The Sweet Far Thing

  An arrow splits the air above my head and skitters across the ground behind me.

  “Nyim!” Philon thunders. “We are not at war with the Hajin or the Order. Yet. As for you, Priestess, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. For now. But you must prove good faith to me.”

  “How?”

  Philon’s gaze is inscrutable. “I require an act of good faith. You said you could gift others with the magic. Very well. I accept. Gift me so that I might hold magic of my own.”

  I did say that, but now I am not so sure that I should have. “What will you do with it?” I ask.

  Philon regards me coolly. “I do not ask what you do with yours.”

  When I make no move, Creostus crosses his arms and smirks. “She hesitates. What further proof do you need?”

  “The magic does not last for long,” I say, stalling. “What help will it be to you?”

  “Because you put some enchantment upon it!” Creostus spits.

  “No! I have no control over it.”

  “We shall see.” Philon’s eyes are glassy. “Will you gift us? Or is it war?”

  The forest folk wait for my answer. I’m not at all sure this is the best course, but what choice do I have? If I don’t give them any, it’s war. If I do, there’s no telling how they might use the power.

  But no one says I have to give them much.

  I join hands briefly with Philon, and when I break away, the creature regards me with those cool eyes. “And is that all, Priestess?”

  “I told you I have no control over it,” I say.

  Philon shakes my hand but whispers in my ear. “That is your first lie. Do not let there be a second.”

  As I leave, Neela shouts after me. “You witches cannot be trusted! Soon, we will no longer live in your shadow!”

  Gorgon steers a course back to the garden. I perch beside her neck, listening to the gentle rhythm of the water sluicing against the ship’s enormous sides. Gorgon has said nothing since we left the forest.

  “Gorgon, what was Creostus speaking about earlier?”

  “It is nothing. Creostus knew me as a warrior.”

  “But why do you choose to stay here in this prison?”

  Gorgon’s voice deepens. “I have my reasons.”

  I know this tone. It means the conversation will go nowhere. But I am not in a stopping humor. I wish to know more. “But you could be free—”

  “No,” she says bitterly. “I will never be truly free. I do not deserve it.”

  “Of course you do!”

  The snakes nestle about her face, making it hard to see her eyes. “I am many things, Most High, not all of them noble.”

  One of the snakes slithers close to me. Its thin pink tongue flicks against my skin. Instinctively, I pull my hand back, but its dangerous kiss lingers.

  “We should not be speaking of the past but of the future of the realms.”

  I sigh. “The tribes can’t even agree amongst themselves. How will they form an alliance when they are constantly fighting?”

  “It is true they have fought always. But they may still be joined in a common cause. Discord need not be an impediment. Differences can bring strength.”

  “I don’t see how. It makes my head hurt to hear them.” I stretch my arms and feel the river spray on my face, cool and sweet. “Oh, why can’t there be peace like this moment always?”

  Gorgon glances sideways at me. The line of her mouth tightens. “Peace is not happenstance. It is a living fire that must be fed constantly. It must be tended with vigilance, else it dies out.”

  “Why has this power come to me, Gorgon? I can scarcely govern myself. At times, I feel as if I could dance through the halls with happiness, and then, just as suddenly, my thoughts are dark and lost and frightening.”

  “The question is not why, Most High. The question is what. What will you do with this power?”

  We’ve come to a narrow strait bordered by mossy rocks. The water shines with iridescent scales. A school of water nymphs emerges from under the current. They’re exotic creatures, half mermaid, with bald heads, webbed fingers, and eyes that show the depths of the oceans. Their song is so lovely it can bewitch any mortal, and once they have you in thrall, they take your skin.

  I’ve had one encounter with those ladies and barely lived to tell it; I shan’t chance another.

  “Gorgon,” I warn, moving to the nets that hang from the side of the ship.

  “Yes, I see them,” Gorgon says.

  But the nymphs make no move toward us. Instead, they dive under again, and I see the bow of their silvery backs as they swim away.

  “That’s odd,” I say, watching them go.

