The muddy blue silk is a promise in my hands. My mother was here. I’d choose her. It’s what I said before I fell asleep. Somehow, I’ve changed things. I’ve brought her back with this strange power of mine. For the first time, I want to know everything about it. If Kartik won’t tell me, I’ll find out on my own. I’ll hunt down Mary Dowd and get her to tell me what I need to know. They can’t stop me.
Felicity gives my hand a pull. “Don’t be so slow.”
“I’m coming,” I say, quickening my pace till I’m clear of the trees and into the warm sun again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AFTER DINNER, I PRETEND I’VE GOT A HEADACHE AND Mrs. Nightwing sends me straight to bed with a hot-water bottle. It means passing up an invitation to Felicity’s suddenly open sanctuary in the great hall—thanks to my newfound status as the keeper of her secrets—but there’s only one thought in my mind: There has to be a way to control my visions rather than have them control me.
I’m in the hallway when a small thump stops me. Shadows flit across the floor and wall. Someone is in my room. Heart racing, spine flat against the wall, I creep toward my room and peek in. Kartik is at my desk, no doubt leaving me another cryptic warning. Right. Not this time. Fast as I can, I streak to the open window where he’s come in and latch it tight. He whips around, ready for a fight.
“There’s only one way out now,” I say, breathless.
His eyes narrow. “Step aside.”
“Not until you answer a few questions.”
I’ve blocked off his only means of escape. If I make a sound, scream, he’ll be caught. For the moment, he’s trapped. He folds his arms across his chest and glares, waiting for me to talk.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“Nothing,” he says, crumpling the paper in his fist tightly enough for me to hear it.
“Leaving another message?”
He shrugs. We’re going nowhere fast.
“Why did you help me today in the woods?”
“You needed it.”
My temper flares. “I most certainly did not.”
He scoffs, and it makes him look less menacing. He’s all of seventeen again. “As you wish.”
“My plan worked, didn’t it?”
The arms unfold. His eyes widen. “Your plan worked because I talked Ithal into leaving. What do you think would have happened if I hadn’t?”
The truth is that I don’t know. I can’t think of anything to say.
“Right. I’ll tell you. That stubborn Gypsy would have stayed and your little friend who likes to play with fire would have been very badly burned—expelled, ruined socially, whispered about for the rest of her life.” He mimics the high, prim voice of a society matron. “‘Oh, did you hear about her? Oh, my dear, yes, caught in the woods with a heathen.’ Tell your friend to stick to her own kind and stop toying with Ithal.”
“She’s not my friend,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow. “Who are your friends, then?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
He smirks. “May I go now?”
“Not yet.” It’s bold of me when I don’t feel bold at all. But I need more information from him. “Who is the ‘we’ that you mentioned? Why are they afraid of my visions?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I hate him, standing in my room as if he owns it and me, issuing warnings and insults, sharing nothing. “Shall I tell you what happens if I scream bloody murder right this minute and you’re caught as a thief?” It’s the wrong thing to say. Lightning fast, he’s got me pinned against the wall, his arm to my throat.
“Do you think you can stop me? I am Rakshana. Our brotherhood has existed for centuries, stretching to the time of the Knights Templar, Arthur, and Charlemagne. We are the guardians of the realms now, and we have no intention of giving it back. The time of the old ways is past. We won’t let you bring it back.”
The pressure of his arm makes me feel dizzy. “I—I don’t understand.”
“You could change everything. Enter the realms. That’s why they want you.” He loosens his hold, lets me go.
My eyes water. I rub at my throat. “Who? Who wants me?”
“The Order.” He spits out the name. “Circe.”
Circe. That was the name Kartik’s brother told my mother in the marketplace.
“I don’t understand all these names. Who are the Rakshana, the Order, Circe—”
He cuts me off. “You only need to know what I tell you, and that is to stop these visions before they lead you into danger.”
“What if I told you my mother came to me today in a vision?”
“I don’t believe you,” Kartik says, but his face drains of color.
