Chapter 30 #2
Lyell presented his theory one afternoon in the lecture hall and then promptly set out for Switzerland to pursue reports of a mammoth sighting in the Alps.
Others followed suit, planning field expeditions in search of all manner of lost creatures, based on rumor.
As Society treasurer, Henry had to authorize the funding, and he grumbled to me—privately—that it pained him to waste Society coin on what were likely to be, in some cases quite literally, wild-goose chases.
Because of course we were the only two who knew the truth. None of the geomagical expeditions would yield any resurrected species in the wild forests and mountains they planned to explore. If only they knew what was swimming around in Henry Stanton’s extra bedrooms.
Almost every grand room of Henry’s London flat now held rows of tanks, and I’d filled them dutifully with all manner of delightful wriggling, swimming, crawling things from Henry’s private fossil collection.
The ichthyosaur tank—still empty—was roughly the size of a four-poster bed; the glass smith said that was as large as he was willing to build in a residential structure.
But we had a pack of sea snails in the library, and belemnites in the study, and tanks of ammonites and trilobites in the bedrooms. Fish and sea-rays and the lily-like crinoids took over the dining room table, and Henry’s own office now held the largest ammonite I’d ever seen.
We were receiving new shipments of seawater every day, and Henry brought on a staff of four—young men loyal to Henry and reliq-sworn to absolute secrecy—to manage all the feeding and tank cleaning.
Henry and I were feverish with sketching and measuring and observing, the specimens and me both. I kept careful logs of each resurrection attempt in this journal, along with notes about my diet, sleep, menstrual cycle, time of day, weather, and my personal mood.
We had, by now, a fairly comprehensive understanding of my power and its limitations. And my attempt on a dead lizard, killed by Elizabeth Buckland’s cat, proved conclusively that I was unable to revive a newly dead thing.
Henry and I had nervously laid out its stiff, delicate body on the desk, on top of a lace tea doily. He leaned forward to watch as I touched the cold reptilian skin.
But rather than the tingling warmth I felt with fossils, a chilled, oily sensation spread through my chest, flipping my stomach, and I’d immediately vomited into one of his Dutch blue vases.
“Well, I think that proves you’re not a necromancer,” said Henry, as he gently rubbed my back. “Which is probably for the best.”
I laughed at the understatement of the year, then groaned as my bile rose again.
It was almost too much. I felt, at any given moment—chatting in the library at Palmanaeus House or sitting at the Bucklands’ for dinner—as if I were about to burst apart with the pride of my secret. I was bringing back the dead.
I was bringing back the dead.
No hibernation. No Godly hand of divine intervention. My power. My magic. Me.
And no one would ever know.
It was a bitter pill. I was the one who’d insisted on this secrecy. Not once had Henry broached the topic since we formed our initial agreement. I’d accused him then of caring more for his reputation than my safety, but now I was the one doubting the trade-off.
Would I truly be charged with heresy if the truth came out? Surely I wouldn’t really be executed. This wasn’t the Middle Ages anymore.
Maybe we could find a way to successfully spin my power. A blessing from God, perhaps?
And then we could throw open the doors. Show the geomagicians our tanks of treasures. I could publish. The world would know. I would be known.
One evening I looked up from my notebook mid-sentence to see Henry settled on the rug in front of the belemnite tank.
He’d rolled up his sleeves to work in the tanks, so his forearm was bare where it rested on a propped knee.
There was always something catlike about Henry Stanton, with that confident swagger and knowing smirk, but he looked especially feline now, watching the dark tentacles curl and uncurl.
I almost said as much, but the teasing words died on my lips. Reflected blue light flickered over his face, limning his cheekbones and dipping into the hollow of his throat. He was still, and rapturous, and I wanted to touch him, wanted to trace the shifting shadows and light with my fingertips.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
But Henry turned then, and patted the rug beside him. “Come and sit with me.” His smile was earnest and wide. I knew better than to trust it.
I collected myself as I sat, hands tightly clasped in case they decided to reach for his face of their own accord.
“Nothing.” His voice was soft. He was staring at the squid again. “No publication, no accolade, no presidency. Nothing I might earn or do or write or discover. Nothing could come close to this.”
I care for my reputation, and my name, he’d said before. But those are nothing—nothing—next to truth. The knowledge alone would be worthwhile, he said, when I’d doubted his motivation. He didn’t need the recognition. Only the truth.
I believed him now.
I pretended to marvel at the squid, but really I studied him from the corner of my eye, this man I’d considered a ruthless, status-seeking climber. It was an unsettling realization to discover that perhaps Henry Stanton was a far nobler scholar than I.