  “All is strange these days, Most High,” Gorgon answers, cryptic as ever.

  I settle again at Gorgon’s neck. We’re nearing the Borderlands. The air is hazier here, and in the distance the sky is the color of lead.

  “Gorgon, what do you know about the Winterlands?”

  “Very little, and yet it is too much.”

  “Do you know of something called the Tree of All Souls?”

  Gorgon startles; the snakes hiss at the sudden movement.

  “Where did you hear that name?” Gorgon asks.

  “You do know of it! I want to know. Tell me!” I command, but Gorgon’s as still as stone. “Gorgon, you were once bound to tell only truth to the Order!”

  Her lips pull back in a snarl. “Only moments ago, you reminded me of my freedom.”

  “Please?”

  She takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “It is only a myth passed down through the generations.”

  “Which states…?” I prompt.

  “It is said that hidden within the Winterlands is a place of enormous power, a tree which holds great magic much like that of the Temple.”

  “But if that’s so,” I argue, “why haven’t the Winterlands creatures made use of it to take over the realms?”

  “Perhaps they cannot retrieve its power. Perhaps they were stopped by the seal of the runes or the Temple.” Gorgon slides her yellow eyes toward me. “Or perhaps it does not exist at all. For none that I know have seen it.”

  “But what if it does exist? Shouldn’t we venture into the Winterlands and find out for ourselves?”

  “No,” Gorgon hisses, “it’s forbidden.”

  “It was forbidden! But I hold all the magic now.”

  “That is what worries me.”

  We’ve reached the Borderlands. A light snow has begun to fall. Torches have been lit. They cast an eerie glow over the scene.

  “You must forget about the Winterlands. No good can come of it.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never seen it,” I say bitterly. “No one has.”

  “None who can be trusted,” Gorgon answers, and at once, I think of Circe.

  “Gemma!” Felicity yells from the shore. She’s in her chain mail, and Pippa wears her beautiful cape and they both shine like borrowed jewels.

  Gorgon lowers the plank for me. “Most High, the sooner you can make the alliance and share the magic, the better.”

  She stares intently at the sky toward the Winterlands.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask.

  The snakes move restlessly. Gorgon’s placid face darkens. “Trouble.”

  “Hooray! Our Gemma has returned,” Pippa says, half dragging me into the forest, where the girls have set up a game of croquet. They take turns with their mallets. Ann lounges on a blanket of silver threads. She plucks them like a harp and beautiful music drifts over to us. Wendy sits stroking Mr. Darcy’s fuzzy head.

  “How were the horrid forest folk?” Felicity asks as she prepares to take her shot.

  “Angry. Impatient. They think I will betray them,” I say, settling next to Wendy and Ann.

  “Well, they will just have to wait until we’re ready, won’t they?” Felicity knocks her ball cleanly through the hoop.

  “Bessie, when you were with the three girls in white on your way to
the Winterlands, did they mention the Tree of All Souls?” I ask.

  Bessie shakes her head. “They wasn’t the chatty sort.”

  “And you’ve still not seen any Winterlands creatures?” I ask them all.

  “Not a one,” Pippa says.

  I want to be comforted by this, but a small voice deep inside reminds me that Pippa and the girls are still here, and beneath that glamour they wear, their cheeks are pale, their teeth sharp.

  Yet they are not like those horrible trackers, those hideous wraiths that steal souls. But what are they? She need not fall. That was what Gorgon said. Is there a way around it? Do I want there to be? If I gave this power to McCleethy and the Order tonight, I’d not have to worry about it; it would be their decision to make, not mine. And they’d banish Pip to the Winterlands, for sure. No, the choice is mine to make. I’ve got to see this through.

  “What are you brooding about now, Gemma?” Felicity asks.

  I shake my head, clearing it of the night’s heaviness. “Nothing. Here, let me have a try.”

  I take the mallet and knock it against the ball, and the ball rolls far out into the Winterlands fog.

  Our visit over, we travel the now familiar path back to the secret door and step into the long, ill-lit corridor. It feels odd to me, though, as if someone else might be inside with us.

