The Bones of Ruin

by Sarah Raughley

  “The Temple mind is a thing of beauty. It would be much stranger if I didn’t, no?” Bellerose began to tap her chin with her fan. Elsewhere, Adam could hear Van der Ven and Cordiero calling his name. But Bellerose wouldn’t be interrupted.

  “I found out through my networks that there was a terrible tragedy in that area many decades ago,” she continued. “One of those horrid beasts went wild and killed the visitors. Aside from that, for the life of me, I can’t figure out what else about that silly zoo might have been of interest to anyone.”

  She was trying his patience. “You said yourself, madame. The Temple mind is a thing of beauty. But I never could figure out my father’s.” Adam straightened his jacket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Whip fast, Bellerose gripped his arm, pulling him back so violently his breath hitched in his throat. “But I’m not finished with you yet,” she hissed with a candied smile on her face.

  “Madame!” Cordiero approached slowly, his hands behind his back, his weak knees keeping him up longer than Adam had anticipated. “Your seat on the Committee might have you confused. Though Adam is the youngest and the last to join, he is still a Temple. And you are still a woman. Know your place.”

  Despite his relief at Cordiero’s intrusion, Adam knew she was seething inside. That practiced smile didn’t fool him. She let him go with a little bow of her head. “But of course, monsieur,” she said sweetly. “In fact, it may be better if I take my leave. Lord Temple.” She spread out her fan with a flick of her hand. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Cordiero shook his head as he watched Madame leave. “A pretentious brat, she is. This is why I was opposed to women joining the Committee.” He turned to Adam as the door shut with gusto. “Adam,” he started as they approached the table. “You must continue to search for whatever of your father’s research he may have left behind. Based on what the director has discerned, the nature of the Hiva needs to be understood more fully. I won’t rest until I do. I’ll devote all my resources to it.”

  You will, will you? Adam nodded stiffly and joined the other men at the table. As the champions fell, the competition between the Committee members narrowed. Which of them would lead humanity into its next stage of existence? The thirst for that power came with a thirst for knowledge—to reveal every secret still unknown to them. To leave no stone unturned.

  Cordiero… what a nuisance, Adam thought, running a hand through his messy black hair.

  He may have to move his knight soon, after all.

  26

  JINN WAS SHIVERING IN THE night, sweat dripping from his forehead as he healed from his wounds. Max had gone to bed.

  “There’s no point in worrying,” he told her after he placed Jinn on his bed in Club Uriel. “Nothing we can do now but trust that girl, Mary. As for tonight, just try to get some sleep.”

  After the first round of the tournament had finished, a guard in each train car made note of how many keys each team had collected and promptly took the keys into their custody. Max had managed to sneak one of their keys to Team Hawkins beforehand so they had a pair to hand in. Afterward, the guards and teams went to Club Uriel’s gentlemen’s gathering room on the second floor. There, the teams saw them deposit their keys inside a solid oak box held by Fool while a subcommittee of club members played their role in the tournament by monitoring them from the corners of the room.

  Iris could tell from his lingering, narrowed gaze that Max was more worried about her than Jinn. Why wouldn’t he be at least a little worried after what he’d just seen? Even she couldn’t explain it. A moment of temporary madness owed to three hours of battle. That’s what she’d told Max on the way home, but she wasn’t sure. She just wasn’t sure.

  She gave him a nod and went to bed. But after he’d gone to sleep, she found herself sliding beside Jinn, feeling his body quivering while he fought for each breath. Iris wrapped her right arm around her partner’s firm body, wiping the sweat from his brow before pressing her head against his.

  “You’ll be okay,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

  Closing her eyes was a mistake.

  The second she did, she saw Gram, dripping with blood. And the Anne who wasn’t Anne reaching out to her, speaking in tongues.

  Shivering, she opened her eyes and concentrated instead on the uneven rise and fall of Jinn’s chest.

