The Peculiars (15 page)

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 pressing 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 next morning the storm was a memory. Broken limbs and a litter of golden leaves were the only reminders of the wind’s fury. The air shone fresh-washed, and for the first time in many days Lena’s heart lifted. Jimson was still busy with Mr. Beasley, but she was determined to remain cheerful and finish cataloguing artifacts. As she considered how to categorize Pygmy blow darts, under
B
for blow darts or under
P
for Pygmy, Mrs. Pollet erupted into the library, eyes wild and arms flailing like the long blades of a windmill.

“Where’s himself—Mr. Beasley?” she sputtered.

“He’s in the study with Jimson. Is something wrong?”

A wail burst from Mrs. Pollet’s throat as she ran from the room. Lena, tripping over an agitated Mrs. Mumbles, followed. They ran down the hallway to the heavy oak doors, and, without pausing to knock, Mrs. Pollet burst through with Lena at her heels.

Jimson was standing on a stepladder, balancing a long metal blade as Mr. Beasley carefully weighed it. They looked up in unison as Mrs. Pollet called out, “Arthur’s fallen from the roof. Come quick now!”

Arthur Pollet lay crumpled on the ground like a branch the wind had discarded. His right leg was bent in a way no leg should be able to bend, and his face was ashen. He did not open his eyes when Mr. Beasley gently called his name and put an ear to his chest.

“He’s breathing regularly, but it seems the fall has knocked him out. We’ll need to devise a litter to carry him into the house. From where did he fall?”

Leticia Pollet pointed upward and all eyes followed. “He was trimming a branch that broke in the storm.”

Sure enough, a broken branch lay across one of the gables of Zephyr House. And the twelve-foot ladder lay toppled nearby.

“Lena, find something to cover him with to keep him warm. Jimson, come to the workshop with me and we’ll get some poles and canvas.”

After Arthur had been safely transported into the house and placed on a bed in the first-floor bedroom, Mr. Beasley sent Jimson and Lena out while he inspected the patient. Lena went to the kitchen to make tea for Mrs. Pollet, and Jimson followed.

“Do you think he’ll be all right?” Lena busied herself heating water so Jimson wouldn’t see her eyes tearing up.

“Of course he will. Mr. Beasley knows what he’s doing.”

“But his leg looks so awful and—” Her voice cracked.

“A break can heal, and he’s strong . . . Lena, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

She looked up at the urgency in his voice just as Mrs. Pollet came into the kitchen muttering, “He’s sent me away as if he thinks I’m in the way.”

“I’m sure that’s not it. Mr. Beasley is probably just trying to spare your feelings. Here, I’ve made you some tea.” Lena poured a cup and added a generous spoon of sugar. For all her height, Leticia Pollet seemed a shrunken woman. Her shoulders hunched forward, and Lena could see the sharp outline of her shoulder blades poking up through the fabric of her dress. Jimson pulled out a chair for her while Lena buttered a scone she had warmed.

Mr. Beasley, sleeves rolled to his elbows, appeared at the kitchen door. “Lena, I could use your help.”

Reluctantly, Lena followed him to the bedroom. Perhaps she was not cut out for medicine after all.

“The break is bad and needs to be set. It will take two people. Thank goodness the man is unconscious. That way he won’t remember the pain.”

Lena blanched. “But I don’t—”

Mr. Beasley cut her off. “Jimson told me you’re interested in medicine. This is a useful technique to learn.”

Arthur Pollet looked small and pale on the big iron bed, his white muttonchops bristling against colorless weathered cheeks. Mr. Beasley positioned Lena at the top of Arthur’s femur. Lena could hardly bear to look at the twisted leg. “I’m going to pull from the ankle to straighten the leg out so that it heals properly. Your job is to hold the leg as tightly as you can.”

Tentatively, Lena placed both hands on the old man’s muscled thigh.

“You’ll have to grip harder than that.” Mr. Beasley put his own hands over Lena’s and squeezed firmly to show how much force was needed.

If she hadn’t been holding tight, the leg would have jerked from her hands. Lena heard a tremendous snap but saw nothing because her eyes were squeezed shut at the last moment. When she opened them, Arthur Pollet’s leg was back in normal alignment and a trickle of sweat was making its way down Mr. Beasley’s face. Mr. Pollet thrashed about on the bed and then lay still, breathing regularly.

“I couldn’t watch,” Lena confessed.

Mr. Beasley ran a hand over his bald head. “The leg is the least of his worries.”

“What do you mean?”

“He hit his head, and with a head injury you can never tell what will happen. We’ll just watch and wait. I suspect he’s broken a few ribs as well. I’ll need to talk to Leticia, but there’s no need to alarm her yet.”

