show was that the more he made Iris seethe, the more she could feel her strength returning. She looked over at Max, who was cracking his neck from side to side. The sedative was gradually wearing off.

  “Now, these specimens—”

  “Excuse me.” Coolie held out his hand to stop the auctioneer. “Allow me to explain these fine treasures to our illustrious guests.” He cleared his throat. That was how Iris knew his pitch was coming. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve all heard the rumors, haven’t we? They’ve even made the papers. Rumors of strange happenings. Rumors of strange people.”

  Max and Iris exchanged glances.

  “The girl before you has a wondrous gift. You’ve seen it yourselves, I reckon, if you had the incredible luck of being present at the Coolie Company’s legendary show at Astley’s Amphitheatre—now playing every night for the next seven days, tickets still available.”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “This was your boss?”

  “Don’t remind me,” Iris grumbled.

  “A girl who can’t die.” Coolie waved his fingers as if telling an old ghost story. “An oddity stranger than anything Barnum can conjure up with his cheap parlor tricks. A true oddity confirmed in front of your very eyes. Confirmation that dark powers truly do exist.”

  Interested murmurs filled up the room.

  “Is she an angel?” Coolie paused for dramatic effect. “Or is she a devil?”

  “What about the boy?” someone shouted from the audience.

  “Oh, I have magic powers too,” Max confirmed with a nod. “As for whether I’m an angel or a devil…” His smile turned wicked. “Well, that depends on whether I fancy you or not.”

  “Are you trying to get sold off?” Iris whispered angrily into his ear as some ladies began fanning themselves.

  “I just don’t like being left out of things.” Max shrugged. “You know.”

  “No, I do not!”

  The front doors opened and slammed shut with gusto. In walked Adam Temple, the weight of his black boots echoing across the red walls and ceiling.

  “Adam…,” she whispered, prompting Max’s attention. So he’d survived, after all. Iris wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or upset. Like the rest of them, he carried in his gloved hand a bidding paddle. He was here to save her… right?

  When Madame Bellerose saw him approaching her, she looked delighted to see him, so much so that she shoved the mysterious figure sitting to her left out of her seat.

  That figure was an odd one. Dressed in a black coat, she’d been sitting between Madame Bellerose and a ghoulish, withered man who’d handed Bellerose her paddle. Pierre, Bellerose had called him. Iris couldn’t see the girl’s face underneath her wide-brimmed black hat, as it was shaded by a yellow veil affixed by pins to her hair. But she could see her long, tiny black braids, a river of them, stretching almost to her hips. After Bellerose snapped at her in French, the woman went and silently stood next to the wall. Perhaps they were both servants. Pierre certainly looked miserable enough.

  At Madame Bellerose’s prompting, Adam took the seat that the veiled woman had left vacant, but his blue eyes were on Iris and Max. As Coolie prattled on about how she was an ancient goddess of some sort, Adam started mouthing something to her.

  “Max,” Iris whispered, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow—bare ribs, as the poor boy was still shirtless. “The man who just entered—”

  But Max was shifting uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes. Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Ah, you mean the man you were with in the Pit?”

  “Yes, him. Can you make out what he’s saying?”

  Max squinted. “T… all. Tall. Is that it? Tall? Must be referring to me, then.”

  Iris watched the curves of his lips carefully. “Stall,” she whispered. “Stall!”

  Stall? Stall for what, exactly? Just what did he have planned?

  “Without further ado,” the assistant chimed in, interrupting Coolie, “I believe we should start the bidding. First, on the girl, as she is the main feature of the night.”

  Iris looked anxiously at the crowd of wealthy bidders all holding their paddles at the ready.

  “Who will bid five hundred pounds?”

  “Five hundred pounds?” Max balked. “I don’t know whether to feel disgusted or proud.”

  “Five hundred.”

  Adam. Perhaps winning her was the only way out of this mess. His grand plan.

  “Five hundred, thanks.” The auctioneer pointed his gavel at Adam, who looked deadly serious. “Do I hear six hundred?”

  “Six hundred.”

  The old man who’d spoken was at the opposite side of the room, several rows back, so short Iris wouldn’t have been surprised if his feet didn’t touch the ground. He stroked his graying black goatee with satisfaction as the auctioneer took his bid.

