Authors: Tiffany Trent
The Unnaturalists (19 page)
Before I know it, seamstress wights are pushing me off toward the dressing rooms, where they whisk off my gown and undergarments, leaving me in little more than my stockings and a cold breeze. They take my measurements, their fingers appearing and disappearing as if I’m looking at them through running water. They pin a swath of the starry silk here and there, hold up the owl mask, nearly blinding me with the feather tips. There’s a low murmuring between them not unlike language, but still unintelligible.
While I’m still blinking with shock, the measuring tapes, pins,
and fabric swatches are swept away, my clothes restored to me, and I’m returned to where Lucy chats with Mr. Hooke near the coveted pile of Phoenix feathers.
I would very much like to ask Mr. Hooke how he came by them, though I fear he would be coy. Phoenixes are terribly rare, far too rare to be found in some Midtown shop. And yet, I know without a doubt that these feathers are the genuine article.
Lucy takes my arm before I can open my mouth. “Mr. Hooke, we must be off, but I trust you will produce gowns that will make us the envy of Carnival!”
“Indeed, my lady!” He bows to us with yet another flourish. “Of that you may be certain!”
Lucy turns us and I nearly stumble. “Grace, my dear,” she whispers, “grace even before these rabble.”
I look back at Mr. Hooke whose nose is still nearly sweeping the floorboards in his aristocratic bow.
“Rabble?”
“My darling, everyone is rabble save for me and thee,” she says, patting my arm. “And you must start acting like it, lest people take advantage. I may dress you up, but you must learn to play the part.”
“The part?” I repeat, like some mindless parrot.
“Well, how else will you bag a handsome duke or baron for a husband unless you act like one of us?”
Hm. Such thoughts have never occurred to me, even as I realize that these are just the sort of thoughts Father and Aunt Minta expect me to have. I think of Hal and for one moment allow myself to imagine being swept along on his arm the way Lucy is sweeping me now.
We climb into the Virulen carriage that awaits us by the gates.
The
myth
work unicorns look newly polished and the old carriage has been replaced. I remember how Hal and I helped Lucy out of the wreckage. Memories of him are everywhere, thick as the glimmering New London fog. My gut twists so hard with sadness and frustration that it’s all I can do not to cry out. Perhaps Lucy’s right. Perhaps it will be better if I marry some duke or baron I don’t love.
“Why, my dear, you look positively wretched!” Lucy says, as she settles herself and looks over at me. Unlike the public carriages, this one is well-lit with an interior everlantern, so she can easily see my distress. I run my palm along the silver brocade walls. A tiny red Manticore rears against my fingertips. I remember how the Tinker boy was so desperate for me to find the Manticore. Somehow, that night I pulled the alarm on him seems like ages ago rather than a few weeks.
Lucy opens a compartment next to her and pulls out a bottle filled with carnelian liquid. “Perhaps you’d like a bit of cordial as a restorative before our tea?”
Two crystal tumblers clink gently together on the seat.
Her kindness undoes me.
“Yes,” I sigh. “Yes, indeed.”
She pours the blood-bright liquid and hands me a glass.
“To new endeavors and new friends!” she says, clinking her glass with mine.
“To new endeavors and new friends,” I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I feel. The cordial slides down my throat smooth as a dream.
“I believe we’re going to get along just smashingly,” Lucy says with her wicked little smile.
I can only hope she’s right.
Lucy chatters at me all the way to The Menagerie. I listen to her with one ear, but with the other I’m listening to the clatter and press of Midtown give way to the seething tranquility of Uptown. The cordial that’s made her overflow with gossip has calmed me and made me interested again in my surroundings. It’s said that the lords and wealthy merchants pay handsomely to have their district of New London clean and wholesome with everscrubbers and doubled security wights. I believe it. The quiet here is almost alarming; the manicured lawns of the townhouses and estates are immaculately green.
We stop where a building stands literally at the corner of several perfectly cobbled streets, its rounded cornices guarded by a grinning two-headed Amphisbaena.
THE MENAGERIE
is written below it in letters shaped like gilded Unnaturals, which turn to preen, swat at one another, or glare at passersby, never once forsaking the form of the word they spell.
“Come on, darling,” Lucy says. “You’re gawking.” She draws me inside.
The club seems much bigger somehow on the inside than out. We follow faint music and laughter down a colonnade, past alcoves of women murmuring at one another behind fans or plucking plump strawberries from platters carried by drifting serving wights.
The colonnade gives way to a forest. That’s the only way I can think to describe this vaulted room with its white, tree-shaped columns, the deep, mossy carpets, and the laughing stream that burbles and trips through the room. Unnaturals move here and there through sprays of flowers and curling vines, their wings trailing the ground as they bear trays of food or steaming cups of coffee.
Others pose above or peep around the columns, their eyes following the movement of the patrons as they come and go.
“What is this?” It escapes my mouth before I can keep silent.
