The Sweet Far Thing

  She nods. “Yes, miss, if you please.”

  I cover her eyes and will the magic to its purpose. “Did it…,” I begin.

  Wendy’s mouth settles into a thin line. “Sorry, miss.”

  “You can’t see?”

  She shakes her head. “It was too much to hope for.”

  “Nothing’s ever too much to hope for,” I say, but my heart is heavy. It is the first limit to the magic: It cannot heal, it would seem. “Is there something else? Anything at all?”

  “I’ll show you,” she says, taking my hands. Feeling her way, she leads me outside and around the castle to a small patch of grass bitten with frost. She kneels, pressing her palms to it. A perfect white rose snakes from the ground. Its petals are edged with a deep blood red.

  She inhales deeply. A smile crosses her lips. “Is it there?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Mum sold roses at the pub. I always liked the smell.”

  A sweet brown hare hops past, its nose wiggling at the ground.

  “Wendy,” I whisper. “Don’t move.”

  I brush the frost from a patch of bitter herbs and offer them to the bunny. Curious, he hops closer, and I nestle him into my arms.

  “Here, feel,” I say, putting the rabbit near Wendy. She strokes his fur, and a smile lights her face. “What shall we call him?” I ask.

  “No, you should name ’im,” Wendy insists.

  “Very well.” I peer closely at his twitching nose. There’s something noble and aloof about him. “Mr. Darcy, I should think.”

  “Mr. Darcy. I like it.”

  I fashion a cage for him of twigs and vines and a bit of magic and place the little fellow inside. Wendy holds fast to the cage as if it contains her dearest dreams.

  Though it is hard to say goodbye, our night must come to an end, and we must return to our world. We embrace with promises of tomorrow, and Pippa and the others escort us as far as the bramble wall. We’re on our way to the secret door when the ground begins to shake with the sound of horses.

  “Let’s go! Quickly!” I shout.

  “What is it?” Ann asks, but we are already running and there is no time for replies.

  “They’re cutting us off,” I call. “To the garden.”

  We run hard and fast with the riders in pursuit, but we’re no match for them. By the time the river is in view, they’ve got us trapped.

  “Use the magic,” Felicity begs, but I’m so frightened I cannot gain control of it. It races through me till I’m on my knees.

  Several magnificent centaurs step out from behind the lush ferns. They are led by one named Creostus. He doesn’t care for any mortal, and he especially doesn’t care for me.

  He crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest and eyes me with contempt. “Hello, Priestess. I believe you owe my people a visit.”

  “Yes. I had planned to do so,” I lie.

  Creostus leans close. His eyebrows are thick and his thin wisp of a beard comes to a point beneath a wide, cruel smile. He smells like earth and sweat. “Of course you did.”

  “All is in readiness, Most High. I shall take you to Philon now,” Gorgon calls, slipping into view, and I know she’s had a hand in this. She wants me to make the alliance no matter what.

  “Yes, you see? We were on our way,” I say, flashing Gorgon a glance, which she ignores. She lowers the plank for us, keeping her eyes on the centaur.

  Creostus allows Felicity and Ann to pass but cuts me off. He puts his face near my ear, his voice a harsh purr that raises gooseflesh on my neck. “Betray us, Priestess, and you’ll be sorry.”

  As I board, Felicity pulls me aside. “Must we go with that overgrown goat?”

  I sigh. “What choice do we have?”

  “What if they mean to make the alliance now, before we’ve really had a chance to change anything?” Ann asks, and I know it’s her very existence she’s speaking of.

  “It is only a discussion,” I tell them. “Nothing is decided yet. The magic is still ours for now.”

  “Very well,” Felicity says. “But please, let’s not stay long. And I won’t sit near that Creostus. He’s vile.”

  We sail the river, doing our best to ignore Creostus and his centaurs, who watch our every move as if we might jump ship. At last, Gorgon takes the familiar turn toward the home of the forest folk. A veil of shimmering water hides their island from view. The boat parts the curtain of it, and we pass through a fresh, cool mist that coats our skin with jeweled flecks, turning us into golden girls.