  “You’ll be okay,” she said again and again, until she finally fell asleep. And there, lying next to Jinn, she dreamed—dreamed of the last time they slept side by side. A sweet dream of a sweet memory.

  It was the second of January, 1883. Iris hadn’t known if it was the snow falling from above for the first time that season or the memory of the thunderous New Year’s applause she’d received the night before. But that morning, she’d been so content—so happy. And when she was happy, she couldn’t help herself. As the sun came up, she looked out over the fresh, hard sheen coating the grass and jumped out into the grounds from her trailer in her worn black slippers, relishing each crisp crunch beneath her feet.

  Her dress and shawl were quite thin; Granny would have her head. But that day, she didn’t care about getting sick. It wasn’t as if it would kill her.

  After all, if she was truly a monster, might as well enjoy it sometimes.

  It wasn’t Granny but Jinn who found her jumping about. She could still remember his exasperated stare.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded with a tired yawn. If she hadn’t looked up and seen him, she would have heard the rumbling thunder from that dark, rainy cloud that seemed to trail him everywhere he went. The crank. “Our last performance is tonight. You think you’ll get paid if you’re too sick to do your stunts?”

  “Stop your worrying, old man.” Iris bent down and made an imprint of her hand in the hard snow. “I heal quickly.”

  “You didn’t drink Jack’s vodka last night, did you?”

  It was just that she loved New Year’s. The celebrations at the circus weren’t anything to scoff at, of course. But to her, this time of year meant new beginnings. It signified hope, however small. Maybe this year would be her breakthrough: the year she’d learn who she really was.

  “Oh, come on!” She lobbed some snow at his unsuspecting face. “Good shot, woman!” Iris congratulated herself, pumping her fist.

  It took a while for an unamused Jinn to catch her and plop her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Unfortunately, “a while” was too late. Jinn’s prophecy came true that night with one small caveat—they both fell sick. It wasn’t enough to dismay Oxford’s drunken audience, but any professional could see that the two tightrope dancers, usually perfect, were off. By the next morning, Coolie had them placed in a spare trailer away from the rest of the performers.

  The trailer was as bare as one could imagine. Not even a bed. Granny had directed some staff to provide them with blankets, but they were given only one.

  “At least I have my own pillow,” Iris thought bitterly as she lay next to a sleeping Jinn.

  She shifted her head, staring at his face before turning back around as fast as a strike of lightning. Her head had already been throbbing since last night, but the delirium from the strange concoction Granny had fed her must have been the cause of her sudden, erratically rhythmed heartbeat. Placing a hand on her chest, she looked at him again. Now, upon closer inspection, she could see the line of sweat above his chestnut brows and dripping from underneath his bangs. He was sicker than she was. And it was her fault.

  Pressing her lips together, she reached for the bottle of Granny’s medicine beside her and nudged him awake. “Jinn, have you tried this? Granny made it.”

  Jinn’s mumbling was indecipherable at first. Still lying down, she placed a gentle palm on his cheek and watched him swallow before he repeated himself. “The stuff with the garlic?”

  Iris handed it to him. “Yes. You never know, it might—”

  Jinn placed the bottle on her face before turning his back to her and falling asleep again. She gritted
her teeth as the bottle tumbled onto the hard wooden floor between them.

  A day later, she still wasn’t well. She hated being sick. She was susceptible to common colds, she just couldn’t die from them. But the snot and the headaches were annoying.

  “It’s you!” Looking for a way to vent her frustration, she pointed a finger at Jinn’s slim form, his back flat on the floor. “I bet it’s your fault. That’s right. You keep reinfecting me! That’s why I’m still sick! I blame you!”

  “That’s not how it works,” Jinn replied coolly. “Neither of us has gotten over it quite yet. It is what it is. Stop speaking nonsense and just be patient.”

  “Well…,” Iris grumbled. “I still blame you. Old crank.”

  “Then get rid of me,” Jinn said simply without moving an inch. “I know you’ve thought about it.”

  Iris sat up and grabbed her pillow, but rather than smothering him, she poked him. Poke, poke. Poke. His ear. His cheek. She wanted to know how he’d react.

