《The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)》 Page 1 PROLOGUE 1893 LONDON THE NIGHT WAS COLD AND DISMAL, AND OUT ON THE Thames, the rivermen cursed their luck. Skulking through the shadows of London¡¯s great river for profit wasn¡¯t a cheery occupation, but it paid for a meal here and there, and the damp that stiffened your bones, put the ache in your back, was a part of it, like it or not. ¡°See anyfin¡¯, Archie?¡± ¡°Nuffin¡¯,¡± Archie called to his friend, Rupert. ¡°¡¯S as foul a night as I¡¯ve seen.¡± They¡¯d been at it for an hour now, with nothing to show for it but a bit of clothing taken from the body of a sailor. That, they could sell to the rag-and-bone men come morning. But a pocketful of coins would put food and ale in their bellies tonight, and for rivermen like Archie and Rupert, the here and now was what counted; hoping to see beyond tomorrow was a cockeyed optimism best left to people who didn¡¯t spend their lives scouring the Thames for the dead. The boat¡¯s single lantern wasn¡¯t much use against the infernal fog. The gloom haunted the banks. Across the river, the unlit houses were skulls of dark. The rivermen navigated the shallows of the Thames, poking their long hooks into the filthy water, looking for the bodies of anyone who¡¯d met with misfortune on this night¡ªsailors or dockworkers too drunk to save themselves from drowning; the sorry victims of knife fights, or of cutpurses and murderers; the mud larks carried away by a sudden strong tide, their aprons heavy with prized coal, that same coal that pulled them under to their deaths. Archie¡¯s hook hit something solid. ¡°Oi, slow there, Rupert. I got sumfin¡¯.¡± Rupert grabbed the lantern from its perch and shone it over the water where a body bobbed. They fished the corpse out, dropping it onto the deck and rolling it over onto its back. ¡°Blimey,¡± Rupert said. ¡°It¡¯s a lady.¡± ¡°Was,¡± Archie said. ¡°Check ¡¯er pockets.¡± The rivermen set about their grisly task. The lady was well heeled, in a fine lavender silk dress that could not have been cheap. She wasn¡¯t what they were used to finding in these waters. Archie smiled. ¡°Oh,¡¯ ello!¡± He drew four coins from the lady¡¯s coat pocket and bit each. ¡°Wot you got, then, Archie? ¡¯Nuff to buy us a pint?¡± Archie looked closely at the coins. Not pounds. Shillings. ¡°Aye, and not much more from the looks o¡¯ it,¡± he grumbled. ¡°Take the necklace.¡± ¡°Righ¡¯.¡± Rupert removed it from the woman¡¯s neck. It was an odd thing¡ªmetal fashioned into the shape of an eye with a crescent moon dangling below it. There were no jewels to speak of; he couldn¡¯t imagine anyone wanting it. ¡°Wot¡¯s this, then?¡± Archie called. He peeled back the woman¡¯s stiff fingers. She tightly clutched a scrap of sodden paper. Rupert nudged his partner. ¡°Whassit say?¡± Archie shoved it at him. ¡°Dunno. Can¡¯t read, now, can I?¡± ¡°I ¡¯ad schoolin¡¯ till I was eight,¡± Rupert said, taking it. ¡°¡®The Tree of All Souls lives.¡¯¡± Archie nudged Rupert. ¡°Wot¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± Rupert shook his head. ¡°Dunno. What should we do wif it?¡± ¡°Leave it. There¡¯s no profit in words, Rupert, m¡¯boy. Take the clothes and toss ¡¯er over.¡± Rupert shrugged and did as he was told. Archie was right that there was no money to be gotten from an old letter. Still, it was sad when the deceased¡¯s last words were lost with her, but, he reasoned, if this lady had anyone to care about her at all, she wouldn¡¯t be floating facedown in the Thames on a rough night. With a sharp shove, the riverman dropped the dead woman overboard. She made only the slightest splash. Her body slid slowly under, the bloated white hands remaining on the surface for a few seconds more as if they were reaching for something. The rivermen pressed their hooks against the muddy bottom and cast off with the current, looking for treasure that might make a night in the cold worth the ache. Archie gave the woman¡¯s head a last prod with his hook, a violent benediction, and she slipped below the filth and muck of the mighty Thames. The river swallowed her up, accepting her flesh, taking her final warning down with her to a murky grave. CHAPTER ONE March 1896 SPENCE ACADEMY FOR YOUNG LADIES THERE IS A PARTICULAR CIRCLE OF HELL NOT MENTIONED in Dante¡¯s famous book. It is called comportment, and it exists in schools for young ladies across the empire. I do not know how it feels to be thrown into a lake of fire. I am sure it isn¡¯t pleasant. But I can say with all certainty that walking the length of a ballroom with a book upon one¡¯s head and a backboard strapped to one¡¯s back while imprisoned in a tight corset, layers of petticoats, and shoes that pinch is a form of torture even Mr. Alighieri would find too hideous to document in his Inferno. Page 2 ¡°Let us keep our eyes trained toward heaven, girls,¡± our headmistress, Mrs. Nightwing, pleads as we attempt our slow march across the floor, heads held high, arms out like ballerinas. The loops of the backboard chafe the sides of my arms. The block of wood is unyielding, and I am forced to stand as stiff as the guards at Buckingham Palace. My neck aches with the effort. Come May, I shall make my debut a full year early, for it has been decided by all parties involved that at nearly seventeen I am ready and that it would do me good to have my season now. I shall wear beautiful gowns, attend lavish parties, and dance with handsome gentlemen¡ªif I survive my training. At present, that outcome is very much in doubt. Mrs. Nightwing paces the length of the ballroom. Her stiff skirts whisk-whisk across the floor as if to rebuke it for lying there. All the while she barks orders like Admiral Nelson himself. ¡°Heads held high! Do not smile, Miss Hawthorne! Serene, somber expressions! Empty your minds!¡± I strain to keep my face a blank canvas. My spine aches. My left arm, held out to the side for what seems hours, trembles with the effort. ¡°And curtsy¡­¡± Like falling souffl¨¦s, we drop low, trying desperately not to lose our balance. Mrs. Nightwing does not give the order to rise. My legs shake with exhaustion. I cannot manage it. I stumble forward. The book tumbles from my head and lands on the floor with a resounding thud. We have done this four times, and four times I have failed in some fashion. Mrs. Nightwing¡¯s boots stop inches from my disgraced form. ¡°Miss Doyle, may I remind you that this is the court, and you are curtsying to your sovereign, not performing in the Folies Berg¨¨re?¡± ¡°Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,¡± I say sheepishly. It is hopeless. I shall never curtsy without falling. I shall lie sprawled upon the gleaming floors of Buckingham Palace like a disgraceful stain of a girl, my nose resting upon the boot of the Queen. I shall be the talk of the season, whispered about behind open fans. No doubt every man will avoid me like typhus. ¡°Miss Temple, perhaps you will demonstrate the proper curtsy for us?¡± Without ado, Cecily Temple, She Who Can Do No Wrong, settles to the floor in a long, slow, graceful arc that seems to defy gravity. It is a thing of beauty. I am hideously jealous. ¡°Thank you, Miss Temple.¡± Yes, thank you, you little demon beast. May you marry a man who eats garlic with every meal. ¡°Now, let us¡ª¡± Mrs. Nightwing is interrupted by loud banging. She closes her eyes tightly against the noise. ¡°Mrs. Nightwing,¡± Elizabeth whines. ¡°How can we possibly concentrate on our form with such a terrible racket coming from the East Wing?¡± Mrs. Nightwing is in no humor for our complaining. She takes a deep breath and clasps her hands at her waist, her head held high. ¡°We shall carry on, like England herself. If she could withstand Cromwell, the Wars of the Roses, and the French, surely you may overlook a bit of hammering. Think how lovely the East Wing shall be when it is completed. We shall try again¡ªsteady! All eyes are upon you! It won¡¯t do to scurry to Her Majesty like a timid church mouse.