Free The Book of Bones by Natasha Narayan Page B

mother is keen on it—”
    â€œShe would be,” Isaac interrupted scornfully. Hepointed to a pair of cruel-looking metal tongs that had a measuring scale along one axis. “That’s a craniometer. Spiritualists and phrenologists often work together. They think they’re uncovering the secrets of the mind.”
    â€œHow?” Rachel asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Isaac shrugged. “They think one bump on the head means you are good at words, another that you’re a vicious criminal. It’s all nonsense.”
    â€œThey’re treating this child like a lab rat!” hissed Waldo. “They’re experimenting on a living
human
, in the name of this phrenology thing!”
    I didn’t care what it was called. I wanted it to stop. It was awful, the child’s cry. Despairing, but at the same time automatic, like a whistle. Punctuated all along by the busy chitchattering of the needle in that bed of wires and batteries attached to the dummy-shaped tripod. Call it science or progress or what you will, this smelt of evil. I sat down on the bed. As I came closer I saw it was a girl, who continued to gaze forward, immobile, unknowing. Gently I drew down the sheet and took her hand, which was lying limp, crossed over her chest. Her hand was frozen, a lump of ice. She didn’t resist or show any sign that she felt me pressing her fingers, willing her to life.
    Suddenly, the girl sat forward on her pillows, struggling for air. Like someone drowning who, gasping, breaks the surface of the water. Every muscle, every nerve in herbody was tense. I could feel her fingers rigid as metal. Her eyes were drilling into mine—
seeing
. I backed away because her eyes were disconcerting. I noticed one was gray, the other green.
    She spoke rapidly, her mouth moving in a gabble of Mandarin Chinese. At least that is what I believe it was, for we understood not a single word. Even Isaac, who is brilliant with languages, shook his head.
    â€œNo,” I said, my voice breaking. “I can’t speak your tongue.”
    â€œI spik English.”
    The girl took her hand away from mine, then raising both hands she clasped my cheeks, forcing me close to her face. Her breath was sour, her eyes poking hot into mine.
    â€œHelp me.”

Chapter Twelve
    â€œWhat is your name?” Rachel asked gently.
    The girl had let go of my face and collapsed back into her pillows. Her eyes were filming over again. I took her hand, pressing it, willing her on.
    â€œPlease?” Rachel whispered. “Please tell us your name.”
    â€œYin Hua.”
    â€œWhy are you here?”
    â€œI prisoner.” The child turned her ill-matched eyes to Rachel and a hand rose from the bed to graze Rachel’s face.
    â€œWe mean no harm.”
    â€œTake me away.”
    â€œI will,” Rachel promised. “If …” she relapsed into silence.
    What could we do? Rachel’s clenched jaw told me she didn’t care how powerless we were. The others were sagging, their shoulders slumped. How could we break this child out of her prison? We were prisoners ourselves. Caught in the Bakers’ butterfly nets. We could flutter andstruggle—but what had they said? “There is no way out.”
    â€œWhat is this?” Waldo asked, gesturing to the wires and tubes and machines. “Why are they doing this to you?”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œWhat do you see?”
    â€œI see the—”
    Abruptly, in the middle of her sentence, Yin switched her gaze away from Waldo and looked at the door.
    â€œGo. Fast.”
    â€œNothing there, Yin,” Waldo said, looking at the closed door. It had an opaque panel at the top through which we could see the water. “Nothing but starshine—no one out there.”
    â€œGo,” she insisted. “Tomorrow come.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” he soothed.
    â€œGO! GO! GO!” she yelped. The whistle came again