The Sweet Far Thing

  “If she meant to warn you,” Felicity argues. “Perhaps it was a trick, and you were wise enough to avoid it.”

  “Perhaps,” I say. “But what of Eugenia?”

  “Are you certain you really saw her?” Ann asks. “For none of us did, and we were there with you.”

  And I wonder if I imagined that, too. If I can even discern truth from illusion anymore. But, no, I saw her—I felt her. She was real, and the danger she sensed was real, but for the life of me, I cannot put the pieces together.

  “And McCleethy and Nightwing?” I ask.

  Felicity kicks her feet, making little splashes. “You know that they’re rebuilding the East Wing to take advantage of the secret door. But that’s all you know for certain. It will take ages to restore, and they’ve no inkling that we’re already making use of it. And by the time they do know, we’ll have already made the alliance and it shall be too late.”

  “You’re forgetting that the Hajin won’t join us and the forest folk hate me,” I say.

  Fee’s eyes flash. “They had their chance. Why don’t we make the alliance, just the four of us—you, me, Ann, and Pippa?”

  “About Pip…,” I say warily.

  Felicity’s face darkens. “What is it?”

  “Aren’t you alarmed by the changes in her?”

  “You mean her power,” Fee says, correcting me.

  “I think she’s been going to the Winterlands,” I continue. “I think she sacrificed Wendy’s rabbit. Perhaps she’s made other sacrifices as well.”

  Felicity crushes the violet between her fingers. “Shall I tell you what I think? I think you don’t like that she has power now. Or that Ann and I can enter the realms without you. I saw your face when the door opened for us!”

  “I was only surprised…,” I start, but the lie dies on my tongue.

  “And anyway, you’re the one acting strangely, Gemma. Cavorting with Circe. Seeing things that aren’t there. You’re the one who’s not right!” She gives the water one final splash and the droplets arc neatly over the river and land back on me.

  “I—I just think it best if we go into the realms together,” I say. “For now.”

  Felicity looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re no longer in charge.”

  “Come on, Gemma,” Ann entreats. “Let’s have a go round the maypole. Leave it for now.”

  She takes Felicity’s hand and they run for the maypole. They weave in and out, laughing, and I wish I could forget everything and join them. But I can’t. I can only hope that I will sort this out in time. I make my way past the lake and up the hill to the old cemetery. The jutting headstones welcome me, for I am suitably grave.

  I lay one of Felicity’s violets at Eugenia Spence’s stone. Beloved sister. “I don’t suppose you know where to find the dagger,” I say to the slab. The wind answers by blowing the posy away. “Thought not.”

  “Talking to headstones?” It’s Kartik. He carries a small lunch in a pail. A shaft of sunlight halos his face and for a moment I am taken with how beautiful he is—and how truly happy I am to see him. “You only need worry if they answer,” he says. “I’ll go if—”

  “No, stay,” I say. “I’d like that.”

  He sits on a grave whose markings are nearly gone with time and nods toward the maids beating carpets in a fury. “There is a masked ball, I hear.”

  “Yes, tomorrow,” I say. “I shall go as Joan of Arc.”

  “Fitting.” Kartik examines an apple, pushing at a bruise with his thumb. “I assume there will be many gentlemen in attendance. English gentlemen.”

  “I’m sure there will be many people in attendance,” I answer carefully.

  He bites into the fruit. I pull a leaf from a tree and tear it into small strips. The awkward silence stretches.

  “I’m sorry,” I say at last.

  “You needn’t apologize. I lied to you.”

  I perch near him. The distance between us isn’t much and yet it feels vast.

  “Come to the ball,” I say softly.

  Kartik laughs. “You’re joking.”

  “No, not at all. It is a masked ball. Who shall know?”

  Kartik pulls back his sleeve, revealing the warm brown of his skin. “And no one shall notice this, I suppose? An Indian amongst the English?” He bites into his apple with a hard crunch.

  “An Indian prince,” I say. “And you shall have an invitation. I shall give you one.”

  “If I cannot go as myself, I shall not go,” he says.