“Why, The Menagerie, of course.” Lucy spreads her hands to encompass it all and laughs. She leads me across a bridge to a little dell by the stream. We sit on mushroom ottomans before a table made from a single slice of a giant tree trunk. It’s then I realize the Unnaturals are either
myth
work automata or servants done up in elaborate costume. It unnerves me deeply—the casual acceptance of this simulated reality. Here, people may pretend they are among the danger and mystery of the Unnatural world without harm or fear. Here, these Uptown ladies may even bend that unknown world to their will, forcing it to serve them cakes and tea. I shift on my mushroom, trying to ignore the
myth
work Phoenix that dips its head toward me every so often. I don’t want to think about that pile of feathers that will soon grace Lucy’s skirts.
Lucy’s lips thin. “Do you find this disagreeable, my dear?”
“No,” I try to say, but my voice comes hoarsely. I clear my throat and force a smile. “Not at all. It’s just a bit of a shock.”
Lucy tilts her head. Her dark eyes sparkle with unspoken questions.
“I just never imagined that ladies of such standing would prefer this kind of venue.”
“And what did you think we might prefer instead?”
My gaze follows the brook. A
myth
work naiad lifts her head above the water and grins at me, then slowly retreats back into the water again. Her mechanical grin looks more like a grimace. “Well, something more in keeping with Logic and Rationality,” I say carefully. “Something less . . . fanciful.”
“Pish tosh.” Lucy waves her hand. “It’s all merely for amusement. Just wait until you see Carnival! This will seem like nothing in comparison.”
At the wave of her hand, one of the servants comes over the bridge to us. She’s dressed as a sylphid, with giant, luminous wings that whisper along the path behind her. Lucy orders high tea—cakes, scones, sandwiches, teas, and other assorted tidbits. The servant bows and disappears back across the bridge. Lucy digs through her purple velvet reticule until she pulls out several books, which, at first glance, would seem too large to fit in any proper reticule.
Then, I understand. Her reticule is evered to contain whatever she likes. Within reason, of course. It isn’t as if she could stuff a pony in there. But she can store a number of items that wouldn’t otherwise fit into such a tiny contraption, which is why generally only the gentry are allowed to possess such items. If a thief got hold of such a thing, one could only imagine the disaster!
Lucy places the books on the table and slides them gently toward me, along with another reticule, this one a claret color.
“When you look at these later in the privacy and comfort of your own rooms”—she looks at me significantly—“you’ll understand why I gave them to you and what they’re to be used for. I expect you to study them well. I need you well-prepared for Carnival. I’m hoping these will serve.”
I slide my fingers over the covers. Tiny little shocks of magic slide under my fingernails. Unlike the dark curse manuals at Rackham’s, these books tickle all the way up my arms. I restrain myself from opening them, though their delightful magic is nearly irresistible. “Where did you get them?”
Lucy half-smiles. “That hardly matters, does it? The point is that they have what I—that is to say
we
—need.”
“And what is that?”
Lucy’s eyes hold mine. “A love charm, my dear. Possibly several. The Heir to Grimgorn will be at Carnival and rumor has it he’s seeking a wife. Or his parents are seeking one for him, at any rate. I want him to want only me, do you understand? My family needs this alliance desperately; Grimgorn is second only to the Empress in wealth and stature. They practically rule Scientia! Imagine what could be achieved there!”
I shudder to think. I slip the books into the claret reticule, thinking again of Athena’s scarlet-lettered execution gown. “This is the price for saving your life?” I ask.
“For not being wise enough to hide your powers from a sharp-eyed girl.” She smiles. “Would you believe I have secretly wanted to be one such as you all my life? But though I can see and feel it, the magic does not let me wield it.”
“Perhaps you could be taught.”
“Perhaps,” she says. “But for now, you will serve, I think.” She eyes me and the scarlet circle under my hand. “Won’t you?”
Have I any choice in the matter?
I want to ask. But I already know her answer.
“I will.” I wish those two little words didn’t feel like a binding spell.
S
yrus perched on the gold damask settee in the Architect’s sitting room. The room was paneled in gilt and white, with long gold curtains that shut out New London’s eternal gloom. There was a great fireplace at one end of the room, held up by kneeling marble nymphs. Above the mantel hung an ancient tapestry of a blue Wyvern in a golden field embroidered with white lilies. Syrus sensed a great weight of tradition in that tapestry, but what it meant or what it might have to do with the Architect, he was uncertain.
A book was open on the Tinker boy’s lap and he glanced down at it, flipping its thick pages to and fro, though he couldn’t read the City words. He was nervous as a caged hob. Though the Architect had taken good care of him since his rescue—seeing to his wounds, bringing him meals, keeping a fire going with his own hands—Syrus knew something was amiss. He was locked in the room and had been strictly warned not to even try escaping.
“Everything depends on your cooperation,” the Architect had said that first morning. “If you allow curiosity to overwhelm your judgment, everything will suffer for your foolishness.”
That had naturally made Syrus think of the Cull. He was sure the Guard had come because he’d helped the Harpy. And while he
didn’t repent of saving her, he knew he must act with the utmost care, especially after his latest misadventure at the Refinery. But that had been weeks ago. Syrus was now mostly healed of his wounds and the need to bring the witch to the Manticore was stronger than ever. He was beginning to think he might have to break free after all, despite the Architect’s admonitions.