“They’re looking for you. I hear them, in my head. Such terrible things.” She goes back to pulling at her hair, singing softly as she does.
“Who is looking for me?”
“She is a house of sweets waiting to devour you. She has her spies,” she whispers in a way that makes my skin go cold.
I don’t know what to make of this. “Miss Hawkins. You may speak plainly to me. Truly, you can trust me. But I must know where to find the Temple. If you know where it is, it is imperative . . .”
Nell turns to me with wide eyes. “Follow the path. Stick to the path.”
“The path? What path?”
Quick as a flash, Nell yanks the amulet from my neck so hard that my skin burns from it. Before I can protest, she flips it over, cradling it in both hands. She moves it back and forth as if she’s trying to read something on the back of it. "The true path.”
“Follow the true path. Follow the true path,” Cassandra screeches.
“What path are you speaking of? Is it in the garden? Or do you mean the river?” I ask.
“No. No. No,” Nell murmurs, rocking violently. With a swiftness I do not expect, she bangs the amulet hard against my chair, bending the eye.
“Stop it,” I say, grabbing my necklace back. The eye lies at a strange angle now.
“Stay on the path,” Nell says again. “They’ll try to lead you astray. Show you things you cannot trust. Trust no one. Beware the Poppy Warriors.”
My head reels from Nell’s strange outbursts. “Miss Hawkins, please, how do I find this path? Will it take me to the Temple?” I ask, but Nell Hawkins is beyond reach, humming softly, knocking her fragile head against the wall in a desperate accompaniment until a nurse moves briskly to her side.
“Now, now, Miss Hawkins. What would the doctor say if he could see you behaving this way? Let’s try a sampler, shall we? I’ve some lovely new thread.”
The nurse leads Miss Hawkins away. The tufts of hair sticking out of her bun bob and sway. “The Temple hides in plain sight,” she says. "Follow the path.”
The nurse sits Nell Hawkins in a chair, guiding her hand up and down through tiny stitches. I’m more confused than ever. I peer into Cassandra’s cage. "Do you understand?”
The bird blinks and blinks again, the tiny black dot of her pupil disappearing in a froth of white feathers and popping back to blackness again like a great illusionist’s trick. Now you see it; now you don’t. By inches, she turns on the bar of the cage, giving me her colorful back.
“No, I didn’t think you did.” I sigh.
I ask one of the nurses where I might find Tom, and she tells me to try the men’s ward. She offers to escort me, which I know is the proper thing to do, but I assure her that I will wait for Tom instead. Then I slip out and walk toward the men’s ward. Doctors pass, deep in conversation. They nod in acknowledgment and I give a congenial, close-mouthed smile in return. Their eyes linger on me for just a moment more, and I look away quickly. It is a strange feeling, to be seen like this. I both want it and fear it a little. There is such power in those fleeting glances, but I do not know what lies on the other side of them, and that scares me a bit. How is it possible to feel both ready and not yet ready for this new world of men?
Mr. Snow of the wandering hands approaches. I duck down a corridor to wait until he is gone. A man sits rubbing his fingers over and over, eyes staring straight ahead. Please, Mr. Snow. Pass on so that I may get back to the hallway unscathed.
“I’ve a message for you,” the man says.
There is no one but the two of us here. "I beg your pardon?”
He turns slowly to face me. "The spirits are joining together, miss. They’re coming for you.”
I feel hot and light-headed. "What did you say?”
He grins and lowers his head, looking up at me through half-closed lids. The effect is chilling, as if he is a different person altogether. “We’re coming for you, miss. We’re all coming for you.” With a fierce quickness, he snaps his jaws at me, growls, like a mad dog.
Get away, Gemma. Gasping, I run from him, rounding a corner fast and bumping directly into my astonished brother.
“Gemma! What on earth are you doing up here unescorted?”
“I—I—I . . . looking for you! That man . . . ,” I say, pointing behind me.
Tom steps around the corner, and I follow. The old man is sitting once again, staring straight ahead. "Mr. Carey. Poor fellow. Completely beyond reach. I’m afraid he’ll have to be moved to a county asylum soon.”
“He . . . he spoke to me,” I stammer.