¡± I often imagine what sort of position Nightwing might seek out were she not currently torturing us as headmistress of Spence Academy for Young Ladies. Dear Sirs, her letter might begin. I am writing to inquire about your advert for the position of Balloon Popper. I have a hatpin that will do the trick neatly and bring about the wails of small children everywhere. My former charges will attest to the fact that I rarely smile, never laugh, and can steal the joy from any room simply by entering and bestowing upon it my unique sense of utter gloom and despair. My references in this matter are impeccable. If you have not fallen into a state of deep melancholia simply by reading my letter, please respond to Mrs. Nightwing (I have a Christian name but no one ever has leave to use it) in care of Spence Academy for Young Ladies. If you cannot be troubled to find the address on your own, you are not trying your very best. Sincerely, Mrs. Nightwing. ¡°Miss Doyle! What is that insipid smile you¡¯re wearing? Have I said something that amuses you?¡± Mrs. Nightwing¡¯s admonishment brings a flush to my cheeks. The other girls giggle. We glide across the floor, trying our best to ignore the hammering and the shouts. The noise isn¡¯t what distracts us. It is the knowledge that there are men here, one floor above us, that keeps us jittery and light. ¡°Perhaps we could see the progress they¡¯ve made, Mrs. Nightwing? How extraordinary it must be,¡± Felicity Worthington suggests with a sweetness bordering on pure syrup. Only Felicity would be so bold as to suggest this. She is too daring by half. She is also one of my only allies here at Spence. Page 3 ¡°The workmen do not need girls underfoot, as they are already behind schedule,¡± Mrs. Nightwing says. ¡°Heads up, if you please! And¡ª¡± A loud bang sounds from above. The sudden noise makes us jump. Even Mrs. Nightwing lets out a ¡°Merciful heavens!¡± Elizabeth, who is nothing more than a nervous condition disguised as a debutante, yelps and grabs hold of Cecily. ¡°Oh, Mrs. Nightwing!¡± Elizabeth cries. We look to our headmistress hopefully. Mrs. Nightwing exhales through disapproving lips. ¡°Very well. We shall adjourn for the present. Let us take the air to restore the roses to our cheeks.¡± ¡°Might we bring our paper and sketch the progress on the East Wing?¡± I suggest. ¡°It would make a fine record.¡± Mrs. Nightwing favors me with a rare smile. ¡°A most excellent suggestion, Miss Doyle. Very well, then. Gather your paper and pencils. I shall send Brigid with you. Don your coats. And walk, if you please.¡± We abandon our backboards along with our decorum, racing for the stairs and the promise of freedom, however temporary it may be. ¡°Walk!¡± Mrs. Nightwing shouts. When we cannot seem to heed her advice, she bellows after us that we are savages not fit for marriage. She adds that we shall be the shame of the school and something else besides, but we are down the first flight of stairs, and her words cannot touch us. CHAPTER TWO THE LONG EXPANSE OF THE EAST WING STRETCHES OUT like the skeleton of a great wooden bird. The framing is in place, but the men spend most of their effort on restoring the dilapidated turret that joins the East Wing to the rest of the school. Since the fire that ravaged it twenty-five years ago, it has been nothing more than a beautiful ruin. But it shall be resurrected with stone and brick and mortar, and it promises to be a magnificent tower¡ªtall and wide and imposing¡ªonce it is complete. Since January, swarms of men have come from the neighboring villages to work in the cold and damp, every day but Sunday, to make our school whole again. We girls are not allowed near the East Wing during its reconstruction. The official reason given for this is that it is far too dangerous: we might be hit by an errant beam or impaled by a rusty nail. The various ways in which we could meet a terrible end have been detailed so thoroughly by Mrs. Nightwing that every hammer stroke makes the nervous among us as jumpy as a bagful of cats. But the truth is that she doesn¡¯t want us near the men. Her orders have been clear on this point: We are not to speak to the workers at all, and they are not to speak to us. A careful distance is maintained. The workers have pitched their tents a half mile from the school. They are under the watchful eye of Mr. Miller, their foreman, while we are never without a chaperone. Every care has been taken to keep us apart. This is precisely what compels us to seek them out. Our coats buttoned up against the still-formidable March chill, we walk quickly through the woods behind Spence with our housekeeper, Brigid, huffing and puffing to keep pace. It is not kind of us to walk faster than necessary, but it is the only way to have a few moments of privacy. When we race up the hill and secure a spot with a commanding view of the construction, Brigid lags far behind, affording us precious time. Felicity thrusts out a hand. ¡°The opera glasses, if you please, Martha.¡± Martha pulls the binoculars from her coat pocket, and they are passed from girl to girl, to Felicity¡¯s waiting hands. She puts them to her eyes. ¡°Very impressive, indeed,¡± Felicity purrs. Somehow, I do not think she means the East Wing. From where we sit, I can see six handsomely formed men in shirtsleeves hoisting a giant beam into place. I¡¯m sure that had I the opera glasses, I could see the outline of their every muscle. ¡°Oh, do let me see, Fee,¡± Cecily moans. She reaches for the glasses, but Felicity pulls away. ¡°Wait your turn!¡± Cecily pouts. ¡°Brigid will be here any moment. I shan¡¯t have a turn!¡± Felicity drops the glasses quickly and reaches for her sketch pad. ¡°Don¡¯t look now, but I believe we¡¯ve caught the eye of one of the men.¡± Elizabeth jumps up, craning her neck this way and that. ¡°Which one? Which one?¡± Felicity steps on Elizabeth¡¯s foot, and she falls back. ¡°Ow! What did you do that for?¡± ¡°I said, don¡¯t look now,¡± Felicity hisses through clenched teeth. ¡°The key is to make it seem as if you do not notice their attention.¡± ¡°Ohhh,¡± Elizabeth says in understanding. ¡°That one on the end, in the shirt with the unfortunate red patching,¡± Felicity says, feigning interest in her sketch. Her coolness is a talent I wish I could manage. Instead, every day, I search the horizon for some sign of another young man, one I¡¯ve not heard a word from since I left him in London three months ago. Page 4 Elizabeth steals a peek through the opera glasses. ¡°Oh, my!¡± she says, dropping them. ¡°He winked at me! The cheek of him! I should report him to Mrs. Nightwing at once,¡± she protests, but the breathless excitement in her voice betrays her. ¡°By all the saints.¡± Brigid has finally reached us. Hurriedly, Felicity hands the opera glasses to Martha, who squeaks and drops them in the grass before shoving them into the pocket of her cape. Brigid takes a seat on a rock to catch her breath. ¡°You¡¯re too quick for your old Brigid. Have you no shame, leaving me so?¡± Felicity smiles sweetly. ¡°Oh, we are sorry, Brigid. We didn¡¯t know you¡¯d fallen so behind.¡± Under her breath she adds, ¡°You old battle-ax.¡± Brigid narrows her eyes at our tittering. ¡°Here now, wot are you on about? Making sport of your Brigid, are you?¡± ¡°Not at all.¡± ¡°Oh, this is no good.¡± Cecily sighs. ¡°How can we possibly draw the East Wing from so far a distance?¡± She looks hopefully at Brigid. ¡°You¡¯ll sketch it from here and not an inch closer, miss. You¡¯ve ¡¯eard wot Missus Nightwing ¡¯as to say on the matter.¡± Brigid stares at the timber spine, the masons cutting stone. She shakes her head. ¡°It ain¡¯t right putting that cursed place back together. They should leave well enough alone.¡± ¡°Oh, but it¡¯s thrilling!¡± Elizabeth argues. ¡°And think how lovely Spence will look once the East Wing has been restored!¡± Martha echoes. ¡°How could you say it¡¯s not right, Brigid?