The Sweet Far Thing (70 page)

“And McCleethy and Nightwing?” I ask.

Felicity kicks her feet, making little splashes. “You know that they’re rebuilding the East Wing to take advantage of the secret door. But that’s all you know for certain. It will take ages to restore, and they’ve no inkling that we’re already making use of it. And by the time they do know, we’ll have already made the alliance and it shall be too late.”

“You’re forgetting that the Hajin won’t join us and the forest folk hate me,” I say.

Fee’s eyes flash. “They had their chance. Why don’t we make the alliance, just the four of us—you, me, Ann, and Pippa?”

“About Pip…,” I say warily.

Felicity’s face darkens. “What is it?”

“Aren’t you alarmed by the changes in her?”

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“You mean her power,” Fee says, correcting me.

“I think she’s been going to the Winterlands,” I continue. “I think she sacrificed Wendy’s rabbit. Perhaps she’s made other sacrifices as well.”

Felicity crushes the violet between her fingers. “Shall I tell you what I think? I think you don’t like that she has power now. Or that Ann and I can enter the realms without you. I saw your face when the door opened for us!”

“I was only surprised…,” I start, but the lie dies on my tongue.

“And anyway, you’re the one acting strangely, Gemma. Cavorting with Circe. Seeing things that aren’t there. You’re the one who’s not right!” She gives the water one final splash and the droplets arc neatly over the river and land back on me.

“I—I just think it best if we go into the realms together,” I say. “For now.”

Felicity looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re no longer in charge.”

“Come on, Gemma,” Ann entreats. “Let’s have a go round the maypole. Leave it for now.”

She takes Felicity’s hand and they run for the maypole. They weave in and out, laughing, and I wish I could forget everything and join them. But I can’t. I can only hope that I will sort this out in time. I make my way past the lake and up the hill to the old cemetery. The jutting headstones welcome me, for I am suitably grave.

I lay one of Felicity’s violets at Eugenia Spence’s stone.
Beloved sister.
“I don’t suppose you know where to find the dagger,” I say to the slab. The wind answers by blowing the posy away. “Thought not.”

“Talking to headstones?” It’s Kartik. He carries a small lunch in a pail. A shaft of sunlight halos his face and for a moment I am taken with how beautiful he is—and how truly happy I am to see him. “You only need worry if they answer,” he says. “I’ll go if—”

“No, stay,” I say. “I’d like that.”

He sits on a grave whose markings are nearly gone with time and nods toward the maids beating carpets in a fury. “There is a masked ball, I hear.”

“Yes, tomorrow,” I say. “I shall go as Joan of Arc.”

“Fitting.” Kartik examines an apple, pushing at a bruise with his thumb. “I assume there will be many gentlemen in attendance. English gentlemen.”

“I’m sure there will be many people in attendance,” I answer carefully.

He bites into the fruit. I pull a leaf from a tree and tear it into small strips. The awkward silence stretches.

“I’m sorry,” I say at last.

“You needn’t apologize. I lied to you.”

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I perch near him. The distance between us isn’t much and yet it feels vast.

“Come to the ball,” I say softly.

Kartik laughs. “You’re joking.”

“No, not at all. It is a masked ball. Who shall know?”

Kartik pulls back his sleeve, revealing the warm brown of his skin. “And no one shall notice this, I suppose? An Indian amongst the English?” He bites into his apple with a hard crunch.

“An Indian prince,” I say. “And you shall have an invitation. I shall give you one.”

“If I cannot go as myself, I shall not go,” he says.

“You may think on it. If you have a change of heart, place the cloth in its spot, and I shall meet you tomorrow in the laundry at half past six.”

Kartik squints up at the sun. He shakes his head. “That is your world, not mine.”

“What if…” I swallow hard. “What if I should like you in my world?”

Kartik bites into his apple again, looks out at the rolling hills of the peaceful countryside. “I don’t believe I belong there.”

“Neither do I,” I say, laughing, but two tears escape, and I have to grab them quickly with my fingers.

The magic tingles in them, a temptation: You could make him stay.

I will it into silence.

“Then come into the realms with me,” I say instead. “We could look for Amar together. We—”

“No. I don’t want to know what Amar has become. I want to remember him as he was before.” He puts the apple back into his lunch pail. “I’ve given it much thought these past few days, and I think it best for me to travel on to the
Orlando.
There’s nothing for me here.”

“Kartik…,” I start, but what can I say, after all? “You must do what you feel is best.”

“I’ll remember you in India,” he says. “I’ll offer a prayer for your family at the Ganges.”

“Thank you.” There’s a lump in my throat that will not go away.

He gatheres his pail. “Good day, Miss Doyle.”

“Good day, Kartik.”

He shakes my hand and walks down the hill. I’m alone in the cemetery.

“This is what it’s come to,” I say, pressing the backs of my hands to my eyes. “Only the dead want my company.”

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My knees are the first to go. The force of my vision is so violent, I sink to the ground, clutching my stomach. My muscles are taut. The sky seems to tear in two; the clouds are limned in red.

God. Can’t breathe. Can’t…

Wilhelmina Wyatt stands among the headstones, her face contorted with fury. She grabs hold of my hair and drags me toward the graves. I kick and fight, but she’s strong. When we reach Eugenia Spence’s grave, she gives me a hard shove, and I fall, watching in horror as the ground closes over me.