  “You may think on it. If you have a change of heart, place the cloth in its spot, and I shall meet you tomorrow in the laundry at half past six.”

  Kartik squints up at the sun. He shakes his head. “That is your world, not mine.”

  “What if…” I swallow hard. “What if I should like you in my world?”

  Kartik bites into his apple again, looks out at the rolling hills of the peaceful countryside. “I don’t believe I belong there.”

  “Neither do I,” I say, laughing, but two tears escape, and I have to grab them quickly with my fingers. The magic tingles in them, a temptation: You could make him stay.

  I will it into silence.

  “Then come into the realms with me,” I say instead. “We could look for Amar together. We—”

  “No. I don’t want to know what Amar has become. I want to remember him as he was before.” He puts the apple back into his lunch pail. “I’ve given it much thought these past few days, and I think it best for me to travel on to the Orlando. There’s nothing for me here.”

  “Kartik…,” I start, but what can I say, after all? “You must do what you feel is best.”

  “I’ll remember you in India,” he says. “I’ll offer a prayer for your family at the Ganges.”

  “Thank you.” There’s a lump in my throat that will not go away.

  He gatheres his pail. “Good day, Miss Doyle.”

  “Good day, Kartik.”

  He shakes my hand and walks down the hill. I’m alone in the cemetery.

  “This is what it’s come to,” I say, pressing the backs of my hands to my eyes. “Only the dead want my company.”

  My knees are the first to go. The force of my vision is so violent, I sink to the ground, clutching my stomach. My muscles are taut. The sky seems to tear in two; the clouds are limned in red.

  God. Can’t breathe. Can’t…

  Wilhelmina Wyatt stands among the headstones, her face contorted with fury. She grabs hold of my hair and drags me toward the graves. I kick and fight, but she’s strong. When we reach Eugenia Spence’s grave, she gives me a hard shove, and I fall, watching in horror as the ground closes over me.

  “No, no, no!” I scrabble at the sides of the grave with my fingernails, crying, desperate. “Let me out!”

  The earth falls away, and I am standing on the heath in the Winterlands before the Tree of All Souls. I see Eugenia’s frightened eyes. “Save us…,” she pleads.

  I kick for all I’m worth. The grave collapses, and I cover my eyes as the dirt rains down on me.

  It is silent. I hear…girls playing. Laughter. I take down my hands and open one eye. I’m on my back in the cemetery. The breeze brings the sounds of a croquet game on the back lawn. There is dirt on my boots and my skirts where I’ve been writhing. Wilhelmina is gone. I am alone. Eugenia Spence’s grave is whole. The violet I dropped is there, and all I can do is sob—out of fright and frustration.

  On rubbery legs, I weave through the gravestones. The crows descend like black raindrops. They light on the headstones. I put my hands to my ears to silence their hideous caws but they crawl under my skin like a poison.

  I stagger down the hill and sit, crying softly, hugging my knees to my chest. If I hadn’t kicked my way out of that grave…

  Or was I even there?

  No, I felt her pull my hair, felt myself fall, the dirt closing in. And then, it was as if it had never happened. Wilhelmina Wyatt frightens me.

  She could see into th
e dark. That was what Eugenia said about her once. But what if she is part of the darkness? What if she’s working with the creatures?

  And I no longer know if she means to help me or kill me.

  I watch the girls running around the maypole. Tomorrow they’ll don their costumes and flit about it like pixies without a care in the world at our May Day masked ball. A little tickle of cold starts in my stomach and whooshes out to the rest of me.

  Tomorrow. May Day. May first. The “birth” of May.

  Beware the birth of May.

  I cannot get warm. Whatever Eugenia feared, what Miss Wyatt meant to warn me about, will happen tomorrow, and I’ve no idea what it is or how to stop it. When I see Miss McCleethy and Mrs. Nightwing bent toward each other in conference, I shake. In their every glance, every laugh, every touch, I see danger.

  All around me, the girls prance about, drunk on excitement, oblivious to my fear. The little ones play in their costumes whilst Brigid scolds them and insists they’ll dirty their pretty dresses and then where will they be? They nod solemnly and promptly ignore her.