¡± ¡°Because I remember,¡± Brigid says, tapping the side of her head. ¡°There was something not right about that place, the turret in particular. Somethin¡¯ you could feel. I could tell you stories¡­¡± ¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure you could, Brigid, and fine stories they¡¯d be,¡± Felicity says, as sweetly as a mother placating her irritable child. ¡°But I do worry that the chill will put the ache in your back.¡± ¡°Well,¡± Brigid says, rubbing her sides. ¡°¡¯Tis a bother. And m¡¯knees ain¡¯t gettin¡¯ no younger.¡± We nod in concerned agreement. ¡°We¡¯ll only step a fraction closer,¡± Felicity coos. ¡°Just enough for a proper sketch.¡± We do our best to look as innocent as a choir of angels. Brigid gives us a quick nod. ¡°Off you go, then. Don¡¯t go gettin¡¯ too close! And don¡¯t think I won¡¯t be watching!¡± ¡°Thank you, Brigid!¡± we shout gleefully. We move quickly down the hill before she can change her mind. ¡°And be quick about it! Looks like rain!¡± A sudden gust of brisk late-March wind blows across the brittle lawn. It rattles the weary tree limbs like bone necklaces and whips our skirts up till we have to push them down. The girls squeal in surprise¡ªand delight¡ªfor it has brought us the attention of every man¡¯s eyes for one unguarded, forbidden moment. The gust is the last charge of winter¡¯s army. Already the leaves are shaking off sleep and arming themselves. Soon they will mount their attack of green, forcing winter¡¯s retreat. I pull my shawl about my neck. Spring is coming, but I cannot yet shake the cold. ¡°Are they looking?¡± Elizabeth asks excitedly, stealing glances at the men. ¡°Steady,¡± Felicity says under her breath. Martha¡¯s curls hang limply at her neck. She gives them a hopeful push, but they will not spring back into shape. ¡°Tell me truthfully, has the damp made a ruin of my hair?¡± ¡°No,¡± Elizabeth lies at the precise moment I say, ¡°Yes, it has.¡± Martha purses her lips. ¡°I might have known you¡¯d be unkind, Gemma Doyle.¡± The other girls give me frosty stares. It would appear that ¡°Tell me truthfully¡± is a carefully coded message which means ¡°Lie at all costs.¡± I shall make a note of it. It often seems that there is a primer on all things Polite and Ladylike and that I have not had the good guidance of its pages. Perhaps this is why Cecily, Martha, and Elizabeth loathe me so and only tolerate my presence when Felicity is around. For my part, I find their minds to be as corseted as their waists, with conversations limited to parties, dresses, and the misfortunes or shortcomings of others. I should rather take my chances with the lions of Rome¡¯s ancient Colosseum than endure another tea chat with the likes of them. At least the lions are honest about their desire to eat you and make no effort to hide it. Felicity glances at the men. ¡°Here we go.¡± We edge closer to the work site. Page 5 The workers have caught the fever of us now. They stop what they are doing and quickly doff their caps. The gesture is all politeness, but their smiles hint at less mannerly thoughts. I find I am blushing. ¡°Oi, gents. Keep to the work if you want to keep working,¡± the foreman warns. Mr. Miller is a burly man with arms the size of small hams. To us, he is courteous. ¡°Good day, ladies.¡± ¡°Good day,¡± we murmur. ¡°There¡¯s trinkets for the taking, if you¡¯d like a souvenir of the old girl.¡± He nods toward a rubbish pile where discarded lumber lies along with the broken, soot-smudged glass of decades-old lamps. It is the very sort of thing Mrs. Nightwing would place on her To Be Avoided for Fear of Injury, Death, or Disgrace list. ¡°Take any souvenirs you like.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± Cecily mumbles, backing away. Elizabeth continues to blush and smile and glance shyly at the man with the red-patched shirt, who appraises her longingly. ¡°Yes, thank you,¡± Felicity says, taking control of the situation as she always does. ¡°We shall do that.¡± We set about scavenging through the remains of the old East Wing. The great school¡¯s past is told here in splintered, charred wood and remnants of paper. To some, it is the story of a tragic fire that took the lives of two girls. But I know better. The true story of this place is one of magic and mystery, of devotion and betrayal, of wickedness and unspeakable sacrifice. Most of all, it is the story of two girls¡ªbest friends turned bitter enemies¡ªboth of them thought dead in the fire twenty-five years ago. The truth was so much worse. One of the girls, Sarah Rees-Toome, chose a path of darkness under the name Circe. Years later, she hunted down the other girl, her former friend, Mary Dowd, who had become someone new, Virginia Doyle¡ªmy mother. With an evil spirit at her disposal, Circe murdered my mother and set my life on a different course. The story whispered in these walls is my story as well. All around me, the girls jump about in merry treasure hunting. But I can¡¯t feel happy here. This is a place of ghosts, and I don¡¯t believe that new beams and a warm fire in a marble hearth will change that. I want no souvenirs of the past. A fresh round of hammering sets a family of birds squawking toward the safety of the sky. I stare at the pile of discarded remnants and think of my mother. Did she touch that pillar there? Does her scent still linger in a fragment of glass or a splinter of wood? A terrible emptiness settles into my chest. No matter how much I go about living, there are always small reminders that make the loss fresh again. ¡°Oi, there¡¯s a beauty.¡± It¡¯s the man with the red patch on his shirt. He points to a jagged wooden pillar eaten through at one end with rot. But much of it has managed to survive the wrath of the fire and the years of neglect. Carved into it is an assortment of girls¡¯ names. I run my fingers over the grooves and the fanciful scrapings. So many names. Alice. Louise. Theodora. Isabel. Mina. My fingers move across the bumpy wood, feeling it like a blind person¡¯s. I know that her name must be here, and I am not disappointed. Mary. I flatten my palm against the years-worn carving, hoping to feel my mother¡¯s presence beneath my skin. But it is only dead wood. I blink against the tears that sting my eyes. ¡°Miss?¡± The man is looking at me curiously. Quickly, I wipe my cheeks. ¡°It¡¯s the wind. It¡¯s blown cinders into my eyes.¡± ¡°Aye, wind¡¯s strong. More rain comin¡¯. Maybe a storm.¡± ¡°Oh, here comes Mrs. Nightwing!¡± Cecily hisses. ¡°Please, let¡¯s go! I don¡¯t want to get in trouble.¡± Quickly, we gather our sketches and sit a safe distance away on a stone bench by the still-hibernating rose garden, our heads bent in desperate concentration. But Mrs. Nightwing takes no note. She appraises the progress on the building. The wind carries her voice to us. ¡°I had hoped to be farther along by now, Mr. Miller.¡± ¡°We¡¯re putting in a ten-hour day, missus. And then there¡¯s the rain. Can¡¯t blame a man for nature.¡± Mr. Miller makes the grave error of smiling at Mrs. Nightwing in a charming way. She does not succumb to charm. But it is too late for me to warn him. Mrs. Nightwing¡¯s withering glare sends the men¡¯s heads down over their lumber. The sound of hammers and saws hard at work is deafening. Mr. Miller¡¯s smile vanishes. ¡°If you cannot finish the job in a timely manner, Mr. Miller, I shall be forced to seek other workers.¡± ¡°There¡¯s building all over London, mum. You won¡¯t find the likes of us growing on trees.¡± By my count, there are at least twenty men working day in and day out, and still Mrs. Nightwing isn¡¯t satisfied. She clucks and fusses and badgers Mr. Miller daily. It is very queer. For if the old building has lain hollowed out for this long, what do a few months more matter? Page 6 I try to capture the likeness of the new turret on my paper. When completed, it will be the tallest part of Spence, perhaps five stories high. It is wide as well. A man stands near the top, pressed against the gathering rain clouds like a weather vane. ¡°Do you not find it odd that Nightwing¡¯s in such haste to complete the East Wing?