Chapter 35 #2
Fee or no, the crowd out front already swelled, bursting against the rope barriers erected to make order from the chaos.
Constables patrolled around the edges, searching the crowd for signs of trouble.
But, having quite recently seen an angry crowd, I could clearly see this was a different mood altogether.
Men and women and children were dressed in their finest clothes, grinning and laughing, and hawkers strolled through the crowd, selling snacks and ale and—amusingly, since I had no idea what the artists had based them off—commemorative paintings of Ajax.
“A real live dragon, son,” I heard one man in threadbare trousers exclaim to the small boy hoisted on his shoulders. “It’s a miracle.”
I was grinning, too, as Edgar and I were ushered from the coach and into an entrance at the back of the cathedral.
Ajax was a miracle. I shouldn’t let myself forget that. And he was my miracle.
“Mary!” Catherine Buckland called out, when the viscount and I entered. She rushed toward us, catching my hands.
“Thank God you’re all right. We’ve been so worried. But William said you’ve been recovering well?”
“Yes, very well, thanks to Viscount Merlton,” I said.
Catherine thanked him profusely as Edgar demurred.
I scanned the room, saw President Davies, Buckland, and the archbishop deep in conversation, and Henry with a cluster of geomagicians.
Other important-looking folk in fine dress milled about, claiming their seats in the front section.
The general public would stand behind the red ropes, once they were admitted.
“Where is Ajax? And is Lucy here?” I hadn’t seen her since the other night in Edgar’s study, and even with her apology, I had the sore, nagging worry that things still weren’t quite right between us.
Catherine pointed toward the row of white arches along the nave. “Lucy and Elizabeth are observing Ajax with some of the other ladies.”
I excused myself to join them, passing under the great white eye of the dome as I walked to the altar from which Buckland would give his lecture.
Ajax was behind a golden curtain, strung over the altar to hide him from the crowd until the last possible minute. I slipped behind it, and when I saw him, it took my breath away.
He was perched in a metal tree next to the lectern, the graceful branches of molded copper and the trunk painted gold.
More gold wrapped around his left ankle, a thin chain that bound him to the tree.
He’d been positioned just so to allow the sparkling light of the stained glass to fall across his chest.
The archbishop and Buckland had done well. The pterodactyl looked every inch a gift from God. My eyes filled. My precious, darling, adorable Ajax.
He caught my scent, maybe, or my face, and rose to his full height, spreading his wings wide and calling out in distress. He tried to hop, pulling the chain at his ankle taut.
“Oh, hush, love,” I murmured as I climbed the altar steps. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“You can’t go up there! It isn’t safe!” blustered one of his handlers, a blond man with elbow-length gloves. He wasn’t one I’d met before.
Lucy’s laugh was like gentle rain. “Don’t you know that’s Mary Anning? He won’t hurt her.”
The handler hesitated, and I crossed the rest of the distance to Ajax.
He cooed and clucked, hopping happily. If I could have reached that high, I would have thrown my arms around him and buried my face in his neck.
Instead I settled for stroking his soft belly, and then, when he bent his neck to me, his eye ridges and chin.
I missed him. I missed him so much.
I wished I could blame it all on Davies, or the handlers. But I’d let myself become distracted. By the other resurrections. By Henry. By the dramatics with Lucy. But no more. After today, I would visit him daily. I would insist upon it.
Ajax needed me. And I needed him.
Lucy was next to me then, her hand on my shoulder. “They’re about ready to open the doors to the public.”
“Luce,” I said thickly, still battling the wave of emotions from seeing Ajax. “I know, the other night, you and I—”
“I shouldn’t have said it,” she interrupted, clasping my hands. “I was fearful, and frustrated, and I took it out on you.”
I nodded, fighting not to cry as we embraced. I gave Ajax another quick pat on the chest and told him to be good. He protested with a few squawks but settled quickly.
A pretty redhead beelined to intercept us.
“Marged Davies,” she said in a charming Welsh accent, thrusting out her hand.
This was President Davies’s wife? She had to be half his age, at least; hardly out of her twenties, if I had to guess.
“Is it true you found that gorgeous plesiosaur in the entryway of Palmanaeus?”