“No, no, no!” I scrabble at the sides of the grave with my fingernails, crying, desperate. “Let me out!”

The earth falls away, and I am standing on the heath in the Winterlands before the Tree of All Souls. I see Eugenia’s frightened eyes. “Save us…,” she pleads.

I kick for all I’m worth. The grave collapses, and I cover my eyes as the dirt rains down on me.

It is silent. I hear…girls playing. Laughter. I take down my hands and open one eye. I’m on my back in the cemetery. The breeze brings the sounds of a croquet game on the back lawn. There is dirt on my boots and my skirts where I’ve been writhing. Wilhelmina is gone. I am alone. Eugenia Spence’s grave is whole. The violet I dropped is there, and all I can do is sob—out of fright and frustration.

On rubbery legs, I weave through the gravestones. The crows descend like black raindrops. They light on the headstones. I put my hands to my ears to silence their hideous caws but they crawl under my skin like a poison.

I stagger down the hill and sit, crying softly, hugging my knees to my chest. If I hadn’t kicked my way out of that grave…

Or was I even there?

No, I felt her pull my hair, felt myself fall, the dirt closing in. And then, it was as if it had never happened.

Wilhelmina Wyatt frightens me.

She could see into the dark.
That was what Eugenia said about her once. But what if she is part of the darkness? What if she’s working with the creatures?

And I no longer know if she means to help me or kill me.

I watch the girls running around the maypole. Tomorrow they’ll don their costumes and flit about it like pixies without a care in the world at our May Day masked ball. A little tickle of cold starts in my stomach and whooshes out to the rest of me.

Tomorrow. May Day. May first. The “birth” of May.

Beware the birth of May.

I cannot get warm. Whatever Eugenia feared, what Miss Wyatt meant to warn me about, will happen
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tomorrow, and I’ve no idea what it is or how to stop it. When I see Miss McCleethy and Mrs.

Nightwing bent toward each other in conference, I shake. In their every glance, every laugh, every touch, I see danger.

All around me, the girls prance about, drunk on excitement, oblivious to my fear. The little ones play in their costumes whilst Brigid scolds them and insists they’ll dirty their pretty dresses and then where will they be? They nod solemnly and promptly ignore her.

“Why don’t you come join us, luv?” Brigid calls, seeing my long face.

I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m not good company just now.”

Mrs. Nightwing glances at me, brow slightly furrowed, and my skin itches. I can’t stay here. I decide to take refuge in Fee’s tent. I’m surprised to see her sitting there, all alone. Her lips tremble.

“Fee?” I say.

She wipes her tears with unforgiving hands. “Well, I’ve done it now,” she says with a laugh that’s too hard. “I’ve charmed them, all right.”

“What do you mean?”

She holds up a letter. “It’s from Mother. Lady Markham has agreed to sponsor me—if I will marry her Horace.”

“She can’t do that.”

“She can,” Felicity says, wiping away more tears. “She means to mold me into the proper wife; it will be a feather in her cap if she does. She’s told Father that it might be a way for them to find favor in society again. And of course, there’s the money.”

“But it’s
your
inheritance….” I trail off.

“Don’t you see? Once I am married, my inheritance belongs to my husband! There will be no garret in Paris. My future has been decided for me.” She’s as small and lifeless as a porcelain doll.

“I’m sorry,” I say, though it is far too little.

Felicity takes both my hands in hers. My bones ache from her grip. “Gemma, you see how it is. They’ve planned our entire lives, from what we shall wear to whom we shall marry and where we shall live. It’s one lump of sugar in your tea whether you like it or not and you’d best smile even if you’re dying deep inside. We’re like pretty horses, and just as on horses, they mean to put blinders on us so we can’t look left or right but only straight ahead where they would lead.” Felicity puts her forehead to mine, holds my hands between hers in a prayer. “Please, please, please, Gemma, let’s not die inside before we have to.”

“What can I do?”

“Promise me we might hold on to this magic a bit longer, until I can secure my future—just until our debut,” she pleads.

“That is weeks away yet,” I answer. “And I must make amends with the forest folk. We should make

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the alliance.”

“Gemma, this is the rest of my life,” she begs, her tears turning to anger.

Two giggling girls streak past the tent in a blur of ribbon and lace. They twirl furiously in their princess gowns, picking up speed, laughing madly. It’s no matter that the dresses are only a night’s borrowed finery. They believe, and the belief changes everything.

I put my palms to Felicity’s in promise. “I’ll try.”

I sit on my bed trying to make sense of everything, but I can’t, and May first will soon be here. As a distraction, I tidy up my few possessions, arranging them neatly in my cupboard: the ivory elephant all the way from India, my mother’s diary, Kartik’s red bandana, Simon’s false-bottom box. I should toss that out. I open the secret chamber, and it’s as empty as I feel inside.
A place to keep all your secrets,
he told me. It will take a box larger than this for my secrets. I leave it on Ann’s bed as a gift and resume my straightening. I stack my books in one corner. Gloves and handkerchiefs. Wilhelmina Wyatt’s slate, mute as its owner. What to do with that? Useless. And heavy. That thick wooden base weighing it down…Suddenly, I realize how stupid I’ve been.