Once you own actual bones, you understand that the “bones speak” trope is not metaphor but reportage.
Double-love this, and would even if I did not kiss a hippo skull every night. The invocation of a Walter Rothschild/Tring child-assembled museum is wonderful, and particularly I am taken with:
The zigzag sutures where
the parts of the skull fit together
made them self-evidently whole
Architecture is surely more than sufficient magic when you are v. young.