Boneseeker (13 page)

A multi-colored shower of fall leaves spiral down and dance in circles as they’re caught in the updraft.

“The farm is about two miles due north. You handled yourself remarkably well with the…attacker. Tell me the history of that boot. I’ve read of such contraptions, but never seen one first-hand.”

I smile and resist the urge to finger the knife strapped to my thigh. “Father, you know. Before he would give his blessing, for my appointment at the Mutter—he insisted I undergo certain…trainings.”

“Really. Why am I not surprised? Such as?”

Henry’s eyes soften, but the rest of his face remains stubbornly rigid.

“He had a retired military friend tutor me…in cane fighting, and self-defense.”

“Would that retired-military-friend be my father?”

I ignore the question. “Together, they created several contraptions
,
all to ease his mind. It doesn’t seem to have worked. He still writes me constantly, and becomes incensed if I don’t immediately respond. I am quick about it, as I don’t fancy a visit until I am certain my position is secure.”

Henry’s eyes turn queer. An expression I cannot place. “As we are a scientific team, we must discuss our differing opinions. And it is best to do it now, before anyone can overhear our disagreement. We must be, or at least appear, united.”

“Proceed.”

Henry’s eyes sharpen. “When my father finally gave his blessing that I could accept the position at the Mutter, I visited every museum and library in London ... ” His voice is cautionary as he attempts to sound diplomatic.

I feel the irritation burning around my collar. It’s irrational, but I can’t seem to stop it.

“What, pray tell did you find?”

“Have you read nothing? You are just accepting the assumption of Darwin’s hypothesis of natural selection?”

“Yes.” I turn my chin up in defiance and meet his gaze. “Darwin’s theory is scientific. Not a bunch of voodoo, designed to temper the sting of death.”

Henry’s mouth spasms. He jerks back on the reins, halting the mare. A rare blaze of emotional comprehension flares.

His mother. He’s thinking of his mother. I must sound so very cruel.

My mind flashes a memory of a crumpled little Henry. Three crumpled men, really.

John, cradling the boys to him, while father paced helplessly before them.

The telegram from my uncle Mycroft, wanting to visit. They argued viciously, then. I’d never seen John so angry.

“No, do not let him come,” John told father. “Our lives are complicated enough right now.”

“He is concerned…”

John’s voice was fierce, “So am I. He lost his say about her, remember?”

Father nodded, and stared
at me
. “Too True, Watson. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

It took years till the Watsons were sound, once again.

I wondered for many years, why father stared
at me
that day. How did I figure in with Uncle Mycroft?

Henry flips his bag around to his front, returning my mind to the present. He reaches in and extracts a stack of parchments in his gloved hand.

He clears his throat. “I may not have a map with pins, nor a photographic memory—but I am perfectly capable of doing my own research. Apparently the United States has had many archaeological discoveries involving giants. In Minnesota, in 1888, seven skeletons were unearthed, each seven to eight feet tall. In West Virginia, in 1884, a skeleton measuring seven feet, six inches was found in a temple-like chamber. This was a report from the Smithsonian. I have a friend there. You think
The Smithsonian
is forging data?”

“No, of course not. Those skeletons are Neanderthal men. A race that developed prior to humans, from apes.”

Henry shakes his head. “This isn’t like you. The Arabella I knew would never-ever write a conclusion or form an opinion till that red-head was bursting with facts. You are thinking with your heart, not your mind. There’s something deeper. What’re you not telling me? As your scientific partner I demand your honesty.”

Hot, searing anger floods my nose and cheeks. “I believe in
myself
. I’ve seen no evidence of a higher power in my score of years. There is only science and rules.”

Henry glares back, nostrils flaring as he jams the papers back into his pack. “No evidence? You’ve never seen
anything
out of the ordinary?”

“Every day. There is always an answer.”

He smirks and I want to slap it off.

He’s staring behind me. Chills erupt. I know what is there. I don’t want to turn.

“Really?”

His eyes dart over my head and lock. “Always an answer. What about them, Arabella?”

I finally relent, and turn.

The blasted butterflies.

