The Sweet Far Thing (20 page)

Philon blows a stream of smoke into her face. She coughs, then raises her head for more.

“You have only my word,” Philon answers.

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Lean and restless, Creostus paces the length of the room. “Why should we share with those vermin the Untouchables? Filth of the Order. Diseased cowards. They deserve their lot.”

Neela sits beside Philon and runs her fingers through the creature’s silky hair. “Let her prove her loyalty to us. Tell her to take us to the Temple now.”

“I won’t join hands without speaking to Asha,” I say. The smoke has loosened my tongue.

Creostus growls in anger. He kicks a table with his hoof, smashing it to pieces. “Another stalling tactic, Philon. When will you realize you cannot make bargains with these witches?”

“They will take the magic and keep us out,” Neela hisses.

Creostus looks as if he would stomp us into dust. “We should be looking after ourselves!”

Neela glares at me. “She will betray us as the others did. How do we know she is not in league with the Order now?”

“Nyim syatt!”
Philon’s voice thunders in the hut till it shakes. All are cowed. Creostus lowers his head.

Philon releases a great cloud of smoke and turns those catlike eyes to me. “You promised to share the power with us, Priestess. Do you revoke your word?”

“No, of course not,” I say, but I am no longer certain. I fear I trusted too soon and promised too much.

“I only ask for a little more time to better understand the realms and my duties.”

Neela sneers. “She asks for time to plot against us.”

Creostus takes a position near me. He is large and intimidating.

“I can offer a temporary share of the magic,” I say, feeling that I must placate them. “A gift as a symbol of good faith.”

“A gift?” Creostus snarls, bringing his face to mine. “That is not the same as to own! To be gifted is not to own! Would we beg for magic from you as we did from the Order?”

“I am not of the Order!” I say, trembling.

Philon’s gaze is cool. “So you say. But it gets harder and harder to tell the difference.”

“I…I meant only to help.”

“We do not want your help,” Neela spits. “We want our fair share. We want to govern ourselves at last.”

Philon holds my gaze. “We would have more than a taste, Priestess. Do what you must. We shall give you time—”

Neela pounces. “But, Philon—”

“We shall give you time,” Philon repeats, glaring hard at Neela. She slinks off to Creostus’s side,

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glowering at us all. “But I will not find myself without and wanting this time, Priestess. I have a duty to my people. Soon, we shall meet again—as friends or as enemies.”

“You certainly don’t mean to join with those horrid creatures, do you?” Felicity asks as we make our way through the tall trees toward the shore and Gorgon.

“What can I do? I gave them my word.” And now I’m sorry for it. My thoughts are as cloudy as the horizon, and my movements are slow. I breathe in the firm odor of the trees to rid my head of Philon’s spicy smoke.

“Did they really spirit away mortals?” Ann asks. It’s the sort of macabre fact she loves to collect.

“Horrible,” Felicity says, yawning. “They don’t deserve a share of the magic. They’ll only misuse it.”

I’m in a terrible spot. If I don’t join hands with Philon, I make enemies of the forest folk and the tribes that support them. If I share the magic with them, they might prove untrustworthy.

“Gemma.”

I’ve not heard that soft voice in a long time. My heart falls through the floor of me. Standing on the path in her blue gown is my mother. She opens her arms wide.

“Gemma, darling.”

“Mother?” I whisper. “Is that you?”

She smiles brightly. The smile turns to a laugh. The form changes, shifts, becomes entirely new, and I’m staring at Neela. She giggles into her long, stemlike fingers.

“Gemma, dear.” It is my mother’s voice coming from that nasty little creature.

“Why did you do that?” I shout.

“Because I can,” she says.

“Don’t you dare do it again,” I snap.

“Or what?” Neela taunts.

My fingers tingle with the itch of magic. In seconds, it rushes through me like a swollen river and my entire body shakes with its majestic force.

“Gemma!” Fee puts steadying arms around me. I can’t hold it back. I must let it out. My hand lights on her shoulder, and the magic flows into Felicity with no warning, no control. Changes ripple through her: She’s a queen, a Valkyrie, a warrior in chain mail. She falls onto all fours in the soft grass, gasping for breath.

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“Fee! Are you all right?” I rush to her side but don’t touch her. I’m afraid to.

“Yes,” she manages to say in a thin voice as one last change comes over her and she is herself again.

I can hear Neela laughing behind me. “It’s too much for you, Priestess. You’re in over your head. Better to let someone more skilled wield it. I would be happy to relieve you of your burden.”

“Fee,” I say, ignoring Neela. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t control it.”

Ann helps Felicity to her feet. Felicity puts a hand to her stomach as if she has been punched. “So much change so fast,” she says weakly. “I wasn’t prepared.”

“I am sorry,” I say, and this time, I put Felicity’s arm across my shoulder to steady her. Neela cackles as we stumble toward Gorgon.