  He reacted by taking her pillow and placing it firmly underneath his own head. Double cushioned. And she reacted, in a childish huff, by using his legs as a replacement.

  “I truly hate you,” he said, and yet he seemed to place falling back asleep above shoving her off. And so Iris stayed.

  “French,” she said, breaking the moment of silence that followed.

  “What?”

  “I haven’t said this before, but I’ve noticed a bit of Parisian in your voice.” She’d performed in Paris enough times to know. “Your British accent is stronger—or more practiced?”

  Jinn said nothing.

  “You were born in Paris.” Silence. “Well, you must have spent most of your life in Europe.…” She trailed off. She’d never told Jinn about her lack of memories. He also never asked. Whenever anyone at the circus was curious about her past, she would simply make something up. It was better than the truth.

  Iris was but a simple product of her environment like everyone else. With no memories of her life before Coolie’s company, and since she spent most of her time performing in England and many a lonely night reading romantic British novels by the flicker of candlelight, her environment was largely English—for better or for worse. Which explained her own accent. It was one of the reasons why she wanted to know about her life before.

  But Jinn remained silent. She supposed he didn’t have to tell her. Innocent curiosity still stirred within her. “What of your parents? I don’t really know much about mine.” Which was why she liked to hear stories from others. “Did they used to read to you—?”

  When Jinn sat up and cupped her face with a hand, her body flushed quickly and furiously. It was the fever, she convinced herself, as he leaned in slightly, as her breath became shallow. For too long, he looked at her. The quiet between them felt thick, palpable. Before she could say anything to diffuse the soft but exhilarating tension between them, he scooped her up, placed her back where she’d been on the floor, and returned her pillow.

  “Sleep,” he said with a yawn, turning away from her.

  And after that, she very well couldn’t.

  * * *

  Iris awoke from her dream with a jolt. She was back in Club Uriel, still lying next to Jinn on his bed. She wondered for a moment what had woken her, and then Jinn gave a loud moan.

  “Ugh, no… please, no!”

  “Jinn?”

  She sat up. In their room, as Max slept beside them in his cot, Jinn had begun to stir, but he was still barely conscious. She felt his forehead with the back of her hand, beads of his hot sweat warming her skin.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she said when she noticed his shivering becoming more violent. “Jinn? Jinn?”

  “Don’t take him—” Jinn’s voice was hoarse, his head flopping from side to side. Squeezing his eyes shut, gasping for breath, he looked as if he were fighting something within himself. Was he dreaming? Caught in a nightmare?

  “Father!” Jinn’s hand flew up to his forehead, his breaths coming fast and furious as he began shaking his head, thrashing about.

  “Jinn!” Iris didn’t bother to call for Max or to even check to make sure he was still asleep. She sat on top of her circus partner, her legs straddling his lap as she held his wrists. “You’re going to be okay.”

  She might have been embarrassed under any other circumstances. Her bare legs hugged his pelvis, her short nightgown, courtesy of Cherice’s shoplifting, rode up to her hips. But watching Jinn struggle, nothing else mattered. She bent over, pressing her forehead against his, still holding his wrists, and willing him to calm down.

  “It’s okay,” she said again and again. “You’re okay.”

  Eventually, his breathing softened. His body stilled. And then she could feel him slipping his arm out of her grip.

  “Iris,” he said, this time with a gentleness that made her shiver. She sat back up. Jinn’s eyes were still closed, those long eyelashes fluttering. His breathing came more steadily; his lips opened slightly. “Iris… your voice… you…”

  Maybe his nightmare had finally become a dream. She watched him, his delicate face, with curiosity and relief until jolting with surprise as his rough palm suddenly found her naked arm. As his fingers began trailing up her skin.

  His eyes were not even half-open when he lifted himself up.

  Iris’s hands found his chest, her face flushing with heat as he laid his head against the crook of her neck.

  “Iris…” A hot whisper.

