“Mr. Beasley said to tell you that he had a late night and that he’s got some work of his own today. He hopes he’ll be down to see you at dinner. Has anyone seen Mrs. Mumbles? She didn’t show up for breakfast.”
Lena choked and shook her head.
“Probably off catching mice” was Jimson’s flip reply.
Mrs. Pollet muttered to herself.
“I won’t be at dinner tonight, Mrs. Pollet. I’m meeting someone in town.” Lena realized that getting away discreetly might be harder than she thought. But at least this would show Jimson she had other interests than the library.
Jimson frowned. “Meeting your cousin, I suppose.”
Lena didn’t contradict him. “Mr. Beasley did say our evenings were free to do with as we pleased.” She got up to carry her plate to the sideboard. Her feet felt as if they had been pummeled after her barefoot travels the night before.
Jimson looked at her with concern. “You’re limping.”
“It must have been all those times up and down the library ladder yesterday.”
“Well, you rest your feet today. I’ll do the climbing. I’ll see you in the library in a little while.” He left whistling, with one hand in the pocket where he’d put his letter. Perhaps he’s gone off to read it in private, Lena thought, and then was annoyed at herself for wondering.
On a laurel bush outside the window a spider had strung an intricate web. It was hung with a sparkling drop of dew. It reminded Lena of a delicate necklace with a single jewel. She gazed at it, hoping to slow her anxious thoughts. Mr. Beasley had had a late night. She was sure she’d heard voices. Perhaps he knew all about her midnight visit to the library and was waiting to confront her later. Breakfast sat heavily in her stomach. She checked the clock. There was just time to look through the medical drawings if she hurried, and then she could return the sketchbook before Jimson noticed it was gone. If she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t be the first to the library to liberate Mrs. Mumbles.
LENA REMEMBERED THE ILLUSTRATIONS IN DR. CRINK’S OFFICE. She had spent years contemplating them while waiting on the examination table for the doctor to measure her stretching hands and feet. The skeletal system and circulatory system gave multicolored peeks into the body. Femur, tibia, ulna, twenty-three tiny bones in the hand—they had all fascinated her, all but the chart with an illustration of a child spotted with raised smallpox lesions. That picture she avoided altogether.
Sitting on her bed now, she flipped through the pages of illustrations in Mr. Beasley’s sketchbook and held her breath. Her hands shook. The sketches spanned years of his medical practice, detailing observations of the human body. Most could be found in any illustrated medical text, but not all. There was the tall woman with the small misshapen growths labeled ANNUNCIUS SYNDROME. Lena stared at it for a long time. What must it feel like to have tiny shriveled wings growing from your shoulder blades? Had they always been that small, or had they once unfurled like the giant wings of an angel? Even though the year and page number were carefully recorded under each sketch, the illustrations were not in chronological order. They appeared to be in disarray, as if the pages had fallen from the sketchbook many times before.
Lena sorted through the first few pages and found what she was looking for: a handwritten table of contents for the sketchbook. She let her eye skim the page. Between “gangles” and “goiter,” she found the word she had been both searching for and dreading: “goblinism.” She made a careful search for the page but found nothing. Page was missing, or perhaps had never been completed. Would it show hands and feet like hers or something else entirely? She punched her pillow in frustration. It would be better to know the truth.
What if the illustration had been completed and was lying loose on the library floor or buried in a box with other books and papers? She remembered Mr. Beasley’s casual comment when he noticed her hands and feet: “I’ve seen these traits before.” Where had he observed hands like hers, in his practice or in Scree? If there were others with hands and feet like hers, perhaps Dr. Crink was right. Perhaps it was a latent characteristic of goblinism. Unless, of course, it was merely a chromosomal abnormality that other people shared.
