The Sweet Far Thing (39 page)

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“Unless it is the danger of putting one to sleep.” Felicity yawns.

“We did discover some truth about the Order,” Ann says, defending herself. “Without the book, Gemma, you’d never have discovered the true identity of Circe,” she reminds us, and she’s right. For that was how we discovered that the Order often hid their identities by use of anagrams, and that Hester Asa Moore, the name of our trusted mentor, was an anagram for Sarah Rees-Toome.

Felicity drums her fingers on the seat. “There is something that has always troubled me about that book.

What purpose could Miss McCleethy have had in purchasing it? If she’s a member of the Order, why should she need a book about the Order?”

At Christmastime, we followed Miss McCleethy to the Golden Dawn bookseller’s in the Strand. She purchased the book, so we did the same, but until now, I’ve thought it one of her peculiarities. I’ve not thought there could be a deeper, and perhaps much darker, reason for her wanting it.

“I saw McCleethy’s face briefly in one of my visions,” I remind them. “She could be the sister Dr. Van Ripple mentioned.”

“Yes, though you said you only saw her face,” Felicity adds. “You didn’t see them together.”

Outside our windows, the still-bare branches scrape against the carriage. The night has claws, but we escape, bumping along until Spence comes into view once more. With its lamps still ablaze, the sprawling estate glows brightly in the sooty night. Only the East Wing is dark. The clouds shift; the moon shows her face. Atop the roof, the leering gargoyles perch, the high arches of their wings formidable shadows against the moon’s light. The stone beasts seem taut and ready. And for a moment, I remember that chilling hallucination in the carriage that day with Felicity—the creature’s open mouth, the glint of sharp teeth coming down, the thin stream of blood—and I have to look away.

“Well, I still say if there were some grand secret within the book we’d have discovered it by now,” I insist.

Ann peers out at the vast expanse of stars. “Perhaps we didn’t know where to look.”

An hour later, we’re in Felicity’s room, crowded around our copy of
A History of Secret Societies,
trying to read it by faint candlelight.

“Look for anything that makes mention of this Tree of All Souls,” I instruct. “Perhaps we missed it the first time round because it held no meaning for us before.”

We read page after frustratingly oblique page until the words begin to blind us. We take turns reading aloud. There are entries on the Druids, the Gnostics, witchcraft, and paganism, a few illustrations that add nothing. We read again about the Order and the Rakshana and find no new facts of interest. There is not a single word about a Tree of All Souls.

We turn the page and there’s an illustration of a tower. I keep reading.

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“‘Glastonbury Tor. Stonehenge. Iona in the Hebrides. The Great Pyramids and the Great Sphinx of Giza. These are all thought to be imbued with magic derived from the alignment of the earth and the stars,’” I read with a yawn. “‘Sacred points within the earth are indicated by various markers, which include churches, cemeteries, stone circles, the wood, and castles, to name but a few. For the great priestesses, the venerable Druids, the noble pagans believed that here the spirits walked—”

“Gemma, there’s nothing more there,” Felicity grouses. She hangs her head and arms over the end of her bed like a bored child. “Can we please go on to the realms? Pip’s waiting.”

“The book is five hundred pages long,” Ann agrees. “We’ll be here all night, and I want to play with magic.”

“You’re right,” I say, closing the book. “To the realms.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

NOW THATMISSMCCLEETHY HAS RETURNED TO US, SHEwastes no time in making her presence felt. She cracks her whip at every opportunity. There is a right way and a wrong way to do things, and the right way, it would seem, is always the McCleethy way. Despite her will of iron, she is a great one for taking walks, and as the days grow greener, we are grateful for these sojourns from the stuffy halls of Spence.

“I believe we shall sketch outdoors today,” she announces. As it’s a rather lovely day, this news is greeted with enthusiasm. We don bonnets to protect our fair complexions from the threat of freckles, though it is, of course, a moot point for me. I remember beautiful, hot days in India, running barefoot over cracked ground, the sun tattooing a reminder of those days in small brown patches, as if the gods threw a handful of sand across my cheeks and nose while my skin was wet.

