The Sweet Far Thing (67 page)

“There is no bloody safety!” I shout. “When will you realize that? Do your people even know that I offered them a share of the magic and that you refused it on their behalf?”

The Hajin look up from their poppies.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Asha, is this true?” a girl asks.

“It is not our path, our destiny. We do not extend beyond our tribe,” Asha says calmly. “You know this.”

“But we could have a voice at last,” a Hajin man says assertively.

The smoke has thinned. Asha stands at the pot, revealed. “And would you use that share of magic to change who we are? Here we have accepted our afflictions. We have found solace in each other. What if suddenly we had the power to remove all flaws? Would you find beauty in each other still? At least now we are one caste.”

The Hajin weigh her words. Some resume their work, pulling their garments across their misshapen legs to hide them.

“It is how it has always been. We will accept the legacy of our ancestors,” Asha says, smiling, and in her smile I do not see warmth or wisdom; I see fear.

“You’re afraid of losing your hold on them,” I say coolly.

“I? I have no power.”

“Don’t you? If you keep them from the magic, they will never know what their lives could be.”

“They will remain protected,” Asha insists.

“No,” I say. “Only untested.”

One of the Hajin stands uncertainly, holding tightly to her skirts. “We should have a voice, Asha. It is time.”

A spark of anger flashes in Asha’s eyes. “We have lived this way always. We shall go on living this way.”

The girl sits, but she does not bow as is customary. In her eyes are the twin gods of doubt and desire.

When her skirt falls open, showing her scarred and blistered legs, she does not rush to cover them.

I shake my head. “Change is coming, Asha. Whether you’re ready for it or not.”

My mind is a jumble as I march toward the Borderlands. Who could have murdered Creostus and why?

Is Circe telling me the truth? Did Pippa make a bargain with the Winterlands creatures for her magic, and if so, how powerful is she? How will I get Fee to see this? She’ll rightly claim that I’m one to talk, for I’ve been having meetings with a murderess. And still I haven’t deciphered Miss Wyatt’s cryptic messages. Oh, I’m a bloody fool.

No. There’s still a chance to put things right. Eugenia. I’ll find the dagger and save her. I’ll put the realms and the Winterlands to rights, and then…and then? I’ll worry about then another time.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

At the turn toward the bramble wall, I note something strange. The fruit of the trees we restored our first day back in the realms has withered to mealy husks. And all the flowers have turned a brittle blue, as if they’ve been strangled upon their stalks. Every last bloom is dead.

I hurry to the bramble wall and tread the path through the blue forest to the castle.

Whoo-oot.
The sound is near. Bessie steps out, her stick at the ready.

“Step aside, please, Bessie. I don’t mean you any harm. You know that.”

“You couldn’t do me no ’arm if you wanted,” she says, towering over me.

I shout Pip’s name and Felicity’s and Ann’s, too.

“See? They don’ wan’ you no more,” Bessie snarls.

The castle door swings open and Felicity barrels out, trailed by Ann, Pip, and the others.

“Gemma! What is it?” Felicity calls.

“Bessie wouldn’t let me pass,” I say.

Pippa gives Bessie a playful pout. “Is that true, Bessie?”

“Don’ know where she’s been,” Bessie offers in explanation.

Pippa twirls a marigold in her fingers. “It’s true, Gemma. If you don’t want to be questioned, you shouldn’t run off by yourself.”

“Yes,” I say, my apprehension growing. I fear her now, and I wonder if she can sense it in me. “It’s time to go back to Spence.”

“But I’m not ready to go back,” Felicity complains.

“Then don’t go. Stay here with me,” Pippa says as if proposing a holiday, and Felicity’s face floods with happiness.

“We can’t get back without Gemma,” Ann says bitterly.

“Tomorrow,” Felicity says softly.

“Tomorrow.” Pip gives Fee a gentle kiss on the cheek and strides back to the castle, the factory girls behind her like ladies-in-waiting. No one offers to help Wendy.

Wendy feels her way until she finds purchase in my sleeve. “Miss? Can’t you take me with you?”

“I’m sorry, Wendy. I can’t bring you back into my world,” I say, helping her toward the castle.

“I’m afraid, miss. I don’t like it ’ere. The castle’s so still at night without Mr. Darcy to keep close. When I call, nobody answers—”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Wendy!” It’s Bessie come back for her. She stands like a warrior, her stick tall at her side. “Come on, then. Miss Pippa’s waitin’.” She lets Wendy stumble toward her and moves out of the way just as the girl closes in. “Missed me!” She laughs, and then she leads the girl roughly toward the castle.

“Where did you disappear to, Gemma? Off to see Circe?” Felicity goads. She trails her fingers along the corridor that leads to our secret door.

“Yes,” I say, because I’m tired of lying.

