Rebel Angels (5 page)

When the dishes have been cleared away, we’re forced to sit at the long tables and endure a lesson on manners. It has been snowing all morning. I’ve never seen snow, and I long to walk out into the lush whiteness, feel the cold, wet crystals on my fingertips. Mrs. Nightwing’s words drift in and out of my wandering mind.

“You would not wish to find yourself snubbed by good society and
crossed off the visiting lists of the best households . . .”

“Never ask a gentleman to hold your fan, bouquet, or gloves during
a dance unless he is your escort or a relative. . . .”

As I know no gentlemen besides my father and brother, this shan’t be a concern. That isn’t entirely true. I know Kartik. But we are unlikely to see each other in the ballrooms of London. What news has he for me? I should have gone to him on the way back from vespers. What a foolish girl he must think me.

“The lady of the highest rank shall enter the dining room first. The
hostess shall enter last. . . .”

“Talking loudly or laughing on the street shows ill-breeding. . . .”

“. . . Association with a man who drinks, gambles, or engages in
other ills is to be avoided at all costs, lest he should bring disgrace upon
your reputation. . . .”

A man who drinks. Father. I want to push the thought away. I see him as I saw him in October, eyes glazed with laudanum, hands trembling. Grandmama’s few letters since have made no mention of his health, his addiction. Is he cured? Will he be the father I remember, the jolly man with the gleam in his eye and a quick wit to make us all laugh? Or will he be the father I’ve known since Mother’s death—the hollow man who doesn’t seem to see me anymore?

“Ladies may not leave a ballroom unattended. To do so could invite
gossip.”

The snow piles against the windowpanes, creating tiny hilly villages there. The white of the snow. The white of our gloves. Of Pippa’s skin. Pippa.

They’re coming for you, Gemma. . . .

A chill passes through me. It has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with what I do not know; what I am afraid to discover.

CHAPTER SIX

ALL THE MORNING’S DIFFICULTIES ARE FORGOTTEN once we are let out. The sun, strong and bright, reflects off the fresh white in dazzling sparkles. The younger girls squeal in delight as the wet snow spills over the tops of their boots and down inside. A group has already begun work on a snowman.

“Isn’t it glorious?” Felicity sighs. She’s got her new fox-fur muff to show off, so she is quite happy. Ann follows gingerly, her mouth set in a grimace. The snow is a marvel to me. I grab a handful and am surprised to find it so pliable. “Ah, it sticks!” I shout.

Felicity regards me as if I’ve grown two heads. “Yes. Of course.” Now it dawns on her. “You’ve never seen snow!”

I want to fall back and bathe in it, such is my joy. I bring a mound to my mouth. It seems as if it should taste creamy as custard, but instead it is merely cold. The flakes dissolve instantly, melting into the heat of my tongue. I’m giggling like a fool.

“Here, let me show you something,” Felicity says. She scoops the snow in both gloved hands, patting and shaping till she’s got a hard ball of it, which she shows to me.
"Behold: the snowball.”

“Ah,” I say, not understanding in the least.

Without warning, she hurls the packed snow at me. It hits me hard on the sleeve, sending a spray of wet crystals into my face and hair till I’m sputtering.

“Isn’t snow marvelous?” she says.

I should be angry, I suppose, but I find I am laughing. It
is
marvelous. I love the snow and wish it would go on forever.

Huffing and puffing, Ann finally reaches us. She slips and plops down into a large puff of white with a squeal, which makes Felicity and me laugh uncharitably.

“You might not laugh if you were the one soaked through,” Ann grumbles, struggling to her feet in a very ungraceful fashion.

“Don’t be such a ninny,” Felicity scoffs. “It isn’t the end of the world.”

“I haven’t ten pairs of stockings at the ready, as you do,” Ann says. It’s meant to sound clever but it comes out dreary and petulant.

“I shan’t bother you further, then,” Felicity says. “Oh, Elizabeth! Cecily!” And with that, she marches off to the other girls, abandoning us to the cold.

“But I
don’t
have a wealth of stockings,” Ann says, defending herself.

“You sounded very sorry for yourself is all.”

“I can’t seem to say anything right.”

My happy afternoon in the snow is fading. I don’t think I can bear an hour of Ann’s whining. I am still a bit angry with her for not coming to my defense at breakfast. The snow is in my hand before I can think. I hurl it at Ann and it splats across her surprised face. Before she can react, I throw another snowball.