“Priestess!” the creature calls out. When I turn, she wears my form. “Tell me: How will you fight when you cannot even see?”

“How are you feeling now, Fee?” I ask as we wind through the earthen passageway with its faint heartbeat of light.

“Better. Look!” She transforms into a warrior maiden. Her armor gleams. “Shall I wear this as my new Spence uniform?”

“I think not.”

We go through the door and onto the lawn. My senses are heightened. Someone is there. I put my finger to my lips for quiet.

“What is it?” Ann whispers.

I creep over to the East Wing. A figure slips away into the shadows, and dread fills me. We may have been seen.

“Whoever it was is gone now,” I say. “But let’s get to bed before we’re well and truly caught.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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THE NEXT MORNING,AT A MOST DISAGREEABLE HOUR , Mrs. Nightwing summons the lot of us to the great hall. Girls stumble in with their uniforms poorly buttoned and their braids half plaited in haste. Many rub sleep from their eyes. But we don’t dare yawn. Mrs. Nightwing would not ask us here this early for tea and kisses. There is an air of reproach; something terrible is at hand, and I fear that we
were
seen last night.

“I hope it’s nothing to do with the masked ball in our honor.” Elizabeth frets, and Cecily shushes her.

At five minutes past the hour, Mrs. Nightwing bustles into the room wearing a grim expression that puts the starch in our spines. She takes a position before us, her hands behind her back, her chin up, and her eyes as sharp as a fox’s.

“A very serious offense has occurred, one that shall not be tolerated,” our headmistress says. “Do you know of what I speak?”

We shake our heads, offer apprehensive nos. I am nearly ill with panic.

Mrs. Nightwing lets her imperious gaze fall upon us. “The stones of the East Wing have been violated,”

she says, enunciating each word. “They’ve been painted with strange markings—in blood.”

The gasps catch from girl to girl like a brush fire. There is a sense of both horror and ecstasy: the East Wing! Blood! A secret crime! It will give us something to gossip about for a week at least.

“Quiet, please!” Mrs. Nightwing barks. “Has anyone any knowledge of this crime? If you shield another through your silence, you do her no service.”

I think of last night, the figure in the dark. But I can’t very well tell Mrs. Nightwing about it, else I’d have to explain what I was doing out of my bed.

“Will no one step forward?” Mrs. Nightwing presses. We are silent. “Very well. If there is no admission, all will be punished. You will spend the morning with pail and brush, scrubbing till the stones gleam again.”

“Oh, but, Mrs. Nightwing,” Martha cries above the hum of anguished murmurs, “must we really wash…blood?”

“I fear I shall faint,” Elizabeth says, teary.

“You will do no such thing, Elizabeth Poole!” Mrs. Nightwing’s frosty glare stops Elizabeth’s tears straightaway. “The restoration of the East Wing is very important. We have waited years for it, and no one shall halt our progress. Don’t we want Spence looking her best for our masked ball?”

“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” we answer.

“Think what a proud moment it will be when you return years from now, perhaps with your own daughters, and you can say ‘I was there when these very stones were put in place.’ Every day, Mr.

Miller and his men toil to restore the East Wing. You might reflect upon that as you scrub.”

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“‘When you return with your own daughters,’” Felicity scoffs. “You can be sure
I
won’t be coming back.”

“Oh, I can’t bear to touch it—blood!” Elizabeth wrinkles her nose. She looks ill.

Cecily scrubs in small circles. “I don’t see why we should all be punished.”

“My arms ache already,” Martha grouses.

“Shhh,” Felicity says. “Listen.”

On the lawn, Mrs. Nightwing questions Brigid fiercely while Mr. Miller stands by, arms folded across his chest. “Did you do it, Brigid? I am only asking for an honest answer.”

“No, missus, on my heart, I swear it weren’t me.”

“I won’t have the girls frightened by hex marks and talk of fairies and the like.”

“Yes, missus.”

Mr. Miller scowls. “It’s them Gyps. You can’t trust ’em. The sooner you turn ’em out, the better we’ll all sleep for it. I know you ladies have a delicate sensibility…”

“I can assure you, Mr. Miller, that there is nothing delicate about
my
sensibilities,” Mrs. Nightwing snaps.

“All the same, m’um, say the word and me and my men will take care of the Gypsies for you.”

Revulsion shows on our headmistress’s face. “That will not be necessary, Mr. Miller. I am sure this little prank will not happen again.” Mrs. Nightwing glares at us and we snap our heads down and scrub as hard as we can.

“Who
do
you suppose did this?” Felicity asks.

“I’ll wager Mr. Miller has it right: It’s the Gypsies. They’re angry they haven’t been given work,” Cecily says.

“What can you expect from their sort?” Elizabeth echoes.

“It could be Brigid. You know how odd she is, with all her tales,” Martha says.