The Peculiars (12 page)

“Does Pansy want to see the world too?” Lena’s voice ratcheted louder and she tried to soften it.

“I never talked to her about it. But girls generally aren’t interested in things like that.” He looked truly puzzled, Lena thought.

“Perhaps you should ask her. She should have some say in her life, don’t you think? I’d like nothing better than seeing the world, and as far as I know, I’m a girl.”

“Not an ordinary girl.”

“What do you mean by that, Jimson Quiggley?” She could feel the heat rise in her face. She could picture Nana Crane smiling smugly and nodding in agreement with Jimson.

“I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean . . .” He cast a desperate glance at her hands and feet. “I just meant that you’re nothing like my sisters or Pansy. All they talk about is marriage and clothes. You have some peculiar ideas.”

That was the very worst word Jimson could have chosen. Lena slammed a typing machine key so hard that she winced. Maybe it was only goblin women who were restless and wanted to see the world. She didn’t know.

“I didn’t mean ‘peculiar’ in that way. You know I don’t even believe in that nonsense. It was supposed to be a compliment.”

Lena clenched her jaw. “I think we had better get back to work.”

Jimson seemed only too happy to escape back into books.
A chill had entered the room. Lena felt it working its way up the back of her neck. The camaraderie, so easy before, was now off balance. Why should she care what Jimson did? She was there to get a job done, and it wasn’t her business to tell him how to live his life. Pansy . . . What kind of a name was that?

At his desk, Jimson worked steadily, sorting through books, whistling a tuneless song.

The sun was slanting toward the west when Lena noticed the whistling had stopped. A cramp ran from her shoulder to her neck from hunching over books. Her fingers had grown numb from the typing machine. Looking up, she saw Jimson slowly turning the pages of a loose-leaf sketchbook. He ran his hand over his face and let out a low whistle. “Lena, look at this.”

She was glad to get up, glad to have an excuse to talk to Jimson again, but her feet were stiff and she stumbled with the first few steps.

The sketchbook contained ink sketches of people, each carefully labeled. They looked like the medical drawings in her doctor’s office. One page was given over to a sketch of the arm, hand, and fingers with each bone meticulously identified. But other drawings were more disturbing. There was one of a person the size of a child with a large head and full beard labeled
CLINICAL DWARFISM, APRIL
3, 1859. The next showed a tall, exceedingly thin woman sketched from the front. To Lena’s embarrassment, the woman wore no clothes. On the same page, the woman was also shown from the back.
From each shoulder blade hung what appeared to be a small crumpled leaf. In the same neat hand
ANNUNCIUS SYNDROME
was carefully labeled and underneath it was dated October 12, 1862.

“What’s attached to her back?” Lena pointed to the crumbled growth. “They look like shriveled wings.”

“I don’t know. These all look like some kind of medical drawings.” Jimson flipped forward a few more pages. “It’s Mr. Beasley’s writing. These must be his drawings.”

“Well, he used to be a practicing physician,” Lena said.

“I know. He still helps out some poor folk that come around. But have you ever seen anything like these? They look like something out of nightmares or old fairy tales.” He pointed to a sketch of a boy with a forked tongue.

Lena’s heart beat faster. She had never seen anyone who looked like any of these drawings, but what if . . . The thought was unbearable. She grabbed for the sketchbook, jerking it out of Jimson’s hands. Loose pages spilled out.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Jimson looked at her in surprise.

“I—I—I just . . .” Lena had no idea what to say. She had reacted without thinking. What if they were medical drawings of Peculiars? Somewhere in the collection there might be a sketch of a goblin, a goblin with extremely long hands and feet. She riffled quickly through the pages. There were a few more technical sketches of the throat and palate, of the neck, but they were all on normal humans. There were too many
sketches. She needed time alone with the sketchbook to look through it thoroughly.

“Why did you do that?”