They returned to the kitchen, where Jimson had managed to calm Mrs. Pollet and was buttering himself a scone.

Mr. Beasley placed a large hand on Leticia’s shoulder. “His leg is aligned now, but he needs plenty of rest. The next day or two will be critical as we see how that head wound develops.”

“Critical? What do you mean?” Her dark eyes looked fierce, but Lena noticed her lips tremble.

“Jimson, perhaps you and Lena could finish his work in the garden? Cut off the damaged tree limbs and gather up the debris. There won’t be many days left to get ready for winter.”

Glad to have something constructive to do, Lena and Jimson retreated to the yard to pick up branches and stake damaged plants. It felt good to be in the sun after so many days cooped up in the library. Mrs. Mumbles accompanied them to the yard, rubbing between Lena’s legs until she shooed her out of the way. Offended, Mrs. Mumbles ignored them altogether and went off in search of rodents in the tall grasses. Lena inhaled deeply. “I helped Mr. Beasley straighten the leg. It was awful.”

Jimson nodded. “I’ve never much cared for blood and guts, myself. It always makes me hurt just to look at it.”

Lena went on to describe the process in detail, but Jimson seemed distracted, as if he was only half listening. He grabbed a handsaw and began sawing some of the larger limbs into small pieces.

“Do you believe in angels?” he asked without looking up.

“What?” Lena paused, her arms full of twigs. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about earlier?”

He nodded. “Angels. I don’t believe in ’em. But I’m quite sure I saw one—yesterday, when I was on the roof. Here, hold this.” He gestured to one end of a large twisted branch.

She dropped the branches into the wheelbarrow and steadied the limb as Jimson began sawing. “Explain what you just said to me.”

“Yesterday, when I was up on the roof landing where Mr. Beasley’s got the flying machine, I saw someone on the widow’s walk. I took a second look because I couldn’t imagine anyone being out in the storm. It wasn’t raining yet”—he snapped the branch in half—“just winding.” He paused. “You’ll think I’m crazy. There was a lady looking out toward the sea. I could see her profile. And on her back was . . . a wing.” His eyes caught Lena’s. “At first I thought it was a trick of the light, but it was a wing, all right.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a shawl caught up in the wind?”

He shook his head. “I’m sure. It was gray, I think. But you couldn’t mistake the shape of it. And when she turned, I saw another one coming out of her left shoulder blade.” He reached behind Lena and poked her back. “Right here.” After a pause, he continued. “They were big, like an eagle’s wings.”

Heart hammering, Lena thought of the drawing of the Annuncius syndrome in the sketchbook. But the wings in that picture were small, shrunken things—nothing like an eagle’s wings.

“Do you think I’m losing my mind?”

Lena smoothed her skirt under herself and sat on the grass. “No, I don’t. Here, there’s something I want to show you, too.” She pulled the now-crumpled flyer from her skirt pocket and smoothed it flat on the ground.

Jimson squatted beside her and read it quickly. He gave a derisive laugh. “The government’s trying to pull the wool over our eyes,” he declared. “Set people up as scapegoats to blame
whatever goes wrong in society on them. No one will believe this stuff.”

“But what if it’s true? What if the woman you saw—and the drawings in the sketchbook—what if they’re all true? What if there
are
Peculiars and Mr. Beasley is experimenting on them?” A gust of wind blew her hair free from its twist, and strands caught like webs across her face.

“But there are no such things as Peculiars. There couldn’t be. It’s all superstition and—” He lowered himself the rest of the way to the grass.

“Just for one minute consider that you might be wrong, Jimson Quiggley. What if it
is
true? You’re always saying that we have to consider the evidence. And according to this”—she shook the flyer in her hand—“you usually can’t tell by looking at someone.”

“And now I’ve seen a lady with wings.” He pulled up a blade of grass and chewed it thoughtfully. “If Peculiars exist, they’d be a dying race. They’d be genetic variations—part of a group who evolved differently from everyone else. But this piece of propaganda doesn’t prove anything. It will just have people turning in the neighbor they don’t like. It’s dangerous to think that way.”

“What Peculiars have in common could be on the inside, too. Maybe they’re all compelled to do horrible things.” Lena tucked the flyer away. Clouds scuttled across the sun. She shivered. Overhead a seagull screamed.

Jimson stood and brushed off his pants. Then he offered
Lena a hand and pulled her up. “Lena, what’s frightening you?”

Jimson’s eyes were kind. She wanted to tell him about her fears, but she shook her head and turned away when her eyes filled with tears. Anytime now she, too, might do something dangerous and unpredictable.