The Unnaturalists (26 page)
Authors: Tiffany Trent
T
he fever had seized Syrus almost as soon as he’d gotten out of the City. Bayne had directed him to make his way to Virulen and offer his services at the kitchen; he’d even written a letter of reference. “Go there and watch over Vespa when she arrives,” he’d said. “Take her to the Manticore as soon as you can. We must keep her safe from Charles.”
But something was in Syrus’s blood—a terrible itching. When the strange and beloved Forest greeted him for the first time in weeks, he fell under its spell as one who has finally found his oasis after wandering in the desert. He very nearly forgot who he was when he heard a distant dryad singing a swaddlesong he remembered from his childhood. He burned to find her, to hear her sing those words to him again. He ambled through the mists and dells, wild as any Elemental. Sometimes, he dreamed that he walked on four feet instead of two.
When at last Truffler found him shivering inside a hollow log, it took days of gentle ministration before the hob could bring the boy back to himself.
Then came the morning that Syrus sat bolt upright in the pile of blankets Truffler had dragged in from Tinkerville, nearly
knocking his head against the wooden roof of their makeshift infirmary.
Truffler turned from the makeshift brazier. “Quiet,” he said, making gestures of peace.
“But I have to . . . I need to . . .” Syrus remembered the rogue warlock’s threats and how only the cave sprites’ intervention had saved him and Bayne. He thought of the witch, barely come into her power and mostly defenseless—the perfect target. “I need to go to the Big House!” he said.
Truffler eyed him. “Not now. Quiet.”
Syrus remembered a time when he’d been small, not long after Truffler had first bonded with him. He’d tried to climb up a sheer cliff by himself when all the older boys had left him behind. Truffler had wrestled him to the ground with his hairy arms and held him there until he’d succumbed. Syrus had no doubt Truffler could still do the same if he wished.
“All right,” he said, lying back down. Rain drummed above his head. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it was the most comforting thing he could think of—outside of hearing his Granny tell her stories, of course—to be safe in the Forest with Truffler caring for him. He only wished it could last forever, instead of just a little while.
A
s we approach Virulen Manor at last, I am still trying not to think of the horrendous Ball a few nights ago, still wishing I could erase the terrible betrayal in the eyes of the one who apparently betrayed me, as well. The Heir to the second most powerful House in the Empire masquerading as a Pedant! It felt as though the person I’d known—Hal Lumin—had died there on the Empress’s ballroom floor and Bayne, a man I’d never known, had risen to take his place. No wonder now that he resisted all my advances! Any self-respecting man of his station would have nothing to do with someone like me. His words of that night still echo in my head—
What have you done, you foolish girl?
He was right. I had been a fool, and for more reasons than just him, though that was by far the most humiliating and heartbreaking. The Raven Guard had smelled the magic I’d made and had frightened many people wading through the crowd with their pikes, but with the density of so many people in the room and the sealing of the charm, they’d been unable to pinpoint its source. I had been lucky, I suppose, to escape them. The dark part of me I try hardest to shut away wishes the Sphinx had managed to take my life on that fateful day but a few months ago.
The driving wight takes my carpetbag. I swallow my nausea, thinking of the wight’s true origins, as it helps me and Lucy out of the carriage. A line of servants are waiting. I barely see them, caught between my humiliation and my revulsion at the wight.
But I don’t want to think about all of that, so I give the house all my attention. I will remember the way Virulen Manor looks for as long as I live.
I’ve heard tales of the Manor before, even seen lithographs of it, but none of them did it justice. Domes, cupolas, and scrollwork decorate the roofline like sugar pavilions on a wedding cake. Ivy reaches up toward the blue-tiled roofs. Images of the saints peer from between the arrow-shaped leaves. Here and there, the marble is chipped or a blue tile missing. All about are signs of decay. High on the domes, gargoyles perch like sentinel spirits. One of them is missing an eye; the other a wing. But they’re turned toward the far-away Tower, as if holding congress with the Empress’s ravens. I shiver a little, but the fading majesty of the house remains.
“If you will come this way, Lady, miss,” the Chatelaine says. Her belt of keys jingles as she leads us into the house. Servants follow with the few things I’ve brought from home. The rest is already here.
It’s hard for me not to gawk as soon as we enter the Grand Foyer, but I have been to the Tower now, and I know that gawking will mark me more surely than acting aloof will. I lift my chin and stare at the
trompe l’oiel
work of gilded Manticores and vines as if I’ve seen it all before. In places, the wallpaper is peeling. In some ceiling corners, I see water stains.
Displayed along the walls are the heads of various Unnaturals slain by the previous Lords Virulen. Some of the mounts are better
than others. A Unicorn’s glass eyes glare at me; that one is particularly awful. But the Dragon . . . I want to touch its scaly cheek. Even dead, its heavy, earthen power can still be felt. I try and fail not to think of all the Unnaturals, trapped in the Refinery prisons back in the City.
Lucy is greeted by her father, who takes her arm and leads her toward another hallway, eager to discuss nuptial strategies, I suppose. She nods at me as they pass and I curtsy low, afraid to meet Lord Virulen’s steely eye. The Chatelaine takes me up the Grand Staircase, a double-helix monstrosity designed like staircases in antique books. She guides me along an arched corridor; oil portraits of Virulens past stare at me from the everlit gloom. One particular woman strikes me—tall and thin like Lucy, but without that wicked sparkle in her eye. I wonder if she was Lucy’s mother. Thus far, all I’ve heard is that the Lady Virulen died when Lucy was quite young and no one could stomach marrying her widower father after his near-fatal brush with the Manticore. I’ve been too shy to ask Lucy for confirmation; it certainly isn’t a subject of pleasant conversation.