“I’ve always thought that, maybe one day, I might be interested in medicine.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. She
was
interested in medicine. Perhaps the interest had come from so many doctor visits when she was young. “I’ve thought about becoming a doctor.”

Jimson’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s interesting. I never would have guessed it.” He moved to her side and stared down at a sketch of the pharynx. “Now, this is scientific. The rest are just monsters from fairy tales. We’ll have to ask Mr. Beasley about it.”

Lena snapped the cover shut. “Oh, no. We don’t want him to think we’ve been going through his personal papers.”

“He left the sketchbook right here in the library.”

“We don’t know if he did it on purpose. Perhaps it was just misplaced. I’ll put it on the library table, so he sees it first thing.” Anything to keep Jimson from looking through the rest of the sketches until she could see what else was in there. Besides, wasn’t this just what the marshal was hoping she’d find? Proof that Mr. Beasley was studying Peculiars? “No one wants employees who are snoops.” She didn’t meet Jimson’s eyes.

He ran his hand through his hair. “You’re certainly acting strange today.”

Lena straightened her shoulders and bit back a response just as the mechanism on the door slid open.

MRS. MUMBLES ARCHED HER BACK AND RAN TO THE DOOR,
tail held high, as if she were expecting this visitor. The gangly form of Mr. Beasley appeared with a wooden box carried reverently in his large hands. The cat wound herself about his ankles so that he stumbled his way into the room.

“Mumbles!”

She meowed in protest at his clumsiness or at the sound of her name, Lena wasn’t sure which. Then the cat began a stream of steady mutterings.

Mr. Beasley carefully set the box on a long table. “How’s work progressing?” He eyed the piles of books and nodded approvingly at several sections neatly labeled and shelved. “She’s just what you needed, Jimson. Too big a job for one person. How have you got on, my dear? Is your desk adequate?”

“It’s perfect. And the typewriter is”—she had trouble thinking of an appropriate adjective—“remarkable.”

“It is quite a nice little invention—much better than the earlier model.” He plinked a key. “I’ve been to Cloister and brought back something rather special for our library.” His face was pink with excitement. His penciled eyebrows danced. “Go ahead, but open it carefully. Put these on first.” He opened the drawer of the library table and pulled out a pair of thin white gloves, which he handed to Jimson. Lena noted that they would be too small for her gloved hands. “This box is rosewood; and the design, mother-of-pearl.”

Both Jimson and Lena bent over the gleaming wood box. It was not much bigger than a jewel casket. The lid was in two sections and was held together by a brass clasp set as a branch on a vine of glowing white. Mother-of-pearl, like the inside of the shells that washed up on the shore at Knoster, Lena thought. Jimson undid the clasp and opened the lid. He reached in and removed a red leather book. Lena caught her breath. The cover was overlaid with a delicate tapestry of mother-of-pearl as fine as spiderwebs and was held in place by a thin brass frame. Even Jimson’s fine hands looked large and clumsy as he carefully opened the cover and the first pages rustled. The pages were a fine onionskin, covered with writing Lena couldn’t read. Shoulder to shoulder, she and Jimson hovered over the small book. Each page was bordered with flowers and animals in the glowing colors of jewels.

“It’s illuminated,” Lena said breathlessly.

“One of the finest illuminated texts I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Beasley added. “The text is Latin.”

“But why did they give it to you?” Lena could never imagine parting with such a beautiful book, even if she couldn’t read a word of it.

“The sisters believe that it would be safer with me for the time being. Jimson, please put it in the case by the Khan’s soul for now and be sure it is locked. I’ve asked Mrs. Pollet to serve us dinner on the terrace. I’ll expect you both in fifteen minutes.” He scooped up Mrs. Mumbles and strode from the room with the cat riding his shoulder. She looked at Lena with a smug smile; Lena was sure of it.

“Does he often travel to Cloister?” Lena asked, thinking of the escaped prisoner from the train and the man disguised as a nun who had helped him. This would be something to add to her notes.