“You’re a fine one, aren’t you? You don’t trust Pip but you’ll trust that…that thing who murdered your mother!”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I say, pushing through the shimmering light of the secret door to the East Wing.

Felicity pulls me round to face her. “Of course I wouldn’t. For I’m only your friend who cares about you.”

“Would you care about me if I didn’t have magic?” I ask.

“That is like asking ‘Would you like me if I weren’t myself?’ The magic is a part of you, and you are my friend,” she says. Her answer brings tears to my eyes, and I feel awful for the way I treated her earlier, for not trusting her, for what I shall have to tell her about Pip.

“Oh, no!” Ann says suddenly. She pats her shoulders. “My shawl! It must have fallen.”

Without thinking, she puts her hand out, and the world is flooded with light as the door opens for her.

“Ann, how did you do that?” Felicity asks, wide-eyed.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “I just wanted to get in and…there it was.”

“Stand aside,” Felicity orders. This time, Felicity puts her hand to the door, a look of fierce concentration on her face. Again, the portal into the realms opens wide. She grins as if it were Christmas morning. “Do you realize what this means? Gemma isn’t the only way into the realms! Anyone can open that door. We may come and go as we please!”

They hop up and down in their excitement.

“I’ll just get your shawl for you, will I?” I say.

Ann laughs. “I can get it for myself.” She opens the door and comes out with her shawl, happy as can be. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

Go on, Gemma. Say ‘Yes, it’s wonderful that you don’t need me so much.’

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“It’s late,” I say. “We should be in.”

I hear them behind me, giggling and giddy. I keep walking toward Spence, hoping they will follow, knowing they might not.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

THE WHOLE OF THE DAY, ICANNOT REST EASILY IN MY skin. Creostus has been murdered.

I am no longer trusted by the forest folk, and I cannot say I blame them for their suspicion of me, for what have I done to earn their trust? I see specters and shadows that aren’t there. Wilhelmina has vanished as in one of her magic tricks. And the magic and the realms are changing: The door will open without my aid now, and Pippa…

Pip. The magic has taken root in her. It’s building. And every time I try to talk myself out of my growing fear of her, I remember Mr. Darcy.

The key holds the truth.
I wish I had the key, for my head spins so, and I’m desperately in need of truth.

There is one error I might put to rights. When our tasks are completed at day’s end, I go in search of Cecily. I find her in the library. Brigid has propped her up on a chaise, her ankle resting upon a pillow.

She’s in a thoroughly disagreeable mood now she cannot participate in the masked ball—not that I can blame her. And she isn’t happy to see me. When I approach, she lifts her
La Mode Illustrée
so that I am face to face with an illustration of an elegant woman modeling the most fashionable frock.

“I’ve brought
Pride and Prejudice.
I thought perhaps I could read to you,” I offer.

Cecily thumbs through the pages of beautiful gowns. “I’ve been doing my own reading for many years now.”

“How is your ankle?” I ask, taking the chair beside the chaise.

“It hurts. I shall not perform my ballet. I shall not even be able to dance. My evening is ruined,” she says, sniffling.

“I thought perhaps you might recite Mr. Yeats’s poem in my stead.”

Cecily’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Well, you are an excellent reader, far better than I and—”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“No, why are you offering? Have you a troubled conscience, Miss Doyle?” Cecily’s glare is quite penetrating, and I realize I have not given her powers of observation sufficient acknowledgment.

“It is a fair offer,” I say.

“Let me see it,” she says after a moment, and I hand over the poem. She begins her recitation at once, and when I leave her, she rehearses with such whispered ferocity from her sickbed that I know she shall be the star of the ball.

Heaven help us.

Ann stops me in the hall. In her hands is a copy of
The Era Almanack,
which lists adverts for performers of all sorts as well as management companies and theaters.

“Gemma, look.” She shows me an advert for the Gaiety Theatre.

T
HE
M
ERRY
M
AIDENS

A new and original musical entertainment to be performed in July.

Composed by Mr. Charles Smalls.

Young ladies of sound form and good voice should make an appointment with Mr. Smalls for
Wednesday, the twenty-ninth of April, between the hours of noon and three o’clock.

Some dancing.

“You remember Charlie Smalls, the accompanist? He liked my voice,” she says, and bites her lip. “If I could get in to see him…”

“The twenty-ninth. That’s tomorrow,” I say.

“I know I shouldn’t ask,” she says. “But I promise I shan’t fail this time.”

I nod. “All right. We’ll manage. I don’t know how, but we will.”

Just after supper, Inspector Kent comes to call on Mademoiselle LeFarge. Their wedding is only weeks away. In the great room, the inspector regales us with tales of Scotland Yard’s derring-do. We want to know about Jack the Ripper, but he politely declines to discuss it. All the while, Mademoiselle LeFarge sits near, proud that he will be hers.