Then I hear the keys jangle, and the Chatelaine throws open the door to my new room.
Or rooms, I should say.
She shows me into a sitting room with peridot velvet settees and a marble mantel held up by winged Griffins.
“Your bedchamber is through there.” She points toward an open door framed in oaken scrollwork. I glimpse old hanging tapestries, more oak, and overflowing trunks as a manservant carries in my carpetbag. He bows, sets down the bag, and makes a hasty retreat.
“My lady will call for you shortly,” the Chatelaine says.
Then she leaves me alone, the door scraping shut behind her.
The rooms are larger than anything I’ve ever slept in. The bed crouches on clawed feet.
I wonder if it will belch when it swallows me. Everything smells like lemon oil with a hint of must underneath. There’s a little toilet room off the bedchamber with a brass bath and a flushing water closet, rather like the one at home but more elegant and rudimentary at the same time.
I wander from the wardrobe filled with new clothes around the trunks of shoes, hats, and underthings to the window. The view is of the formal gardens. The house curves around them. To the right extends a decrepit-looking wing that can’t be seen from the approach to the Grand Entrance. The broken dome of an old house Refinery is overgrown with ivy. All the Great Houses once had their own, but this one seems to have fallen into disuse. Even from this distance, a neverlock shimmers darkly on its doors.
Already, it seems I have something to explore.
A knock comes at the door. I hurry to open it, nearly tripping over a trunk full of stockings in my haste. A maid brings Mistress Lucy’s summons.
I follow her down to the Lady’s Parlor, passing through several rooms, each seemingly grander than the last.
Compared to the rest of the manor, the Lady’s Parlor is cozy, sporting red satin pillows on chaise lounges and a delicately carved wooden mantel. There are portraits here, but none of them as overbearing as some of the vast ones I glimpsed in the ballrooms or the imposing ancestral portraits of the halls. A mirror with a gilded
Cockatrice’s head is perhaps the most intimidating thing here. That, or the Yeti skin rug. I recognize the shiver of magic as I step past the rust-red fur.
Lucy sits on one of the chaise lounges, dangling yarn in front of a gray cat.
She looks up and smiles. “Ah, you’ve found me at last,” she says. Something about the way she says it makes me feel guilty that I didn’t find her sooner.
I curtsy.
She waves her hand at my nonsense. “What did I say about formality when we’re in private?”
I look around at the maids. There are at least three of them in the room.
“Oh, they don’t count,” Lucy says. “Most of them are Tinkers. They probably barely understand what we say.” She reaches toward an alabaster bowl full of grapes so purple they’re almost black. She pops one in her mouth as she stands, pulling her skirts away from the questing kitty.
I think of the poor Tinkers I saw in the Imperial Refinery and of Syrus, the Tinker thief. There’s no doubt
he
understands every word, glance, or gesture. But I keep my thoughts to myself. Maybe the Tinkers don’t want the gentry to realize just how intelligent they are after all they’ve suffered from them.
Bayne said Syrus would be here to take me to the Manticore. I hope we find each other soon. Keeping the Heart from Charles is the only thing left to make me feel good about myself. Lucy doesn’t know or suspect anything about me and Bayne, and she never shall. But how will I bear seeing the two of them together? I suppose it’s
just punishment for what I’ve done. I imagine a little room at the back of my brain and stuff my feelings about Bayne deep inside it.
“See here,” Lucy says. She shakes a slender envelope trailing ribbons and seals in my face to get my attention.
I take it, hold it lightly.
“Go ahead,” she says.
I open it. It’s from Lord Grimgorn to Lord Virulen. An offer of marriage from his son to Lucy. A request to have potential bride and groom meet with the Imperial Matchmaker to determine whether their marriage pleases the saints.
I feel like I might faint and instantly hate myself for the feeling.
“You did it!” she says. She slips the proposal out of my hand, and takes my fingers in hers. For one second, I think she’s going to dance me around the room in her happiness.
I don’t know what to say. All I see is Bayne tearing the mask from his face, his eyes like brilliant blue suns. All I hear are his thoughts cracking with the strain of my enchantment.
What have you done?
“Aren’t you happy, Vespa?” she asks.
I look into her black eyes and somehow manage a smile, but I imagine it doesn’t look at all happy.
She squeezes my hands. “My, you are a somber thing. But I’ve brought something at the request of your father that’s likely to cheer you up.”
For some reason, my stomach turns.
“He reminded me that your birthday is coming soon, yes?”
I nod.
“We thought a little something from home . . . or someone,
shall I say, would be a pleasant surprise.” She gestures to the servant waiting at the door.
My stomach hits the floor when The Wad enters, wearing a fussy new frock coat and shoes with floppy ribbon laces. “Ladies,” he says, bowing in our direction. He doesn’t look at all like the murderer Bayne accused him of being. He looks like little more than a tarted-up chimney sweep, but looks, as I’ve found, are often deceiving. I know now that he is deadlier than I ever imagined he might be.
I swallow. “Mr. Waddingly.”
“Miss Nyx.”
Probably only I can hear the hiss of hatred as he says my name.
“Your father asked me to deliver this,” he says. He hands me a letter and I take it as though he’s given me a poisonous snake.
I open it, willing my fingers not to tremble.