  “Do you hear anything?” I whisper.

  “No,” Felicity says.

  It’s a faint rustling, like leaves. Or wings. We’ve gone no more than a few feet when I hear it again. I turn quickly and catch a slight glimmering like a firefly. It is there just long enough for me to make out wings, a tooth. And just like that it’s gone.

  “I know you’re in here,” I say. “I saw you.”

  Fee and Ann peer into the dark.

  “I don’t see a thing,” Felicity says with a shrug.

  “I saw something,” I say, whirling about. “I swear that I did.”

  “Right! Show yourself!” Felicity demands. Only the dark answers. “Gemma, there’s nothing there, I tell you. Let’s move on.”

  “Yes. All right,” I agree.

  Felicity sings the bit of doggerel she learned from Pippa, and Ann joins in. “Oh, I’ve a love, a true, true love…”

  I chance one last look behind me. Tucked away under a rafter is the fairy creature from the Borderlands, teeth bared in an ugly sneer. The creature gleams as brightly as a burning coal, then quickly fades to black.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  * * *

  THE EGYPTIAN HALL IN PICCADILLY IS A MAGNIFICENT building. From the front, it looks as if we are about to walk into an ancient tomb resurrected from the sands of the Nile itself. The entrance is adorned by giant statues of Isis and Osiris. A large placard above advertises the Wolfson brothers’ exhibit, at three and eight o’clock. There is another for the Dudley Gallery, where many an artist has exhibited his work.

  Inside, it seems a perfect replica of those far-off temples. There is a great room supported by rows of columns fashioned in the Egyptian style, complete with hieroglyphs. I should not be surprised to see Cleopatra walking among us.

  We’ve received our souvenir program for tonight’s spectacle. The Wolfson brothers appear on either side of the cover, and in the center are drawings of a strange metal box on three legs, a levitating table, a fearsome specter, and a skeleton kicking his bony head about. The first page promises an evening we’ll not soon forget.

  The Wolfson Brothers Present:

  THE RITES OF SPRING

  A Phantasmagoria Conjuring Spirits Before Your Very Eyes!

  “How exciting!” Mademoiselle LeFarge exclaims. “I’m so grateful Mrs. Nightwing allowed us to come. I hear it isn’t at all like looking at photographs. The pictures move as if they were real as you and I!”

  “I should like to see that,” Ann says.

  “Soon, we shall,” Miss McCleethy grumbles, fanning through her own program with little interest.

  Felicity holds fast to my arm. “How shall we find Dr. Van Ripple with her here?” she asks irritably.

  “I don’t know—yet,” I answer.

  Several exhibitors have taken the opportunity to promote themselves within the hall. They have set up tables—some elaborate, some small—to show their wares. They call to us like barkers, and we are not certain where to look first.

  “I’d have them all before the magistrate on Bow Street,” Inspector Kent mutters, mentioning London’s famous court.

  “Oh, Mr. Kent,” Mademoiselle LeFarge chides.

  “Mr. Kent, sir. I hear congratulations are in order.” A policeman offers his hand to the inspector, who introduces his soon-to-be wife. Now is the perfect time to slip away—if I can distract McCleethy. If I make use of the magic, will she truly know it? If I cast an illusion, will she see through it? Do I dare chance it?

  “Gemma, what shall we do?” Felicity whispers.

  “I’m thinking,” I whisper back.

  McCleethy eyes us suspiciously. “What are you girls whispering about back there?”

  “We’d like to see the exhibits,” I say. “May we?”

  “Certainly. I should like to see them as well.”

  “Well done,” Felicity growls. “She’ll not leave our sides.”

  “I said I was thinking, didn’t I?”

  “I’ve seen many exhibitions here,” an older woman says to her companion. “When I was a girl, my father brought me to see the famous Tom Thumb. He stood no taller than my waist, and I was but a child.”

  “Tom Thumb!” Ann exclaims. “How marvelous!”

  “This hall has housed many an extraordinary exhibition,” McCleethy lectures. “In 1816, Napoleon’s carriage was on display, and later, the wonders of the tomb of Seti the First were shown.”

