The Sweet Far Thing (33 page)

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My hand hovers over the page once again, searching for words to match my heart, but I find only these:
Dear Kartik…Why?
I tear it into tiny pieces and feed it to the flame of my candle, watching the creeping black curl the edges of my hurt into something dark and smoky falling to ash.

Ann and Felicity have both returned at last, and we are together again in the great hall. Felicity tells us about visiting Lady Markham whilst Ann recounts the horrors of Lottie and Carrie. But my thoughts are elsewhere; my troubles with Kartik, Fowlson, and Tom have put me in a dark humor.

“And then Lady Markham introduced her son, Horace, who is as dull as a water pitcher. Actually, I’m sure a more pleasant conversation could be had with a water pitcher.”

Ann laughs. “Was it as bad as all that?”

“Indeed it was. But I smiled sweetly and tried not to cross my eyes and the day was won. I believe I have secured Lady Markham’s affections and her sponsorship.”

“Do you know what Charlotte said to me?” Ann says. “‘When you are my governess I shall do as I please. And if you don’t do as I say, I shall tell Mother I saw you touching her jewels. Then she’ll turn you out on the street with no character.’”

Even Felicity is appalled. “She’s a bad seed! We should hang her from her toes. Aren’t you glad you won’t be her governess after all?”

“Only if I secure that appointment with Mr. Katz,” Ann says, chewing a fingernail. “I do hope my letter arrives soon.”

“I’m certain it will,” Felicity says, yawning.

“Gemma, how was
your
holiday?” Ann asks.

“I had a visit from Fowlson,” I say. “He means to blackmail me into giving up the magic to the Rakshana by recruiting my brother, Tom, into the brotherhood. I’m afraid of what they might do to him in order to reach me.”

“The Rakshana!” Ann exclaims.

“Why don’t you turn Fowlson into a giant bullfrog or wish him deep into the jungles of Calcutta?”

Felicity harrumphs.

“Don’t you see? The moment I tip my hand that I’ve got the realms magic, they’ll take it from me. I can’t let them know.”

“What will you do?” Ann asks.

“There is something else. When I was in London, I had another vision—and I saw Miss McCleethy in this one.” I tell them about the lady and the ghostly carriage. Firelight shadows writhe on the curtains of
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Felicity’s tent like demons.

“McCleethy,” Ann says, shivering. “But what does it mean?”

“Yes, what’s the good of a messenger you can’t understand?” Felicity complains. “Why, just once, can’t one of these haunts simply say, ‘Hello, Gemma, frightfully sorry to bother you, but I thought you might like to know that Mrs. X is the one to watch out for—she’ll eat your heart. Cheerio!’”

I roll my eyes. “Most helpful. Thank you. I’m afraid my visions don’t work quite that way. It’s up to me to assign the meaning. Not that I’ve a clue. But there is someone who might. We must attend the exhibition at the Egyptian Hall and find this Dr. Van Ripple. I shall get to work on LeFarge as soon as possible.”

“Agreed,” Ann and Felicity chime.

“I want to show you something.” Felicity opens a box and peels back layers of tissue. Inside is a truly exquisite cape—midnight blue velvet with white fur trim round the collar and silk ribbons for ties.

“Oh,” Ann gasps. “How lucky you are.”

Felicity holds the cape at a distance. “Father wants to take little Polly on a trip. I objected, and he bought me this.”

“Why should you object?” Ann asks, still eyeing it.

Fee and I exchange a glance neither of us is eager to hold. We both know what it means for the admiral to take his young ward on a trip. The horror of it silences me.

“I’m giving it to Pip,” Fee says, folding it carefully into its box.

Ann’s mouth opens in shock. “Won’t your mother be angry?”

“Let her be,” Felicity says, her lips pressed into a hard line. “I shall say it was ruined by the washerwoman. She’ll be angry and say I am careless with my things. I shall tell her she is careless with hers as well.”

The box is stored beneath Felicity’s chair. “But what of tonight? Gemma, the realms?”

They look to me hopefully.

“Yes. The realms.” I pull back a section of the tent, and we spy on Miss McCleethy. She sits with Nightwing and LeFarge, sharing tea and good spirits. Nightwing steals peeks at the clock, and I know she is itching for her evening sherry. At least we may be assured she’ll sleep through our adventures. But McCleethy is a different matter. She’s waiting for me to make a mistake, to prove I have the magic, and I’m doubly suspicious of her now after my vision.

“Blasted McCleethy,” Felicity snarls. “She’s going to ruin everything.”

Ann nibbles her bottom lip, thinking. “What if we were to put a spell on her? We could make her so sleepy that she must go to bed for days.”

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Felicity snorts. “Are you mad? She’ll probably come for our skins—while we still inhabit them!”

“No,” I say. “The slightest hint of magic used against her and she’ll know. We can’t chance it just now.

She mustn’t suspect a thing. I’m afraid we’ll simply have to wait until she’s safely asleep before we go into the realms.”

“She doesn’t look at all sleepy,” Ann laments.

I spy Mademoiselle LeFarge getting up from her chair.

“Keep the wolves at bay,” I say, rising as well.

I catch our teacher in the library, where she searches for a book among the many on the shelves.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle LeFarge,”
I manage to say.
“Er, comment allez-vous?”

She corrects my pronunciation without looking up.
“Como tallay-voo.”

“Yes, I shall make more of an effort.”

“I should be happy, Miss Doyle, if you would make an effort at all.”

I smile like a buffoon. “Yes. Quite right.” Our little talk has gotten off to a grand start. Perhaps I could mangle another language or insult her dress or, heaven forbid, sing. “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“It’s raining,” she notes.

