I think of those ladies in their stiff gowns and forced smiles, drowning their hunger with weak tea, trying hard to make themselves fit into such a narrow world, desperately afraid the blinders will slip and show them what they’ve chosen to close out.
“Privilege is not always power, is it?” I say.
Mrs. Nightwing nods slowly. “I will offer you every assistance in the realms. You may rely on it. As for the other matter, that shall require more thought than I care to give it at the moment. The sun still reigns in the sky, and I’ve a school full of girls awaiting my instruction and care. I have my duties, too. Is there another matter to discuss, or is that all for today?”
“That is all. Thank you kindly, Mrs. Nightwing.”
“Lillian,” she says so softly I nearly miss it.
“Thank you…Lillian,” I say, tasting her name on my tongue like an exotic new curry.
“You’re welcome. Gemma.” She shuffles some papers on her desk and pins them beneath a silver box, only to remove it and shuffle them again. “Are you still here?”
“Right,” I say, rising quickly. In my haste for the door, I nearly topple the chair.
“What was it you said about Miss Pennington’s?” she asks.
“Only ninnies go to Penny’s?”
She nods. “Yes, that was the phrase. Well. Good day to you, then.”
“Good day.”
She does not look up or see me out. I am no more than a few steps from Mrs. Nightwing’s room when I hear her repeat to herself, “Only ninnies go to Penny’s.” It is followed by the strangest sound, one that starts low and moves high. A laugh. No, not a laugh—a giggle. It is a giggle full of high spirits and merry mischief, proof that we never lose our girlish selves, no matter what sort of women we become.
The next morning dawns pink and hopeful and sweetens into a glorious late-spring day. The rolling green fields behind Spence are alive with bursts of hyacinth and bright yellow flowers. The air is perfumed with lilac and rose. The smell is heavenly. It tickles my nose and lightens my head. Clouds roll lazily upon the blue horizon. I do not believe I have ever seen such a lovely sight, not even in the realms. Mademoiselle LeFarge shall have a splendid wedding day.
It is a good half hour before the wedding, and Felicity and I spend it in the gardens, gathering wildflowers for the last time together. She tells me of the new suit of trousers she vows to have fashioned in Paris.
“Think of it, Gemma—never to wear a petticoat and corset ever again. That is freedom,” she says, shaking a daisy by its stalk to emphasize her point.
I pull a rose from its leafy nest and tuck it gently into my sack. “You’ll be the talk of the town; that’s certain.”
She shrugs. “Let them talk. It’s my life to live, not theirs. I’ve my inheritance now. And perhaps, in time and with my influence, ladies in trousers shall be all the rage.”
I am not brave enough to give up my skirts just yet, but somehow I know that Felicity shall wear her trousers with aplomb. With a wicked grin, she reaches into her sack and tosses a handful of mixed blossoms at me. Not to be outdone, I toss several at her. She retaliates, and soon, it’s war.
“Will you behave?” I say, but I’m laughing. A true laugh.
“Only if you will.” Felicity giggles, getting in one more handful.
“Truce!” I screech.
“Truce.”
We’re coated in flowers but our sacks are nearly depleted. We try to salvage what we can. The blossoms are rumpled but they smell divine. I pull a trampled rose from the ground and hold it to my mouth. “Live,” I whisper, and it blooms a majestic pink in my hand.
Felicity smirks. “You do know that won’t last, Gemma. Flowers die. It’s what they do.”
I nod. “But not just yet.”
On the hill, the chapel bells peal, calling us to our duties. Felicity brushes the dirt smudges from her skirt with a quick whisk of both hands.
“Bloody weddings,” she mumbles.
“Oh, do be happy. How do I look?”
She gives me barely an appraisal. “Like Mrs. Nightwing. That is what comes of befriending her.”
“Charming,” I sigh.
Felicity removes a petal from my hair. She cocks her head, examining me. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “You look just like Gemma Doyle.”
I decide that it is a compliment. “Thank you.”
“Shall we?” she asks, offering her arm.
I link mine through hers, and it feels good and sure. “Let’s.”
It is a lovely, small wedding. Mademoiselle LeFarge is resplendent in a suit of blue crepe the very color of sapphires. We girls had rather hoped for a gown befitting a queen—all lace and bows and a train as long as the Thames—but Mademoiselle LeFarge insisted that a woman of her age and means shouldn’t put on airs. In the end, she is proved right. The suit is perfect, and the inspector beams at her as if she were the only woman in the world. They say their vows, and Reverend Waite exhorts us to stand. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Stanton Hornsby Kent.”
“I don’t see why she has to give up her name,” Felicity grumbles, but the organ’s sudden off-key warbling of the recessional drowns her out.
