The Sweet Far Thing

  “Stop!” a creature to my left says, and I feel Kartik’s hand hovering near his dagger. The creature is as gray as death. He pulls back rotting lips to reveal yellow nubs of teeth. His eyelids are lined in red, but his eyes are the milky blue of Pippa’s. “Have you come for the ritual?”

  Kartik nods. I pray our illusion will hold.

  Six trackers emerge at the arch. “Follow!” the hideous beasts call. The creatures rise, and the dead shuffle behind as if sleepwalking. With a last glance at Gorgon’s stony face, Kartik and I join the others.

  The trackers thunder over the plains and we follow. The ground crunches like shells beneath my feet. I think I see a leg bone poking up through the grit and quickly look away. Calm, Gemma. Calm. Keep the illusion.

  We come to a narrow pass. Pale, skinless creatures emerge from behind the rocks and from crevices, blinking against the dim light of the churning gray sky. The creature beside us snarls and gnashes his teeth at one of the pale things, which slips back under the rock until all I can see are its blinking eyes.

  The crows circle overhead, crying. They lead us out of the chasm and my pulse quickens, for we are on the heath. And there before us is the Tree of All Souls.

  The Winterlands creatures gather on the plains. Kartik squeezes my hand, and I can feel his terror joined to mine. Three of the dead are brought forth—a woman and two men. Beside me, Kartik draws a short breath. Just behind the creatures, on a magnificent steed, is Amar.

  “The more we sacrifice, the greater our power grows,” he thunders as the dead are made to kneel before the Tree of All Souls.

  “Do you give yourselves willingly to the greater glory? Will you be sacrificed for our cause?” Amar asks them.

  “We will,” they answer numbly.

  “These souls are ready,” Kartik’s brother says.

  The vines move like whips, wrapping around the necks of the victims, pulling them up into the tree’s expanse like puppets. Amar draws a sword from a sheath at his side. He rides out, then turns, running hard for the dead like a knight in a joust.

  On the heath, the Winterlands creatures watch; some cower while others chant their approval: “Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice…”

  As we watch in horror, Amar’s sword comes down on the dead. Kartik starts, and I hold fast to his arm. Their blood drips, and the roots accept it greedily. With a terrible scream, the souls of the victims are drawn into the enormous ash tree. Before our eyes, it grows even taller. Its mighty boughs stretch out in every direction like giant claws. The sky bleeds red.

  Amar and the trackers place their hands to the tree’s twisted trunk, drinking in what power there is, while the army of creatures looks on.

  “One day, you, too, shall feed,” a tracker shouts. “After the sacrifice.”

  The creatures nod. “Yes, one day,” they answer, believing it without question.

  “Our cause is just!” another one of the trackers shouts. His robes open to reveal the howling spirits within.

  “Freedom is within our reach at last,” Amar thunders. “She has set the plan in motion. All pieces come together. When she gives the word, we will sacrifice their great priestess and both worlds—the realms and the mortals’—will fall to us.”

  The creatures shout and raise their fists in imagined victory.

  One of the trackers sniffs the air. “Something is amiss,” he howls. “I feel the living among us!”

  Snarling and shrieking, the creatures turn on each other, pointing accusing fingers. One of the beasts jumps on the back of another with shouts of “Traitor!” before sinking his teeth into the other’s neck. The trackers try to take control but it is hard for them to be heard above the din.

  “Kartik,” I whisper, “we must leave.”

  He still stares at his cursed brother, his eyes wet. I do not wait for his response. Quickly, I pull him away from the crowd and the terrible sight of what his brother has become. We slip carefully through the crowd, narrowly avoiding the punches thrown. As we come to the chasm through the rock, I hear Amar shouting for order amidst the chaos. The sky screams. Another soul has been sacrificed, and the creatures unite, cheering.

  More skinless creatures slither from the rocks. They grab at our ankles with hands as slick and fast as fish, making me scream. It echoes for a moment, and I fear it shall be heard by the others. I kick at the thing’s hand. It slinks back into its hiding place, and I pull Kartik as quickly as I can toward the boat.