“Why, yes,” I said, surprised and a little flattered, despite myself. “It was one of my earliest finds.”
She smiled conspiratorially. “I have my own theory about the plesiosaurus, if you are int—”
“Ah, Marged, I see you’ve already found the woman of the hour,” Davies declared.
Marged stiffened at his booming voice, too loud in the echo of the cathedral.
But she smiled as she turned toward her husband, now marching in our direction with a white-haired man in tow.
I recognized him at once—the old man from Parliament.
He was flanked by two younger, harried-looking staff members.
Buckland followed at a pace, slipping in beside me.
“Miss Anning,” Davies said grandly, “I am very pleased to introduce to you Lord Knackbull.”
“Miss Anning.” Lord Knackbull thrust out a hand.
I took it, unsure if he meant me to shake or kiss it, but instead he brought it to his own wrinkled lips.
“I owe you my life.” His eyes glistened with tears. “A hero. A true hero. I am honored to meet you.”
“Oh,” I said, flustered. “I only did what anyone would do.”
“Nonsense. You risked your life to save mine,” he said.
“Please, Miss Anning. If there’s anything I can do to be of service, to you or”—he took in Buckland and Davies, like a true politician—“your Society, please do let me know. I would be most gratified to be of assistance. I admit that I know very little about your work.”
Buckland’s sly eyes lit. “Perhaps you’d like to attend the reception this evening, at Palmanaeus House?”
“Oh, yes,” Davies said smoothly, catching on to Buckland’s idea. “We can share with you more about our Society, and perhaps some of the ways we might even be able to assist you, sir, and the government.”
Buckland smiled. “I can at least promise an evening of enlightening conversation with other men of intelligence—something I am sure you find little enough of, in your line of work.”
Knackbull barked a laugh.
Elizabeth Buckland was making her way over to us, but stopped short rather than interrupt the conversation with Lord Knackbull, and folded her hands neatly.
But she bounced eagerly on her heels, and I remembered what Lucy had said about Elizabeth’s interest in geomagic.
She was probably as excited for today as her father.
I looked at Elizabeth, standing patiently by, and Marged Davies, behind her husband’s shoulder, and I had a sudden thought. Perhaps I could extend an olive branch to Lucy by offering one to Elizabeth. Needling Davies at the same time wouldn’t hurt, either.
“Actually, President Davies,” I said—and his head swiveled in obvious annoyance—“I was thinking perhaps other women might be invited as well. I will be in attendance, so it will already be a gathering of mixed company.”
Buckland grinned and looked indulgently at Elizabeth, whose eyes went bright with glee. Marged looked hopefully at her husband for his answer.
Before Davies could object, Knackbull clapped and said, “What an excellent idea. My son Laurence”—he gestured at one of the thin men I’d taken for an aide—“has a young daughter who would love to meet you, Miss Anning.”
And it was settled.
“Well played,” murmured Buckland as we took our seats in the front row. “You are getting the hang of politics, after all, aren’t you?”
Before I could respond, the organist took his seat. The show was about to begin.
The onlookers flowed in a crowded, steady stream, their upturned faces a mix of wonder, fear, and delight.
The faithful who’d come to hear Buckland covered every square of the checkered black-and-white floor, stretching into the nave and quire.
The procession of the cross was followed by the reading of scripture, and then we sang together, a number of hymns.
In some ways, it was just like any Sunday at home in Lyme Regis, with Parson Anders at the altar.
But in others, it was nothing at all like the familiar worship of home.
The attendees around me, for one, were not the fisherfolk and craftspeople I’d grown up with.
Those types stood clustered behind us, shuffling patiently behind the red ropes.
I sat among lords and ladies, viscounts and earls and countesses, draped in silks and jewels.
I could only guess at how many reliqs they wore, pinned to ears and wrapped on wrists and braided into hairpieces.
Enough magic to level the whole cathedral in just the first three pews.
And our singing echoed through the nave and down the quire, rather than caught in the low, pigeon-infested eaves of the Lyme Regis chapel.
I was struck with a moment of homesickness for the old chapel, and the smell of the sea.
The archbishop strode forward after the reading, and climbed the curved stairs to the carved wood pulpit. He gave a signal with his hand, and the golden curtain at his back fell away. A murmur whipped through the pews.