“He has been lately.” Jimson, still wearing the white gloves, placed the volume tenderly into the glass case. “It’s called
A History
.”

“Do you read Latin?” She tried but failed to keep the surprise from her voice.

Jimson shrugged. “Just a little. I used to be an altar boy.”

“But I thought you didn’t believe in religion.” Lena finished sorting the papers on her desk into piles.

“My family does. Gone to church my whole life. Marx calls religion the opiate of the masses, and I think he’s right.” He locked the case and put the key on the ring in his desk. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

Lena patted her braids. She would have liked to have had
time to clean up before dinner, but it wouldn’t do to keep her employer waiting. The sketchbook of medical drawings lay on the library table where Mr. Beasley would find it. Before he did, she would need to go through it carefully.

Lena thought again of the strangely clinical drawings, and of Mr. Beasley’s frequent visits to Cloister. Perhaps the marshal was right: despite his friendly personality, Mr. Beasley might be someone worth watching. After dinner she’d write up notes of what she had observed so far and decide how much to share with the marshal. And once everyone was in bed for the night she’d pay a visit to the library and finish looking at the sketchbook. But the thought made her feel vaguely guilty. Mr. Beasley had been nothing but good to her so far.

The terrace extended from the back of the house in an arc that followed the rim of the cliff overlooking the sea. It was a wide patio of brick and grass, perched high above the water. An ornate iron railing was the only thing to keep one from tumbling down the jagged rocks to the sea below. Lena made sure to keep her distance from the edge.

She was tired. The light was that particular gold of October, and the air was sharp enough for a wrap, but the crash of waves against basalt cliffs was soothing—enough to make her eyelids heavy. The three of them sat around a teak table, and Mrs. Pollet brought them steaming bowls of soup brimming with sea creatures. The shrimp reminded her of
giant insects, and she wondered what else lurked beneath the thick broth.

Jimson looked at her with a twinkle. “It’s bouillabaisse. Haven’t you had it before? It’s a staple of coast towns.”

Mr. Beasley poured himself a glass of wine. “I would like to propose a toast, to my two librarians, the Dewey decimal system, and the end of autumn’s glories.” He held his sparkling glass high in the air. Lena and Jimson raised their glasses as well.

They kept no wine in Lena’s house, and she took her first sip gravely, once again feeling tremendously grown-up. But the taste wasn’t what she expected from the rich ruby liquid. Instead, it was slightly sour, and when she tried to disguise her expression behind a napkin, Jimson caught her eye and winked.

“Tell me about your day,” Mr. Beasley said, and then he listened attentively as they told him about what they had catalogued and how they had shelved the books. Lena waited for Jimson to say something about the sketchbook, and when he didn’t, she felt her shoulders relax.

Then Mr. Beasley entertained them with stories about life at Cloister and about the large vegetable gardens and horse stables. “The sisters are quite progressive when it comes to medicine. They have a great deal of knowledge about herbal medicines, and they’ve been using chloroform to do some simple surgeries on animals.”

“On animals that have been injured?” Lena asked.

“Well, yes, on injured animals. But they also do a bit of research to better understand how treating animals might be transferred to human beings. For example, say an animal has an internal injury. If we learn how to treat that on an animal, then perhaps we can transfer that knowledge someday to humans.”

“That’s exactly what we should be doing.” Jimson finished his last bite of custard. “It’s a perfect example of evolution at work. We use our intelligence to combat disease, and gradually the human race becomes stronger.”

“But what if the research doesn’t work the same way on animals as it does on people?” Lena thought about her own hands and feet. “They are different species.”

“Not so different as you might think. What makes us uniquely human?” Mr. Beasley asked.

“The fact that we can use tools,” Jimson was quick to say.

Lena spoke quietly, remembering the missionaries to Scree and Nana Crane’s view of the world. “Well, I’ve heard it said that it’s because we have a soul.”