  “Gorgon, we must leave with the utmost haste,” I say.

  “As you wish, Most High.” She steers a course out of the Winterlands. I tell her what we have seen, though as a kindness, I do not mention Amar’s part in it. The churning sky eases into the indifferent dusk of the Borderlands, then into the bright blue near the Caves of Sighs, and into the orange sunset of the garden.

  Kartik has not spoken a word the entire voyage. He has sat on deck, his knees drawn to his chest, his head buried in his hands. I do not know what to say. I would have spared him that.

  “She,” I say, shaking my head. “She set the plan in motion.”

  “What is it?” Gorgon asks.

  An anger I’ve never known rises in me. “Circe. She made a pact with the creatures long ago, and she wanted me to think that was in the past. She’s never stopped trying to take back the power. I won’t be her pawn any longer.”

  “What would you bid me do, Most High?”

  “Ride to Philon and the forest folk. Tell them what has happened and that I would join hands with them tonight. I will return with my friends, and we will meet at the Temple. Offer to the Untouchables again as well. They may still be swayed.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Gorgon,” I call.

  “Yes, Most High?”

  I do not know how to ask what I want to know. “If I share the magic, if we join hands, will that end it?”

  Gorgon shakes her head slowly. “I cannot say. These are strange days. Nothing is as it was before. All rules are forfeit, and no one knows what will happen.”

  I lead Kartik over the path by the Borderlands and through the corridor. We step through the secret door onto the lawn of Spence. From the open windows above, I can hear applause and murmuring. Nightwing announcing Miss Cecily Temple’s recitation of “The Rose of Battle.”

  Everything is familiar and yet nothing seems as it was. Kartik won’t look at me, and I wish we could go back to that moment in the Caves of Sighs when we put our hands to the stones.

  “That creature feeding souls to the tree. That was my brother.”

  “I’m very sorry.” I reach out my fingers but he will not be touched. “Kartik.”

  “I’ve failed him. I’ve failed—”

  He brushes past me and breaks into a run.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  * * *

  I’M TREMBLING AS I RETURN TO THE MASKED BALL. A MAN in a Harlequin mask brushes past, startling me.

  “Terribly sorry,” he says, giving me a smile that seems demonic beneath that hideous mask.

  I slip back into the ballroom, where the girls perform their recital. I see Felicity sitting with Ann in her Lady Macbeth costume. “I must speak with you both at once,” I whisper, and they hurry after me to the library. Ann flips idly through a halfpenny paper: Mabel: A Girl of Newbury School. I’ve no doubt it follows the same story as all the others: A poor but decent girl is subjected to the cruel taunts of her school chums, only to be saved by a rich relative. And then all the petty schoolgirls are right sorry they’ve teased her so. But Mabel (or Annabelle or Dorothy—they are all the same) forgives them sweetly, never thinking a bad thought about anyone, and everyone has learned a valuable lesson in the end.

  I should like to throw that rubbish on the fire.

  “All right, Gemma. Out with it,” Felicity commands. “We’re missing the party.”

  “The Winterlands creatures are not dying out. They have an army, thousands strong,” I say, words tumbling out of me as
from a patient at Bedlam. “They’ve been sacrificing souls to the tree to gather their power, but they’re waiting for something. For someone.” I take a breath. “I believe it’s Circe.”

  “Now you believe it,” Felicity says.

  I ignore her jab. “We must go into the realms, return the dagger to Eugenia, and make the alliance—”

  “You mean give back the magic?” Ann asks.

  “It isn’t ours. It’s only borrowed—”

  Felicity interrupts. “But what about Pip? We must tell her!”

  “Fee,” I start, “we can’t. If she is one of them—”

  “She’s not! You just said it was Circe.” Felicity’s eyes narrow. “How did you come to know this, Gemma?”

  Too late I realize my folly. “I went into the realms. To see.”

  “Alone?” Felicity presses.

  “No. With Kartik.”

