The Unnaturalists

CHAPTER 12

After his visit to Rackham’s, Syrus had watched the witch for many days. He wished he could write her a letter, but he didn’t know how to write in the Cityfolk language. And he didn’t have the coin to pay someone to take dictation, even if he had thought it wise to put such information in a letter, which it wasn’t. And how did he expect her to respond? “Your father plots against you and the Manticore needs you.” He doubted if he was a City girl and someone told him such a thing that he’d respond favorably. When he added the fact that he’d stolen something precious to her . . . well, he didn’t expect she’d welcome any contact from him, really.

But it had to be done.

Things were very busy about the Nyx household. There was much to-ing and fro-ing. The witch often went out with her aunt on long shopping excursions in Midtown or to Uptown for the Manticore knew what. Syrus couldn’t follow her very easily into Uptown; only respectable sorts were allowed there, so he was forced to climb wicked-looking fences and skulk around flower urns, hoping no one would drag him by the ears out of the gates.

He asked a servant what all the fuss was about and the old man smiled. “Our young miss is to be Companion to Mistress Virulen. She’s preparing to move to the Virulen Estate after Carnival.”

Syrus nodded, feeling the urgency of his mission press even more closely. He needed to speak to her before she went to Virulen. She’d be closer to the Manticore then but much harder to reach. And who knew what would happen to her beforehand?

No matter how he tried, though, he couldn’t get close enough to her at a moment when she was alone. Unless he just happened to hide in the right dressing room at the Night Emporium, he didn’t see himself managing it. And the mere thought of that gave him the willies.

Still . . . He eyed the townhouse. There was one place and one time when she’d be alone, when he could be certain no one would disturb her or interrupt him. Her bedroom at night. This thought didn’t make him much more comfortable than the idea of catching her in the dressing room, but it still might be a better alternative, unless she screamed or triggered the banshee alarm. He rolled his eyes. Surely, she was more sensible than the average City female. She had seemed very practical and quite brave when she had stepped in to keep the highwayman from taking the strongbox in her carriage. She’d been brave during the fight at Rackham’s too, even if she’d still wanted to come after him for the accursed toad.

Surely, she’d see reason if he could make her understand the urgency of the matter. He had, in fact, tried to return to Rackham’s to steal the toad back, but was astonished to discover that Rackham’s was now a burnt-out husk. The rest of the block had barely escaped going up in flames, and no one knew what had happened or where Rackham had got to. Some said it was the Raven Guard belatedly getting around to torching a hexshop. But if so, why hadn’t Rackham’s arrest and execution date been made public? The Guard generally made a big show. This quiet bit of arson wasn’t their style. Had the Architect come back later for revenge?

Syrus sighed as he slipped down the alley alongside the witch’s townhouse. Whatever the circumstances, the toad was gone. She would just have to accept his apology and believe that he was telling the truth.

He wasn’t sure which was her bedroom, but from the flower-printed curtains he could just see above him, he’d guess this was the one. He wished for a moment that Truffler was with him; his friend would have been able to sniff her out just as well as he did any rare mushroom. Not that she’d like being compared to a fungus, Syrus imagined.

He waited until night fell completely to climb up the drainpipe and onto what he hoped was her window ledge. He listened for a while. As far as he could tell, everyone was still downstairs. Dinner was surely over and perhaps they were in the parlor, reading or—The sound of a pianoforte tinkled up the stairs. Syrus tested the window. It was closed but not locked. It only took a little force from his file and wedge to lever it up enough for him to slide through.

He closed it quietly. An everlantern cast a dim glow over the room, and the myth radiator plinked and hissed near the window. A fire had been laid on the hearth against the chill; Syrus was thankful he wouldn’t have to worry over frightening a maid. He turned, taking in the flounced petticoats draped over a chair, the carelessly piled books everywhere. Definitely her room.

Although he was more than used to picking pockets, he’d never quite graduated to outright thievery like many of the lads in Lowtown. It was uncomfortable standing here surrounded by all the witch’s things, knowing he could easily take more of her valuables, except for the fact that he was here to persuade rather than rob.