Ann splutters, “I—I—I . . .”

Another hits across her skirt.

“Come on, then, Ann,” I say, taunting her. “Are you going to allow me to keep punishing you? Or are you going to take your revenge?”

The answer is a spray of snow across my neck. The ice trickles down my collar and into my dress and I squeal from the sudden freeze. I reach for another handful of snow and Ann’s next snowball finds my head. My hair drips with the wet ice.

“That isn’t fair!” I shout. "I’ve no ammunition.”

Ann stops, and I hit her with a snowball I’ve hidden behind my back. Her face is the picture of outrage.
"You said—”

“Ann, do you always do as you’re told? This is war!” I throw one that misses, but Ann’s next snowball finds my face again. I’m forced to find higher ground while wiping the ice pellets from my eyes.

Beneath the snow, the land has turned to thick mud due to all the rain. The heels of my boots have sunk in, and with nothing to brace myself against—no tree or bench—I’m afraid I’m stuck fast. I lift my boot and pitch forward, nearly toppling face-first into the muck. Someone grasps my wrist hard, pulling me up and over behind a tree. When my eyes clear, I am face to face with him.

“Kartik!” I exclaim.

“Hello, Miss Doyle,” he says, smiling at my soggy appearance. Melting snow drips from my hair onto my nose. “You look . . . well.”

I’m a fright.

“Why didn’t you respond to my note?” he asks.

I feel foolish. And happy to see him. And wary. So many thoughts I cannot name them all. “It is difficult to get away. I . . .”

Beyond the trees, I hear Ann calling my name, looking for me in order to exact her snowball revenge.

Kartik’s grip tightens. “No matter. We’ve little time and I’ve much to say. There is trouble in the realms.”

“What sort of trouble? When I left, all seemed well. Circe’s assassin had been defeated.”

Kartik shakes his head. Beneath his hood, his long, dark curls sway. “Do you remember when you smashed the Runes of the Oracle and set your mother free?”

I nod.

“Those runes were the Order’s ancient binding on the great power inside the realms. A sort of safe for their magic. It was a way to ensure that they alone could draw on it.”

Ann calls again. She’s getting closer to our hiding spot.

Kartik speaks in an urgent whisper. "When you smashed the runes, Miss Doyle, you destroyed the binding.”

“I released the magic into the realms,” I finish. A slick dread seeps into my bones.

Kartik nods. “Now it is loose, free for anyone to use for any purpose, even if they do not know how. This magic is extremely powerful. And to release it into the realms with no control . . .” He trails off, then continues. “Certain elements could seek to have dominion over all the realms. They could be in league with each other—and with Circe.”

“Circe . . .” Oh, God. What have I done?

“Gemma, come out, come out wherever you are!” Ann giggles.

Kartik puts a finger to my lips, flattens himself against me. He smells of campfire, and there is a hint of shadow along his jaw. I can scarcely breathe for his closeness.

“There is a way to bind the magic again. A hope,” Kartik says. Ann’s voice trails off in another direction, and he steps away from me. The air rushes between us to fill the void.
"Did your mother ever make mention of a place called the Temple?”

I’m still reeling from the feel of his chest against mine. My cheeks are pink from more than the cold.
"N-no. What is it?”

“It is the source of the magic inside the realms. We need you to find it.”

“Is there a map? A marker?”

Kartik exhales, shakes his head. “No one knows where it is. It is well hidden. Only a few members of the Order knew where to find it at any given time. That was the only way to keep it safe.”

“How am I to find it, then? Am I to rely on the creatures?”

“No. Trust no one. Trust nothing.”

Nothing.
No thing
. It makes me shiver.

“What about my visions? May I rely on them?” Not that I’ve had any of late.

“I don’t know. Their source is the realms.” He shrugs.
"I cannot say.”

“And when I find the Temple?”

Kartik’s face pales as if he’s frightened. I’ve never seen him this way. He does not look at me as he says, “Use these words:
I bind the magic in the name of the Eastern Star.
”

“The Eastern Star,” I repeat. "What does it mean?”

“It is a powerful binder, a spell of the Order, I think,” he says, looking off.

Ann’s voice comes closer. I can see the blue of her coat through the bars of trees. Kartik sees her too. He’s up and ready to run.

