Read The Unnaturalists for Free Online Page B

brought to me because he knows I’m better than anyone at identifying the lesser sylphids. Since the incident with the Sphinx, I’m more than happy to occupy myself with this task, though I’d much prefer to be doing it alone.
    I don’t need Charles to tell me how to do my work, but I’m quite certain that’s not what he’s here for anyway. He’s watching me to make sure I don’t go poking around, looking for the strongbox he and Father brought back to the Museum. It’s the only thing that could possibly lure me away from the lab, but Charles knows me less well than he thinks. I’m waiting for Father to relax, for the furor about the Sphinx to die down. I have time.
    I try to ignore Charles by burying my nose in a catalog called the Ceylon Codex. The pictures are oddly drawn, brushstrokes rather than the usual illumination. There’s one that fascinates me—it looks like a bearded, horned Dragon. I try to decipher thecharacters next to it, odd shapes that no one can read. One of them reminds me of the characters inscribed on the bottom of my toad. The toad I no longer have.
    I clench the book a little tighter and then remind myself I’ll get it back. Even if I have to sneak off to Tinkerville and rifle through every one of those rusting trains to get it.
    I trace the edge of the Dragon’s scales with a fingertip. If only I could see an Unnatural like this in the wild. If I could have one wish, I’d be off in an airship tomorrow, mounting my own expedition. There are still so many Unnaturals we don’t yet understand. Yet the life of a Pedant is not mine to choose.
    Unless I somehow take it.
    For a moment, my fingers are still on the page. I no longer see the sylphid sprawled next to me, its tiny arms obscenely limp, but a feverishly green jungle filled with living Unnaturals. Perhaps I witness Wyverns in their mating dance, or see a Giant wading over distant hills. Perhaps I see this long-bodied, golden-horned Beast. Greenmen and dryads peer at me from their trees. The air is thick with sylphids floating around me like clouds of butterflies. . . .
    Charles shouts. A golden fog buzzes in front of my face. I can barely focus before a sharp pain at the tip of my nose sets my eyes watering. Before I can swat it, something darts away, twittering madly.
    “What did you do?” the Wad screeches. When he gets excited, his voice sounds more like a girl’s than mine does. I strip off my gloves, holding the end of my nose in my bare hand, dashing the tears out of my eyes with my other hand.
    A flock of sylphids flits around madly. They try to escapethrough the skylight, tossing curses down at us that manifest as tiny darts.
    It’s then I understand why Charles is so upset. He’s closest, and he’s hopping around, waving his arms around his head, literally on pins and needles.
    I cover my mouth with my hand so he won’t see my grin.
    “Don’t just stand there gawking! Get your father and a containment unit!” Charles yells, as he crawls under the bench for cover.
    “But, Mr. Waddingly,” I say, mostly to prolong his obvious consternation, “could we not simply use that ladder and one of those butterfly nets to catch them? Perhaps then we could subdue them just enough for observation. . . .”
    “What? And have them blind us with curses? You sound like a bloody Architect,” he says, almost spitting the name. “We don’t need to study them! Just get your father—he’ll know what to do! And see you don’t let them out the door, either!”
    I don’t like being ordered about by the likes of the Wad, but he has a point. If the sylphids get out on their own, they could truly wreak havoc. Not on the order of the Sphinx, of course, but still. They’re small and obviously adept at cursing things. As a group, it’s possible they could do a good bit of damage.
    Of course they may just find a way to escape and have done, like the kobold at Miss Marmalade’s. Or the Grue. The Museum lost him not long after I