Lena thumbed back to the sketch of the woman with wings. Where had Mr. Beasley observed such a person? And the boy with the forked tongue? She shuddered. It was impossible to think that she might be like one of them—a freak, Peculiar, a nonperson with different genetic makeup from the rest of the human race. She pressed the cover closed. Jimson must not look at the sketchbook again. She would have to search for the missing page and perhaps find a way to speak with Mr. Beasley about it privately. He would be able to tell her what was wrong with her body. But could she trust him?
Tonight she would meet the marshal in town. She’d tell him about some of what she had discovered in Mr. Beasley’s house, about his visits to Cloister, about the strange artifacts in his library. But she wouldn’t mention the sketchbook—not yet, not until she discovered what Mr. Beasley knew about people like her. Meanwhile, she would keep the sketchbook.
Lena checked the clock. It was time to be in the library. If asked, she would tell Jimson that she had delivered the sketchbook to Mr. Beasley’s sitting room, where he would find it when he returned. She slipped it under the pillow on her bed. It wasn’t a lie exactly, she reasoned. She would return it to Mr. Beasley as soon as she had talked to the marshal and was better able to assess her employer’s character.
Lena reached the library before Jimson. Mrs. Mumbles was waiting by the door, eager to be let out.
“You dreadful cat. Why didn’t you come when I called you last night?”
The cat merely looked at Lena reproachfully with her strange mismatched eyes, whisked her tail, and scooted through the door in search of her breakfast. When Jimson arrived, his chipper spirits seemed to have soured slightly, and Lena wondered if it was the contents of the letter that had changed his mood. But it was impossible for Jimson to remain out of sorts for long. It took only the discovery of a book with illustrations of shrunken heads to revive his spirits, and the morning passed quickly, followed by a brief lunch served by Mrs. Pollet right in the library.
“Mr. Beasley doesn’t usually allow any food in the library,” she reminded them, just as she had the other day. “Make sure you don’t touch any of the curiosities with food on your fingers.”
“Mrs. Pollet, I am a trained librarian. I love books like my family. Of course I would never consider dirtying their pages with particles of food,” Jimson replied, disguising a smile. “And you did warn us last time.”
“We’ll be very careful. Thank you for the sandwiches,” Lena said.
“Well, then.” Mrs. Pollet sniffed. “I’ve made molasses cookies. Don’t eat too many.”
Lena wondered if Leticia Pollet wasn’t growing just a tiny bit fond of both of them.
For someone who had never had much experience lying, Lena felt that she was doing a decent job. Not that she condoned lying, but if one had to, it was important to do it well, she thought. She left both Jimson and Mr. Beasley with the impression she was meeting her cousin for dinner without having deliberately misled them. She just never corrected their presuppositions. The marshal had promised to send a cab for her, and, just as promised, at six p.m. a gleaming black horse and cab arrived at Zephyr House. Lena had pulled her hair up in a twist and polished her alligator boots. She checked that the sketchbook was still safely under her pillow, and with a notebook and pen in her purse set out for Knoster.
The carriage lights flickered against the early dark. Lena could feel the damp chill from the sea and this time was glad to be in the confines of the carriage. The lights of Knob Knoster twinkled on the hillsides, and Harbor Row welcomed her after the ride through the dark and empty countryside. The driver took her to the Parasol, which boasted a lively crowd and music from the speakeasy, while the tearoom was all but deserted. As planned, Thomas Saltre was waiting. He rose to meet her and pulled out her chair.
“
Miss Mattacascar,” he said with a slight bow.
Lena found that she was trembling. Now that she was here, face-to-face with the marshal, all her noble plans seemed foolish. What business did she have passing on any news about her employer, who had shown her nothing but kindness?
“You look quite glowing. The sea air must be doing you good.” The marshal eased his way back into his chair. Again Lena was aware of his powerful build. How out of place he seemed in a tearoom. “I’ve already asked Maggie to bring us some clam chowder, specialty of the house tonight.”
“Thank you.” Lena’s voice floated, pale and thin even in her own ears.
“I trust you’ve brought me some information about Zephyr House?” The marshal flipped open a small notebook and removed a pen from his breast pocket.