  “Why don’t you come join us, luv?” Brigid calls, seeing my long face.

  I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m not good company just now.”

  Mrs. Nightwing glances at me, brow slightly furrowed, and my skin itches. I can’t stay here. I decide to take refuge in Fee’s tent. I’m surprised to see her sitting there, all alone. Her lips tremble.

  “Fee?” I say.

  She wipes her tears with unforgiving hands. “Well, I’ve done it now,” she says with a laugh that’s too hard. “I’ve charmed them, all right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She holds up a letter. “It’s from Mother. Lady Markham has agreed to sponsor me—if I will marry her Horace.”

  “She can’t do that.”

  “She can,” Felicity says, wiping away more tears. “She means to mold me into the proper wife; it will be a feather in her cap if she does. She’s told Father that it might be a way for them to find favor in society again. And of course, there’s the money.”

  “But it’s your inheritance….” I trail off.

  “Don’t you see? Once I am married, my inheritance belongs to my husband! There will be no garret in Paris. My future has been decided for me.” She’s as small and lifeless as a porcelain doll.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, though it is far too little.

  Felicity takes both my hands in hers. My bones ache from her grip. “Gemma, you see how it is. They’ve planned our entire lives, from what we shall wear to whom we shall marry and where we shall live. It’s one lump of sugar in your tea whether you like it or not and you’d best smile even if you’re dying deep inside. We’re like pretty horses, and just as on horses, they mean to put blinders on us so we can’t look left or right but only straight ahead where they would lead.” Felicity puts her forehead to mine, holds my hands between hers in a prayer. “Please, please, please, Gemma, let’s not die inside before we have to.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Promise me we might hold on to this magic a bit longer, until I can secure my future—just until our debut,” she pleads.

  “That is weeks away yet,” I answer. “And I must make amends with the forest folk. We should make the alliance.”

  “Gemma, this is the rest of my life,” she begs, her tears turning to anger.

  Two giggling girls streak past the tent in a blur of ribbon and lace. They twirl furiously in their princess gowns, picking up speed, laughing madly. It’s no matter that the dresses are only a night’s borrowed finery. They believe, and the belief changes everything.

  I put my palms to Felicity’s in promise. “I’ll try.”

  I sit on my bed trying to make sense of everything, but I can’t, and May first will soon be here. As a distraction, I tidy up my few possessions, arranging them neatly in my cupboard: the ivory elephant all the way from India, my mother’s diary, Kartik’s red bandana, Simon’s false-bottom box. I should toss that out. I open the secret chamber, and it’s as empty as I feel inside. A place to keep all your secrets, he told me. It will take a box larger than this for my secrets. I leave it on Ann’s bed as a gift and resume my straightening. I stack my books in one corner. Gloves and handkerchiefs. Wilhelmina Wyatt’s slate, mute as its owner. What to do with that? Useless. And heavy. That thick wooden base weighing it down…Suddenly, I realize how stupid I’ve been.

  The illustration in the book—it told me where to look all along. The Hidden Object. Wilhelmina Wyatt was a magician’s assistant, with a knowledge of sleight of hand. If she’d wanted to hide something…

  I feel around the edges of the slate until my fingernail finds a small latch in the wood. I press it down, and the board loosens. When I slide it out of the way, there’s the leather roll I’ve seen in my visions. My fingers shake as I slip the ties loose and peel back the ends.

  And there inside is a slim dagger with a jeweled hilt.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  * * *

  May 1

  THE SUN HAS TAKEN ITS BOW, AND DUSK DESCENDS. THE air is warm; birds give a last concert before sleep. All in all, it is the perfect night for Spence’s masked ball, but I shall not rest easy until the night passes.

  Lanterns have been set out on the lawn and far down the road to light the way. A long black line of carriages snakes toward us and around the drive. Our families arrive. Servants help Marie Antoinette and Sir Walter Raleigh, Napoleon and Queen Elizabeth from their coaches. All sorts of colorful characters drift over the lawn. With their masked faces, they lend the festivities a fantastical air. Music fills the ballroom. It floats from the open windows and into the woods. Girls streak by in layers of lace and tulle. I’m enjoying none of it.

