Boneseeker

by Brynn Chapman

  Father steps forward, staring Stygian full on despite the fact he’s a head taller. “Sir. You’ve forgotten innovative and cunning and possesses her father’s talent for problem solving. Is this expedition not about bones?”

  “Of course.”

  “I dare venture no one on this eastern seaboard could match Miss Holmes’s knowledge of bones.”

  “Arabella is a genius,” I add helpfully.

  I dare to glance her way. And promptly wish I hadn’t.

  Arabella’s face is tinged purple with indignation.

  She stomps forward, closing the distance in seconds.

  With a toss of her head, the tumult of curls flips from her face. Her blue eyes are vicious. And beautiful.

  “I am a better scientist at twenty than half your staff of port-swilling, armchair-philosophizing, smoking-jacketed morons. All debate, no action.”

  Earnest gasps behind me. My arms tense, Stygian’s eyes go wild and bright.

  Father puts a placating hand on her shoulder. “Arabella….”

  She shrugs it off.

  “John, you know it to be true.”

  His fingers land back on her shoulder and squeeze. “Arabella, decorum, remember? Surely all those lessons we taught in the parlor have not been forgotten?”

  She averts her glare and her chest heaves, taking in huge, calming breaths.

  Stygian’s color rises to rival Arabella’s; his black eyes murderous.

  He speaks over her head, as if ignoring a naughty child’s behavior. “Besides her obvious impulsive nature, she is a woman. Not all the men on board the steamship shall be museum employees, and I cannot vouch for their characters. She will be in danger.”

  Father’s responding smile is wry. Arabella’s head rises and their eyes lock in unspoken communication.

  Father turns to Stygian. “You need not worry about her safety. Arabella is not like other girls.”

  “Yes, I am wholly aware,” he spits, viper-like. His eyes narrow to slits as his stare bores onto her, dripping venom.

  A protective surge flares in my chest and my teeth grind together.

  Father interjects, “Henry will also be on the voyage. I know he would be willing to assume responsibility for her safety.”

  I nod, stand ramrod straight and square my shoulders. We’re almost nose to nose as he unleashes the black look on me.

  “Is this true, Mr. Henry Watson?”

  “Of course.”

  Arabella’s jaw pops open and snaps shut, as my father claws her shoulder.

  “We will convene on this matter in a week’s time. Put it to a vote with the museum council.”

  Stygian spins on his boot heel and exits the lab, eyeing the splintered door as he rounds the corner.

  I exhale, relief flooding through me.

  I turn, and smile at Arabella. “What went wrong? With your experiment?”

  Arabella is not relieved. Arabella is trembling all over.

  She whirls, heading for the hallway. Yelling over her shoulder, “I. Don’t. Need. Protection. From any man.”

  She stomps out the door in the opposite direction as Stygian. And is gone.

  The lingering black smoke is the only proof she was ever present.

  All three of us stare at the spot she’s vacated.

  “Boldness, be my friend,” father murmurs.

  I keep my gaze straight ahead, but can’t help my smile. “It will have to be.”

  Chapter Two

  Beliefs, shaken

  Bella’s Laboratory

  Arabella

  I stiffen as footsteps draw close, echoing down the hall. My eyes dart around the state of blackened, sooty chaos that was once my lab. Two hours later, at least the smoke has cleared.

  I extract a tiny femur from the box of bones, spinning it round through my fingers and sigh. “At least the specimens were spared.”

  I force my eyes from the partially erected skeleton and toward the entry.

  Footsteps echo off the hallway’s high ceilings and stop, as if the visitor is pausing.

  His tall form steps through the doorframe, overcoat drenched from the downpour lambasting my windows.

  Henry. My heart does a strange little flip in my chest, resulting in a cartwheeling rhythm of beats.

  I’ve never been apt with words. I think in pictures, as my father before me.

  Since my unusual childhood, my mind visualizes my feelings as the organ of my heart, sequestered in a metal box. Its outside covered with countless locks and bolts.