Tom looks confused. “Mr. Carey spoke to you? That’s impossible. Mr. Carey doesn’t speak a word, ever. He is mute. What was it you thought he said to you?”
“We’re coming for you,” I repeat, realizing as I say it that it was not Mr. Carey speaking to me but someone else.
Someone from the realms.
“What happened to Nell Hawkins?” I ask as we take a cab to meet Felicity and Ann on Regent Street.
“That information is privileged ,”Tom replies with a sniff.
“Come, Tom. I’m not likely to share it with anyone,” I lie.
Tom shakes his head. "Absolutely not. It is horrible and indelicate, not the sort of thing for a young lady’s ears. Besides, you’ve a vivid imagination as it is. I won’t add to your nightmares.”
“Very well,” I grumble. "Will she recover?”
“Difficult to say. I am working to that end, though I doubt she will ever return to Saint Victoria’s. I would advise against it, certainly.”
I sit straight up, my nerves on fire. "What did you say?”
“I said I would advise against it.”
“No, before that.”
“Saint Victoria’s School for Girls. It’s in Swansea, I believe. It’s said to be a very fine school, but one does wonder. Why do you ask?”
There’s a tingle in my stomach, a sense of foreboding. A snake ring. A woman in green. Don’t trust her . . . “I believe one of our teachers comes from Saint Victoria’s.”
“Well, I do hope they keep better watch over the flock at Spence than they do at Saint Victoria’s. That is all I can say about the matter,” Tom states grimly.
I am troubled beyond words. Was Miss McCleethy at St. Victoria’s when Nell Hawkins was a pupil there? What happened that is too “indelicate” for Tom to share? What happened to Nell Hawkins that drove her mad?
Whatever it was, I pray that I shall not suffer the same fate.
“Have you an address for Saint Victoria’s?” I ask.
“Yes. Why?”Tom’s suspicious.
I look out at the shops displaying their Christmas wares. “Our headmistress charged me—us—with performing an act of charity over the holiday. I thought perhaps I could write to them, let them know that another schoolgirl is spending time with Miss Hawkins and reminding her of happier days.”
“Very commendable. In that case, I shall give you the address. Ah, here we are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE CAB STOPS BEFORE A STATIONER’S SHOP ON Regent Street. Felicity and Ann rush out to meet us, trailed by the ever-observant Franny. I want desperately to tell them what I’ve learned about Nell Hawkins and wonder how I shall possibly do so now.
Tom tips his hat to my friends. Pleasantries are exchanged. “How are you finding London, Miss Bradshaw?” he asks.
“I like it ever so much,” Ann says, giving him a ridiculously demure smile.
“That is a very smart hat. It becomes you.”
“Thank you,” Ann mumbles, looking at the ground shyly. In a moment, I shall hurl myself under a passing brougham.
“Might I escort you into the stationer’s?”
Felicity smiles impatiently. "Yes, we’re very grateful, I’m sure, but you mustn’t trouble yourself. Good day to you.”
“That was not very hospitable of you,” Ann scolds—as much as Ann can scold—once we’re inside the shop.
“I could have told h
im that ‘very smart hat’ was mine,” Felicity snaps.
“I’ve news,” I say, before Ann can retort. Now I’ve got their full attention.
“What is it?” Ann asks.
Franny hovers near, her eyes trained on the distance before us, her ears taking in our every word with a reporter’s accuracy.
“We shan’t have any fun at all with her in tow,” Felicity whispers bitterly as we make a pretense of examining the sheaves of thick ivory paper bundled in colorful ribbons. “She dogs our every step as if she were Mrs. Nightwing herself. It is impossible to think that we have more freedom at Spence, but there it is.”
We leave the stationer’s shop and walk past a milliner’s, a linen draper’s, a toy shop, and a tobacconist, where gentlemen sit smoking fat cigars. The steets are crowded with people hunting for just the right pair of gloves for Aunt Prudence or the perfect toy drum for little Johnny. Franny does not lose her stride, however, and Felicity is on the verge of a full snit.
“Mama thinks she can run off to France, then come back and act as if I am to be under her heel and smile about it. Well, it won’t do. I’ve a mind to give Franny the slip,” Felicity complains, pouting.