¡± I ask Felicity. Cecily overhears and is compelled to give her opinion. ¡°It¡¯s not a moment too soon, if you ask me. It¡¯s a disgrace they¡¯ve let it go so long.¡± ¡°I hear it¡¯s only now they¡¯ve secured the funds,¡± Elizabeth reports. ¡°No, no, no!¡± Mrs. Nightwing strides toward the masons with purpose, as if they were her charges. ¡°I¡¯ve told you¡ªthese stones must be placed in order, here and here.¡± She points to an outline made in chalk. ¡°Begging your pardon, missus, but what does it matter? She¡¯s goin¡¯ up sturdy and strong.¡± ¡°It is a restoration,¡± she sniffs as if speaking to a simpleton. ¡°The plans are to be followed exactly, without deviation.¡± A worker calls down from atop the turret¡¯s third floor. ¡°¡¯Ere comes the rain, sir!¡± A splat hits my cheek in warning. A rhythm of drops follows. They splatter across my page, turning my sketch of the East Wing into rivulets of charcoal. The men look to the sky with upturned palms as if asking it for mercy, and the sky answers: No quarter. Quickly, the men scamper down the turret¡¯s side and race to cover their tools and save them from rust. With sketch pads held over our heads, we girls dash through the trees like frightened geese, squawking and squealing at the indignity of such a soaking. Brigid waves us in, her arms a promise of safety and a warm fire. Felicity pulls me behind a tree. ¡°Fee! The rain!¡± I protest. ¡°Ann returns this evening. We could try to enter the realms.¡± ¡°And what if I can¡¯t make the door appear?¡± ¡°You only need to put your mind to it,¡± she insists. ¡°Do you think I didn¡¯t put my mind to it last week or last month or the time before that?¡± The rain is coming down harder now. ¡°Perhaps I am to be punished. For what I did to Nell and Miss Moore.¡± ¡°Miss Moore!¡± Felicity spits. ¡°Circe¡ªthat¡¯s her name. She was a murderer. Gemma, she killed your mother and countless other girls to get to you and your power, and she would surely have destroyed you had you not dispatched her first.¡± I want to believe that this is true, that I did right to imprison Miss Moore in the realms forever. I want to believe that binding the magic to myself was the only way to save it. I want to believe that Kartik is alive and well and making his way to me here at Spence, that in these woods at any moment I shall see him wearing a smile meant only for me. But these days, I¡¯m not certain of anything. ¡°I don¡¯t know that she¡¯s dead,¡± I mumble. ¡°She¡¯s dead and good riddance to her.¡± Life is ever so much simpler in Fee¡¯s world. And for once, I wish I could crawl into the solid lines of it and live without question. ¡°I have to know what happened to Pippa. Tonight we¡¯ll try again. Look at me.¡± She turns my face to hers so that I cannot avoid her eyes. ¡°Promise.¡± ¡°I promise,¡± I say, and I hope she cannot see my doubt turning to fear. CHAPTER THREE THE RAIN HAS LOOSED ITS WRATH IN FULL. IT SOAKS THE sleeping rose garden and the lawn, the yellow green of the leaves struggling to be born. It has also found my friend Ann Bradshaw. She stands in the foyer in a plain brown wool coat and a drab hat dotted with droplets. Her small suitcase rests at her feet. She has spent the week with her cousins in Kent. Come May, when Felicity and I make our debuts, Ann will go to work for them as governess to their two children. Our only hope for changing her prospects was to enter the realms and attempt to bind the magic to all of us. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot enter the realms. And without the realms, I cannot make the magic flare to life. Not since Christmas have I seen that enchanted world, though in these past few months I have tried dozens of times to get back. There have been moments when I¡¯ve felt a spark, but it is short-lived, no more consequential than a single drop of rain in a drought. Day by day, our hopes dim, and our futures seem as fixed as the stars. ¡°Welcome home,¡± I say, helping Ann out of her wet coat. ¡°Thank you.¡± Her nose runs, and her hair, the color of a field mouse¡¯s fur, slips loose of its moorings. Long, thin strands of it hang over her blue eyes and plaster themselves to her full cheeks. Page 7 ¡°How was your stay with your cousins?¡± Ann does not smile at all. ¡°Tolerable.¡± ¡°And the children? Are you fond of them?¡± I ask, hopefully. ¡°Lottie locked me in a cupboard for an hour. Little Carrie kicked my leg and called me a pudding.¡± She wipes her nose. ¡°That was the first day.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± We stand uncertainly under the glare of Spence¡¯s infamous brass snake chandelier. Ann lowers her voice to a whisper. ¡°Have you managed to return to the realms?¡± I shake my head, and Ann looks as if she might cry. ¡°But we¡¯ll try again tonight,¡± I say quickly. A glimmer of a smile lights Ann¡¯s face for a moment. ¡°There¡¯s hope yet,¡± I add. Without a word, Ann follows me to the great hall, past the roaring fires and the ornately carved columns, the girls playing whist. Brigid thrills a small circle of younger girls with tales of fairies and pixies she swears live in the woods behind Spence. ¡°They don¡¯t!¡± one girl protests, but in her eyes I see she wants to be proven wrong. ¡°Aye, they do, miss. And more creatures besides. You¡¯d best not go out past dark. That¡¯s their time. Stay safe in your beds and you¡¯ll not wake to find you¡¯ve been carried away in the company of the Others,¡± Brigid warns. The girls rush to the windows to peer into the vast expanse of night, hoping for a glimpse of fairy queens and sprites. I could tell them they won¡¯t see them there. They¡¯d have to travel with us through the door of light to the world beyond this one to keep company with such fantastical creatures. And they might not like all that they see. ¡°Our Ann has returned,¡± I announce, parting the curtains to Felicity¡¯s private tent. Ever the dramatic one, Felicity has cordoned off one corner of the enormous room with silk curtains. It is like a pasha¡¯s home, and she lords over it as if it were an empire of her own. Felicity takes in the sight of Ann¡¯s damp, mud-caked skirt hem. ¡°Mind the carpets.¡± Ann wipes her soiled skirts, dropping crumbs of dried mud onto the floor, and Felicity sighs in irritation. ¡°Oh, Ann, really.¡± ¡°Sorry,¡± Ann mumbles. She pulls her skirts close to her body and takes a seat on the floor, trying not to dirty it further. Without asking, she reaches into the open chocolate box and takes three, much to Felicity¡¯s annoyance. ¡°You needn¡¯t take them all,¡± Fee grumbles. Ann puts two back. They are imprinted with her hand. Felicity sighs. ¡°You¡¯ve touched them now; you might as well eat them.¡± Guiltily, Ann shoves all three into her mouth at once. She cannot possibly be enjoying their taste. ¡°What do you have there?¡± ¡°This?¡± Felicity holds out a white card with beautiful black lettering. ¡°I¡¯ve received an invitation to Lady Tatterhall¡¯s tea for a Miss Hurley. It shall have an Egyptian theme.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Ann says dully. Her hand lingers over the chocolate box. ¡°I suppose you¡¯ve gotten one, too, Gemma.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say guiltily. I hate that Ann¡¯s not included¡ªit is beastly unfair¡ªbut I can¡¯t help wishing she didn¡¯t make me feel quite so horrid about it. ¡°And of course there is the ball at Yardsley Hall,¡± Felicity continues. ¡°That promises to be quite grand. Did you hear about young Miss Eaton?¡± I shake my head. ¡°She wore diamonds before evening!¡± Felicity nearly squeals with delight. ¡°It was the talk of London. She¡¯ll never make that mistake again. Oh, you should see the gloves Mother sent round for the Collinsworth ball. They¡¯re exquisite!