  To keep everyone out. To love is dangerous.

  It now throbs against the confines of its chamber.

  Henry removes his hat, spinning it in a self-conscious circle in his hands. His hair is darker than when we were children. It was almost white-blonde. And his eyes….

  “Your eyes. I don’t remember them being that color, Henry.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Still blue. Like my heart.”

  I roll my eyes. “Please, Henry. I know you, remember. Or at least I did. Your poetry will have no effect on me.”

  I flush.

  I’ve done it again. I can never discern polite conversation from taboo. I speak my thoughts, directly. Which is why I lasted all of four months at boarding school. And why I was expelled for fighting.

  Practically the societal kiss-of-death for a woman.

  Henry’s mouth curls up on the sides into a closed lip smirk. “Poetry has no effect? Pity, that. I find it most effective with the female persuasion. Arabella, you’ve changed quite a bit, as well….”

  Henry’s hands fidget and the motion triggers images.

  My mind time-travels. A tinier, happier version of us darts through my memory and across the English countryside, dirty and mischievous.

  I’m instantly at ease. It’s as if we’ve never parted. Our four year estrangement melting away.

  How easily I forgive him. Too easily.

  I see it too, in his eyes.

  Same old Henry.

  Except even larger and strikingly more handsome when last I saw him. My mind replays our final goodbye as he stepped onto the boat, bound for boarding school. The very-rare pain that had gripped my heart.

  He steps closer and gently wraps his fingers around my elbow and the images flicker away.

  Little shocks of excitement spark up my arm, and the heat spreads as my flush deepens. My face might catch fire at any second.

  His voice drops an octave, his face becoming all seriousness. “Listen, I know you were offended by father’s offer of my protection. He was merely placating Stygian. I haven’t forgotten your mind, your brilliance. You thrashed me in almost every subject, so please, friends again?”

  I am staring. Stop staring. The words, spontaneous combustion, keep popping in my head.

  I shiver and hope he doesn’t notice.

  My mind flicks to our singular kiss…which changed everything.

  I’d grown to detest that fateful kiss as it had wholly altered our comfortable, easy friendship into…something else entirely. Ironically, the coming together of the kiss, kept us awkwardly apart till the day he stepped on the boat. Wasting our final days together.

  I shake my head, banning the memory. “Yes, Henry. I’d like to be friends again. I thought we still were.”

  He smiles. “Good.” His eyes pick through the piles of bones. “Tell me more particulars about the expedition. I have only heard the basics. It’s been a whirlwind since our arrival.”

  My mind sharpens. The blazing fire of obsession burning off all other thought.

  I think of father, huddled over a singular piece of paper, unmoving for hours, working through a problem.

  I cannot help my smile.

  Henry smiles back; his eyes squint playfully as he bites his bottom lip.

  I catch my breath, distracted.

  This is a first. Once aboard the obsession juggernaut, I never swerve or falter. A deductive a
utomaton. Just like father.

  He clears his throat. “Arabella, the expedition?”

  My mind clicks as a litany of images invade my cortex. “Remember the massive storm a few months prior; the one that snapped off tree tops like matchsticks?”

  “Yes, I read of it.”

  “It unearthed a hand in upstate New York, and the museum acquired it. It is currently locked safely away in Earnest’s office. It’s twice the size of your own, Henry. And you are a tall man.”

  He worries his lip. “Ape?”

  “It has 27 bones, the same as our hands. The sheer size; it would be larger than any ape I’ve ever seen. I’ve spent hours examining it.”

  “Yes, I’ll wager you have.”

  White-hot anger flashes. I’m quite used to men having no idea what to do with me and my mind.

  “The results are inconclusive. That comment was very droll. So you suggest more feminine pursuits, Henry? Has boarding school narrowed your thoughts about women? Expect me to knit, to play an instrument and speak when spoken to?”