The branch is cluttered with five hundred black and blue wings—wings beating in an ordered, beautiful,
taunting
synchrony.

Explain us. Explain us
. Their little black bodies proclaim.

I bite down hard on my bottom lip and taste the blood as my chest heaves with anger.

Henry moves the horse closer, his eyes calm now. His voice drops. His tone is low and melodic, like a lover. For a brief second, I picture our bodies intertwined.

“How do we explain them, Arabella? Your scent notwithstanding—it’s too late in the season, and their multitude? I’m beginning to see a pattern…”

Emotions battle in my heart; the Holmes side flares in anger at my inability to rationally explain away their wretched existence, the other, the missing side…makes me feel sad and hopeful and scared that I’m hopeful.

Another bolt is thrown on the heart-box. And I struggle not to wrench it open.

Just be done with it and give it to him.

I shake my head, releasing his gaze. “You win, Henry. I cannot explain them. They defy every hypothesis I’ve ever formed.” I glare at them.

His gloved hand takes mine. “It isn’t a contest Arabella. I just want to illustrate that science cannot explain
everything
, and at times, I abhor its arrogance. Amazing, unexplainable events happen every day. Let’s just keep our minds open. To possibilities.”

The flock of black lifts, darting and swooping across to the open field beside us.

My lips twitch in a small smile, and I nod. “To possibilities, then.”

Inklings

Upstate New York

Henry

Our horses clop into a long, meandering lane shielded by a carriage path of gigantic oaks. At its end is a crooked, white farmhouse; it’s chimney out of point and leaning.

Arabella shivers hard enough I hear her teeth rattle. The overhanging tree-tunnel is so thick and overgrown the sun’s rays are almost completely blotted out. Our horses step over dappled spots of sunlight.

My mare shudders and with a violent shake of her head, halts and whinnies. I lurch sideways, grabbing the saddle horn as she stutter-steps.

“Whoa, girl.”

Arabella’s mount skitters, backing up. She pats its neck. “Shh. Shh. What’s wrong?”

The horse rears and Bella grips the saddle horn as its front hooves slam back into the dirt.

The mare’s ears flick flat against her head, twitching in panic.

“Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Arabella croons, leaning down onto its neck, unflustered despite almost being unseated.

The mare’s ears tick up, one at a time. She reluctantly steps forward at Arabella’s urging, still chomping her bit.

Gratefully, my own follows suit. I decidedly
do not
have Arabella’s gift with animals.

“That’s odd.” I scan the fields, the trees, the house, looking for danger.

Arabella’s eyes are sweeping, identical to mine. “Not really, Henry. Animals’ senses are much more acute than our own. For instance, before an earthquake, dogs often act queerly.”

I smile, but don’t pull my eyes away from the house. “I hadn’t heard that.” She detects the hint of mirth in my tone.

“Nothing other-worldly. It has to do with gravity.”

“Of course.”

She meets my gaze, long enough to shoot me a dagger-eye.

My breath catches as we leave the tunnel. To the right of the house is a massive green cornfield. And to the left…

Arabella has halted the horse and stares. Pumpkins.

A sea of orange rolls out to the horizon.

“I’ve never seen so many.”

Arabella smiles. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

I ease my mount alongside hers. “Bella.”

“Hmm?” She’s still enthralled by the pumpkins.

“Are we a team?” I hesitate. “Like your father and mine?”

She ponders. “Better than your father and mine.”

I smile but her eyes instantly narrow. “Speak plainly, Henry. What do you wish to ask?”

“This will be our last moment alone. You. Are not being honest with me.”

Her eyelids sink. “Whatever do you mean?”

Anger threatens, but I strive to control it. It will not extract information, nay, a fight is what she wants—to distract me.

“True partners divulge any and all pertinent information.”

“Well, that is debatable, father—”

I hold up a finger. “One. What is on that inventory list? And although I rather enjoyed the disguise, the contents were important enough to make you skulk about in the worst area of Philadelphia, and be almost raped by a lusty, pimpled teener. Really, I think you broke the poor lad’s heart.”

She stares, red lips pursed, obviously contemplating.