“Oh, please don’t,” Ann begs. “I don’t wish to cause any scandal.”
“Yes, we’d be locked in our rooms for the entirety of the holiday,” I agree.
We reach a confectioner’s shop, where sumptuous pastries and jellied fruits beckon to us from behind glass. A young man sweeps the sidewalk. He suddenly calls out boldly, “Franny! Come and give us a kiss!”
Franny blanches, looks away. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir,” she says.
Felicity pounces. “Sir, are you well acquainted with my servant?”
The young man doesn’t know what to do or say. It’s clear he knows Franny, and well, but now he may have gotten her in trouble. For a servant, the slightest whiff of impropriety can be grounds for dismissal.
“My mother should be quite interested to hear how her own maid kissed a man in broad daylight while in the company of her impressionable charges,” Felicity says.
“But I never did such a thing!” Franny protests.
“ ’Tis your word against ours,” Felicity says, making us her accomplices whether we like it or not.
Franny balls her hands into tight fists at her side. “God sees yer wickedness, miss. It’s a black mark in his ledger, to be sure.”
“I think we might come to an agreement.” Felicity pulls a shilling from her purse. “Here. Go on and take it. Take it and buy yourself a pastry. I’m sure this young man would be happy to help you. We’ll agree to meet here again at, say, five o’clock?”
The shilling shines between Felicity’s gloved fingers. If Franny takes it, she can enjoy a pastry and an afternoon with her gentleman friend. But she will also be forever in Felicity’s pocket.
Franny shakes her head. “Oh, no, miss. Please don’t ask me to lie to Mrs. Worthington. Lying’s a sin. I couldn’t possibly, miss. Would you have me endanger my position and my immortal soul for only a shilling, miss?”
That Franny manages to deliver this blackmailing sermon with a straight face is quite a feat. I have newfound respect for her.
“I’ve a mind to tell my mother, anyway,” Felicity snarls. It’s an empty statement, and we all know it. Felicity’s getting the precious freedom she craves. She hands Franny a pound, the price of her silence. Franny snatches the coin quickly, folding it tightly in her hand. Felicity isn’t taking any chances. “If you should even think of confessing to my mother, we shall insist that it was you who left us to meet a gentleman friend. Poor us, lost and alone without our chaperone on the cruel streets of London, and missing a pound as well—most curious how that happened.”
Franny, so triumphant a moment ago, blushes red and sets those thin lips in a grim line. "Yes, miss. Five o’clock.”
As we hurry after Felicity, I turn to Franny, not sure what to say. "Thank you, Franny. You’ve, um, you’ve proved a very worthy girl.” And with that, we are on our own.
Freedom tastes of a cream puff bought on Regent Street. Sweet leaves of flaky pastry dissolve on my tongue while the hansoms and omnibuses move up and down the street, muddy water mixed with dirty snow churning beneath their wheels. People bustle to and fro, armed with a sense of purpose. And we move among them with no constraints, another part of the nameless crowd colliding with chance, with destiny.
We walk to Piccadilly and duck into the great covered Burlington Arcade, striding past the beadles, who keep order with harsh glances and the weight of a stick in their hands. There are stalls selling items of all sorts here—sheet music, gloves, hosiery, cut-glass ornaments and the like—and I feel a deep longing for India again, with its bazaars and frantic markets.
“This is nearly as good as being in the realms,” Ann says, happily devouring her treat.
“What is your news?” Felicity asks.
“My brother has a patient at Bethlem named Nell Hawkins. A most interesting case . . .”
“It is so noble of Tom to care for the unfortunate,” Ann says, licking a dollop of pastry cream from her lips. "His betrothed must think him lovely.”
“Betrothed? Tom?” I say, annoyed at the interruption. Too late, I remember my lie. “Oh. Yes, um, you meant Miss Richardson. Of course. How silly of me.”
“You said her name was Dalton. And that she was beautiful.”
“I . . .” I can think of nothing to say. I’ve really put my foot in it. "It is ended.”
“Oh?” Ann asks, looking hopeful.
“Would you let her get on with the story?” Felicity chides.
