One piece of the Skin Map has been found. Now the race to unravel the future of the future turns deadly.

Kit Livingstone met his great grandfather Cosimo in a rainy alley inLondon where he discovered the reality of alternate realities.

Now he's on the run-and on a quest-trying to understand the impossible mission he inherited from Cosimo: to restore a map that charts the hidden dimensions of the multiverse. Survival depends on staying one step ahead of the savage Burley Men.

The key is the Skin Map-but where it leads and what it means, Kit has no idea. The pieces have been scattered throughout this universe and beyond.

Mina, from her outpost in seventeenth-century Prague, is quickly gaining both the experience and the means to succeed in the quest. Yet so are those with evil intent who, from the shadows, are manipulating great minds of history for their own malign purposes.

Those who know how to use ley lines have left their own world behind to travel across time and space-down avenues of Egyptian sphinxes, to an Etruscan tufa tomb, a Bohemian coffee shop, and a Stone Age landscape where universes collide-in this, the second quest to unlock the mystery of The Bone House.

THE BONE HOUSE

By STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD

Thomas Nelson

Copyright © 2011 Stephen Lawhead
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59554-805-4

Contents

Important People in the Bright Empires series..........................xiPreviously in the Bright Empires series................................1The Bone House.........................................................5Essay: "Quantum Physics and Me" by Stephen Lawhead.....................381

Chapter One

In Which Some Things
Are Best Forgotten

From a snug in the corner of the Museum Tavern, DouglasFlinders-Petrie dipped a sop of bread into the gravy of his steakand kidney pudding and watched the entrance to the British Museumacross the street. The great edifice was dark, the building closed tothe public for over three hours. The employees had gone home, thecharwomen had finished their cleaning, and the high iron gates werelocked behind them. The courtyard was empty and, outside the gates,there were fewer people on the street now than an hour ago. He felt nosense of urgency: only keen anticipation, which he savoured as he tookanother draught of London Pride. He had spent most of the afternoonin the museum, once more marking the doors and exits, the blindspots, the rooms where a person might hide and remain unseen by thenight watchmen, of which there were but three to cover the entire acreageof the sprawling institution.

Douglas knew from his researches that at eleven each night thehead watchman retired to his office on the ground floor to make tea.He would be duly joined by his two underling guards, and the threewould enter their observations in the logbook and then spend anenjoyable thirty minutes drinking their tea, eating pies, and exchanginggossip.

While they were thus occupied, he would strike.

The pub was quiet tonight, even for a damp Thursday in lateNovember. There were only five other patrons in the place: three at therail and two at tables. He would have preferred more people—if onlyso his own presence would not be so noticeable—but he doubted itwould make much difference. In any event, there was nothing he coulddo about it.

"Everything all right, sir?"

Douglas turned from the window and looked up. The landlord,having little to do this evening, was making the rounds and chattingwith his customers.

"Never better," replied Douglas in a tone he hoped would dismissfurther intrusion. But the man remained hovering over the table.

"Mr. Flinders-Petrie, is it not, sir?"

"Indeed so." He offered a bland smile to cover his annoyanceat being recognised on this night of all nights. "I fear you have meat a disadvantage. I was not aware that my name would be commonknowledge."

The landlord chuckled. "No, I suppose not. But do you not recogniseme, sir?"

Douglas looked more closely at him. There was a vague familiarityabout the fellow, but ... no, he could not place him.

"Cumberbatch, sir," the landlord volunteered. "I worked for yourfather, I did. Oh, quite a few years ago." At Douglas' dubious expression,he said, "I was his footman—Silas."

"Silas! Certainly, I remember you," Douglas lied. "Do forgive me.Yes, of course, now that you remind me."

"'Course, I was younger then, and you were away at school anduniversity and whatnot." The landlord wiped his hands on the towelaround his waist and smoothed it out as if this put the matter to rest."Happy days they were."

"Yes, yes," agreed Douglas amiably. He was aware that the otherpatrons were watching them, and actually relieved now that the placewas not more crowded. "Happy times, indeed."

"Pardon my asking, sir," said Cumberbatch, leaning nearer thetable. He lowered his voice. "If you don't mind, there's somethingthat I've always wanted to know. I'd be most obliged."

"I'd be happy to help if I can, Silas. What is it?"

"Did they ever find the man who killed your father?"

To buy himself a little space to think, Douglas took a drink ofhis ale, then, placing the glass carefully on the table, said, "I am sorryto say they never did."

"Oh dear, oh dear." Cumberbatch shook his head. "That's a rightpity. Did they never have a suspicion, then?"

"Suspicions, yes," replied Douglas, "but nothing more. The coroner'sverdict at the time of the inquest reads 'unlawful killing byperson or persons unknown.' At this late date, I fear it is likely toremain a mystery."