  My eyes flick to challenge his, but he merely smirks and my anger dampens as quickly as it flared. My cheeks flush at my outburst.

  His eyebrows rise, but his expression is unaffected. “Your temperament still matches that hair, Bella. Well, that’s a relief. I know how I may be of use.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Your sense of humor, my dear. You’ve lost it. Finding it will become priority. I can only assume the lack of my presence contributed to its demise,” he pauses, blue eyes scrutinizing.

  I feel like one of my specimens, I’m the one under the microscope.

  “Yes, well, father has a very—”

  “Dry sense of humor, I know. I was around him as a boy, too. It’s just, in order to survive amidst these egomaniacal men of science—you must learn to control it. Stygian obviously doesn’t want you on the team, then?”

  “No. He was vexed that I was actually granted a curation position. He doesn’t believe in women venturing out of the home. Or being worth more than child-deposit-boxes.”

  A memory flashes. Stygian’s hands, rough against my bare arm.

  The hot color on my face deepens. I turn away quickly, but he catches it.

  “Arabella? What aren’t you telling me? It’s more than that. Did he try to woo you? And you spurned him?”

  I laugh, and almost taste the bitter. “Woo is a very interesting way to put it.”

  Henry goes rigid, clutching my elbow again. He spins me to face him but I cast my eyes to the floor.

  Father warned me of my eyes. How they never, ever lie.

  Henry’s warm, large fingers grasp under my chin, turning my face up to force my gaze. “Did he—? What happened?”

  Henry’s face glows a furious red, a muscle bulging in his jaw.

  “I’m fine.” I blush when I realize what he’s asking. “It’s nothing, it’s over. He is not worth the worry. I’m sorry Henry. I just, well, I’m sure you remember. I don’t—I’m not like other girls. I just can’t be. I gave up trying.”

  Especially after the fiasco that was our kiss.

  He nods, nostrils flaring as he exhales through his teeth. His long body eases, his thigh brushing mine as he relaxes against the lab bench.

  His hand slips too slowly from my cheek. His eyes skip across my face, trying to read me.

  “I remember. But I also remember you were my favorite playmate. I never knew what adventure you’d dream up.”

  I smile. I must get him off the Stygian subject.

  “One side has proposed the skeleton is a Nephilim.”

  “From the Bible, the book of Jude?”

  I nod, feeling the hair on my arms rise. I rub furiously, trying to quiet them. “Yes, the angels who forsook their dwelling in the heavens—”

  “To mate with women. Their offspring were giants.”

  I nod. “Nephilim. The mighty men of old. I plan to write a paper disputing it. Proving the bones are Neanderthal.”

  Henry cocks his head, frowning. “Really? Without any data, you’re already forming a hypothesis? That does not sound like any Holmes I’ve ever met.”

  “I believe in science, Henry. And in myself. Nothing else.”

  “Ah.”

  His expression is so smug my hands ball into fists.

  “What does that mean?”

  He shrugs.

  I begin to pace. “This position at the Mutter…is everything. Father called in a myriad of favors to secure this placement. I’ve never fit in. Not in sewing circles or with giggling girls or with anyone, anywhere. But here.” I stare up at the bones, with more affection than I know to be acceptable. “The museum is a home built of science. This I understand, nay I excel in. And if I was forced to leave…”

  Henry’s gaze is rapt, never leaving my face and he swallows. “I recall one other place you always fit perfectly.”

  I bite my lip, perplexed. “Your father’s morgue?”

  He rolls his eyes and steps closer once again. “With me, you intolerably obtuse girl.”

  Heat and fear for my heart flush my cheeks.

  “As for science, I have witnessed events without explanation,” he says quietly.

  “Preposterous.”

  My embarrassment fizzles to dread as I see it, over his shoulder, on the windowsill.

  The black Swallowtail butterfly should not be out. Out in the rain. And it’s almost too late in the season. The coppery taste of fear floods my mouth.

