Heaven's Bones (33 page)

“A doctor …” he began. Maybe Sophia would come if he asked.

“Doctor was out yesterday and listened to her chest until she sent him away. He told me her heart was failing, but I didn't believe it until I saw her today. You'll understand when you see her. And she won't have the doctor back, so it's no use trying. She says she knows it's her time.”

At the doorway to his mother's room he paused, hat in hand, suddenly at a loss. His mam was such a tough little woman, and now death was to take her? It seemed impossible.

Fiona Donovan looked tiny up against her white pillows, but her eyes were huge and feverish. She was staring at the ceiling as if she'd burn a hole through the unoffending wood, which would greatly disturb Cora, as her chamber was above.

She turned her burning eyes to him and it seemed to take her a few seconds to recognize him before she blinked and her eyes were normal again.

“Artie,” she said, and touched the side of the bed. He went to her, feeling suddenly shy, as if he was a boy again and his parents'—his mother's—room was sacrosanct, to be entered only with permission.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, feeling her fragility in all his bones. Had she always been this small?

She had closed her eyes and seemed to be asleep, so he took her hand, little bigger than a child's in his own palm, and held it carefully. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him.

“No flowers at the funeral, Artie,” she said in a soft rasp. “I don't hold with them, all showing-off, and then there's the expense.”

He wanted to tell her that was nonsense, that there'd be no funeral now or anytime soon for any of them, that she had years ahead of her. But his throat was dry and it would be a lie anyway. If she knew she was dying that was the truth of it and that was all. He had never been able to lie to her.

“All right, Mam,” he managed. “No flowers.”

Her fingers moved convulsively in his hand and she looked forward, her eyes large again.

“Dirk,” she gasped.

“What?” He bent closer. “What did you say, Mam?”

Her burning gaze swept over him, through him.

“Dirk Penhallow,” she said, articulating each word carefully, as if each breath was precious and hard-fought-for. “The darkling one. Never came to no good that I heard.”

Artemis' lips set in a hard line. He hadn't heard his cousin's name in years.

“What of him, Mam?” he said, his voice harsher than he meant.

Fiona's lips worked but nothing came out, and he had to lean close again to hear her.

“Go to Dirk, Artie. In your dire need, you must find him, and forgive him.”

“Dirk cursed our own, and father died, and eleven men besides,” Artemis whispered. “Twelve good men and he killed them with a word. You named him darkling and cast him away from our house. How can I forgive Dirk Penhallow?”

Some of her old spirit crept into her voice. “That's not for me to say, Artie. You must find the way yourself. My time is up and I've earned my rest. But I know that Dirk, for all my hard words, was born darkling and cannot help his nature. You must find Dirk, else all perish.”

He kissed her wrinkled brow gently.

“Yes, Mam.” He didn't know what else to say.

She swallowed, a dry movement in a dry throat. “I shouldn't have …”

She paused, and her bright eyes darted around the room as if looking for something.

“What, Mam?”

“I just … shouldn't have …”

Her face stilled and she glanced up at him with a wry look, as if the final joke was that after a long life, there was simply too much to tell.

“It's all right,” he breathed, not knowing if she could hear him. “You don't need to.”

She fell back asleep then and he waited through the night, holding her tiny, frail hand in his until somewhere between the church bell tolling three and the cock's crow she was there in her body, and then she was gone.

It was said that out of spite and jealousy Dirk Penhallow cursed his sister Claire in the womb, so that she came out weak and crippled and killed her mother when she came.

It was a lie: Dirk was innocent of this, at least. There was little for him to be jealous of, for one, for his mother had cast him out long before, when the Weald Hole took the men of St. Agnes. He went away then, some say to Liverpool (but I know it was to London) and came back a few years later, every kind thing beaten out of him and a black look what went past his eyes and down into his soul. He lived in back-street rooms in the winter and sheltered in barns in the summer, working when hands were needed and sometimes just taking what he needed from those who feared the Penhallow Curse.

When his mother died he had enough decency to come pay his respects (though some said he came only to gloat), and saw his sister, a puling, mewling little scrap with a twisted leg, not expected to live out the week. And he said she
would
live, or the town could tumble down the Weald Hole for all he cared.

So Claire Penhallow was taken into the care of an aunt of sorts, who did her best by her, and she did live, and her brother, so grim and glowering for the most part, smiled whenever he saw her. She was a cheerful child despite her useless leg, although frail and each year she lived was accounted a small miracle. Her aunt
taught her sewing—mending and embroidery, enough to earn her keep, and so Claire had a tiny room at the back of the house, just outside the garden where she could sit in the sunshine and warm her limbs, the twisted and the straight alike.

Dirk stayed away for the most part, knowing he wasn't welcome. He cherished his visits with Claire like rare wine, only to be taken in small sips, for Claire was the one creature he loved in this world and it was certain that in all this world Claire was the one creature who loved him.

Henry was bent over a span of balsa wood, adjusting the clamps that kept it in place. If the leading edge of the wing could be bent just so, and if the wood could keep its shape without splintering, he might be able to improve on the
Eole's
record.

“I hope I find you well, Mr. Thorpe.”

Henry's fingers tightened involuntarily on the clamp, denting the delicate wood. He stifled an oath and turned to see Trueblood, a tall, ravenlike figure in black, looming by the studio door.

He forced a smile on his face, wondering how the man had got inside: He thought he had locked that door. Trueblood must have the feet of a cat to enter so silently—how long had he been standing there?