“Yes, so it is. But we need rain, yes? It makes the flowers grow so nicely and…”

Mademoiselle LeFarge’s knowing stare stops me. “Out with it, then. What is it you really want, Miss Doyle?”

I see that betrothal to Inspector Kent has sharpened LeFarge’s own skills of detection.

“I thought perhaps you might take us to this exhibition.”

I unfold the slip of paper for the exhibition at the Egyptian Hall and hand it to her. She brings it to the lamp. “A magic-lantern show? Tomorrow afternoon!”

“It promises to be extraordinary! And I know how dearly you love this sort of spectacle!”

“That I do….” With a sigh, she folds the paper. “But it is hardly edifying.”

“Oh, but—”

“I’m afraid the answer is no, Miss Doyle. In another month’s time, you’ll be in London for your season and may go to see whatever you wish. And I should think your time might be better spent perfecting your curtsy. After all, you will face your sovereign. It is the most important moment of your life.”

“I hope not,” I mutter.

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She gives me a kind smile along with the advert, and I curse my luck. How will we get to the Egyptian Hall and Dr. Van Ripple now?

I could
make
her do what I want. No, that’s horrible. But how else will we find Dr. Van Ripple? Right, only this once and never again.

“Dear Mademoiselle LeFarge,” I say, taking her hands.

“Miss Doyle? What—”

She is silenced by magic.

“You want to take Felicity, Ann, and me to the Egyptian Hall tomorrow afternoon. You’re desperate to take us. It will be…edifying. I promise,” I intone.

There’s a knock, and I break the contact with LeFarge just in time to see Miss McCleethy at the door.

“Gemma, you should be in bed,” Miss McCleethy says.

“Y-yes, I was j-just going,” I stammer. My hands shake. The magic has been stirred inside me now, and it wants out. I try desperately to keep it under control.

Mademoiselle LeFarge brandishes the leaflet above her head like a letter from a beloved suitor. “Isn’t this marvelous? A magic-lantern show at the Egyptian Hall tomorrow. I shall ask Mrs. Nightwing’s permission to take the girls. It promises to be most edifying.”

“A magic-lantern show?” Miss McCleethy laughs. “I hardly think—”

“See for yourself—the Wolfson brothers!” She shoves the advert at Miss McCleethy. “Miss Doyle brought it to my attention, and I am very glad she did. I shall speak to Mrs. Nightwing straightaway. Do excuse me.”

McCleethy and I are left alone.

“I’ll go on to bed.”

“Just a moment,” she says as I try to slip past her. “Are you ill, Miss Doyle?”

“N-no,” I croak. I don’t dare look at her. Can she tell? Can she read it in my face? Smell it on me like a perfume?

“This is rather sudden. I wonder how she came to be so excited about this.”

“Mademoiselle LeFarge l-loves that sort of thing.” I barely manage to say it. Sweat beads on my forehead. The magic wants out. I shall go mad trying to rein it in.

For the longest moment of my life, neither of us says a word. At last, McCleethy breaks the silence.

“Very well. If it is so ‘edifying’ perhaps I shall come, too.”

Bloody hell.

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Finally released from McCleethy’s stare, I stagger to my room, nearly retching from the power I’ve held back. I throw open the window and crouch on the sill, letting the soft rain pelt my upturned face, but it’s no use. The magic’s calling me.

Fly,
it bids.

I stand on the narrow sill, holding tightly to the frame, my body bowing out. And then I let go. My arms transform into the shiny blue-black wings of a raven, and I’m soaring high above Spence. It is exhilarating. I could live inside this power forever.

I loop past the workers’ camp; the men play cards and box. Far down the road, a troupe of mummers wander, drunk, passing a whiskey bottle among them. I dart over to the Gypsy camp, where Ithal keeps watch and Mother Elena sleeps fitfully in her tent, mumbling a name that is lost to dreams.

There’s a light in the boathouse, and I know who’s there. I land, as softly as snow, and shake off my raven form. Through the grimy window, I see him with his lantern and his book. Will I have what I want?

I push through the door, and Kartik takes in the sight of me—face flushed, hair a ruin. “Gemma? What has happened?”

“You’re dreaming,” I say, and his eyelids flutter under my persuasion. When he opens his eyes again, he is in that twilight land between waking and sleep.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” I ask.

His voice is faraway. “I’m a danger to you.”

“Well, I am tired of the safe. Kiss me,” I say. I take a step forward. “Please.”

He is across the floor in two strides, and the force of his kiss steals my breath. His hands are in my hair, my head bent back, his lips on my throat, everywhere at once.

It’s only magic, not real.
No, don’t think about that. Think only of the kiss.
There is only this. Only this. Kiss.

His tongue slips inside my mouth—a surprise—and I pull away, frightened. But he draws me to him in another kiss, hungrier this time. He makes small explorations with the tip of his tongue. His hand slides down the length of my torso and back up; he cups my breast and moans. I can scarcely catch my breath.

I no longer feel in control of this power or my emotions.

“S-stop!” I say. He releases me, and it is all I can do not to pull him back. “Sleep now.”

He settles to the floor and closes his eyes.

“Only pleasant dreams,” I say.

I slip from the boathouse, my fingers touching my kiss-swollen lips. And despite all the power I hold, I cannot possibly keep a satisfied grin from blooming there.

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When we reach the Borderlands, the factory girls call out their familiar
Whoo-oot.
We answer in kind, and they appear, like magic, from the trees and brush. Mae’s and Bessie’s skirts are stained with dark red streaks.

“Got us a pheasant,” Bessie says, catching me looking. “’Magine that?” She smiles and her teeth are sharp.

“You’ve come back!” Pippa exclaims. She’s pinned up her skirts to the waist, forming a pouch that sags with a harvest of berries. She embraces each of us, and when she reaches me, she whispers sweetly,

“Join me in the chapel.”