The Boneshaker (15 page)

"You forgot to laugh," Alfred reminded her.

Natalie rolled her eyes. "I already wound it! The laugh can't possibly—"

"You're the one who's asking a wax lady in a box how she prefers to be spoken to, so you might as well follow the inst—"

"Okay, FINE!" Natalie bellowed her loudest, most obnoxious laugh into the tube. The sibyl opened her eyes, gave Natalie what almost seemed like a look of reproach, and dropped a card that read,
You must begin at the beginning.

Natalie looked at the waxwork woman for a long moment. "That's really incredibly unhelpful." The sibyl replied by folding her hands and closing her eyes. The canary chirped a note and regarded Natalie with a beady gaze.

"Now, Phemonoe," spoke a voice from behind them. Dr. Limberleg stepped up between Natalie and Alfred and rapped on the glass with a gloved knuckle. "Don't be cryptic. The young lady has paid her penny. Answer her question."

Natalie gave him a sharp look, certain he was making fun of her. Before she could think of a suitably sharp comment to accompany the glance, however, the sibyl in the glass case raised one slender hand from the jade box and pointed to her right.

Natalie's jaw dropped open in shock.

"I presume that will be more helpful," Dr. Limberleg said. "Good morning." The look on his face as he strolled away reminded her of the day before, back in the bicycle shop, when he'd made the
Wilbur
go without the key. Now he'd done the same thing with the waxwork sibyl: no coin, no winding, only the sound of his knuckles on the glass and a spoken order. And Natalie was pretty sure he'd done it just to unnerve her.

When Limberleg had disappeared around the corner, the sibyl lowered her arm, folded her hands, and closed her eyes.

"Hang on, you," Natalie snapped. "I have one more question."

Alfred closed his eyes briefly, too, probably praying for patience, and gave Natalie his last penny. She fed it through the slot, turned the crank, leaned close to the grille.

"Dr. Limberleg," she said, trying to find a way to phrase the question she wanted to ask. "There's something strange about him, about this medicine show, something that doesn't feel right. Who is he?" She forced a chuckle and stepped back.

The card that Phemonoe returned this time read
It is a thing difficult to tell.
And then, without waiting for another penny, winding, question, or laughter, she dropped a second card into the compartment.

All things are either good or bad by comparison.

"If you want to ask it anything else," Alfred said pointedly, "could you try and find out where the films are, please?"

Clutching the cards with their cryptic answers in one hand, Natalie stared numbly at the woman in the box that had just moved without being wound. It was one thing if she could believe Dr. Limberleg had made it move through some perfectly normal means she hadn't spotted, like a magician producing a coin from your ear. It was another thing entirely if there was no magician and the coin turned up in your ear anyway, seemingly all on its own.

The sibyl closed her eyes as she leaned to the side, touching her wax ear to the end of the tortoiseshell trumpet. This time, however, her fingers continued to drum slowly on the green jade box.
Ta-ta-ta-tap. Ta-ta-ta-tap.
Natalie's skin began to crawl.

Before the creeping dread managed to get a complete hold on her, however, a familiar voice shouted her name. "Natalie! Alfred, over here! They're about to start a picture!" Miranda waved from a corner a little ways down the row of tents. Natalie took a deep, calming breath. Whoever thought she'd be so glad to see snotty, snippy Miranda?

They followed Miranda around a corner and into a darkened pavilion. Inside, they pushed through a heavy velvet curtain; on the other side a dozen wooden benches filled with people faced a taut white sheet that stretched from floor to ceiling. Ryan waved from a spot right in the middle.

"You hold our spot now, Al," Ryan called. "I want to have a look at the projector." An awkward scramble followed to get Alfred (glowering) and Miranda (beaming) to the middle bench and Ryan out.

"You have to see this," he said as he stumbled to the aisle and pulled Natalie back the way she'd come in. "Look at this thing."

Her jaw dropped for the second time. How had she walked right past it?

At the back of the tent, just this side of the heavy curtain, was the high-wheeled bicycle. It stood, piano and all, mounted on a platform so that the huge front wheel and tiny back wheel stood a few feet off the ground. Rather than tires, however, the bicycle was now fitted with circular film reels looped with celluloid. A projecting lamp and lens had been mounted to the middle and front.