We follow the happy couple out the chapel doors to the waiting carriage Mrs. Nightwing has provided. Brigid blows hard into her handkerchief. “I awlways cry at weddings,” she says with a sniffle. “Wasn’t it luvly?” And we have to agree it was.
The inspector and his new bride shan’t escape unscathed. With laughter and shouts of “Good luck!” we let sail our orange blossoms. They’re showered with sweet-smelling flowers. The carriage pulls them down the dirt road that leads away from the chapel, and we race after it, throwing our petals to the wind, watching them float on the first heady promise of summer.
The sun bathes my back in warmth. The dirt from the carriage’s wheels whirls above the road whilst some of the younger girls still try to keep pace. My hands are stained with the pungent fragrance of orange blossoms. It all reminds me that at present, I am not between worlds. I am quite firmly here, on this dirt path that winds through the flower gardens and the woods to the top of the hill and out again to the roads that carry people wherever they must travel.
And for the moment, I do not wish to be elsewhere.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
* * *
IT IS NOT AN EASY VOYAGE TO AMERICA.
The winds are high. The ship—and my stomach—are buffeted by waves even my magic cannot quell. I am reminded that there are limits to my power, and some circumstances must be borne with as much grace as one can muster, even if it means spending several days in abject misery, clutching a pan like a life preserver. But the seas do calm. I am able to sip the most glorious cup of broth I have ever tasted. And at last, seagulls flutter overhead in lazy circles, signaling that land is near. Like everyone else, I rush on deck to catch a glimpse of the future.
Oh, New York. It is a most marvelous city—deliciously sprawling and filled with an energy that I can feel even from here. The very buildings seem alive. They are not tidy and tended as in Mayfair; rather, they are mismatched odds and ends of brick and mortar and humanity all pushing against one another in some strange, glorious syncopation—a new rhythm I long to join.
Fathers hoist pinafored daughters and sailor-suited sons onto their shoulders for a better view of it all. A little girl dwarfed by an enormous hair ribbon points excitedly ahead. “Papa! Look!”
There in the city’s steam-and-smoke-smudged harbor is the most extraordinary sight of all: a great copper-clad lady with a torch in one hand and a book in the other. It is not a statesman or a god or a war hero who welcomes us to this new world. It is but an ordinary woman lighting the way—a lady offering us the liberty to pursue our dreams if we’ve the courage to begin.
When I dream, I dream of him.
For several nights now he’s come to me, waving from a distant shore as if he’s been waiting patiently
for me to arrive. He doesn’t utter a word, but his smile says everything. How are you? I’ve missed you. Yes, all is well. Don’t worry.
Where he stands, the trees are in full bloom, brilliant with flowers of every color imaginable. Parts of the ground are still scorched and rocky. There are hard, bald patches where nothing may ever grow again. It is hard to tell. But in other spots, tiny green shoots struggle their way up. Rich black dirt smooths over the surface of things. The earth heals itself.
Kartik takes a stick and digs in the soft, new soil. He’s making something but I cannot tell what it is yet. The clouds shift. Shafts of sunlight peek through, and now I can see what he has drawn. It is a symbol: two hands interlocked, surrounded by a perfect, unbroken circle. Love. The day is breaking free. It bathes everything in a fierce light. Kartik is fading from view.
No, I call. Come back.
I’m here, he says.
But I can’t see. It’s too bright.
You can’t hold back the light, Gemma. I’m here. Trust me.
The water washes over the riverbank, erasing the edges till there’s nothing. But I saw it. I know it’s there. And when I wake, the room is white with the morning sun. The light is so bright it hurts my eyes. But I don’t dare close them. I won’t. Instead, I try to adjust to the dawn, letting the tears fall where they may, because it is morning; it is morning, and there is so much to see.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LIBBA BRAY is the author of the New York Times bestselling novels A Great and Terrible Beauty and Rebel Angels. She has never lived in the Victorian era, is not British, and has no superpowers, though if she did, they would involve being able to eat her weight in Swedish fish without feeling the urgent need to shave her tongue afterward. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband, their son, and a cat of questionable intelligence. Feel free to visit her at her Web site, www.libbabray.com.
Published by Delacorte Press
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Martha E. Bray
All rights reserved.
Delacorte Press and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bray, Libba.
The sweet far thing / Libba Bray.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: At Spence Academy, sixteen-year-old Gemma Doyle continues preparing for her London debut while struggling to determine how best to use magic to resolve a power struggle in the enchanted world of the realms, and to protect her own world and loved ones.
[1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Boarding schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. England—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.
PZ7.B7386Swe 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2007031302
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89060-4
v3.0
Libba Bray, The Sweet Far Thing
(Series: Gemma Doyle # 3)
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