¡± Ann pulls a thread on the hem of her dress. She won¡¯t attend the Collinsworth ball or any other unless it is as chaperone to Lottie or Carrie someday. She will not have a season or dance with handsome suitors. She will not wear ostrich feathers in her hair and bow to Her Majesty. She is here at Spence as a scholarship student, sponsored by her wealthy cousins so that she might make an appropriate governess to their children. I clear my throat. Felicity catches my eye. ¡°Ann,¡± she says, far too cheerfully. ¡°How was your time in Kent? Is it as lovely in the spring as they say?¡± ¡°Little Carrie called me a pudding.¡± Felicity tries not to laugh. ¡°Ahem. Well, she¡¯s only a child. You¡¯ll have her in hand soon enough.¡± ¡°There¡¯s a small room for me at the top of the stairs. It looks out on the stables.¡± ¡°A window. Yes, well, quite nice to have a view,¡± Felicity says, missing the point entirely. ¡°Oh, what do you have there?¡± Page 8 Ann shows us a program for a production of Macbeth at the Drury Lane Theatre, starring the great American actress Lily Trimble. Ann gazes longingly at the dramatic drawing of Miss Trimble as Lady Macbeth. ¡°Did you attend?¡± I ask. Ann shakes her head. ¡°My cousins went.¡± Without her. Everyone who knows Ann at all knows how much she adores plays. ¡°But they let you keep the program,¡± Felicity says. ¡°That¡¯s quite nice.¡± Yes, just as a cat that lets a mouse keep its tail is nice. Felicity can be so beastly at times. ¡°Did you have a fine birthday?¡± Ann says. ¡°Yes, ever so enjoyable,¡± Felicity purrs. ¡°Eighteen. What a glorious age. Now I shall come into my inheritance. Well, not straightaway, mind. My grandmother did insist I make my debut as a condition of her will. The moment I curtsy before the Queen and back away again, I shall be a rich woman, and I may do as I please.¡± ¡°Once you make your debut,¡± Ann repeats, swallowing the last of her chocolate. Felicity takes a chocolate for herself. ¡°Lady Markham has already announced her intention to sponsor me. So it¡¯s as good as done. Felicity Worthington, heiress.¡± Fee¡¯s good spirits vanish. ¡°I only wish Pippa were here to share it.¡± Ann and I exchange glances at the mention of Pip. Once, she was one of us. Now she is somewhere in the realms, most likely lost to the Winterlands. Who knows what she has become? But Fee still clings to the hope that she might be found, might yet be saved. The tent opens. Cecily, Elizabeth, and Martha crowd inside. It is far too close with all of us here. Elizabeth falls into Felicity while Martha and Cecily take a seat next to me. Ann is pushed to the very back of the tent. ¡°I¡¯ve just had an invitation to a ball hosted by the Duchess of Crewesbury,¡± Cecily says. She settles herself on the floor like a spoiled Persian cat. ¡°And I as well,¡± Elizabeth adds. Felicity does her best to look bored. ¡°My mother received ours ages ago.¡± I haven¡¯t received such an invitation, and I hope no one will ask me if I have. Martha fans herself, grimacing. ¡°Oh, dear. It is rather close in here, isn¡¯t it? I¡¯m afraid we cannot all fit.¡± She glances at Ann. Cecily and her lot have never treated Ann as more than a servant, but since our unfortunate attempt to pass her off in society as a duke¡¯s daughter of Russian blood last Christmas, Ann has become a complete pariah. The gossip has spread in letters and whispers and now there isn¡¯t a girl at Spence who doesn¡¯t know the story. ¡°We shall miss you dearly, Cecily,¡± I say, smiling brightly. I should like to kick her squarely in the teeth. Cecily makes it quite clear she won¡¯t be the one to leave. She spreads out her skirts, taking up even more space. Martha whispers in Elizabeth¡¯s ear and they break into tittering. I could ask what they are laughing about, but they won¡¯t tell me, so there¡¯s no point. ¡°What is that smell?¡± Martha asks, making a face. Cecily sniffs dramatically. ¡°Caviar, perhaps? All the way from Russia! Why, it must be from the czar himself!¡± The venal little trolls. Ann¡¯s cheeks blaze and her lips quiver. She stands so quickly she nearly topples over as she rushes for the tent¡¯s flaps. ¡°If you¡¯ll excuse me, I¡¯ve needlework to finish.¡± ¡°Please do give my best to your uncle, the duke,¡± Cecily calls after her, and the others snicker. ¡°Why must you taunt her so?¡± I ask. ¡°She doesn¡¯t deserve to be here,¡± Cecily says with easy certainty. ¡°That isn¡¯t true,¡± I say. ¡°Isn¡¯t it? Some people simply don¡¯t belong.¡± Cecily fixes me with a haughty stare. ¡°I¡¯ve recently heard your father is unwell and resting at Oldham. How worried you must be. Pray, what is his affliction?¡± All Cecily lacks is a forked tongue, for she is certainly a snake beneath that beautiful dress. ¡°Influenza,¡± I say, the lie tasting sharp in my mouth. ¡°Influenza,¡± she repeats, glancing slyly at the others. ¡°But he is much improved, and I shall pay him a visit tomorrow.¡± Cecily doesn¡¯t yield just yet. ¡°I am glad to know it, for one hears such unsavory stories at times¡ªgentlemen being found in opium dens and forced into sanitariums for it. Scandalous.¡± ¡°Cecily Temple, I shall not hear slander this evening,¡± Felicity warns. ¡°It is influenza,¡± I repeat, but my voice has lost its steadiness. Cecily¡¯s smile is triumphant. ¡°Yes, of course it is.¡± Page 9 I hurry after Ann, calling her name, but she doesn¡¯t stop. Instead, she quickens her pace till she¡¯s nearly running, desperate to be away from us and our talk of parties and teas. All that glittering promise close enough to touch but not to have. ¡°Ann, please,¡± I say, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. She¡¯s halfway up. ¡°Ann, you mustn¡¯t pay them any mind. They¡¯re not true girls. They are hideous fiends¡ªtroglodytes in ringlets!¡± If I¡¯d hoped to make Ann laugh, I¡¯d missed my mark. ¡°But they are the ones who rule,¡± she says without looking up. ¡°They always have and they always shall.¡± ¡°But, Ann, they¡¯ve not seen the things you have in the realms. They don¡¯t know what you¡¯ve done. You turned rocks to butterflies and sailed through a curtain of gold. You saved us from the water nymphs with your song.¡± ¡°Once,¡± she says flatly. ¡°What does any of it matter? It won¡¯t change my fate, will it? Come May, you and Felicity will have your season. I shall go to work for my cousins. It will end, and we¡¯ll never see each other again.¡± For a moment, she looks into my eyes, obviously hoping to find comfort there. Tell me I am wrong; tell me you¡¯ve got another trick up your sleeve, Gemma, her eyes plead. But she isn¡¯t wrong, and I¡¯m not quick or glib enough to lie. Not tonight. ¡°Don¡¯t let them win, Ann. Come back to the tent.¡± She doesn¡¯t look at me, but I can feel her disgust. ¡°You don¡¯t understand, do you? They¡¯ve already won.¡± And with that, she retreats into the shadows. I could return to Fee and the others, but I¡¯m in no humor for it. A melancholy has settled over my heart and will not yield, and I want solitude. I find a proper reading chair in the great hall far away from the chatter of girls. I¡¯ve read no more than a few pages when I notice that I am only an arm¡¯s length away from the infamous column. It is one of the many odd touches at Spence. There is the chandelier of carved snakes in the foyer. The leering gargoyles upon the roof. The ridiculous ostrich-feather paper on the walls. The portrait of Spence¡¯s founder, Eugenia Spence, looming at the top of the stairs, her piercing blue eyes seeing all. I would count among these oddities the giant hearths that seem less like mantels and more like the open maws of terrible beasts. And then there is this column in the center of the great room. It boasts carvings of fairies, satyrs, sprites, nymphs, and imps of all sorts. It is also alive. Or it was once. Those ¡°carvings¡± are realms creatures stuck here for eternity. Once, we foolishly brought them to life with the magic, and we were nearly destroyed by it. Some of the mischievous creatures tried to escape; others attempted to compromise our virtue. In the end, we forced them back to their prison. I peer closely at those tiny bodies frozen in stone. The creatures¡¯ mouths are open in