Squinting in the dark, Natalie followed the mechanism with her eyes, staring at each part and trying to see where it connected to the next. With more than a touch of relief, she saw it all come together; outlandish, but understandable.

"The pedals turn the reels to put the film through the projector ... so one person can run the projector and play the piano...." Someone had to play music to accompany the film because moving pictures had no sound of their own. "It kind of makes sense," Natalie admitted.

The pianist was already up there, the one she had seen the day before. Today he was dressed in the same sort of light brown suit as his twin in the Magnetism tent, and he also sat with his chin on his chest as if taking a nap. As Natalie and Ryan stared up at him, he blinked, raised his head, and began to pedal.

They crept back to their seats and clambered over Miranda and Alfred as the pianist played an opening fanfare, and a round white circle of light appeared on the sheet. The circle widened and darkened, and the first images flickered to life.

For a moment Natalie wondered uncomfortably what sort of uncanny films a fair like this one was likely to have. After the first one, a picture about a rocket trip to a big-eyed, grinning moon with a cratered human face, she decided there was quite enough oddity possible on film without the hucksters' needing to be involved, and sat back and enjoyed the next two without another thought.

A
FTER THE LAST FLICKERING LIGHT
died away, Ryan had seen all he wanted of the fair. Alfred left, too, the better to avoid being stuck with Miranda following him around. And without any boys at all to spend the day with, Miranda had no reason to stay.

Natalie prowled alone between the tents and booths, following the clashing of the One-Man Band through the maze, until she heard Dr. Limberleg's sharp voice over the noise and picked out the word
phrenology.

Thaddeus Argonault's strange tattooed head flashed through her memory. Argonault was the phrenologist; what on earth sort of medicine did a doctor like that practice?

She made her way through the people around the stage. Dr. Limberleg stood at the lectern with Thaddeus Argonault seated off to the side on one of the scrawny chairs. A huge, antique-looking picture of a man's head in profile hung behind them. The head was sectioned off into dozens of little compartments like Argonault's scalp, but in the picture, each compartment had another drawing inside instead of a number.

"In earlier years it was thought a man's character could be read on his head," Dr. Limberleg intoned, "that his kindness or goodness or genius or evils could be found out by examining the shape of his skull. By simply
feeling a person's head
and consulting a chart, phrenologists of the last century believed they could see who you were."

The fringe of red and gray hair poking out from under the top hat waved even more as Dr. Limberleg paused to laugh at the follies of the last century.

"We know now that this is absurd, because the surface of the scalp changes. Worry, sickness, sadness ... these things cause pressure in the brain, which can be detected by the modern phrenologist. By feeling a fellow's scalp, I can diagnose his illness with the keenest accuracy. Tongues may lie, thoughts may mislead, but the brain, the
physical
brain, cannot!"

With a flick of his gloved fingers, the picture of the head fell to the floor, revealing another newer and fancier diagram behind it. The names of Dr. Limberleg and Thaddeus Argonault arched over this new illustrated head. The compartments on this one had labels like anxiety, exhaustion, consumption, weak blood, cancer.

"Phrenology allows us to put a finer point on illnesses, and thus to remedy them with advanced treatments like Amber Therapy that, if used without the greatest care, may be dangerous rather than curative."

Dr. Limberleg took a wooden pointer from the lectern and gestured at one area of the diagram. "In this way, Dr. Argonault and I have personally restored cases of insomnia"—another box—"chronic ague"—a compartment near the temple—"and arthritis, to say nothing of nearly impossible-to-heal cases of malnoia, wandering spleen, and"—jab, jab, jab—"cancers of the brain, liver, and stomach. We even cured a fellow in New Orleans who had fallen afoul of some bad voodoo, and I don't mind telling you the effects of zombie poison are not a simple matter to make sense of." A murmur slid through the people surrounding the stage, and Dr. Limberleg permitted himself a dramatic pause.

Into the hush, another voice spoke. It was low and soft and bleak, ever-so-slightly accented, and cold. Natalie's skin stood up in goose bumps.

"Tell them about the case of asomatognosia," Thaddeus Argonault said.

For a moment Dr. Limberleg faltered. He glanced sideways at Argonault.