“The sun has blessed you,” Sarita used to say. “Look how he has left his kisses on your face for all to see and be jealous.”

“The sun loves you more,” I said, rubbing my hands over her dry arms, the color of an aged wine gourd, and she laughed.

But this is not India, and we are not prized for our freckles here. The sun is not allowed to show his love.

Miss McCleethy marches us through muddy grass that makes a ruin of our boots.

“Where are we going?” Elizabeth grumbles behind us.

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“Miss McCleethy, will it be much farther?” Cecily asks.

“The walk shall do you good, Miss Temple. I’ll hear no more complaining,” Miss McCleethy answers.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Cecily sputters, but not one of us shall join her cause. If there were a championship held for whiners, she would hold the trophy easily.

Miss McCleethy leads us through the woods, past the lake with its mirror image of the gray sky, and down a narrow, crooked road we’ve not seen before. It winds for some time before coming to a hill. A small graveyard is visible at the hill’s summit, and that is where Miss McCleethy takes us. She spreads out a cloth between the headstones and settles our picnic basket upon it.

Elizabeth holds her cloak fast to her. “Why have we come to such a dreadful place, Miss McCleethy?”

“To remind us that life is short, Miss Poole,” Miss McCleethy says, catching my eye ever so briefly. “It is also a lovely spot for a picnic. Who would care for cake and lemonade?”

With a flourish she opens the basket and the smell of Brigid’s heavenly apple cake drifts from its depths.

Thick slices of it are offered all around. Lemonade is poured. We sketch and eat in lazy fashion. Miss McCleethy sips her lemonade. She gazes out at the expanse of rolling green hills, the clusters of trees like tufts of unruly hair on a balding man’s head. “There is something quite special about this land.”

“It’s lovely,” Ann agrees.

“Bit muddy,” Cecily grumbles through a mouthful of cake. “Not as pretty as Brighton.” I imagine her polishing that whining trophy.

Ann pipes up. “Brigid said that Jesus himself may have walked these hills with his cousin, Joseph of Arimathea, and that the Gnostics were also drawn to this place.”

“What are Gnostics?” Elizabeth titters.

“A mystical sect of early Christians, more pagan than Christian, really,” Miss McCleethy answers. “I’ve heard that story, too, Miss Bradshaw. Many Britons believe that Camelot itself may have been erected in this region, and that Merlin chose the spot because the land held such enchantment within it.”

“How could the land be enchanted?” Felicity asks. Her mouth is far too full, and McCleethy gives her a hard look.

“Miss Worthington, we are not savages, if you please,” she chides, handing Felicity a napkin. “Many of the ancients did believe that there were sites that held extraordinary power. That is why they worshipped there.”

“Does that mean that if I stand in the center of Stonehenge, I could become as powerful as King Arthur?” Cecily asks with a laugh.

“No, I rather think it was not meant to be given to everyone indiscriminately but governed carefully by those who know best,” she says, pointedly. “For when we read about magic in fairy stories or tales of myth, we read time and again that it is subject to strict laws, else chaos follows. Look out there. What do you see?” Miss McCleethy waves her hand toward the green horizon.

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“Hills,” Ann offers. “Roads.”

“Flowers and shrubs,” Cecily adds. She looks to Miss McCleethy as if there might be a prize for the right answer.

“What we can see is proof. Proof that man can conquer nature, that chaos can be turned back. You see evidence of the importance of order, of law. For conquer chaos we must. And if we see it in ourselves, we must root it out and replace it with steadfast discipline.”

Can we really conquer chaos so easily? If that were so, I should be able to prune the pandemonium of my own soul into something neat and tidy rather than this maze of wants and needs and misgivings that has me forever feeling as if I cannot fit into the landscape of things.

“But aren’t many gardens beautiful because they are imperfect?” I say, glancing at McCleethy. “Aren’t the strange, new flowers that arise by mistake or misadventure as pleasing as the well-tended and planned?”

Elizabeth purses her lips. “Are we speaking of art?”