a scream of anger. Their eyes stare through me. If they got loose, I shouldn¡¯t want to be here. Though it frightens me, I¡¯m compelled to touch the column. My fingers come to rest on a fairy¡¯s rigid wings, stopped in midflight. A shudder passes through me, and I lay my palm elsewhere. It lands on a satyr¡¯s snarling lips, and my heartbeat quickens, for I feel a curious mixture of fascination and repulsion. I close my eyes and allow my fingers to explore the rough grooves and rises of its threatening mouth, the tongue, the lips, the teeth. My fingers slip on the stone; a harsh edge cuts my skin. I gasp at the pain. Blood beads in the slim crevice. I¡¯ve no handkerchief, so I plunge my finger into my mouth, tasting the bitter tang of it. The column is silent, but I can feel its menace in the throb of my injury. I move my chair closer to Brigid¡¯s comforting patter, her motherly maxims, and far away from the column¡¯s dangerous beauty. At ten o¡¯clock, our eyes heavy and our bodies longing for the warmth of blankets and the forgetting of sleep, we girls climb the stairs to our rooms for the night. Felicity squeezes past me. ¡°Half past twelve. The usual spot,¡± she whispers. She does not wait for my nod. She has given the order and that is all. The lamps still burn softly in my room. Ann is asleep, but she has left the sewing scissors where I can see them. The blades are closed, but I know they have done their work marking the insides of her arms. I know she is covered in fresh welts that will soon blend into the tapestry of old scars woven into her flesh. If I had a way into the realms again, a way to the magic, I might be able to help her. But for now, I cannot change her fate. I can only wonder if she will. CHAPTER FOUR WHEN I FIRST ARRIVED AT THE SPENCE ACADEMY FOR Young Ladies, I knew nothing of its past and its relation to my life. I had come in mourning weeds, my mother having died only months before. Cholera was the official explanation for her death. But I knew better. In a vision I had seen her die, hunted by a hideous wraith from another world, a tracker, that meant to take her soul had she not taken her own life in self-defense. Page 10 It was the first of my visions but not the last. I came to have many of them. I had inherited a power; a lineage passed from my mother to me, a gift in some ways, a curse in others. It was here at Spence that I learned of my bond to a world beyond this one, a world of extraordinary power called the realms. For centuries, the realms were ruled by a powerful tribe of priestesses called the Order. Together, they used the realms magic to help the dead complete their souls¡¯ tasks when needed and cross the river. Over time, their power grew. They could cast grand illusions, influence people and events in the mortal world. But their greatest duty was to keep the balance between good and evil within the realms. For there are many tribes there, and some of them¡ªthe malevolent creatures of the Winterlands¡ªwould do anything to seize control of the magic, that they might rule the realms and perhaps our world as well. To keep the magic safe, the Order sealed it in a circle of runes. Only they could draw upon its power then. The other tribes of the realms grew disenchanted and resentful. They wanted to have equal say. Even the Order¡¯s allies became untrustworthy over time. The Order was once united in protecting the realms with the Rakshana. These men kept law there and watched over the priestesses. They were also their lovers. But they, too, grew resentful of the Order¡¯s control over the realms and its great magic. And so it had been for ages: every side grappling to hold the magic¡ªuntil the fire twenty-five years ago. On that night, my mother and her best friend offered a sacrifice¡ªa young Gypsy girl¡ªto the Winterlands creatures in exchange for power. But something went wrong. The child was accidentally killed, and thus her soul could not be taken. Enraged, the creatures demanded the girls themselves, for they had foolishly entered into the bargain, and now it would be honored, one way or another. To save the lives of my mother and Sarah, Eugenia Spence, the Order¡¯s great teacher and the founder of Spence Academy, gave herself to the Winterlands creatures in payment for the girls¡¯ terrible deed. Her last act was to throw her amulet to my mother. Eugenia closed the realms, sealed them so that no one and nothing could go in or come out until a powerful priestess was born, one who could open the realms again and chart a new course for the magical world. I am that girl. And no one seems at all happy about it. The Order thinks me headstrong and foolish. The Rakshana find me dangerous. They sent one of their own, a young man named Kartik, to watch me, to warn me not to enter the realms, and when that did not work, they told him to kill me. Instead, he betrayed his brotherhood and saved my life, putting a price on his own head. They may not like it, but the facts are these: I was the one who was able to open the realms again, and so far, no one may enter without my help. I was the one who broke the seal on the magic by shattering the runes. And I was the one to find the source of the magic, in a protected place called the Temple. It was at the Temple that I fought Circe, my mother¡¯s foe and an enemy of the Order, to keep the magic safe. In so doing, I killed her and bound the magic to myself for safekeeping. I promised to join hands with my friends, with Kartik, and with the tribes of the realms to make an alliance, with a share of magic for all. But since that time, I¡¯ve had no visions and no way to enter the realms. I haven¡¯t a clue why this has happened. I know only that each time I have tried to make the door of light that leads into the other world, it has not come. Instead, I am tormented by a momentary glimpse of Circe, as I left her, trapped beneath the surface of the well of eternity inside the Temple. Lost forever in that magical well turned watery grave. I am the one who must decide the future of the realms and their power, and I haven¡¯t the slightest idea how to get back. Right. But tonight will be a different story. We¡¯ll find our way in. I shall find my courage. I shall feel the magic spark in my veins again. My friends and I will step into the fragrant gardens of the realms, and a new chapter will begin. For if not, I fear that the realms are lost to us for good. When the school is dark and silent, and the day¡¯s merry schoolgirl chatter is no more than an echo¡¯s echo in Spence¡¯s halls, Ann and I tiptoe to meet Felicity near the stairs. The East Wing sleeps tonight¡ªno hammers to disturb us. Yet it has a power all its own. Be silent, East Wing. I shall not listen to your whispers this evening. Felicity has something cupped in her hand. ¡°What do you have there?¡± I ask. She opens her hand to show us a dainty lace handkerchief. ¡°It¡¯s for Pippa, if we see her.¡± ¡°It¡¯s very nice. She¡¯ll adore it,¡± I say, because I shan¡¯t be the one to take Felicity¡¯s hope away. Page 11 We follow her down the long staircase. Our shadows stretch taller as we descend, as if they would reach for the safety of our beds. We slip into the great hall, to Felicity¡¯s tent, and sit on the floor, legs crossed, as we have so many times before. Ann chews her bottom lip and watches me. ¡°Ready?¡± Felicity asks. I take a shaky breath and let it out. ¡°Yes. Let¡¯s begin.¡± We clasp hands, and I do my best to clear my mind, to think of nothing but the realms. I see the green of the garden, the Caves of Sighs rising high over the singing river. That enchanted world begins to take shape behind my eyes. ¡°Do you see it yet?¡± Ann interrupts. The view of the garden fades like a wisp of smoke. ¡°Ann!¡± ¡°Sorry,¡± she mumbles. ¡°You mustn¡¯t unsettle her nerves!¡± Felicity scolds. She squeezes my hands. ¡°Just remember, Gemma, the whole of our futures rests with you.¡± Yes, thank you. I¡¯m ever so calmed by that. ¡°I shall need absolute quiet, if you please.