No one spoke. Was she the only person in the audience who didn't know what that meant? "What's asomatognosia?" Natalie asked loudly, pronouncing the strange, complex word with meticulous care.

Dr. Limberleg tore his eyes away from the impassive Thaddeus Argonault to glare at Natalie.

It was like a punch to the throat; such violent hate blazed forth from his eyes that she actually took a step closer to the pale-eyed drifter next to her. In fact, she nearly ducked behind the hem of his leather coat, so desperate was she to put something, anything, between herself and Limberleg's stare. Then it was gone.

"The gentleman to whom ... Dr. Argonault refers ... was convinced that ... his hands were not his own." Dr. Limberleg forced a showman's smile. "But that's for another time, ladies and gentlemen, and if Dr. Argonault"—here he snapped a quick, unsettled look at the tattooed Paragon, who stared mildly back—"consults his otherwise flawless memory, I'm sure he will agree that the particulars of that ... case ... are not appropriate for a ... a
family
presentation."

Argonault sat with one ankle on his knee and jiggled his foot idly, watching Limberleg with an expression that seemed to say,
Well, get on with it, then.

"A volunteer!" Limberleg called, flourishing one hand. "Who among you wishes to challenge this Paragon? Who would dare Dr. Argonault to guess their afflictions? Be warned! From the hands of a phrenologist, no secret is secure!"

The crowd shuffled. Argonault looked expressionlessly from one face to the next, waiting. Natalie did the same.
Somebody
had to be curious enough to do it.

She was almost to the point of volunteering herself just to see what Dr. Limberleg would do when he called out in triumph, "You, sir!" A blur of velvet and bells shoved past her and a moment later the harlequin pushed through the crowd again, leading someone to the side of the stage. It was Mr. Finch, doing his part to expose the hucksters for the shams they were. His hands worried the brim of a straw hat as he walked to the center of the platform.

Argonault placed the spindly chair front and center. Mr. Finch lowered himself onto it, staring determinedly over the heads of the audience. Argonault stood behind him and lifted meaty hands over his scalp.

The pharmacist flinched slightly when Argonault's fingertips touched him, but the phrenologist didn't seem to notice. He pressed with his spread fingers on the surface of Mr. Finch's head, then picked his hands up and pressed them down again in a slightly different spot once, twice, three times. Then he put his hands in his pockets and turned to considered the diagram at the back of the platform. Mr. Finch stared doggedly into thin air, his face shining under the glaring sun.

"Ulcers." The word came out like a feral cat's satisfied growl.

Mr. Finch's eyebrows drew together over his nose, unimpressed. "Plenty of men in my profession have ulcers."

"What profession is that?" Argonault asked, in a voice that suggested he really didn't care that much.

"Medicine, sir! Plenty of medical men have—"

"I don't." Argonault spoke without turning, his voice rebounding off the diagram to drift back over the stage. "Though you're right, of course. Ulcers aren't uncommon. But you've had yours since ... since you were a child." His voice trailed up, thoughtful.

Mr. Finch paled.

"You must've been under considerable stress at a very young age," Argonault said pensively, still gazing at the diagram. "Something very specific, I think." The pharmacist flinched again. Why did he suddenly look so ill?

Then Natalie had it. Something awful must've happened to Mr. Finch when he was young, and he didn't want to tell the whole town about it. Or maybe he was afraid Argonault knew what it was and would tell everyone himself.

"The ulcers are worsening since the doctor's departure." Argonault turned at last and considered his volunteer. "You're in some pain, even now, aren't you?"

Mr. Finch nodded weakly. "Some."

So that was why he had come over so pale and strange. His ulcers hurt, even as he was sitting there. And of course it was absurd to think that Argonault could tell anything about Mr. Finch's childhood. That would be like reading someone's mind.

Which was, of course, impossible.

Still, Natalie thought maybe she wouldn't put her hand up, after all.

The town applauded Mr. Finch as he descended the stage. Limberleg shaded his eyes and scanned the crowd. "Who else? Who else would challenge Dr. Argonault's prowess? In fact," the doctor announced with a gleaming smile, "I, myself, shall perform the next diagnosis! Come along now, friends, step up!"