“She left me this.” I pull out the fabric I’ve kept tucked near my heart. He stares at it. “I saw your brother there, too.”
“You saw Amar?”
“Yes. He was in some sort of frozen wasteland—”
His voice is quiet but harsh. “Stop it.”
“Do you know that place? Is that where my mother is?”
“I said stop it!”
“But what if they’re trying to reach me through these visions? Why else would she leave me this?” I hold out the blue silk.
“This proves nothing!” he says, holding my arms tightly. “Listen to me: That was not my brother or your mother you saw, understand? It was just an illusion. You must put it out of your mind.”
Put it out of my mind? It’s the only thing I’m living for. “I think she was trying to tell me something.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not real.”
“How do you know that?”
His words are sharp and deliberate. “Because this is what Circe and the Order do—they’ll use any trickery they have to get what they want. Your mother and my brother are dead. They killed them to get to you. Remember that the next time you are tempted by those visions, Miss Doyle.” There’s pity in his eyes. It’s harder to bear than his hatred. “The realms must stay closed, Miss Doyle. For all our sakes.”
I’m responsible for their deaths. He’s all but said it out loud. He won’t help me. There’s no use trying. The muffled drone of girls drifts up from below. They’ll be coming up any moment. But there’s one thing more I need to know.
“What about Mary Dowd?” I say, waiting to see what he knows about her.
“Who is Mary Dowd?” he says, distracted by the soft thud of feet on stairs. He doesn’t know. Whoever he works for, they don’t trust him with everything.
“My friend. You did ask me if I had any friends, didn’t you?”
“So I did.” There are footsteps on the landing. He pushes me aside and like a cat, he’s over the sill and out through the window. I can see the knotted rope he’s secured to the wall through a loop in a small railing. It’s nestled into a thick patch of ivy, making it hard to see if you’re not looking for it. Clever, but not infallible. And neither is he.
Closing the window behind him, I put my mouth up to the windowpane, watch my breath fog it over with each quiet word. “You may give the Rakshana a message for me, Kartik the messenger. That was my mother in the woods today. And I’m going to find her whether you help me or not.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE NEXT AFTERNOON IS BLUSTERY AND GRAY, BUT MISS Moore still makes good on her promise to take us to the caves. It’s a solid hike through the trees, beyond the boathouse and the lake, and along a deep ravine. Ann trips on the slope’s crumbling wall and nearly tumbles into it.
“Careful,” Miss Moore says. “This ravine’s a bit tricky. Seems to come out of nowhere and then you’re falling and breaking your neck.”
We cross the ravine, walking over a small bridge into a spot where the trees open to form a small circular clearing. I catch my breath. It’s the same spot where the little girl took me, where I found Mary Dowd’s diary. The caves are in front of us, tucked beneath a ledge overgrown with vines that tickle our arms as we thread our way
through them into the velvety blackness. Miss Moore lights the lanterns we’ve brought and the cave walls dance in the sudden brightness. Generations of rain have smoothed the stone to such a high sheen in some places that I catch a fractured glimpse of myself on its uneven surface—an eye, a mouth, another eye, a composite of ill-fitting pieces.
“Here we are.” Miss Moore’s deep, melodic voice bounces against the craggy bumps and smooth planes of the cave. “The pictographs are just over here, on this wall.”
She follows her light into a large, open area. We all bring our lanterns and the drawings come to startling life, a treasure revealed.
“Rather crude, aren’t they?” Ann says, examining a rough outline of a serpent. I think instantly of her tidy quilt with no wrinkles, no loose ends.
“They’re primitive, Ann. The people in these caves were drawing with whatever was available to them—sharp rocks, makeshift knives, a bit of clay paint or dye. Sometimes even blood.”
“How revolting!” It’s Pippa, of course. Even in the dark, I can practically feel her pert little nose wrinkling in distaste.
Felicity laughs and takes on the tone of a fashionable lady. “Darling, the Bryn-Joneses have just done the most marvelous thing in their parlor with human blood. We simply must have ours done straightaway!”