“I shall be in touch,” he says. “I don’t know what you shall find in the realms, Miss Doyle. Be careful. Please.” He turns to go, stops, makes to leave again, rushes back, and gives my hand a quick kiss like a proper gentleman. Like a shot, he is gone, running fast through the snow as if it’s no trouble at all.

I do not know what to think. The magic is loose in the realms. It is all my fault. I must find the Temple and restore order before the realms are lost. And Kartik just kissed me.

I’ve barely had time to consider it all when without warning, I’m gripped by a sharp, surprising pain that has me doubling over, grabbing a tree for balance. I’m woozy, and everything looks very strange. In fact, I feel suddenly very ill. I’m aware that someone is watching me. I’m horrified to think that anyone could see me at such a vulnerable moment. Gasping, I look up, trying to gain my bearings.

At first I think it must be the snow in my eyes. I blink, but the image doesn’t fade. I see three girls dressed all in white. But they are not familiar to me. I have never seen them at Spence, and they look to be my age. Despite the frigid air, they have no coats.

“Hello,” I call to them. They do not answer. "Are you lost?”

They open their mouths to speak but I can’t hear them, and then a curious thing happens. The girls flicker and fade until there’s no trace of them in the snow. And just as quickly, the pain passes. I feel fine.

A hard ball of snow hits me square on the jaw. “Aha!” Ann shouts in victory.

“Ann!” I cry, angry. "I was not prepared!”

She gives me a rare triumphant smile. “You were the one who said this was war.” And with that, she bounds awkwardly over the snow, in hasty retreat.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“LADIES, MAY I HAVE YOUR FULL ATTENTION? WE ARE most privileged to have with us tonight the Pantomime Players of Covent Garden. They have prepared a most satisfactory bill of the story of Hansel and Gretel, by the brothers Grimm.”

I was hoping that after vespers and dinner I’d have time alone with Felicity and Ann to tell them about Kartik’s warning. But, just my luck, tonight Mrs. Nightwing has arranged a special evening of pantomime for us. My news shall have to wait. The younger girls are enthralled to bear witness to a grisly fairy tale complete with menacing woods and evil witch. The players of the company are introduced to us by the impresario, a tall, heavyset man with a powdered face and enormous whiskers waxed into fine curlicues. One by one, the players file out onto the ballroom’s small stage. The men bow and the women curtsy. Or rather, the characters bow and curtsy. In truth, the pantomime troupe is comprised entirely of men. Even the poor soul playing Gretel is a boy of about thirteen.

“Players, to your places,” the impresario bellows in a loud, deep voice. The stage empties. A pair of stagehands maneuvers a flat of wooden trees downstage. “Let us begin our tale where it should begin—in a house at the edge of a very dark forest.”

The lights are lowered. A hush falls over the crowd. There is no sound but the incessant tapping of cold rain against the martyred windows.

“Husband,” the shrewish wife cries, “there is not enough for all of us to eat. We must take the children into the forest, where they shall have to fend for themselves.”

Her husband, a huntsman, replies with wild gestures and a voice so melodramatic it is as if he is mocking truly horrid actors. When it becomes clear he is not, it is all I can do to keep my composure.

Felicity whispers in my ear, “I must confess: I’ve fallen madly in love with the poor huntsman. I believe it is his subtlety that woos me.”

I put a hand to my mouth to stop the laugh there. “I find I am strangely besotted with his wife. Perhaps something about her beard . . .”

“What are you whispering about?” Ann says, drawing a sharp “shhhh” from Mrs. Nightwing, who comes to stand behind us. We sit tall and silent as gravestones, feigning interest. I can only pray that tonight’s plum pudding was dressed with arsenic, and I have only moments left to endure this spectacle of men in garishly colored folk costumes parading as women.

The mother pushes Hansel and Gretel into the woods. “That’s it, children. Walk out a little farther. All you wish for is just beyond that forest.”

Hansel and Gretel disappear into the woods and come upon the house of sweets. With wide eyes and exaggerated smiles, they pretend to gnaw at the painted gumdrop shutters.

The impresario struts about the edge of the stage. “The more they ate, the more they wanted,” he intones gravely. A few rows away, some of the younger girls gossip behind raised hands. A giggle erupts. When more giggles follow, Mrs. Nightwing leaves her shepherd’s station with us to watch over her flock elsewhere.