  “Cortez.” Adam shot daggers at the man behind his shoulders.

  “Turns out he’s looking to fill his team too,” said Benini. “Who was he trying to fool staying silent at the meeting? At any rate, you might lose your champions, Adam.”

  Champions? Iris frowned as Madame Bellerose shot him a withering glare. “Some things are better not discussed out in the open,” she hissed.

  “Do I hear seven hundred?”

  “Seven!” Adam raised his paddle, almost lifting out of his seat before staring at Iris again. “Stall,” he mouthed again, and nodded up toward the ceiling windows.

  Nothing lay beyond the windows but the moon, but Iris could see that the man named Cortez meant business. That made her nervous. As they say, the devil you know.

  And so she stalled. “Oh. Ooh, my fate! My cursed fate!” She whipped her head to the side. “How could this be that I would end up in a battle with my love, my own heart? Why, oh why are the stars so cruel?”

  The auctioneer stumbled over his next words. Stunned silence. Iris had the room’s attention, a fact of which she took full advantage. “Whether this land is yours or mine, can’t we rule it together, hand in hand? Ah, my dearest love! My Turkish Prince!”

  “Hang on.” Coolie’s large nose scrunched as it clearly dawned on him: this was the dialogue for “The Bolero of Blades,” written by Coolie himself, though eventually scrapped on the agreement of the whole company because of how unabashedly horrid it was.

  “Or we can flee together to the Valley of the Kings and there share our lives as eternal, passionate lovers. Ah, my Turkish Prince! Can it really not be done?”

  Without Jinn as a partner, Iris turned to Max, throwing herself against his bare chest. He didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact—

  “I’m here, my princess!” he shouted, extending his hard pectoral muscles and adopting a very serious expression.

  “Nubian Princess,” Iris corrected him quietly.

  “I’m here, my Nubian Princess!” Even without any context, Max clearly understood Iris’s plan and surpassed her ridiculous airs as if it were a competition to see who could act worse. With a hawklike gaze, he surveyed the bewildered upper class. “And I shall never leave you. For ever since I laid eyes upon you, I knew you were destined to be my eternal love. You are my sun,
my moon, my stars, my—uh, my…” He searched for the word.

  “Galaxy!” Benini offered, positively delighted.

  “Yes, galaxy!” Max would have pointed if his hands weren’t tied. Benini gave him a thumbs-up. Even Adam’s lips had quirked into a helpless grin.

  “Just what is this nonsense?” someone cried from the audience. “Mr. Wilson, get ahold of your stock. We don’t have all day.”

  Iris froze in fear before she spotted Adam spurring her on with a wave of his hand.

  Right. Stall. “My esteemed lords and ladies,” she cried over the confused babble, “don’t be so rash! This is but a demonstration of what you’ll be getting in the deal upon your purchase!”

  Iris steadied herself. Max’s inclusion left her no choice but to improvise, using Coolie’s dreadful dialogue as a guide. “My love, do you really mean it? We do not have to die in this bloody battle for possession of the ancient lands?”

  “Why no, my dear. I suspect not.” Max gazed into her eyes. “Because… Because I love you, my princess.”

  His intensity was palpable. Without realizing, Iris withdrew a little from him.

  “I loved you when first I laid my eyes upon you. In that very moment, your beauty captivated me more than any living thing has ever done in my lifetime. Your strength. Your courage. Your grace. Your intelligence. Your vulnerability.”

  Their audience fell into a hush. Iris opened her mouth but had no lines to recite.

  “Is it rash, my love, to have fallen for you so quickly?” Max continued with the utmost tenderness. “You might say so. Others may indeed disapprove of it. ‘It’s unrealistic,’ they would say. Yes, I understand how silly it all seems. Yet, I am but a rash man. A rash and foolish man who cannot help but be so easily captured by love.”

  There was something dangerous about his enticing gaze and incorrigible smile. That she couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or not made her shiver.

  Benini stood and clapped. “Bravo! Encore!”

  Iris’s eyes darted from side to side. Pushing herself off his chest, she turned and fell to the ground, much to the gasps of the audience. “Oh, my Turkish Prince! Who am I but, uh, a slave to destiny,” she said, her voice more stilted than before. “How I’ve missed you all these long days and nights! How I’ve longed to see you!”