Miss McCleethy smiles broadly. “Ah, a perfect segue to the topic at hand. Look at the art of the masters and you will see that their work has been created according to strict rules: Here we have line and light and a color scheme.” She holds my gaze as if she has me in checkmate. “Art cannot be created without order.”

“What of the Impressionists in Paris, then? It is not ordered so much as felt with the brush, it seems,”

Felicity says, eating cake with her fingers.

“There are always rebels and radicals, I suppose,” McCleethy allows. “Those who live on the fringes of society. But what do they contribute to the society itself? They reap its rewards without experiencing its costs. No. I submit that the loyal, hardworking citizens who push aside their own selfish desires for the good of the whole are the backbone of the world. What if we all decided to run off and live freely without thought or care for society’s rules? Our civilization would crumble. There is a joy in duty and a security in knowing one’s place. This is the English way. It is the only way.”

“Quite so, Miss McCleethy,” Cecily says. But really, what would I expect from her?

I know that is to be the end of the discussion, but I can’t let it go. “But without the rebels and radicals, there would be no change, no one to push back. There would be no progress.”

Miss McCleethy shakes her head thoughtfully. “True progress can only happen when there is safety first.”

“What if safety…is only an illusion?” I say, thinking aloud. “What if there is no such thing?”

“Then we fall.” Miss McCleethy squeezes what’s left of her cake, and it falls to bits. “Chaos.”

I take a small bite of my cake. “What if that is only the beginning of something new? What if, once we let go, we are freed?”

“Would you take that chance, Miss Doyle?” Miss McCleethy holds my gaze till I’m forced to look away.

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“What
are
we talking about?” Elizabeth clucks.

“Miss McCleethy, the ground is so hard. Couldn’t we return to Spence now?” Martha complains.

“Yes, very well. Miss Worthington, I leave you in charge. Girls, follow her lead.” Miss McCleethy places the crumbles of cake into a napkin and ties it up neatly. “Order. That is the key. Miss Doyle, I’ll need your help to gather our things.”

Felicity and I exchange glances. She draws her finger across her throat like a blade, and I make a note to tell her later how very witty I find her. Miss McCleethy takes a bouquet of wildflowers and bids me follow her farther into the graveyard. It is a steep climb to the very top of the hill. The wind blows hard here. It pulls tendrils of her hair free so that they whip wildly about her face, lessening its severity. From here I can see the girls tripping through the trees in a merry line, Ann bringing up the rear. In the distance, Spence rises from the land as if it were a part of it, as if it has always existed, like the trees or the hedgerows or the distant Thames.

Miss McCleethy lays the flowers at the base of a simple headstone. Eugenia Spence, Beloved Sister.

May 6, 1812–June 21, 1871.

“I did not know there was a gravestone for Mrs. Spence.”

“It is how she would have wanted to be remembered—simply, without ceremony.”

“What was she like?” I ask.

“Eugenia? She had a quick mind and a skilled grasp of the magic. In her time, she was the most powerful of the Order. Kind but firm. She believed that the rules must be followed without exception, for to deviate in any way was to court disaster. This school was her life’s work. I learned a great deal from her.

She was my mentor. I loved her dearly.”

She wipes her hands free of dirt and pulls on her gloves.

“I am sorry for your loss,” I say. “I’m sorry that my mother…”

Miss McCleethy buttons her cape with quick fingers. “Chaos killed her, Miss Doyle. Two girls stepping outside the rules took our beloved teacher away. Remember that.”

I swallow my shame, but my red cheeks do not go unnoticed.

“I am sorry,” she says. “That was too hard of me. I confess that when I discovered it was Mary’s daughter who was the key to the realms, I was disappointed. That the one whose misadventure led to Eugenia’s death could have birthed our salvation…” She shakes her head. “It seemed fate had played a cruel joke.”

“I am not so bad as all that,” I protest.

“It is one thing to prepare for greatness. It is another entirely to have it thrust upon you. I feared your mother’s blood would lead you to make perilous choices…” She looks toward Spence, where the men hammer away, fleshing out the ruined East Wing. “And you’ve still not been able to enter the realms or recover the Temple’s magic?”