  “Oh, what else?” Ann draws McCleethy into a conversation like a clever girl, and I’ve a moment to think. What would draw McCleethy from our sides? A raging lion with canines bared? No, they’d probably greet each other as fellow predators. Blast! What would threaten the unthreatenable McCleethy?

  My lips twist into a wicked grin. An old friend, that’s what we need. I start to summon my power, and stop. What if I am too overcome by the magic? It is so unpredictable. And she said she would know if I employed it.

  There is only one way to find out, I suppose.

  I draw in a deep breath and try to calm myself. The voices of McCleethy and my friends, the calls of the exhibitors, and the noise of the crowd fade to murmurs. My fingers itch, and the tingling travels the length of my arms toward my heart. Steady, Gemma. Set your mind to your purpose. Within seconds, Fowlson appears in the crowd, for I’ve conjured him—or the illusion of him, at least.

  “Miss McCleethy, it would seem you are wanted,” I say quietly, nodding toward the imaginary Fowlson.

  Shock registers on McCleethy’s face as the horrible man crooks a finger to beckon her. I do my best to remain impassive. Breathe in, breathe out. Simplest thing in the world, really.

  “How dare he…” Miss McCleethy glowers. “Ladies, I’m afraid I shall have to take you back to Mademoiselle LeFarge for a moment.”

  “Miss McCleethy, can’t we wait here? Please? We won’t move at all,” Felicity pleads.

  “Fowlson” makes his way toward the back of the hall. “Yes, yes, all right, but behave yourselves,” McCleethy snaps. “I won’t be a moment.”

  “What just happened?” Felicity asks as our teacher hurries away.

  My smile is as big as life as I tell them what I’ve done. “Now we know McCleethy is a liar. She can’t tell when I’ve drawn on the magic, for I just did, and she didn’t suspect a thing.”

  “I knew it!” Felicity exults.

  “Right, look about, eyes sharp,” I command. “Dr. Van Ripple is a tall, thin man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.”

  Watched by the eyes of indifferent gods, we wander the hall, searching for the man I’ve seen in my visions, the one I hope can shed light
on the curious messages I’ve received.

  “Would you care to see the Book of the Dead?” a red-nosed gentleman asks. His wife sits behind him, arranging books on a table. The book in his hands has an engraving of a god with a jackal’s head.

  “Book of the Dead?” Ann asks. Her face lights up at the mere mention.

  Smelling a mark, the man opens the book, flipping through its pages so quickly that we see snow. “The Book of the Dead. With this sacred tome, the ancient Egyptians mummified their dead and prepared them for the afterlife. Some say they could even call the dead from their graves.”

  Felicity’s brow furrows. “Does it mention gorgons or water nymphs? Does it say how to defeat the creatures of the Winterlands?”

  The man laughs uncomfortably. “Course not, miss.”

  “Well, then it isn’t much use, is it?”

  A man in a turban offers to tell our fortunes for two shillings.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know your fortune, Gemma?” Ann asks, and I know she’d like me to loan her the money for it. “After all, what if he tells you that you will marry a handsome stranger?”

  “What if he tells me I shall die alone surrounded by many cats and a collection of ceramic dolls? That isn’t our purpose here,” I remind her as she purses her lips.

  Felicity hurries to us. “You must see this!”

  We scurry to a corner where a burly man with a walrus mustache has a small booth. A handful of ladies gather there. “Step up, don’t be shy,” the man calls merrily. “Mr. Brinley Smith, photographer, at your service.” Photographs. I cannot understand in the least why Felicity should find this exciting or why she’d squander valuable time on it.

  “What I have here will astound you. For in this box is proof that life continues after death.” I daresay we know a good deal more about the subject than dear Mr. Smith. He opens a box of photographs and offers one to the lady in front for inspection. We peer over her shoulder as best we can. It isn’t much, just a picture of a man at his desk, writing a letter. But when I look again, I see something else. Beside the man is a ghostly presence in white, a woman as sheer as lace.