  I’d hoped Kartik would surprise me tonight. But there has been no signal, so I take my lantern to the front lawn to wait for my own family to arrive. I see Father first. He is a raja with a jeweled turban. Grandmama, who lives in terror of enjoying herself, has worn one of her gowns, but she has added a Harlequin mask on a stick. Tom wears a jester’s hat, which is far more appropriate than he knows.

  “Ah, here is our Gemma now,” Father says, taking in the sight of my tunic and boots—and the jeweled dagger at my waist. “But soft, she is not our Gemma at all but a leader of men! A saint for the ages!”

  “It’s Gemma of Arc,” Tom sneers.

  “And the fool,” I counter.

  “I am a jester. It is not the same at all,” he sniffs. “I do hope there is supper.”

  Father has one of his coughing fits.

  “Are you well enough, Papa?”

  “Fit as a fiddle.” He wheezes. His face is red and sweaty. “Just haven’t quite got used to this country air.”

  “Dr. Hamilton said it would do you good.” Grandmama tuts.

  “The doctor was called for?”

  Father pats my hand. “Now, now, pet. Nothing to worry about. All well and good. Let’s see what fine entertainment is in store tonight.”

  A parlor maid holds a serving bowl offering ornate masks—birds, animals, imps, and Harlequins. They turn the smiles worn beneath them into threatening leers.

  Felicity is a Valkyrie, her shining blond hair flowing over a dress of silver complete with wings. Her mother has come as Little Bo Peep; her father wears his naval uniform and a fox mask. The Markhams have come as well, much to Mrs. Nightwing’s delight and Felicity’s misery. Each time Horace, in his Lord Fauntleroy blues, draws near, she looks as if she could strangle him, which only makes him want her the more.

  I wish I could go to her, to dance and turn the magic loose as we’ve done before. But a refrain beats inside me: Beware the birth of May. And I can’t say what this night will bring.

  Mrs. Nightwing is eager to show the assembly why Spence has its reputation for grace, strength, and beauty, as our motto promises. She has come as Florence Nightingale, her hero. It would prove amusing if I didn’t distrust her so.

/>   “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you deeply for your attendance this evening. Since its inception, Spence has enjoyed a reputation as an institution where girls become the finest of young ladies. But for many years, our great school has borne the painful reminder of a terrible tragedy. I speak of the East Wing and the fire that claimed it along with the lives of two of our girls and of our beloved founder, Eugenia Spence. But in her honor, we have resurrected the East Wing, and your generous donations shall make it possible to see to its refurbishment. I humbly thank you.

  “And now, without further ado, I should like to present a program by our shining jewels. These jewels of which I speak are not diamonds or rubies but the kind and noble girls of Spence.”

  Mrs. Nightwing dabs quickly at her eyes and takes her seat. Several of the younger girls—princesses and fairies all—perform a dance, enchanting the guests with their easy innocence.

  A man sidles up next to me. His mask hides his face, but I’d know that voice anywhere.

  “Nice evenin’ for a party, innit?”

  “What are you doing here?” I demand, my heartbeat quickening.

  “I was invited, luv.” He grins like a devil.

  I snarl low in his ear. “If you do anything to me or my family or my friends, if you make any move at all, I shall employ the magic against you in such a way that you’ll never threaten anyone ever again.”

  Fowlson’s grin is quick and wide. “That’s the spirit, luv.” He puts his mouth dangerously close to my neck. “But don’t fret, Miss Doyle. I’m not ’ere tonight for you. Is your friend Kartik ’ere? If not, it’s no worries—I’ll find ’im, I’m sure.”

  Kartik.

  I turn and run from the room as the little girls curtsy politely, like the adorable dolls they are, and the guests applaud them. I’m out of breath by the time I reach Kartik in the boathouse. “Fowlson is here. I believe he’s come for you,” I gasp. “To hurt you.”

  He doesn’t seem alarmed, doesn’t make a move.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes,” he says, closing his book. “The Odyssey. I’ve finished it, if you’d care to read it.”