¡± Dutifully, they bow their heads and shut their mouths, and, already, it is like a stroke of magic. Come now, Gemma. You mustn¡¯t think you can¡¯t. Imagine the door. It will come. Make it come. Will it to be. The door doesn¡¯t appear. I see nothing, feel nothing. Panic takes hold, whispering now-familiar questions through my soul: What if the gift was only borrowed? What if I¡¯ve lost it forever? What if it¡¯s all been a mistake and I¡¯m only ordinary after all? I open my eyes, try to steady my breathing. ¡°I need a moment.¡± ¡°We shouldn¡¯t have waited so long to try,¡± Felicity grouses. ¡°We should have gone in straightaway, in January. Why did we wait?¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t ready to return then,¡± I say. ¡°You were waiting for him to come back,¡± Felicity says. ¡°Well, he¡¯s not coming.¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t waiting for Kartik,¡± I snap, stung through and through. She¡¯s partly right, of course. But only partly. An image of Miss Moore drifts into my head. I see her determined jaw, the pocket watch in her hand, the way she looked when she was our beloved teacher, before we knew her to be Circe. Before I killed her. ¡°I¡­I wasn¡¯t ready yet. That¡¯s all.¡± Felicity fixes me with a cool stare. ¡°You did nothing to be sorry for. She deserved to die.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s try again,¡± Ann says. She offers her hands, and I see the bumpy welts of this evening¡¯s little cuts. ¡°Right. Third time¡¯s the charm,¡± I joke, though I¡¯m anything but lighthearted. I close my eyes and slow my breathing, trying again to clear my mind of everything but the realms and a way in. Heat pools in my stomach, teasing. It is like repeatedly striking a dull match that will not burn. Come on, come on. For a moment, it flares to life, the familiar fire catching on the tinder of my desires. I see the softly swaying olive trees in the garden. The sweet river. And I see the door of light. Ha! Oh, yes! I have missed this! Now I need only to make it stay¡­. The image fades, and in its place, I see Circe¡¯s ghostly face beneath the cold water of the well. Her eyes snap open. ¡°Gemma¡­¡± With a gasp, I break off, and the power is gone. I can feel the realms receding like a tide I¡¯m helpless to pull to the shore. No matter how much I try to get it back, I can¡¯t. Ann lets go first. She¡¯s accustomed to disappointment and quicker to recognize defeat. ¡°I¡¯m going to bed.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whisper. The weight of their unhappiness makes it hard to breathe. ¡°I don¡¯t know what has happened.¡± Felicity shakes her head. ¡°I don¡¯t understand how this could be. You bound the magic to yourself. We should be able to get it without any trouble at all.¡± We should, but we can¡¯t. I can¡¯t. And with each failed attempt, my confidence wanes. What if I should never get back? Long after my friends have gone to sleep, I sit in my bed, hugging my knees to my chest with my eyes closed tight. I beg the door of light to appear with a single repeated word. Please, please, please¡­ I beg until my voice is raspy with tears and desperation, till the early dawn casts its unforgiving light on me, till I am left with only what I cannot bring myself to say¡ªthat I have lost my magic, and that I am nothing without it. CHAPTER FIVE THE OLDHAM SANITARIUM, AN HOUR¡¯S TRAIN RIDE FROM London, is a large white estate surrounded by a vast, pleasing lawn. Several chairs have been set out so that the residents may take some sun as often as they like. Page 12 As promised, Tom and I have come to visit Father. I¡¯ve not wanted to see him in this place. I prefer to think of him always in his study by a robust fire, his pipe in one hand, a twinkle in his eye and a fantastic tale at the ready to entertain all. But I suppose even the Oldham Sanitarium is a far better memory than the one I have of my father in an East London opium den, so lost on the drug that he¡¯d bartered even his wedding ring for more. No, I shan¡¯t think about that. Not today. ¡°Remember, Gemma, you¡¯re to be cheerful and light,¡± Tom¡ªmy older, yet sadly not wiser, brother¡ªadvises as we stroll down the great expanse of lawn past neatly trimmed hedges with nary a stray branch or errant weed to disturb their careful symmetry. I smile brightly at a passing nurse. ¡°I think I shall remember how to behave without your good counsel, Thomas,¡± I say through clenched teeth. ¡°I do wonder.¡± Honestly, what use are brothers except to torment and irritate at equal turns? ¡°Really, Thomas, you should take more care at breakfast. You¡¯ve an egg stain big as life on your shirt.¡± Tom paws at himself, panicked. ¡°I don¡¯t see it!¡± ¡°Right¡±¡ªI tap the side of his head¡ª¡°here.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°April Fools¡¯.¡± His mouth twists into a smirk. ¡°But it¡¯s not yet April.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say, marching ahead at a good clip. ¡°And yet you are still a fool.¡± A nurse in a starched white pinafore points us toward a small sitting area near a gazebo. A man sits stretched out on a reclining caned-back chair, a plaid blanket across his legs. I don¡¯t recognize Father at first. He is so very thin. Tom clears his throat. ¡°Hello, Father. You¡¯re looking well.¡± ¡°Yes, better each day. Gemma, pet, you¡¯ve grown more beautiful, I think.¡± He only glances at me as he says this. We don¡¯t look at each other anymore. Not really. Not since I pulled him from that opium den. Now when I look at him, I see the addict. And when he looks at me, he sees what he would rather not remember. I wish I could be his adored little girl again, sitting at his side. ¡°You¡¯re too kind, Father.¡± Light and cheerful, Gemma. I give a pained smile. He is so thin. ¡°Fine day, is it not?¡± Father says. ¡°Indeed. A very fine day.¡± ¡°The gardens here are quite lovely,¡± I say. ¡°Yes. Quite,¡± Tom seconds. Father nods absently. ¡°Ah.¡± I perch on the edge of my seat, ready to go at a moment¡¯s notice. I offer him a box wrapped in elaborate gold foil and garnished with a big red bow. ¡°I¡¯ve brought you those peppermints you¡¯re so fond of.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± he says, taking them without enthusiasm. ¡°Thank you, pet. Thomas, have you given any thought to the Hippocrates Society?¡± Tom scowls. ¡°What is the Hippocrates Society?¡± I ask. ¡°A fine gentlemen¡¯s club of scientists and physicians, great thinkers all. They¡¯ve expressed an interest in our Thomas.¡± This seems a fine match for Tom, as he¡¯s a clinical assistant at Bethlem Royal Hospital¡ªBedlam¡ªand, despite his many faults, a gifted healer. Medicine and science are his twin passions, so I cannot understand his sneer at the Hippocrates Society. ¡°I have no interest in them,¡± Tom says firmly. ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Most of their members are between the ages of forty and death,¡± Tom sniffs. ¡°There is great wisdom in those halls, Thomas. You¡¯d be wise to honor that.¡± Tom takes one of the peppermints. ¡°It is not the Athenaeum Club.¡± ¡°Setting your sights a bit high, aren¡¯t you, old boy? The Athenaeum takes only its own, and we are not its own,¡± Father says decisively. ¡°I might be,¡± Tom contends. Tom wants desperately to be accepted into the very finest of London society. Father thinks him foolish for it. I do hate it when they argue, and I don¡¯t want Tom to upset Father just now. ¡°Papa, I hear you shall come home soon,¡± I say. ¡°Yes, so they tell me. Fit as a fiddle, your old man.¡± He coughs. ¡°How nice that will be,¡± Tom says without enthusiasm. ¡°Quite,¡± Father agrees. And with that we fall into silence. A flock of geese wander across the lawn as if they, too, have lost their way. A groundskeeper shoos them toward a pond in the distance. But there is no one to help us onto a new path, and so we sit, talking of nothing that matters and avoiding all mention of anything that does. At last, a moonfaced nurse with coppery hair going to gray approaches. Page 13 ¡°Good day to you, Mr. Doyle. It¡¯s time for the waters, sir.