  “Jinn?” she said, suddenly unable to move as Jinn’s face began caressing her cheek. His lips touched the sensitive part of her neck so lightly she thought she might have imagined it.

  Her words caught in her throat, her heart pounding rapidly as Jinn slipped his arm around the small of her back.

  “J-just what kind of dream are you having?” she stuttered, but her thoughts went blank as she felt herself being drawn closer to him.

  A second kiss against her neck. Then another one. Jinn’s lips trailed up her neck skillfully as he held her body flush against his.

  “Iris…,” he said again. She was only barely listening when he added, “You can’t leave… I won’t leave either…”

  Her body burned with a sudden craving that frightened her. She tilted her head back, looking up at the dark ceiling, her legs still gripping his waist. “Leave? The circus?” she breathed. Had her escape from Coolie that night affected him that much?

  And then Jinn winced. Iris realized that her arms had slipped around his back. That she was holding him too tightly. With a jolt her mind began to work again. As he convulsed a little in pain, she pushed him back down gently and lifted herself off of him.

  “Sleep,” she told him, glancing at Max with a blush to confirm he was still asleep before climbing back into her own bed.

  Sleep. Neither of them would get much with her lying next to him. Least of all her. It was a lesson she’d already learned long ago.

  It was going to be a long night

  27

  THE NEXT ROUND WAS NOT for a few days. Officially, it was to give the remaining champions time to heal, but also to give Club Uriel time to lap up the stories Fool told them about the first. Iris was sure they were gossiping like hens on the second floor or in their parlor rooms at home after their business meetings or Parliament sessions.

  In the meantime, the next morning Iris stayed mostly in her room, tending to Jinn while he was on the mend, trying to forget their nighttime… incident… while waiting for him to wake up and be his grumpy self again.

  Max, rather unsettled from the first round, had decided to go out for a walk and didn’t return for most of the day. During this time, she changed into the gift Jinn had brought for her. Granny’s going-away gift had been a simple one: a peach blouse, its high guipure collar sheathing her long neck, its sleeves tighter around her arms than at the elbow. No corset, thank the heavens. Granny knew her. And a long skirt the color of green moss, the frills at the bottom brushing the bottom of her a
nkles. The embroidery along the front of her shirt, the intricate patterns. It was a sign of Granny’s love. No matter what their past had been, Granny loved her in the present. This gift, painstakingly sewn, was proof. And as Iris’s fingers played with the black ribbon around her neck, sewn in as a little bow tie, she knew that as surely as she knew her own love for the old woman. That love was a lifeline for her during these dark times.

  After the brutal first round, knowing that the other champions were living in the same building made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Even if they were on different floors, there was always a chance they’d bump into each other.

  Like this morning.

  “Cherice!” Iris saw the girl as soon as she left her room. “You all right?”

  Cherice held her bicep, swinging her arm around like a prizefighter. “Still a bit worn-out, but otherwise, I’ll live. Phew! All this for a little money!”

  A lot of money. But it was more than that. With money came freedom. Freedom from poverty, from hunger. From the limitations chaining them. And power. Resources. She was sure that was how the Committee baited most of their champions into this gruesome tournament. Only those with a damn good reason to put their lives on the line could agree to join. In that way, Iris shared something in common with everyone here—even those who had tried to kill her.

  She looked at Cherice, returning the girl’s friendly smile. Only one team could win the tournament. How brutal would this get? How long before friendships dissolved into bloodshed?

  But the two girls chatted anyway as they left the hallway and reached the staircase.

  “Hold on—” Cherice put her hand up to stop Iris. Iris had seen them too. Harry Whittle and the Whittle maid, Mary White. Only, the boy didn’t treat her as a servant at all. As soon as he spotted them, he grabbed Mary’s wrist and kept her behind him. It didn’t matter that she could still see over his head. He guarded her nonetheless.

  Team Hawkins had only just managed to survive a run-in with Henry’s team during the first round. Cherice and Henry stared each other down.