Chapter 18
Chapter
Sir Jonathan Davies, President of the Geomagical Society of London, did not seem like a man often anxious.
He had the kind of solemn face that had settled into craggy granite folds over the years.
With his white hair, icy blue eyes, and a nose like a mountain peak, it was easy to imagine Davies staring down a wayward geomagician or addressing the assembly in his deep Welsh baritone.
But the man was nervous now. Sweat shimmered at his retreating hairline, and his fingers tapped. Unlike Buckland, Davies, and myself, Henry didn’t seem nervous at all.
There had been some tense debate about the speaking order, but it was ultimately determined that Davies would open, Buckland would speak next, and then Henry would conclude the presentation. I could tell from their small smiles that both men thought they’d received the better slot.
The four of us were waiting in the wings of the Palmanaeus auditorium, separated from the stage and the gathered crowd of geomagicians by black velvet curtains.
I held Ajax, stroking his head and chest, but any minute now I would transfer him to the wheeled cage beside us, with its golden filigree like fluttering wings.
It was originally commissioned, Buckland said, to house a kookaburra gifted to the royal menagerie from the governor of New South Wales.
I didn’t want to ask what became of the bird.
The black curtains did little to muffle the collective speculation of our audience.
Based on the snatches of gossip, most of the geomagicians seemed to think that Davies was about to announce his immediate retirement, with either Buckland or Henry—who, they had noticed, were not among the gathered—to be named interim president until the meeting in June.
“How many are there?” I asked.
“About forty, I expect,” Davies said. “Current Society membership is sixty-four, but of course not everyone could be reached in time.”
Forty gathered geomagicians. And we were about to deliver the shock of their lives.
My God, we really are about to change the world.
My stomach pitched with mingled excitement and fear. I pressed a hand to my waist, over the smooth yellow satin of the gown Blythe had chosen, as if that could settle the butterflies.
I’d imagined this moment a thousand times since we left Lyme Regis three days ago, but now that it was here, I felt mostly terror.
“It will be Stanton, surely,” said a blustering voice over the fray, beyond the curtain. “The old man’s time is long passed.”
Someone scoffed loudly. “Your master isn’t here, Whaley; no need to wag your tail.”
Henry chuckled.
I caught only snatches after that, as the shouts rang over one another—furious phrases such as how dare you, and decrepit, and impudent fool—until a nasal voice rose above the fray.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Perhaps we ought to hold our speculation until we know what this emergency session is actually about.”
I recognized that nasal voice: William Conybeare.
He was the Society’s master of fellows, and Buckland’s closest friend and ally.
He’d visited Lyme Regis many times, and while we were always cordial, he and I had never warmed to each other, despite Buckland’s efforts.
I’d always found Conybeare cold and haughty, and he found me, well, a woman, and therefore less than worthy of his time.
But what had Buckland told him? Did Conybeare already know what waited behind the curtain?
“It’s time,” Davies said, and when I didn’t move, Buckland put a hand on my shoulder and looked pointedly toward the cage.
Ajax snuggled closer to my chest, chirping sweetly. The tip of his beak was sharp through the thin silk of my borrowed dress. I stroked at his head, a sudden heat in my eyes as he nuzzled against my palm.
It feels like goodbye.
But it wasn’t. I would be a while in London, a few weeks, at least. I could still see him.
Still, I kissed the top of his scaled head as Buckland opened the cage door. A few thick branches were placed at different heights for perching, and I poked Ajax until he stepped onto one.
“Good fellow,” I murmured, and stepped back, throat thick. Buckland closed the door.
He needs a place for a nest, I thought; he doesn’t sleep perched, he sleeps curled up. He needs his blankets. I should have brought his blankets.
But Davies was already sweeping out through the curtains. The emergency session of the Geomagical Society of London was called to order.
Davies spoke, but said nothing. He blathered on for a few minutes, thanking everyone for gathering on such short notice. He promised it would be worthwhile.
Buckland paced, muttering his speech. Henry was silent, his face calm stone. I crept forward to peer at Davies’s back through the curtain. The lecture theater stage was a semicircle, with velvet-upholstered benches in a half moon and a narrow overhanging gallery at the back.
Conybeare sat near the center of the front row, his back stiff as iron.