“Nell Hawkins doesn’t think herself Joan of Arc or the Queen of Sheba. Her particular delusion is that she thinks she’s a member of the Order, and that a woman named Circe is after her.”
Felicity gasps. "You’ve given me chills.”
Ann’s confused. "But I thought you said she was at Bethlem.”
“Well, yes,” I say, realizing how ridiculous it must all sound. Two newsboys pass, heckling us as they go. We pay them no mind.
“But you don’t think she is mad. You think she’s only playacting to protect herself ?”Felicity leads.
We’ve reached a place selling elaborate snuffboxes. I inspect one that is inlaid with ivory. It is dear, but I’ve nothing for my father yet, so I instruct the girl to wrap it for me. “Actually, I visited with her earlier. She is, in fact, insane. She did this,” I say, showing my battered amulet.
“Oh, my,” Felicity says.
“I don’t see how she can possibly help us, then,” Ann grumps.
“She’s seen Circe. I’m sure of it. She kept mentioning the path. ‘Stick to the path.’ She said it several times.”
“What do you suppose that means?” Felicity asks. We pass through the arcade and out to Bond Street, stopping before a glittering shop window. Claret silk cascades over the silent wax dummy of a woman. Each crease shimmers like wine in moonlight. We cannot help staring longingly.
“I don’t know what it means. But I do know that Nell Hawkins was a student at Saint Victoria’s in Wales.”
“Isn’t that where Miss McCleethy taught before she came to Spence?” Ann asks.
“Yes. But I’ve no idea if she was one of Nell’s teachers. I shall write a letter to the headmistress there asking when Miss McCleethy left their employ. I believe that there is some terrible connection between what happened to Nell Hawkins and Miss McCleethy, something that has to do with the realms. If we can solve that riddle, it may very well lead us to the Temple.”
“I don’t see how,” Ann grouses.
I sigh. "I don’t either, but at present, it’s my only hope.”
The silk taunts us from its high perch behind glass. Ann sighs. “Wouldn’t you adore having a dress made from that? Every head would turn.”
“Mama is having my dress sent from Paris,” Felicity says, as if discussing the weather.
Ann puts her hand to the glass. “I w
ish . . .” She can’t even finish the sentence. It’s too much even to wish.
A shopgirl steps up into the window, the arc of lettering that is Castle and Sons, Dressmakers, cutting her into two neat sections. She removes the dazzling fabric. Stripped of its finery, the dressmaker’s dummy wobbles and settles upright, nothing more than a flesh-colored shell.
We walk on till we find ourselves on a small side street, where I am struck dumb. Tucked away under an awning is a tiny shop—the Golden Dawn.
“What is it?” Felicity asks.
“That shop. Miss McCleethy had an advert for it in her case. It was one of the only things she had, so it must be of some importance,” I say.
“A bookseller’s?” Ann asks, wrinkling her nose.
“Let’s have a look for ourselves,” Felicity says.
We dip into the dark cave of the shop. Dust swirls in the weak light. It isn’t a very well-kept shop, and I wonder why Miss McCleethy is fond of it.
A voice comes from the darkness. “May I be of assistance?” The voice takes form in the person of a stooped man of about seventy. He hobbles over, leaning on a cane as he does. His knees creak with the effort. “How do you do? I am Mr. Theodore Day, proprietor of the Golden Dawn, bookseller since anno regni reginae eighteen hundred and sixty-one.”
“How do you do,” we murmur in unison.
“What are you after, then? Ah, wait! Don’t tell me. I’ve just the thing.” Cane leading the way, Mr. Day limps speedily to a tall bookcase crowded with volumes. “Something with princesses, perhaps? Or, no—haunted castles and maidens in peril?” His eyebrows, those two fat white caterpillars atop his spectacles, wiggle with obvious delight.
“If you please . . . ,” I begin.
Mr. Day wags a finger. "No, no, no, don’t spoil it. I shall find what you’re after.” We trail Mr. Day as he examines each shelf, running his knobby finger over leather spines, muttering to himself in book titles. “Wuthering Heights . . . Jane Eyre . . . Castle of Otronto—oh, that’s a splendid book, I say.”
“If you please, sir,” I say, raising my voice slightly. “We were rather hoping to find a book about the Order. Have you any such books?”