"Ah, dear me," sighed Cumberbatch. "That is a shame, that is.He was a good man, your father—a very decent chap, if you don'tmind my saying. A solid and upright fellow—always treated me well,and that's a fact, that is."

"Yes, well, as you say it was all a long time ago. Perhaps it is bestforgotten."

"No doubt, sir. I'm with you there." Cumberbatch brightenedonce more. "But it is good to see you, Mr. Flinders-Petrie. Here, now,can I get you another pint?"

"Thank you, but no, I—"

"On the house, sir—for old time's sake. It would please me no end."

"Very well, then. Thank you, Silas. I would enjoy that."

"Coming right up, sir."

The landlord beetled off to pull the pint. Douglas drew his pocket-watchfrom his waistcoat and flipped it open. It was half past nine.In another hour he would make his move. Until then, he had a warmplace to wait and watch. The landlord returned with his pint and,after another brief exchange, he was left alone to finish it and hismeal in peace.

It was after ten thirty when he finally rose and, promising to returnfor another visit next time he was in the neighbourhood, retrieved hisblack cape from the coatrack and went out into the mist and drizzle.The weather was perfect for his purposes—a miserable night meantfewer folk around to notice any peculiar comings and goings. Thegas lamps hissed and fluttered, pale orbs that did little to cut the all-pervading fog. Perfect.

He smiled to himself as he walked to the corner of Montague Street,turned, and proceeded along the side of the museum to where the servicealley joined the street at the rear of the building. There he pausedto observe the street one last time; a lone hansom cab rattled away inthe opposite direction, and two men in top hats staggered along—onein the gutter, the other on the pavement—oblivious of their surroundings,singing their way home from an evening's celebration.

Satisfied, he ducked into the alleyway and hurried quickly andunerringly in the dark to the back of a town house opposite the rear ofthe museum. There, lying in the lane beside the house, was the woodenladder. With swift efficiency, he placed it against the high iron railing,climbed to the top of the fence, balanced on the upper bar while hepulled over the ladder, then climbed down. Once on the ground, hehurried to a window near the corner of the enormous building whereeven the lowest windows were eight feet off the ground. Positioningthe ladder, he climbed up and rapped on the glass, counted to ten, andthen rapped again.

As he finished the second tap, the window slid open from insideand a pale face, round like a solemn little moon, appeared in the darknessof the opening.

"Well done, Snipe," said Douglas. "Hand me in."

The stocky boy reached out and, with strong arms, pulled hismaster through the open window.

"Now then," said Douglas, drawing a small tin from his pocket.He flipped open the lid and shook out a few congreves, selected one,and swiped the head against the roughened top of the tin. The slenderstick of soft pine erupted with a pop and spluttering red flame."The lantern, Snipe."

The youth held up a small paraffin lamp; Douglas raised the glassand touched the match to the wick, then lowered the glass and wavedthe spent stick in the air to cool it before placing it back in the tin."Let us be about our business."

By lantern's glow they made their way through the darkened stacksof the Smirke Bequest—a small, shelf-lined chamber off the greatcavernous hall of the Reading Room. This cosy enclave was givento certain exceptional volumes from the libraries of wealthy patronswho had donated or bequeathed their collections to the nationalarchive for the general benefit of their fellow men. This ever-growingcollection housed a particular volume that had long eluded DouglasFlinders-Petrie. It was this book he had come to acquire.

The Rare Books Room, as it was more commonly known, wasstrictly forbidden to all but the most eminent scholars, and then entrywas granted only in the company of the Keeper of Antiquities or oneof his assistants, who would unlock the chain at the doorway—therewas no door, so that the books could be viewed from a distance evenif they could not be perused—and usher the chosen one into theinner sanctum. White cotton gloves were to be worn at all times inthe room, and no one was permitted to remain alone in the stacks atany time whatsoever. Douglas, having observed this exacting protocolon his survey trips to the museum, decided to forego the formalitiesand visit the room outside of public hours.

It had then been a matter of finding a place for Snipe to hide untilwell after closing: a storage cupboard in Room 55 on the upper floorwas adequate to the purpose, and so, during a late-afternoon viewingof the Nineveh alabasters, Douglas had deposited his able servantin the closet with a cold pie and an apple to wait until the clock inSaint Bartholomew's chimed eleven. At the appointed hour, Snipe hadcrawled out and made his way down to the Rare Books Room to letDouglas in through the window.

So far so good.