I forge on. “Two. The morning after the attack. I saw.”

“You saw what?” Her face flushes scarlet.

“You staring. Stygian has a tattoo. I caught you looking at it.”

“I confess myself impressed, Mr. Watson.”

“Bella,
bloody-well what is it?”

So much for not letting her bait you
.

“Giurio di vendicarmi.”

Latin. I’ve always hated Latin.

I force my mind to recollect. She doesn’t wait.

“I swear to avenge myself.” Her eyes sharpen. That photographic data machine behind them turning on.

“That is what the tattoo says?”

“Yes. Stygian has one. As did the man who attacked me on the steamer.”

Worry hardens like a musket-ball in my stomach. “Do you know what it means?”

“I think so.”

“Mr. Watson? Is that you?” A decrepit voice calls from the farmhouse.

Blast.

I do not know if I can behave normally. I must know. How much danger is she truly in?

I raise my hand in acknowledgement to the wizened man on the front porch and grind my teeth together.

“This conversation is not over. Merely postponed.”

She shrugs and gives me a maddening smile. “Whatever you say, Henry.”

She sets the horse to a trot and I grit my teeth and reluctantly follow.

The caretaker is as crooked and out of point as his dwelling.

“Good day, Sir. I assume you are Mister Abner?”

He nods. It manages to look like an effort. “Yes.”

“I am, indeed, Mr. Watson, and this is Miss Holmes. We will be in charge of the dig.”

He eyes Arabella as if she’s sprouted horns. “And by
we
, you mean
you
, correct?”

Arabella goes instantly rigid.

“No, sir. Miss Holmes is the osteologist.”

His ancient eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“The bone expert. And she is here as a fully competent antiquarian.”

Not that it is any of your business.

He harrumphs. “You can give your horses to the stable hand and follow me inside. I’ve made up rooms in case you choose to stay on.”

In a few minutes we’re inside. We follow him into a simple kitchen. “This is the way.”

He shuffles us through a sitting room filled with shabby furniture most likely older than he.

Arabella’s gaze drifts over the pictures on the wall. It stops and holds.

I see what she’s fixated on. In the center of the paintings is a faded, circular oval, as if a long-hung painting was recently removed.

“Your fields are astounding,” I offer.

Abner nods. “Yes, they are quite…fertile.”

Arabella draws close and whispers, “And you are quite creepy.”

###

Henry

“Arabella, this is madness. It shall soon be dark and the dig is acres away.”

After unpacking, and a quick visit to the writing desk, Abner insisted we eat. I watched Arabella pick at her food and tap her fingers on the table, her eyes flicking outside every ten seconds. She’d nearly flown out the door once it was remotely polite.

“I
said
it’s too late, wait till tomorrow morn.”

Her horse is tethered to the white fence. Bella’s eyes shoot to the barn, the sky, and then to the main house as she contemplates.

As she throws her pack over her shoulder, more auburn hair escapes the half-bun at her crown. A trickle of auburn slides across her back, clear down to her buttocks. I stop dead and stare. At both.

She whirls in exasperation. “Henry, you mean you will be able to sleep—or even
sit
with the dig so close?”

Her shapely leg flips over the saddle.

Focus, man
.

I shake my head. I cannot believe Stygian was right. Arabella is the
definition
of distraction. I’m missing details left and right.

I relent, gritting my teeth. “Fine.”

I call to the stable boy and hastily scribble a note. “Could you be sure this is sent—to let our party know we’ll be staying the night?”

The young man nods, and takes off toward the main house. And another thought occurs to me. “Wait—two more, if you please?” I hastily pull more letters from my overcoat. One of them Arabella’s—addressed to none other than Sherlock Holmes.

The boy looks irritated but takes them just the same.

My smile feels smug as I anticipate my Smithsonian friend’s response, how I will gain the upper hand, how—

She’s already cantering across the field.

“Blast.”

She urges the horse into a full-gallop and gives him his head.

I launch myself into the saddle.

“Ha!” I gently kick my horse into action. I’ll never catch her; she’s had too much of a head start.