The Book of Bones by Natasha Narayan Read Free Book Online Page A

everything we could have wished for.
    But we were not on some luxurious holiday. We were prisoners—high up in the castle’s guest quarters. There were guards on the door. Through the night drifted sounds of revelry that excluded us. The strains of a mazurka from the lawns below, then some jolly peasant dance. The faintest chink of champagne glasses. And beyond, the sounds of the other orchestra, more plaintive. Neither Rachel nor I was in the mood for conversation and we lay in our soft beds in silence. I finally drifted off to sleep with the sounds of the violins in my ears—their sadness echoing my own mood.
    I woke up with a jolt, my limbs stiff and aching, despite my feather bed. At first I thought it was the orchestra—still fiddling away. No. It was a human voice I heard. Someone wailing in the spaces over our heads. It was a heart-rending cry, grief-stricken. It sounded high, like a child’s. It made me want to weep; at the same time I was desperate to jump out of bed, charge out into the night and stop whatever was causing this sadness. No use. Armed guards on the door and, besides, this castle was a pit, full of horrors I did not yet know.
    Uneasily I dropped back into an aching, dreamless sleep.
    I was woken again by the door opening. Two different waiters in white livery, their faces as expressionless as the others, were pushing another trolley. Breakfast. What a breakfast! Fried eggs, quail, bacon, sausages, toast—a feast. I wasn’t hungry. Still, you know Kit Salter. I managed a few mouthfuls.
    We had scarcely finished breakfast when the guards came. We were marched through endless corridors, down twisting staircases, over a bridge, till we came to an elaborate teak door. I was struck by the carving. The beautiful figures on it looked foreign to me. There was a female in the center, with a globular head, a panther squatting at her legs. I sensed she had been imported from some distant, scorching land. The door swungopen, revealing an enormous room.
    â€œButterflies,” Rachel whispered.
    There were hundreds, thousands of butterflies, crawling, sleeping and fluttering in the glass cases, which towered to the ceiling. One section of the wall shimmered an iridescent blue. Another glowed a coppery orange. Still another, whiter than snow. I marveled at the extravagance of a nature which could create such joyful patterns. One of the turquoise butterflies had white splodges marching up her wings, as if someone had dipped their finger in paint and anointed her with tribal marks. The guards pushed us onward, leaving us only moments to feel for these beautiful creatures trapped in their glass prisons. Then we were in another chamber, similar to the last but full this time of dead treasures. Like the butterflies they glowed, though this time in more restrained colors. Yellows, blues, subtle shades of white. The most delicate Chinese porcelain you could imagine—from the Qing and Ming and other dynasties, a quick glance at the labels told us. All this wealth was illuminated by the light that poured in from a large, arched window. Looted, judging from the stained glass at the top, from some abbey or cathedral.
    The Baker Brothers were sitting under the window, two misers in the midst of their wealth. In the middle of the circular table there was a large square shape, coveredby a checked tablecloth. Cyril was reading
The Times
, Cecil the
Illustrated London News
. Both of them were wearing spotless white cotton gloves. They looked up as we approached and Cecil greeted us with a pallid smile.
    â€œUp with the worm, I see,” he wheezed.
    He gestured us to sit, waving a white paw. All four of us did as we were bid. Cyril was staring at us with glassy eyes and I was struck again by the Brothers’ oddness. Their faces didn’t really have
expressions
. When they smiled their faces scarcely moved, as if some doctor had drained the humanity out of them. No doubt about it, drinking of