  Ann glares at me. “You took him in without telling us?”

  “I needed to show him—”

  “The realms belong to us, not him!” Felicity insists. “Only yesterday you said we shouldn’t go into the realms without one another. Now you’ve done it!”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry, but this was another matter,” I argue, though even I can hear how weak it is.

  “You lied!” Felicity shouts.

  “Listen to me, please! Will you listen to me for one moment? I’ve asked Gorgon to gather the Hajin and the forest folk at the Temple so that we might share the magic with them. We must go tonight. Don’t you see?”

  “I see that you don’t care what your friends think. What they want.” In her costume, Felicity is every bit the warrior maiden. Her eyes sparkle with hurt. “Pip warned me this might happen.”

  “What do you mean? What did she say?” I ask.

  “Why should I tell you? Perhaps you can ask Kartik. You share more confidences with him than you do with your friends.”

  “I’m here with you now, aren’t I?” I say, my anger sparking.

  “She said you wouldn’t like sharing the magic. That you never meant to, not the way she would,” Felicity says.

  “That isn’t true.” But I cannot deny how much I have relished having something others did not.

  Felicity takes Ann’s hand. “It’s no matter,” Felicity says, pulling Ann toward the door. “You forget that we may do as we please. We may enter the realms when we wish. With or without you.”

  I pass through the rooms as if in a fever. The ballroom blooms with merry dancers. But I am not in the mood for dancing. In my mind, I see those horrid creatures, Amar leading the dead to sacrifice. I see the pain in Kartik’s eyes. I wonder where he has gone and when he will come back. If he will come back.

  People crowd the floor for a dance with intricate steps, but they follow them without mishap, and I am envious. For there are no steps for me to follow on this journey; I must find my own way. I cannot be part of this gaudy convocation of princesses and fairies, jesters and imps, specters and illusions. I am so very tired of illusions. I need someone to listen, to help me.

  Father. I could tell him everything. The time has come for truth. I hurry through room after room, searching for him. Fowlson lurks in a corner. He sneers at me. “Joan of Arc. She came to a bad end, didn’t she?”

  “You could come to a bad end now,” I whisper fiercely, and press on. At last, I see my father holding court with Mrs. Nightwing, Tom…and Lord Denby. I march straight up to the snake.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  “Gemma Doyle!” Father barks. “You will apologize.”

  “I will not. He’s a monster, Father!”

  Tom’s face reddens. He looks as if he could kill me. But Lord Denby only laughs. “This is what comes of empowering women, old chap. They become dangerous.”

  I spirit Father away to the parlor and close the door. Father settles himself into a chair. From his pocket he removes the pipe I gave him for Christmas and a small pouch of tobacco. “I am very disappointed in you, Gemma.”

  Disappointed. That word, like a knife to the heart. “Yes, Father. I’m sorry, but it truly is urgent. It’s something you must know about me. About Mother.” My pulse quickens. The words catch in my throat and burn there. I could swallow them like a bitter pill as I have done so many times before. It would be easier. But I cannot. They come back up, and I choke on them as they do.

  “What if I told you that Mother was not who she appeared to be? What if I told you that her true name was Mary Dowd, and that she was a member of a secret society of sorceresses?”

  “I would say it was not a very good joke,” he says darkly, packing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

  I shake my head. “It is not a joke. It’s true. Mother attended Spence years before me. She caused the fire that burned Spence’s East Wing. She was a member of a society of magical women called the Order. They trained at Spence. She could enter a world beyond this one called the realms. It is a beautiful place, Father. But also frightening at times. She was part of the magic there. And I have the same magic running through my veins. And that is why they want to kill me—to take my magic.”

  Father’s smile fades. “Gemma, this tale is not amusing.”

  I can’t stop. It is as if every truth I have ever held secret inside me must come out. “She wasn’t killed by accident. She knew that man in India, Amar. He was her protector. They died trying to protect me from a murderous sorceress named Circe.”