  The haze lifts. The verdant shore of the forest folk slides into view, a thick green as inviting as a feather bed. As our massive ship anchors, several of the forest children stop their game and step forward to gape at the terrible wonder that is the gorgon. Gorgon is not charmed by their staring. She turns toward them and lets the snakes about her head stretch and hiss, their forked tongues quick whips of red among all the green. The children yelp and run for the cover of the trees.

  “That wasn’t very kind of you,” I scold. I’m still angry that she’s betrayed our presence to Philon.

  “Miscreants,” Gorgon says in her slithery voice. “No better than toads.”

  “They’re only children.”

  “I am unbothered by the maternal instinct,” she purrs. With that, the snakes settle into rest. The gorgon closes her eyes and speaks no more.

  The floating lights that live in the forest beckon for us to follow. They lead us through tall trees that smell of Christmas morning. The spiciness makes my nose run. At last we reach the thatched-roof huts of the village. A woman the color of twilight plods past carrying buckets of glistening rainbow-hued water. She catches my eye, and quick as you please, she changes in appearance till I am staring at my own reflection.

  “Gemma!” Ann cries.

  “How did you do that?” I ask. It is odd to have two of me.

  She smiles—my smile on another face!—and transforms once more, becoming an exact replica of Felicity, with the same full mouth and pale blond hair. Felicity is not amused. She picks up a rock and palms it.

  “Stop that this instant or you’ll be sorry.”

  The woman slides into her twilight self. With a sharp cackle, she hoists her glistening pails and walks away.

  Philon greets us at the edge of the village. The creature is neither man nor woman but something in between, with a long, lean body and skin of dusky purple. Today Philon wears a coat of fat spring leaves. Their deep hue brings out the green in its wide, almond-shaped eyes.

  “So you’ve come at last, Priestess. I had begun to think you’d forgotten us.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten,” I mumble.

  “I am glad to hear it, for we would hate to think you’d prove no kinder to us than the Order priestesses who came before you,” Philon says, exchanging glances with Creostus.

  “I’ve come,” I say.

  “Let’s not tarry here exchanging pleasantries,” Creostus snarls.

  We follow Philon’s willowy, graceful form into the low thatched-roof hut where we first met. It is as I remember it: sumptuous pallets sit on a floor made of golden straw. The room holds four more centaurs and a half dozen forest folk. I do not see Asha or any of the Untouchables but perhaps they are on their way.

  I take a seat on one of the pallets. “There was a woman who transformed into me before my eyes. How could she do that?”

  “Ah. Neela.” Philon pours a red liquid into a silver chalice. “She is a shape-shifter.”

  “Shape-shifter?” Ann repeats. She’s having difficulty balancing on the pallet. She topples into me twice before finding a level spot in the middle.

  “We had the ability to change into other forms. It served us well in your world. We could become any mortal’s fantasy. Sometimes the mortals chose to follow us into this world, to become our playthings. It did not sit well with the Order and the Rakshana.” Philon tells the tale with no apparent regret or remorse whatsoever.

  “You
stole mortals from our world,” I say, horrified.

  Philon sips from the chalice. “The mortals had a choice. They chose to come with us.”

  “You enchanted them!”

  A smirk pulls at the corners of Philon’s thin lips. “They chose to be enchanted.”

  Philon has been our ally, but I find this knowledge disturbing, and I wonder just whom I’ve made promises to.

  “That power died out in many of us from lack of use. But it has remained in some, such as Neela.”

  As he says this, the twilight woman enters the tent. She looks from us to Philon and Creostus and says something to Philon in their language. Philon answers in kind, and with a suspicious glance in my direction, she takes her place beside Creostus. She places a hand on his back and rubs his soft fur. Philon crosses the room in two long strides and settles into a large chair made of palm fronds. As we watch, the creature lights a long, slender reed and draws deeply from it until its eyes are soft and glassy.