"Go to the door and keep watch," Douglas commanded, directingthe glow of the lantern towards the nearer stacks. As the servantmoved to the doorway, Douglas began scanning the shelves. Thebooks, he quickly discovered, were arranged in a loose chronologicalorder—no doubt owing to their primary interest as artefacts ratherthan for the value of their contents. He found the proper historicalperiod and started working down the line book by book. Whatshould have been a task of moments, however, dragged on far longerthan he planned, owing to the fact that many of the older bookshad no titles on their spines or covers and had to be drawn out,opened, and thumbed to their title pages before being placed backon the shelf.

He was only partway through the 1500s when he heard a sibilanthiss—like that of gas escaping from a leaky pipe. He stopped, heldhis breath ... waited. The sound came again and was repeated. Hequickly turned down the lantern wick and put the lamp on the floor,then hurried to the doorway, where Snipe stood behind the doorpost,peering out into the great hall of the main reading room.

"Someone coming?" Douglas whispered.

Snipe nodded and held up two fingers.

"Two of them. Right." Douglas turned and retreated into thestacks. "Follow me."

They crept off to the farthest corner of the room, placing themain body of stacks between themselves and the door.

"Get down," whispered Douglas.

The two pressed themselves flat to the floor and waited. Voicesdrifted into the room, and then footsteps could be heard as the watchmenmade their rounds of the Reading Room. Shadows leapt fromthe stacks as one of the guards paused and shone his lantern intothe room with a practised sweep. Then the footsteps receded and thevoices resumed. The watchmen were moving off.

"That's better," sighed Douglas. "Back to work."

The two returned to their respective places and began again.Midway through the 1500s, Douglas found the book he was lookingfor—exactly as he had pictured it from his researches. One glimpseof the strange cipher writing and he knew he had it.

"Come to me, my pretty," he whispered, carefully placing thelight on the shelf beside him. With trembling fingers, Douglasopened the book to reveal page after page of tightly ordered scriptin the most fanciful-looking letters he had ever seen. "You littlebeauty," he mused, brushing his fingertips lightly over the script. Hemight have spent a happy hour or so paging through the old curiosity—and he would—but now was not the time. He slipped the slimvolume into an inner pocket of his cape, retrieved the lantern, andhurried to fetch Snipe.

"I've got it. Come away—time to make good our escape."

They climbed out the window, closing it carefully behind them,and retraced their inward journey, replacing the ladder at the rearof the town house opposite before walking back down the alley toMontague Street. Douglas' mind was so filled with the book and thetreasures it was certain to yield that he failed to see the policemanstanding in the pool of light under the streetlamp. Emerging fromthe darkness of the alley like the guilty thieves they were, the pairnaturally drew the interest of the policeman, who, raising his truncheon,called out, "Well, well, what have we here?"

"Oh!" gasped Douglas, spinning around to face the officer."Good evening, constable. You quite gave me a start."

"Did I now!" He looked the pair up and down, his expressionsuggesting he did not care for what he saw. "Might I ask why youwere lurking in that alley at this time of night?"

Douglas' hand went to the gun in his pocket. "Is it that late?" heasked affably. "I hadn't realised. Yes, I suppose it is." He glanced atSnipe beside him. The boy's lip was curled in a ferocious scowl. "It's thelad here," he offered. "He ran away earlier this evening, and I've beenlooking for him ever since—only just found him a few minutes ago."

The constable, frowning now, stepped closer. "That your son,then?"

"Good heavens, no," replied Douglas. "He's a servant. I'm takinghim home with me." As if to underscore this fact, he put his hand toSnipe's collar.

The policeman's brow furrowed as he caught a glare of almostpure hatred playing over the boy's pallid features. Certainly, there wassomething odd about the youth that he could never have been mistakenfor anyone's beloved son. "I see," concluded the police officer."Does he run away often, then?"

"No, no, never before," Douglas hastily assured him. "There wasa bit of a kerfuffle with the housekeeper, you see, and the lad tookumbrage. A simple misunderstanding. I think I've straightened it out."

"Well," said the policeman, "these things happen, I suppose." Hereturned the truncheon to the hook on his belt. "You best get yourselveshome. It's high time all respectable folk were abed."

"Just what I was thinking, constable. A pot of cocoa and a biscuitwouldn't go amiss either, I daresay." Douglas released his hold on thepistol, but maintained his grip on the boy's collar. "I will wish yougood night." Douglas started away, pulling the glaring Snipe with him.

"G'night, sir." The policeman watched them as they moved away."Mind how you go," he called. "There are thieves and such about. It'sweather like this brings 'em out."

"You're not wrong there, matey," murmured Douglas under hisbreath. "Come away, Snipe. Tonight we let him live."

Chapter Two

In Which a Wander in the
Wilderness Is Good for the Soul

Kit stood staring down the Avenue of Sphinxes feeling verymuch alone.

Continues...

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