“I think it’s disgusting,” Pippa says, though I suspect she’s more put out by Felicity and me sharing a joke than any mention of blood.
“Blood was used for a sacred drawing, to pay tribute to a goddess whose influence was being sought. Here.” Miss Moore points to a faint red etching of what looks like a bow and arrow. “This is one for Diana, the Roman goddess of the moon and the hunt. She was a protector of girls. Of chastity.”
At this, Felicity gives me a sharp nudge in the ribs. We all cough and shuffle our feet to hide our embarrassment. Miss Moore soldiers on.
“The quite remarkable thing about this cave is that there are depictions of all sorts of goddesses here. It isn’t just the Pagan or Roman but the Norse, the Germanic, the Celtic. Most likely, this was a place known to travelers who heard they could practice their magic in safety here.”
“Magic?” Elizabeth asks. “They were witches?”
“Not as we’ve come to think of witches. They would have been mystics and healers, women who worked with herbs and delivered babies. But it would have made them suspect. Women who have power are always feared,” she says sadly. I wonder how Miss Moore came to be here, teaching us how to draw pretty pictures instead of living out in the world. She’s not unattractive. Her face is warm, her smile quick, and her figure slim. The brooch at her neck has several rubies in it, which suggests that she’s not without means.
“I think they are extraordinary,” Felicity says, moving her lantern closer to the wall. Her fingers trail over a rough silhouette of what appears to be a crow woman flanked by two other women who’ve been partially rubbed away by time.
“Ugh, that’s rather nasty,” Cecily says. Shadows flicker across her face, and for a moment, I can imagine what she’ll look like as an old woman—sort of pinched and thin with a large nose.
Miss Moore peers at the drawing. “That particular lady is probably related to the Morrigan.”
“The what?” Pippa asks, batting her lashes and smiling in a way that will undoubtedly make men promise the earth.
“The Morrigan. An ancient Celtic goddess of war and death. She was greatly feared. Some said she could be seen washing the clothes of those who were about to die in battle, and afterward, she flew across the battlefields, taking the skulls of the dead with her in her fury.”
Cecily shudders. “Why would anyone want to worship her?”
“Don’t you have any warrior spirit, Miss Temple?” Miss Moore asks.
Cecily is aghast. “I certainly hope not. How . . . unattractive.”
“What makes it so?”
“Well.” Cecily is clearly uncomfortable. “It’s like . . . being a man, isn’t it? A woman should never show anything so unseemly.”
“But without that spark of anger, without destruction, there can be no rebirth. The Morrigan was also associated with strength, independence, and fertility. She was the keeper of the soul till it could be regenerated. Or so they say.”
“Who are these women here?” Ann points a pudgy finger at the worn drawings.
“The Morrigan was a threefold goddess, often seen as a beautiful maiden, the great mother, and the bloodthirsty crone. She could change shape at will. Quite fascinating, really.”
Felicity regards Miss Moore coolly. “How did you come to know so much about goddesses and such, Miss Moore?”
Miss Moore leans her face in toward Felicity’s till they’re separated by only a breath or two. I think Felicity is really going to be raked over the coals for being so cheeky. Miss Moore speaks slowly, deliberately. “I know because I read.” She pulls back and stands, hands on hips, offering us a challenge. “May I suggest that you all read? And often. Believe me, it’s nice to have something to talk about other than the weather and the Queen’s health. Your mind is not a cage. It’s a garden. And it requires cultivating. Now, I think we’ve had enough of mythology. Let’s do some sketching, shall we?”
Dutifully, we take out our sketching pads and slender reeds of charcoal. Already Pippa is complaining that the cave is too hot for sketching. The truth is that she can’t draw. Not a whit. Everything she attempts ends up looking like a clump of gloomy rocks, and she’s not a good sport about it. Ann is tackling her project with her usual perfectionism, making small, careful strokes on the page. My charcoal flies across the pad, and when I’m finished, I’ve captured the smudgy likeness of the hunt goddess, spear in hand, a deer running ahead of her. It seems bare, so I add a few symbols of my own. Soon, the bottom of the page is filled with the moon-and-eye symbol of my mother’s necklace.