  Father’s gaze is hard, and it frightens me, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Not now. “I saw her there, in the realms, after she died. I talked to her! She was worried about you. She said—”

  “That is quite enough!” Father’s words are quiet but coiled, a whip at the ready.

  “But it’s true,” I say, choking back tears. “She did not visit charity wards in hospitals or tend to the sick! She never did, Papa, and you know it.”

  “It is how I wish to remember her.”

  “But doesn’t it matter that it isn’t really how she was? Didn’t you ever wonder why you knew nothing of her past? Why she was so mysterious? Did you not ask?”

  He rises and walks toward the door. “This conversation has come to an end. You will apologize to Lord Denby for your rudeness, Gemma.”

  Like a child, I run to keep up with him. “Lord Denby is a part of this. He’s of the Rakshana and he means to recruit Tom in order to take my magic from me. He—”

  “Gemma,” he warns.

  “But, Papa,” I say, my voice strangled by the sob I dare not let out. “Isn’t it better to speak the truth, to know—”

  “I do not want to know!” he bellows, and I am silenced.

  He doesn’t want to know. About Mother or Tom or me. Or himself.

  “Gemma, pet, let’s forget this nonsense and return to the party, shall we?” He coughs hard into his handkerchief. He can’t seem to draw a clear breath. But the spasm subsides; the red in his face fades like a sunset.

  I cannot answer. It is as if a cold, hard weight has been placed upon my chest. Everyone thinks my father such a charming man. If only I wanted charm and nothing deeper, I should be a happy girl. I want to hate him for his easy charm. I want to but I can’t, because he is all I have. And if I have to, I will make him see.

  “Father.”

  Before he can object, I take hold of his arm and we are joined. His eyes widen. He tries to pull from my grasp. He can’t stay with me—not even for this one moment. And this small knowledge hits the deepest wound within me hard.

  “You will see, Father. You’ll know the truth even if I have to force you to see it.”

  The more he fights it, the more magic I have to employ. I show him everything, feeling him tremble in my grasp, hearing the small cries of denial. Soon I am aware of him as well. His secrets. His vanities. His fears. His life flits past my mind, a thick ribbon unspooling. And I am the one who should like to look away. But I can’t. There’s too much magic at work. I am no longer in control. We’re recklessly joined.
I am aware of the small scrap of paper in his pocket, an address in East London where he will find the opium he craves. It has begun again. I feel his struggle turning to resolve. He will do it, and the cycle will begin again.

  Despair, shiny and jagged, rakes across me. I swallow hard and will myself not to feel. Not to care. But I can’t. I know that the magic can’t heal, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. I will take this longing from him, and then I will cure Tom of his attraction to the Rakshana, and we will be as happy as we were before.

  Father gives another small cry, and suddenly, I feel nothing from him. My hand is cold where it touches his. I break the contact, and Father falls to the floor, unmoving. His eyes are open; his mouth is twisted. His breathing is strangled.

  “Father!” I shout, but he’s beyond me. What have I done?

  I run for Mrs. Nightwing and Tom.

  “It’s Father,” I blurt out. “He’s in the parlor.”

  With me leading the way, we hurry back. Tom and my headmistress move Father to a chair. His breath is still raspy, and there is bloody spittle on his bottom lip. His eyes stare straight at me, accusing.

  “What the devil happened?” Tom asks.

  I can’t answer. I want to cry, but I’m too horrified. Lord Denby appears. “Can I be of assistance?”

  “Stay away from my father!” I shout. The magic roars to life again, and it takes all my strength to silence it.

  “Gemma!” Tom reprimands me.

  “She’s overcome by grief. Perhaps we should help the young lady to her room,” Lord Denby suggests, reaching for my arm.

  “No! Don’t touch me!”

  “Miss Doyle…,” Mrs. Nightwing starts, but I don’t stay to hear the end of it. I run fast for the secret door, and as I stagger through the passageway, I could swear I see the Borderlands fairy there, but I can’t stop. Magic leaks from my pores. My legs shake, but I make it all the way up the mountain and to the well of eternity and Circe.