Lena described the magnificent library in detail, becoming more and more animated as she talked.
At first the marshal made a few notes, but as she talked on, he laid his pen aside. “I can see that the job suits you, but I really need information about Mr. Beasley. Not just about his library.”
“He’s an inventor and believes steam is the energy of the future—”
Again the marshal cut her off. “Anything suspicious that you’ve noticed? I hear that for the average citizen it is almost impossible to enter Scree these days.” He looked at her from under his thick brows.
Lena hesitated at the implied threat. What information could she offer as a bone to satisfy his curiosity? She would throw out an offering. “Well, I am in the library all day, so I don’t know what is going on in the rest of the house. I do know that Mr. Beasley frequently travels to Cloister. In fact, he brought back an illuminated book for the library.”
Now Thomas Saltre sat forward in his chair. “Cloister, you say? That’s very interesting. We have a man watching the sisters there. Progressive lot of subversives. Remember the man who helped the convict escape the train?”
When Lena nodded, he continued. “The man was dressed as a nun. Don’t be thinking he took that costume without the sisters’ permission. They’ve been helping criminals all along.”
“If you know that, why hasn’t anything been done?”
“Because that’s just the beginning. It’s not only criminals they’re aiding and abetting, it’s Peculiars too.” He leaned farther forward, and Lena could see the hairs on his mustache bristle as he spoke. His voice dropped to a thick, conspiratorial whisper that made her feel she was receiving privileged information. “There’s also rumors of medical experimentation going on—unnatural acts. I wouldn’t be surprised if Beasley wasn’t up to his eyeballs in whatever it is. He used to be a medical man, you know.”
Lena tried to swallow, but a piece of bread seemed lodged in her throat. She reached for her glass of water. “What sort of experimentation?”
“Let me ask you a question. What kind of a man would give up a successful medical practice to live in some godforsaken place unless he was a man with something to hide? A man up to no good? Did you ever think of that? I don’t know if Tobias Beasley is performing medical experiments on Peculiars along with those unnatural sisters or if he’s taking money from Peculiars and helping them disappear across the border. Either way, whatever he’s doing is illegal.”
“But his money comes from coal mining. His father owned mines in Scree.” The marshal’s questions unsettled her. The images from the medical sketches were still fresh in her mind.
The marshal leaned back and shot her a long look. “Do you know that for a fact? Why would a man with a library like his hire a boy like Jimson Quiggley, who doesn’t know the first things about libraries?”
Before she could stop herself, Lena rushed to Jimson’s defense. “He’s smart and a hard worker, and he knows a great deal about science. How do you know about Jimson, anyway?”
Thomas Saltre batted her question away as if he were swatting a fly. “For that matter, why do you think he hired you?” And he let his gaze linger on her gloved hands.
Lena slid them under the table so he would not see them tremble. Once again the marshal felt dangerous, his usual charm gone.
“All I’m saying is that you need to be very careful. A man like Beasley is smart. There’s no telling what he’d stoop to. You’re providing our country a great service, but you mustn’t hold back information out of loyalty. I’m here to help you in whatever way I can.”
But Lena barely heard his last words. She was thinking of the sketchbook, of the missing pages, of her own hands and feet, and of the strange noises she had heard at night.
At the end of the uncomfortable meal, Margaret Flynn joined them. This time she was wearing a garnet necklace, and there was a plum feather in her hair. “How are you, missy? Has Thomas got you working for the government?” Then she bellowed her brash laugh. “Don’t let him alarm you. He’s a serious fellow—all work, all the time.” She looked at Lena fondly. “Wouldn’t I have liked to have a daughter like you! I would have called her Daisy, but providence didn’t see fit . . . Can I get you two anything else?”
Lena, who was looking for a means of escape, used this as her cue. “No, I really must get back to Zephyr House. Mr. Beasley will worry if I’m late.” She stood up.