“Very interesting, Miss Doyle.” Miss Moore peers over my shoulder. “You’ve drawn the crescent eye.”
“There’s a name for this?”
“Oh, yes. It’s a very famous symbol. A bit like the Freemasons’ pyramid.”
Ann speaks up. “It’s like that strange necklace you wear.”
The girls stare at me, suspicious. I could kick Ann and her big mouth. Miss Moore arches an eyebrow. “You have this symbol on a necklace?”
With effort, I pull the amulet out from its hiding place under my high collar. “It was my mother’s. It was given to her by a village woman a long time ago.”
Miss Moore stoops down to examine it. She rubs a thumb over the hammered metal of the moon. “Yes, that’s it, all right.”
“What is it, exactly?” I say, tucking it back inside my bodice.
Miss Moore stands, adjusts her hat on her head. “Legend has it that the crescent eye was the symbol of the Order.”
“The what?” Cecily says, making a face.
“You’ve never heard of the Order?” Miss Moore says, as if this should be as familiar to us as basic arithmetic.
“Do tell us, Miss Moore!” Pippa’s over in a flash. She’d do anything to get out of drawing.
“Ah, the Order. Now, there’s an interesting story. If I can remember my folklore correctly, they were a powerful group of sorceresses who’d been around since the dawn of time. Supposedly they had access to a mystical world beyond this one, a place of many realms where they could work their magic.”
Kartik mentioned realms. So did Mary Dowd’s diary. My skin has gone cold, and I’m desperate to know more.
“What sort of magic?” I hear myself asking.
“The greatest of them all—the power of illusion.”
“That doesn’t seem terribly special to me,” Cecily scoffs. Elizabeth folds her arms. It’s obvious they don’t have much use for Miss Moore.
“Really, Miss Temple? That comb in your hair—it is the latest fashion, isn’t it?”
Cecily is flattered. “Why, yes, it is.”
“And does that make you fashionable? Or does it merely c
reate the illusion that you are?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Cecily’s eyes blaze.
“I’m sure you don’t,” Miss Moore says. Her wry smile is back.
“Could they do anything else?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. These women could help spirits cross over into the afterlife. They had the power of prophecy and clairvoyance. The veil between the supernatural world and this one was a very thin one for them. They could see and feel things that others couldn’t.”
My mouth is dry as sawdust. “Visions?”
“You’re awfully interested,” Elizabeth taunts. Felicity yanks a lock of her hair and she yelps, then quiets.
“How did they get to that other world?” It’s Felicity’s voice now, asking the question I want the answer to. Cold shivers run down my arms.
“Oh, my, I see I’ve started a little fire.” Miss Moore laughs. “Didn’t you have any sadistic nannies who told you these tales to keep you quiet and well behaved at night? Heavens, what’s to become of the Empire if governesses have lost their touch for scaring the wits out of their girls?”
“Please tell us, Miss Moore,” Pippa begs, shooting a glance at Felicity.
“According to the legends—and my own vicious nanny, God rest her wicked soul—the sisters of the Order would hold hands and concentrate on a way in—a doorway, a portal of some kind.”
A door of light.
“Did they need to do anything else to cross over? Did they have to say something, an incantation or some such?” I press. Behind me, Martha does her annoying mimicry, and if I weren’t so absorbed, I’d find a way to take her down a peg.
Miss Moore laughs, shakes her head. “Gracious, I haven’t the faintest idea! It’s a myth. Like all of these symbols. A bit of story passed down through the generations. Or lost through them. Such legends tend to fade away in the face of industrialization.”
“Are you saying we should go back to the way it was?” Felicity asks.
“I’m saying nothing of the kind. One can never go back. One always has to move forward.”
“Miss Moore?” I ask, unable to stop myself. “Why would someone have given my mother the crescent eye?”