Ajax perched on his golden tree, looking down over all of us. With a harrowing cry, the pterodactyl spread his wings and beat the air. Voices gasped and swore around me, but I didn’t turn to look; I was transfixed by the sight of my pterodactyl.
The archbishop began. A miracle, he called Ajax, in his low, soothing voice. A revelation: a window into the mind of God.
Buckland was leaning forward, mouthing the words as the archbishop spoke them. His fingerprints were all over the text of the introduction, and I could tell he was pleased with the archbishop’s impassioned delivery.
The archbishop finished by listing the many accomplishments of William Buckland: Oxford professor, vice president of the Geomagical Society of London, and—most important—ordained and respected clergy of the Church of England.
Buckland beamed as he rose and climbed to take his place amid the applause.
It was strange to hear my own story retold with Buckland’s flair for dramatics. A determined young fossilist, he called me, Mistress Mary Anning of Lyme Regis, and a hundred heads turned my way.
My cheeks warmed. How had I ever doubted Buckland? Here he was, with the greatest audience of his life, and it was my story he told. My name he credited.
Buckland described the heart-pounding scramble as the cliff gave way and unveiled the cave.
He captured the dry, earthen scent of the dark cavern, and the scraping of my knees as I made my slow crawl to the pterodactyl.
My heart pounded as he described the moment I discovered the pterodactyl skeleton, and the egg.
“And then—whilst cupped in young Miss Anning’s trembling hands—the egg hatched,” Buckland said softly, into the quiet hush.
My guilt cut through the spell of his storytelling. Yes, true, Ajax hatched in my hands. I felt Henry’s eyes, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. But it wasn’t the full truth.
“Our Lord, you see, works all things to His purpose. He peeled away the rock and stone, to make way for Miss Anning, so that she could be there to bear witness to the perfection of His timing. To bear witness to this great revelation.”
His voice rang through the cathedral, gathering strength from the murmurs. From the widening eyes. He cleared his throat.
“As geomagicians, we have dedicated our lives to understanding the Earth, seeking in her bones to understand her secrets—how she and her creatures were formed by the hand of God.
“And the best of our geomagical evidence demonstrates that the present system of this planet is built on the wreck and ruins of one more ancient, and there is nothing in this inconsistent with the Mosaic accounts.
In fact, we have again and again proved the Mosaic account to be in perfect harmony with the discoveries of the modern geomagical science.
Every discovery that has yet been brought to light by geomagical investigations confirms the truth of Scripture.
“But we who study the Earth have long been dogged by the sharp-toothed specter, with no answer to be found in scripture. I speak, you may already have guessed, of extinction.” He spoke the word like a curse.
“How could a loving God—a perfect God, an infallible God—destroy his own creations? And on this, the Scriptures have been silent.
“I know many of you have asked this same question in your own prayerful hearts. I have asked it myself. Lord, Lord, my soul has cried, in search of an answer.”
Buckland’s voice was a roar and a rumble, as gentle and powerful as a river over rock.
“And here it is at last. Here is proof divine, an answer long sought. For this creature, the egg of the pterodactyl, was ensconced in diluvium: the substance left behind in the wake of the Great Deluge.”
I bit hard on the inside of my cheek. Not true, not true, not true.
“Put to sleep in the silt of the universal deluge—the Noachian flood—the pterodactyl slept through the ages of man. Not extinct. Not a mistake. Only asleep, for a time. But now—now, my friends, the sleeping giants wake at last.”
He flung one arm backward toward Ajax, startling him. The pterodactyl spread his wings and screeched in surprise. A terrible, beautiful sound to punctuate Buckland’s terrible, beautiful lie.
Here Buckland paused, his gaze sweeping over his listeners, his eyes triumphant. I pressed my feet to the floor, stone cold and hard through my leather soles.
“We know that once there was an ancient Earth ruled by great beasts. A world that the Creator set to a sleep—a long and gentle rest—in the waters of His flood. A reprieve, perhaps, to allow the species made in His own image, and whom He loved best of all, to thrive. Time, He granted us, to become masters of all magics, and of the Earth herself, that we might be prepared when the beasts began to wake.”