I want to tell Felicity and Ann about Kartik, but we are too closely watched to have this conversation now. Onstage, the hapless Hansel and Gretel have been lured into the witch’s house of sweets.

“Poor children, abandoned by the world, I shall give you sustenance. I shall give you what you seek!” The witch turns to the audience with a knowing wink and we boo and hiss on cue.

The boy playing Gretel cries, “And will we be like your very own children then, dear Auntie? Will you love us and teach us so very well?” His voice breaks on the last part. There are titters from the audience.

“Yes, child. Fear not. For now that you are here, as I so often prayed you would be, I shall clutch you to my bosom and keep you in my grasp forever!” The witch pulls Hansel hard into her enormous false bosom, nearly suffocating him. We laugh merrily at this bit of foolery. Encouraged, the witch stuffs a piece of pie in Hansel’s mouth, eliciting more laughter from the audience.

The lights flicker. There is a chorus of sudden gasps and a few tiny shrieks from some of the more high-spirited girls. It’s only a stagehand at work, but it has had the desired effect. The witch rubs her hands together and confesses her diabolical plan to fatten the children and roast them in her grand oven. This gives everyone the chills, and I do have to wonder what sort of childhood the Grimm brothers endured. They are not a merry bunch of storytellers, what with their children roasted by witches, maidens poisoned by old crones, and whatnot.

There is a sudden nip in the air, a damp cold that works its way into the marrow. Has someone opened a window? No, they are all shut tight against the rain. The draperies don’t move to suggest a draft.

Miss McCleethy walks the perimeter of the room, her hands folded in front of her like a priest in prayer. A slow smile spreads across her face as she takes in the whole of us. Something amusing has happened on the stage. The girls laugh. It sounds distorted and faraway to me, as if I am underwater. Miss McCleethy puts a hand on the back of a girl sitting on the end; she bends to hear the child’s question with a smile, but beneath those thick, dark brows her eyes find mine. Though it is cold, I have begun to perspire as if I am feverish. I have a mad desire to run from the room. In fact, I’m feeling ill.

Felicity’s whispering something to me but I can’t hear the words. The whisper itself has a horrible din, like the dry wings and scratching legs of a thousand insects. My eyelids flutter. A roaring fills my ears, and I am falling hard and fast through a tunnel of light and sound. Time stretches out like a band. I am aware of my own breathing, the flow of blood in my veins. I’m caught in the grip of a vision. But this is like no vision I’ve ever had. It is much more powerful.

I’m near the sea. Cliffs. Smell the salt. Sky’s a reflection, whitecap clouds churning above, an old castle on a hill. Happening fast. Too fast. Can’t see . . . Three girls in white jump about the cliffs absurdly fast. The salt, tangy on my tongue. Green cloak. A hand raised, a snake, sky churning, clouds braiding black and gray. Something else. Something’s—oh, God—something’s rising. Fear, at the back of my throat like the sea. Their eyes. Their eyes! So afraid! Open now. See it rising from the sea. Their eyes a long, silent scream.

Feel my blood pull me back, away from the sea and the fear.

I hear voices.
“What is it? What happened?” “Stand back, give her
air.” “Is she dead?”

I open my eyes. A cluster of concerned faces looms over me. Where? What are they? Why am I on the floor?

“Miss Doyle . . .”

My name. Should answer. Tongue’s thick as cotton.

“Miss Doyle?” It’s Mrs. Nightwing. Her face swims into focus. She waves something foul beneath my nose. Horrible sulfur odor. Smelling salts. Makes me groan. I roll my head to escape the smell.

“Miss Doyle, can you stand?”

Like a child, I do as I’m told. I see Miss McCleethy across the room. She hasn’t moved from her spot.

Startled gasps and whispers float by.
“Look. There. How shocking.”

Felicity’s voice rises over the others. “Here, Gemma, take my hand.”

I see Cecily whispering to her friends. Hear the whispers. “How appalling.” See Ann’s troubled face.

“What . . . what happened?” I ask. Ann looks down shyly, unable to answer.

“Here now, Miss Doyle, let’s see you to your room.” Only when Mrs. Nightwing helps me to my feet am I able to see the cause of the gossip—the large red stain spreading across my white skirt. I have begun to menstruate.