The marshal did as well. “I’ll have the cab return you. And Lena, what you do for me, you do for your country and for your father. Speaking of your father, I have some news.” He hooked his arm through hers as he escorted her to the door of the restaurant. Lena could smell his spicy aftershave. “One of my contacts says that he met with your father in Scree last spring. He’s been working in the mining industry. You might also be interested in this.” He reached inside his suit jacket and removed a folded paper. “A little advance notice. These flyers will be distributed in population centers by the government next week.” Lena unfolded the plain white paper and read silently while the marshal waited.
Regarding the Nature of Peculiars
There live among us members of the Peculiar race, who, because of inborn differences, are not fully human.
• They exist without souls.
• It is in their nature to choose evil over good and strife over harmony and to infect civil society with wild and subversive behaviors.
• If left unchecked, they will erode the fabric of our society.
Therefore, all who are determined by blood or behavior to be of the Peculiar race will be taken into custody and transferred to Scree, where they may live among others of their kind.
Because many Peculiars bear no specific identifiable marks designating them as such, it is important that citizens be vigilant. Citizens who suspect the presence of a Peculiar are encouraged to report the individual to their local authorities without delay. All reports will be held in confidence, so that citizens may perform their national duty without fear of recrimination.
We are committed to keeping our borders safe. The government has provided military guards along the borders of Scree. Persons wishing to travel to Scree for business must be able to show documentation proving their identity and business plans upon entering and leaving Scree.
Lena’s hands grew cold and her mouth dry. She looked up.
“I thought you’d want to know. Travel into Scree grows more difficult all the time without the right connections. And I’d hate to have anything happen to you.” The marshal caught her eyes and held them long enough to make Lena’s heart thump. He brushed her cheek with one hand. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch.”
Thomas Saltre stepped back and gave Lena a final long look. Then he strolled off into the night, leaving her staring at his retreating muscular back, still feeling the warmth of his touch on her cheek. She refolded the flyer and tucked it into her purse.
During the bumpy ride back to Zephyr House, Lena attempted to sift through thoughts that shifted like sand. Her father had been seen in Scree. Did that mean that the marshal would now hunt him down there? A strange longing filled Lena, as if her heart had been scooped out and hollowed. It was more pre
ssing than ever that she get to Scree. She imagined herself confronting the man who had left her so long ago. What would she say? But her heart gave no answer.
She leaned back against the tufted seat and closed her eyes. Everything the marshal had said about Mr. Beasley aligned with what she knew. What if he was doing some type of experimentation? And yet she couldn’t reconcile that idea with the man she knew. On the other hand, hadn’t Mr. Beasley himself said that we’re all more than meets the eye?
Tonight the marshal had at first been all business, fierce in his determination. But then . . . his hand on her cheek. And now this terrible flyer. She buried her face in her hands. How long before someone suspected her? Could even the marshal protect her then?
A WEEK PASSED. EVERY DAY LENA WAITED FOR NEWS OF THE flyer to reach Zephyr House. It was difficult to concentrate. More than once Jimson asked her a question and Lena found that she had no idea what he had said.
The first storm of the season battered Zephyr House. Rain lashed the windows. The sea grew angry and took on the color of iron. Lena spent the days alone, working in the library. One morning Mr. Beasley dragged Jimson off early to work on one of his pet projects—a flying machine based on research by Stringfellow and Cayley. She was surprised how slowly the time passed without Jimson’s enthusiastic chatter. At first she was delighted. Jimson’s absence gave her time to search the library for the missing goblin sketch. But as the day wore on, Lena became more and more discouraged. Despite her best efforts, she found no trace of the missing paper. The marshal’s words had kept her awake for many nights, and she nodded off several times over her work.
The evening proved no better. Even though they all ate together, Jimson and Mr. Beasley were deep in conversation about the lightest materials for fabricating the boilers necessary for steam-powered flight. Mr. Beasley believed that he had discovered a way to circumvent the problem. Lena watched the two heads bent over diagrams—one dark and curly, the other pale and bald—and felt lonely.
The Peculiars Page 10