Still, the man—or his employer, rather—had been very generous thus far, and Henry could tolerate a few improprieties.

“Very well, Mr. Trueblood,” he replied. “Thanks to Doctor Robarts' patronage, I have been able to make progress in the design of a workable wing. Would you care to see it?”

He stepped aside while Trueblood approached the worktable. The balsa model upon it brought to mind the dissected wing of an eagle in a university laboratory, although in the height of the arch at its apex it also resembled that of a bat.

“The key is the leading edge of the wing,” said Henry, pointing to the highest point of the curve. “Whether it is to flex like a true
wing or remain stiff, like a glider—that's where my research takes me, every time.”

Trueblood's sharp, quick eyes took in the model, and Henry could see that he looked at it with no mere polite interest but was analyzing it, marking out its strengths and flaws, weighing his work in the balance.

Slightly unnerved at the scrutiny, Henry kept talking.

“Of course, for Doctor Robarts' goals, the wings would be affixed and stiff, like a glider's …”

Trueblood turned to him. “But with gliders the height and control is limited. One must rely on updrafts, and use the hands to control the flex to guide it. Gliders do not fly under their own power—in fact, they do not fly at all, technically speaking. Correct?”

“Correct,” said Henry, somewhat taken aback.

Trueblood turned back to his contemplation of the wing. “Then the glider model is not acceptable.”

“What?”

“Doctor Robarts requires a wing in its true sense—a wing that moves, that can be used to take off and achieve an adequate height, that can be controlled by its … wearer.”

“But … but …” Henry sputtered. “Such a thing is impossible. You want to make birds out of people, and that can't happen.”

“You sell your skills short, Mr. Thorpe.”

“But listen! For one thing, humans are not built for flight. A bird has hollow bones and is light for its size. Its muscles are constructed to accommodate its wings. Its entire body is designed for that one purpose—and humans—well, humans are like apes, Mr. Trueblood. We were designed to walk upright on the ground, not to fly under our own power.”

Trueblood's mouth quirked into a smile. “What of angels, Mr. Thorpe? Don't you believe in angels?”

Henry laughed. “Angels are supernatural creatures, and as
such are not subject to the physical laws of the Earth. Humans are—well—human.”

“Mostly,” Trueblood conceded.

“For adequate control, wings would somehow have to be able to be connected directly to the human musculature,” Henry continued, ignoring this. “Which would pose innumerable difficulties, and the wings themselves—they would have to be works of art. Perhaps sophisticated gears would do, but …”

“Like the Mechanical Elephant,” interrupted Trueblood. “Or the Golden Nightingale.”

“What?” said Henry, confused.

“History, Mr. Thorpe,” said Trueblood. “A very useful study. But I do understand your concerns, and I think you perhaps need to understand in turn the resources Doctor Robarts commands. Money in plenty, to be sure. But more importantly, he has done extensive research in his turn—from more a medical standpoint, of course, and in addition, he is in possession of a most remarkable Library. We—my employer and myself—think the best thing to do would be for you to come to Bryani House—my employer's residence in Cornwall—and continue your research there.”

“Cornwall …”

“I have a carriage waiting outside.”

“But … I can't just up and move to Cornwall.”

“Really? That is a shame, Mr. Thorpe. In that case, I'm afraid my employer will be obliged, with infinite regret, of course, to terminate your association and to withdraw his patronage and financial support.”

Henry stood, irresolute. What, in fact, was here for him in London? He had no resources—soon he would have to give up his researches into aviation and seek employment as an engineer's or mechanic's assistant, if he was lucky, until Ader obtained funding, and who knew when that would be?

He shrugged. “Very well, Mr. Trueblood. I'm eager to see what kind of studies Doctor Robarts has made on the subject.”

“Excellent, Mr. Thorpe,” said Trueblood. “I think you will find Bryani House a refreshing change from your limitations here. Refreshing and surprising.”

Bryani House, the Mists

Weldon peered through the fog. For an instant, through a void in the vapor, he could swear he saw a house. Then the mist rose again and it was gone.

He clenched his fists and cursed, and realized how blunt and weak his anger had grown during the years—if it was years—of exile. This felt a little like his old anger, fresh and raw, sudden and red.

He had left Riverbend early, when dawn was still only a promise in the sky, and walked beside the river until the sky was streaked red. Then, on impulse, he started in the direction the mist-born stranger had taken the day he left, a direction he had seen Fanny take sometimes on her wanderings.

He walked without regard to landmark, and as he left the chuckle of the river behind, the mist began to rise, eddying around his ankles at first, then rising like a flood. He fancied he saw evil intent and purpose in those wisps and streamers of fog that surrounded him; for some time he had suspected that there was a sentience and a purpose in the vapors that surrounded Riverbend. What their motives were he could not begin to determine.

He grinned mirthlessly as he was plunged entirely in fog. If the Mists' intent was to keep him home, within the confines of his plantation or the small freedom the river offered, he would defy them. Why should Fanny be the only one allowed to roam?

And if he was lost forever, well, so be it. Perhaps he would become a creature of the fog, like the stranger. The
ennui
of the plantation, and the proximity of the creature, at once monstrous and pitiable, that was once his wife held little charm for him.

Let him walk until he left Riverbend far behind; let him walk until he dropped from exhaustion, let him die. They had no power over him; he didn't care. He strode blindly, careless of stones or voids in the ground that could topple him.