Chapter 31 #2
At least I could ensure the deaths were not in vain. I collected my notebook, a scalpel, and the icebox in which I’d stored the dead specimens and set up a necroscopy laboratory in Henry’s kitchen.
I sketched out internal structures and soft tissue as I went: the flesh lost to time, muscle no human had ever seen before. I told myself this was good. Worthwhile. I was still learning. Still collecting knowledge, even with the deaths. Failure—death—was simply the cost of scientific progress.
I was glad the stink of dead fish had cleared the staff from the kitchen, because I cried every time I set my knife to a cold tentacle or pried open a protective shell.
The geomagicians were right to be so patronizing, I thought miserably as I fought back the tears.
Apparently I was like any other woman, quick to resort to emotions.
I wept alone, in the thick silence of the kitchen, and cursed Henry Stanton for leaving once again.
I lunched later that day with Gideon Mantell and Elias Goldsmild in the Palmanaeus cafeteria, poking at my broiled chicken and half listening to their discussion about sedimentary composition in the Highlands.
Maybe I should try a different diet with the belemnites. They seemed content with the mix of fish and crustaceans I’d offered, but a different type of fish might improve outcomes.
“…what do you think, Mary?” Mantell asked eagerly.
I started. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of—something else. What were you saying?”
“We’ve been working on a proper name for your bezoars.” Goldsmild smiled. “Gideon here has proposed coprolite. Kopros, from ‘dung,’ and lithos, from ‘stone.’ ”
“It was my wife’s idea, actually,” Mantell said, dropping his voice low.
“Coprolite,” I said, trying it out on my tongue. “Certainly more scholarly than fossil-feces.”
“Exactly.” Goldsmild chuckled. He and Mantell exchanged a glance, and Mantell gave a quick nod.
“Mantell and I thought perhaps we could write a paper on the subject.”
“Of course,” I said, fighting back my envy. “You came up with the name.”
Goldsmild cocked his head. “We mean with you, dear.”
“I don’t know how much availability you have, given your commitments to Stanton’s research,” Mantell said, “but if you have the time, we’d love to have you.”
I blinked as the offer sank in. The geomagicians wanted to work on the paper with me. As partners. Co-authors.
It wasn’t exactly how I planned to make my mark as a scholar, but I had been the first to identify the bezoars—coprolites—for what they were.
But between my work with Henry and a co-authored paper with Mantell and Goldsmild, my reputation as a geomagician could only be bolstered.
Every chance to prove my worth as a scholar was an opportunity to gather votes for my eventual election.
My cheeks warmed as I stammered out, “I’d be honored to work with you both.”
For the first time since I’d discovered the dead salamanders, I smiled.
And I smiled through the rest of lunch, fantasizing about my name heading a geomagical paper, and soon my name signed to the Charter of the Geomagical Society of London.
It was gray and wet when Buckland and I rode home that night in the coach, puddles on the cobblestones and halos around the streetlamps.
He was delighted by news of my planned co-authorship.
“And you simply must give a talk as well. I can help you practice! I’ll have much more time to assist next week, after the public lecture.”
Said public lecture on flood-hibernation theory was to be held in St. Paul’s Cathedral, no less. Ajax would be on display for the public in his golden cage as the star exhibit.
“Do you think the archbishop will attend?” I asked.
“He will,” Buckland said, preening. “He is most eager to show his support for the Society.”
“That’s good. I wonder—”
The coach lurched to a halt. Buckland frowned; we hadn’t been driving nearly long enough to be at our destination.
A voice barked at our driver, and Buckland and I both poked our heads out the windows to see what was the matter.
The street was oddly deserted, and a prickle raised the hairs on my neck.
It’s too quiet, I thought, just as I was blinded by a white light.
I yelped and leapt back from the bright beam.
“Sorry, miss,” said a gruff voice, and the light shifted to sweep over the coach’s interior.
“What is the meaning of this?” Buckland asked.
“Apologies, sir,” the constable—I could see his hat and coat now—grunted. “There’s rough types out tonight. Prowling the streets. Causing trouble and bothering good folks like yourselves. We’ve blockaded the roads ahead to limit to residential traffic only. Your address, sir, if you would?”
The protest, I realized with a start. I’d quite lost track of time over the last fortnight, but it had to be the Prometheans. Edgar Murray’s reform bill was to have its second reading in the House of Lords tomorrow.
The officer squinted, but Buckland said, “And we are very grateful for your concern, and diligence.” He gave his address, and the constable waved us past with one last, skeptical glance my way.
We rumbled on. Now that I was paying attention, it was impossible to ignore the eerie absence of sound, beyond the turning wheels and clattering hooves.
Lucy would be out there. Somewhere in the darkness across the city. I prayed quickly for her safety.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” Buckland mused.
I pulled the curtain aside to look out the window at the empty street and lied. “Your guess is as good as mine.”