  “We must discuss the future of the realms, Priestess. We gave aid to you when you needed it. Now we expect payment.”

  “It is time to make the alliance,” Creostus thunders. “We would go to the Temple and lay hands together. The magic will belong to each of us then, and we will govern ourselves as we see fit.”

  “But there are other considerations,” I say, the knowledge that they took mortals for their own amusement burdening my mind.

  “What considerations?” Philon asks, cocking an eyebrow.

  “The Untouchables,” I say. “Where are they? They should be here.”

  “The Untouchables,” Neela spits. “Bah!”

  Philon exhales and the room grows hazy. “I sent word. They did not come, as I knew they would not.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “They fear change,” Philon answers. “They serve without question.”

  “They are cowards! They have always been slaves to the Order—diseased filth! I should rid the realms of them if I could,” Creostus bellows.

  “Creostus,” Philon says, rebuking the centaur and offering him the pipe. He sneers and bats it away. Unperturbed, Philon smokes more, till the room is filled with a strong, spicy perfume that dizzies me. “There are many tribes within the realms, Priestess. You will never bring them all into accord.”

  “How do we know that you even told the Untouchables about this meeting?” Fee says accusingly.

  Philon blows a stream of smoke into her face. She coughs, then raises her head for more.

  “You have only my word,” Philon answers.

  Lean and restless, Creostus paces the length of the room. “Why should we share with those vermin the Untouchables? Filth of the Order. Diseased cowards. They deserve their lot.”

  Neela sits beside Philon and runs her fingers through the creature’s silky hair. “Let her prove her loyalty to us. Tell her to take us to the Temple now.”

  “I won’t join hands without speaking to Asha,” I say. The smoke has loosened my tongue.

  Creostus growls in anger. He kicks a table with his hoof, smashing it to pieces. “Another stalling tactic, Philon. When will you realize you cannot make bargains with these witches?”

  “They will take the magic and keep us out,” Neela hisses.

  Creostus looks as if he would stomp us into dust. “We should be looking after ourselves!”

  Neela glares at me. “She will betray us as the others did. How do we know she is not in league with the Order now?”

  “Nyim syatt!” Philon’s voice thunders in the hut till it shakes. All are cowed. Creostus lowers his head. Philon releases a great cloud of smoke and turns those catlike eyes to me. “You promised to share the power with us, Priestess. Do you revoke your word?”

  “No, of course not,” I say, but I am no longer certain. I fear I trusted too soon and promised too much. “I only ask for a little more time to better understand the realms and my duties.”

  Neela sneers. “She asks for time to plot against us.”

  Creostus takes a position near me. He is large and intimidating.

  “I can offer a temporary share of the magic,” I say, feeling that I must placate them. “A gift as a symbol of good faith.”

  “A gift?” Creostus snarls, bringing his face to mine. “That is not the same as to own! To be gifted is not to own! Would we beg for magic from you as we did from the Order?”

  “I am not of the Order!” I say, trembling.

  Philon’s gaze is cool. “So you say. But it gets harder and harder to tell the difference.”

  “I…I meant only to help.”

  “We do not want your help,” Neela spits. “We want our fair share. We want to govern ourselves at last.”

  Philon holds my gaze. “We would have more than a taste, Priestess. Do what you must. We shall give you time—”

  Neela pounces. “But, Philon—”

  “We shall give you time,” Philon repeats, glaring hard at Neela. She slinks off to Creostus’s side, glowering at us all. “But I will not find myself without and wanting this time, Priestess. I have a duty to my people. Soon, we shall meet again—as friends or as enemies.”

  “You certainly don’t mean to join with those horrid creatures, do you?” Felicity asks as we make our way through the tall trees toward the shore and Gorgon.

  “What can I do? I gave them my word.” And now I’m sorry for it. My thoughts are as cloudy as the horizon, and my movements are slow. I breathe in the firm odor of the trees to rid my head of Philon’s spicy smoke.