I could pick out a few more faces—geomagicians who’d come to visit Lyme Regis on occasion, to hunt fossils under my guidance or to buy from me.
I wondered which one was Gideon Mantell.
We’d exchanged a few letters over the years, and I’d sold him several specimens on mail order, but he’d never come to Lyme Regis.
And which one was Archibald Taylor? I was looking forward to sharing my corrected copy of his plesiosaur paper.
Samuel Enys had to be among the crowd, too.
His analysis of my first ichthyosaur find still gave me a headache to recall. My chest quivered with excitement.
Davies was about to call out Buckland. “For you see,” he said, “our very own William Buckland and Henry Stanton have returned to London with the most important discovery of our time.”
Buckland transformed as he strolled from behind the curtains. His chest broadened, shoulders stretching wide as if pulled with a wire. He was somehow taller, too.
So, this was the showman—the Professor and Reverend William Buckland that students lined up to see lecture.
“Summon in your minds, if you will,” he said, somehow softly and booming at once, and the buzz in the hall quieted as he walked to the center of the stage and raised his hands.
“The great cliffs of Lyme Regis, the crumbling rock and the crash of the sea. The ancient Blue Lias formation, in which so many specimens of ichthyosaurus and plesiosaurus have previously been discovered. You know this place. Many of you have walked there, with that dear friend of the Society, young Miss Mary Anning.”
Henry was holding my hand.
I realized it with a sudden start, and nearly jerked away. His fingers were twined with mine, steady pressure. I hadn’t known my hands were trembling. I didn’t let go.
“We gather tonight, under these expedited conditions, because that same Miss Anning has recently found the skeleton of an unknown species of that most rare and curious of all reptiles, the pterodactyl.”
Through the gap in the curtain, I saw a few frowns and exchanged looks at that declaration. Annoyance, that they’d been called from home for this. Yes, an English pterodactyl was exciting. But an emergency meeting? A smile tripped on Henry’s lips.
“The creature she found is of a genus that has yet been recognized only in the upper Jura limestone beds of Eichst?tt and Solnhofen, in the lithographic stone, which is contemporary with the chalk of England. The specimen is extraordinary.
“The creature somewhat resembles our modern bats and the vampyre species, but has its beak elongated like the bill of a woodcock and is armed with teeth like the snout of a crocodile. Its vertebrae, ribs, pelvis, legs, and feet resemble those of a lizard, and the three anterior fingers terminate in long hooked claws like that on the forefinger of the bat. Over its body is a covering of scaly armor like that of an iguana, and small, hairlike filaments. Can you see it? Can you hear its cry? Imagine—flocks of these creatures, clouding the skies, soaring above the waters in which the sea-beasts dwelled.”
Buckland’s voice soared and dipped, and even I could picture the creature he summoned with the power of his words.
The crowd was with him now, despite their annoyance. The gathered men, from oldest to youngest, their faces rapt, leaned forward to catch Buckland’s every word.
“In short,” Buckland cried, “a monster, resembling nothing that has ever been seen or heard of upon Earth, excepting the dragons of romance and heraldry.”
I didn’t know how he did it, but his body somehow stilled, like all the vibration had gone out of his limbs.
His voice dropped, low and solemn. “But the skeleton Miss Anning found did not perish alone. For with her—clasped to the mother’s breast—was a single, precious egg.”
Well, that wasn’t quite accurate, but I couldn’t very well correct him at the moment.
Buckland let this linger for a moment, the powerful image of the dying mother and her egg.
I remembered how I’d felt when I found it: the way it had moved me, even as I knew it was foolish anthropomorphizing to think the mother felt such a human emotion.
Now Buckland worked the same trick on them all.
“Mary picked up the egg, and cradled it in her gentle hands,” Buckland continued quietly, miming the actions. “And by some miracle—by some act of God—”
“That’s my cue,” Henry said, and slipped his hand from mine. He grasped the bars of the golden cage and began to push, wheels squeaking softly as they gained speed. The heavy black curtain parted around them, and I heard a sound I’d never imagined: a sea of people gasping at the same moment.
The curtains closed behind Henry, and once again I peered through a narrow slit, this time as the audience erupted.
“The creature awoke,” said Henry, and even I was caught in the spell of his voice, the smooth, confident musicality of it.