  The butterfly alights from the sill, coming to rest on the case. Its wings beat slowly, as if mourning its fallen, under-glass comrades.

  Henry registers my expression and follows my gaze. “What is the meaning of all those butterflies? I thought you were strictly a bone collector?”

  A chorus of voices silences my reply. A small crowd approaches, their laughter growing louder as they draw near.

  Henry’s face drains.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I raise my hand, and it hovers above his arm. I want to touch him, to be bold.

  But the opportunity passes as Dr. Earnest, Dr. Watson and two women enter; their raucous laughter ringing in my ears.

  My hand drops back to my side.

  The women’s glares simultaneously rove over my unfashionable dress, my ink-stained fingers and bestow identical cat-like challenges disguised as smiles.

  Women, as a rule, hate me.

  John motions to Henry. “Henry, may I present Dr. Earnest’s daughter, Priscilla.”

  Priscilla bats her eyelashes at Henry, tapered fingers playfully twisting a perfect blonde spiral.

  “So wonderful to meet you, Henry. Will you be accompanying us to dinner?”

  Henry’s eyes find mine. “I was going to help Arabella—”

  Dr. Watson cuts across him. “Of course he will. Arabella won’t mind, will you dear?”

  John leads the women, one on each arm, toward the door. He launches a death-stare and a stiff nod over his shoulder for Henry to follow.

  I quickly turn away and bend down to sweep the soot and broken glass from the floor to hide my expression.

  “Arabella…I shall see you tomorrow.”

  “Of course.”

  When I hear his footsteps fade away, I turn to stare at the butterfly, still batting its wings at a maddeningly slow pace. As if it languishes to torture me.

  “Go. Away.”

  It takes flight, soaring through the air, weaving in and out of the suspended skeletons, and rebelliously lands two feet from my hand. I blow, hard enough to flutter the black wings and it finally retreats toward the window.

  I track it, boots frozen to the floor, until it finally slips out the window.

  “Henry, Henry, you are a show dog to be trotted about.”

  What concern of it is mine, what Henry thinks, or about John’s matchmaking schemes?

  A worry, heavy as a granite ball has lodged in my throat. My mu
scles convulsively attempt to swallow it.

  Father’s voice echoes; burned into my memory, after a particularly awkward ball. Delivered in his usual take-no-prisoners, way.

  “Arabella, a wife-in-the-making, you are not. But science, perhaps that may be your beau.” And then quietly, as he walked away, “I hope it will be enough.”

  I jam my eyes shut. A foreign feeling wraps around my windpipe, threatening strangulation. My hands cover my mouth as I struggle to master my breathing.

  A sharp pain throbs in my chest as if the glass shards have spirited off the floor and embedded into my beating heart.

  I feel color heat my face as I replay my confession to Henry, about this place…and his response. I’m struck with the urge to find him—to tell him more.

  I sit still and close my eyes and inhale deep breaths. I never, ever reveal the inner workings of my mind.

  But this was always the problem…and the draw of Henry Watson. He made me confess my heart.

  I picture it rattling its accession that I find him, tell him, hold nothing back.

  “Be quiet.”

  The tittering girls on John’s arms fill my head, mocking me.

  I thought I was sensible. I struggle to name this unfamiliar emotion.

  Jealousy. I am jealous.

  Chapter Three

  Affecting Revelations

  Henry

  I match father’s quick strides as we hurry across the Mutter campus toward the museum proper.

  “Are you ready then, Henry?” Father’s voice is light, but his eyes are serious. “Stygian is not to be trifled with; all the months studying in Paris come down to this…”

  “I know,” I snap. I clear my throat. “Sorry. Nerves.”

  “Of course.”

  The molds. The doctors here are mad-keen for them.

  Moulage is the more civilized name for my wax figures which capture the shape and size of disease, so that physicians may more easily classify the afflictions.

  The Philadelphia Indian summer is fading and I shiver as a breeze ruffles my hair.