  “Did they really spirit away mortals?” Ann asks. It’s the sort of macabre fact she loves to collect.

  “Horrible,” Felicity says, yawning. “They don’t deserve a share of the magic. They’ll only misuse it.”

  I’m in a terrible spot. If I don’t join hands with Philon, I make enemies of the forest folk and the tribes that support them. If I share the magic with them, they might prove untrustworthy.

  “Gemma.”

  I’ve not heard that soft voice in a long time. My heart falls through the floor of me. Standing on the path in her blue gown is my mother. She opens her arms wide.

  “Gemma, darling.”

  “Mother?” I whisper. “Is that you?”

  She smiles brightly. The smile turns to a laugh. The form changes, shifts, becomes entirely new, and I’m staring at Neela. She giggles into her long, stemlike fingers.

  “Gemma, dear.” It is my mother’s voice coming from that nasty little creature.

  “Why did you do that?” I shout.

  “Because I can,” she says.

  “Don’t you dare do it again,” I snap.

  “Or what?” Neela taunts.

  My fingers tingle with the itch of magic. In seconds, it rushes through me like a swollen river and my entire body shakes with its majestic force.

  “Gemma!” Fee puts steadying arms around me. I can’t hold it back. I must let it out. My hand lights on her shoulder, and the magic flows into Felicity with no warning, no control. Changes ripple through her: She’s a queen, a Valkyrie, a warrior in chain mail. She falls onto all fours in the soft grass, gasping for breath.

  “Fee! Are you all right?” I rush to her side but don’t touch her. I’m afraid to.

  “Yes,” she manages to say in a thin voice as one last change comes over her and she is herself again.

  I can hear Neela laughing behind me. “It’s too much for you, Priestess. You’re in over your head. Better to let someone more skilled wield it. I would be happy to relieve you of your burden.”

  “Fee,” I say, ignoring Neela. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t control it.”

  Ann helps Felicity to her feet. Felicity puts a hand to her stomach as if she has been punched. “So much change so fast,” she says weakly. “I wasn’t prepared.”

  “I am sorry,” I say, and this time, I put Felicity’s arm across my shoulder to steady her. Neela cackles as we stumble toward Gorgon.

  “Priestess!” the creature calls out. When I turn, she
wears my form. “Tell me: How will you fight when you cannot even see?”

  “How are you feeling now, Fee?” I ask as we wind through the earthen passageway with its faint heartbeat of light.

  “Better. Look!” She transforms into a warrior maiden. Her armor gleams. “Shall I wear this as my new Spence uniform?”

  “I think not.”

  We go through the door and onto the lawn. My senses are heightened. Someone is there. I put my finger to my lips for quiet.

  “What is it?” Ann whispers.

  I creep over to the East Wing. A figure slips away into the shadows, and dread fills me. We may have been seen.

  “Whoever it was is gone now,” I say. “But let’s get to bed before we’re well and truly caught.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, AT A MOST DISAGREEABLE HOUR, Mrs. Nightwing summons the lot of us to the great hall. Girls stumble in with their uniforms poorly buttoned and their braids half plaited in haste. Many rub sleep from their eyes. But we don’t dare yawn. Mrs. Nightwing would not ask us here this early for tea and kisses. There is an air of reproach; something terrible is at hand, and I fear that we were seen last night.

  “I hope it’s nothing to do with the masked ball in our honor.” Elizabeth frets, and Cecily shushes her.

  At five minutes past the hour, Mrs. Nightwing bustles into the room wearing a grim expression that puts the starch in our spines. She takes a position before us, her hands behind her back, her chin up, and her eyes as sharp as a fox’s.

  “A very serious offense has occurred, one that shall not be tolerated,” our headmistress says. “Do you know of what I speak?”

  We shake our heads, offer apprehensive nos. I am nearly ill with panic.

  Mrs. Nightwing lets her imperious gaze fall upon us. “The stones of the East Wing have been violated,” she says, enunciating each word. “They’ve been painted with strange markings—in blood.”