The room itself was discomfiting to him just by its very existence. The bed looked warm and deep; he couldn’t help but press down on it with his palm—cloud-soft goose down. He had always slept cocooned in thin quilts with his family in the leaky passenger car, hearing Granny Reed get up in the night to feed the old potbelly stove, wondering if he would ever know what it was like to be warm all over all at once. This sort of luxury he’d never imagined, though he knew that by Cityfolk lights, the Nyxes were not rich. Still, there were paintings and other art on the walls, dried flowers in a vase, an embroidered dressing screen.

Syrus felt terribly out of place. He looked for somewhere he could hide until the appropriate moment. He settled in a corner between the hulking wardrobe and a bookshelf. He didn’t want to hide in anything and unduly frighten her, much as the idea of springing out of a wardrobe amused him.

He crouched down and stared at the spines of all the books with their indecipherable letters. He hoped he would never have to learn to read the Cityfolk’s language. The thought of their deadly dull thoughts pressing in on him made him dizzy.

He stiffened and hunched as close to the wall as he could when the door opened.

“Good night, Aunt,” he heard the witch say. With a swish of skirts, she and her maid disappeared behind her dressing screen. He tried to think of something else, so as not to hear her undressing. He had kissed a girl behind the train car before, but that was as far as things had gone. The thought of what a witch would do if she caught him peeping at her was quite unpleasant.

The maid banked the fire and left. Syrus waited until he was sure the witch had climbed into bed and pulled the covers up around her. Then, he slipped out from behind the wardrobe.

He coughed slightly. “Miss Nyx,” he said, “I must speak with you.”

She sat bolt upright. It was hard for him not to laugh at her in her nightcap with the covers pulled up around her and possibly the most indignant look on her face he’d ever seen on any female. She narrowed her eyes.

“You!” she said.

“Listen, Miss Nyx, I . . .” he began. Such formal language coming out of his mouth was odd, but he didn’t want to offend her either. He knew the forms for dealing with Elementals, but a witch? He wasn’t quite sure what was proper.

“Give me one reason why I should not sound the banshee alarm at once,” she said.

“Because I’ve come to tell you . . . that is . . . we have reason to believe that you are. . .”

She let the covers fall and crossed her arms over her chest, much as she’d done when the clan surrounded her carriage.

“What?” she said.

“In danger,” Syrus said.

The expression on her face was indescribable. It was as though a mirror cracked, revealing something under the surface that was powerful but also very afraid. It was hard to tell in the dim room, but he thought her skin turned several shades of red until it was almost purple. The dimmed everlantern made obvious what day did not readily disclose—her features were very Tinker-like—high cheekbones, round face, somewhat tilted eyes. He’d never noticed before; perhaps it was her pale coloring or the way she wore her hair.

Syrus wished he could move toward the window and flee, but his feet were rooted to the carpet. This was not going well at all.

“You broke into my room in the middle of the night to tell me something I already know?” she said.

“The window was mostly open,” Syrus protested. “And it’s not the middle of the night.”

She glared. “The boy who stole my toad and won’t return it feels compelled to break into my room to tell me I’m in danger? That’s rich, indeed.”

He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry now that I took it. You don’t know how sorry. I’ve tried to get it back, but the place where I sold it . . . well, it’s been burned to the ground.”

Narrowed eyes again. The distinct and uncomfortable possibility occurred to him that she could shoot flames from her eyeballs and burn him to a crisp. This time, his feet managed to move a little. He shuffled toward the window.

“You have ten seconds to hand over the toad or I’m sounding the alarm.”

“I don’t have it!”

“One-one thousand, two-one thousand . . .”

“I really don’t!” He turned out his coat pockets.

“Three one-thousand . . .”

He unbuttoned the frog buttons of his coat and showed her the inner pockets. “I don’t have it!”

“Vespa,” a voice called from the landing, “who are you talking to in there?”

“Five one-thousand, six one-thousand . . .”

“Look, I know you don’t believe me. I know you think I’m a no-good Tinker thief. Your father is planning to use you as bait to lure the Manticore. He wants her Heart for some dreadful purpose. She needs your help. If you’d just be reasonable . . .”

“Nine one-thousand. Ten.” She smirked.

Syrus dove for the window as she reached for the lever over her bed. He shimmied down the drainpipe as fast as he could. Just as he touched ground, the banshee alarm atop the house began its ear-shattering scream. It was soon taken up by other alarms along his route as he dodged between shadow and everlantern down through Midtown.