¡± Father smiles in relief. ¡°Miss Finster, like a ray of sunshine on a gloomy morning, you arrive and all is well.¡± Miss Finster grins as if her face will break. ¡°A charmer, your father is.¡± ¡°Well, off you go, then,¡± Father says to us. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want to miss your train to London.¡± ¡°True, true.¡± Tom¡¯s already backing away. We¡¯ve been here less than an hour. ¡°We¡¯ll see you home in two weeks¡¯ time, Father.¡± ¡°Quite right,¡± Miss Finster says. ¡°Though we¡¯ll be sorry to see him go.¡± ¡°Yes, well,¡± Tom says. He pushes an errant lock from his forehead but it only falls into his eyes again. There is no handshake or embrace. We smile and nod and leave each other as quickly as possible, relieved to be free of one another and the awkward silences. Yet I also feel ashamed at that sense of relief. I wonder if other families are the same. They seem so content to be together. They fit, like the parts of a puzzle already finished, the image clearly evident. But we are like those odd remaining pieces, the ones that can¡¯t be joined securely with a satisfying ¡°Ah, that¡¯s it, then.¡± Father takes Miss Finster¡¯s arm like a proper gentleman. ¡°Miss Finster, will you do me the honor?¡± Miss Finster offers a schoolgirl laugh, though she is surely as old as Mrs. Nightwing. ¡°Oh, Mr. Doyle. Go on!¡± Arm in arm, they stroll toward the large white building. Father turns his head ever so slightly toward us. ¡°I¡¯ll see you for Easter.¡± Yes, in two weeks, we¡¯ll be together again. But I doubt he will really see me at all. I take Tom to task on the carriage ride to London. ¡°Thomas, really, why must you bait Father as you do?¡± ¡°That¡¯s it. Defend him as you always do. The favorite.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not his favorite. He loves us equally.¡± Saying it gives me a queer feeling in my stomach, though, like telling a lie. ¡°That¡¯s what they say, isn¡¯t it? Pity it isn¡¯t true,¡± he says, bitterly. Suddenly, he brightens. ¡°As it happens, he was wrong about the Athenaeum Club. I¡¯ve been invited to dine there with Simon Middleton and Lord Denby.¡± At the mention of Simon¡¯s name, all breath leaves me. ¡°How is Simon?¡± I ask. ¡°Handsome. Charming. Rich. In short, quite well.¡± Tom gives me a little smile, and I can¡¯t help feeling he¡¯s rather enjoying himself at my expense. Simon Middleton, one of England¡¯s most sought-after bachelors, is indeed all those things. He courted me quite fervently over Christmas and meant to marry me, but I refused him. And suddenly, I cannot remember why. ¡°It is premature to say,¡± Tom continues, ¡°but I believe old Denby will put me forth for membership. Despite your rather shoddy treatment of Simon, Gemma, I do know that his father remains a champion of mine. More so than Father.¡± ¡°Did¡­Simon say that I had treated him shabbily?¡± ¡°No. He didn¡¯t mention you at all.¡± ¡°How lovely it will be to see the Middletons again,¡± I say, pretending his words haven¡¯t hurt me in the least. ¡°I¡¯m sure Simon must be happily squiring young ladies about town?¡± I give a little laugh meant to sound cavalier. ¡°Mmmm,¡± Tom says. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°But they are in London currently?¡± My smile falters. Come on, Thomas. Throw me a bone, you miserable cur of a brother. ¡°They will be soon. They¡¯ve a distant cousin from America who shall come to visit for the season, a Miss Lucy Fairchild. Worth a fortune, as I understand it.¡± Tom smiles smugly. ¡°Perhaps you could arrange an introduction for me. Or perhaps once I am a member in good standing of the Athenaeum, she shall ask to be introduced to me.¡± No. It is impossible to maintain a smile in my brother¡¯s presence. Monks haven¡¯t the sort of patience required. ¡°I don¡¯t see why you should care so much about the Athenaeum,¡± I say irritably. Tom chuckles in a most condescending way and I cannot help imagining him immersed in a large cauldron surrounded by hungry, fire-wielding cannibals. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t, would you, Gemma? You don¡¯t wish to belong to anyone or anything at all.¡± ¡°At least the members of the Hippocrates Society are men of science and medicine,¡± I say, ignoring his slight. ¡°They share your interests.¡± ¡°They do not garner the respect that the Athenaeum Club does. That is where the real power lies. And I hear the men of Hippocrates may vote to allow women to join them in a lesser capacity.¡± My brother snorts. ¡°Women! In a gentlemen¡¯s club!¡± Page 14 ¡°I like them already,¡± I say. He smirks. ¡°You would.¡± CHAPTER SIX THE LAST TIME I SAW OUR HOUSE IN BELGRAVIA, IT WAS cloaked in the starkness of winter. As our carriage winds through Hyde Park, we are greeted by the glorious sight of budding trees standing as proud as the royal guard. Daffodils show off their new yellow bonnets. London smiles. Not so our housekeeper, Mrs. Jones. She greets me at the door in her black dress and white pinafore, a white doily of a cap on her head, and such a severe expression that I consider putting a glass to her mouth to see if there is still breath issuing from it. ¡°How was your journey, miss?¡± she asks without enthusiasm. ¡°Very pleasant, thank you.¡± ¡°Very good, miss. I¡¯ll have your case brought to your room, then?¡± ¡°Yes, thank you.¡± We take such pains to be polite. We never say what we mean. For all it matters, we could greet each other and speak only of cheese¡ª¡°How was your Limburger, miss?¡± ¡°Salty as a ripe Stinking Bishop, thank you.¡± ¡°Ah, very cheddar, miss. I¡¯ll have your Stilton brought to your Camembert, then.¡±¡ªand no one would likely notice. ¡°Your grandmother waits for you in the parlor, miss.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± I cannot help myself. ¡°I¡¯ll see myself into the Muenster.¡± ¡°As you wish, miss.¡± And there we are, though it is a pity my wickedness has been wasted with no one to appreciate it but me. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± Grandmama announces the moment I open the doors to the parlor. I don¡¯t know why she¡¯s blaming me, as I was neither the driver nor the horse. She casts a disapproving eye over me from head to toe. ¡°We¡¯ve a tea to attend at Mrs. Sheridan¡¯s. You¡¯ll want to change, of course. And what has happened to your hair? Is this the fashion at Spence these days? It won¡¯t do. Stand still.¡± Grandmama pulls my hair up so tightly that my eyes water. She sticks in three pins that nearly impale my skull. ¡°Much improved. A lady must always be at her best.¡± She rings a bell and our housekeeper arrives like a phantom. ¡°Yes, mum?¡± ¡°Mrs. Jones, Miss Doyle shall need assistance in dressing. Her gray wool, I should think. And another pair of gloves that do not look as if they¡¯re the charwoman¡¯s,¡± she says, scowling at the smudges on my fingertips. I¡¯ve been home less than a minute, and already, I am under siege. I take in the dim parlor¡ªthe heavy burgundy velvet drapes, the dark green papered walls, the mahogany desk and bookcases, the Oriental rug, and the enormous fern in a heavy pot. ¡°This room could do with a bit of light.¡± Hah. If it¡¯s criticism she wants, two may play at that game. Grandmama¡¯s face furrows into worry. ¡°It is a fashionable room, is it not? Do you say that it is not fashionable?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t say that. Only that it would be nice to let in the light.¡± Grandmama eyes the drapes as if considering. But it is short-lived and she once again regards me as a village¡¯s missing idiot. ¡°The sun will only fade the settee. And now, if we have dispensed with matters of decorating, you would do well to dress. We leave at half past.¡± A silent maid welcomes us to Mrs. Sheridan¡¯s well-appointed library. The sight of so many books comforts me, which is more than I can say for the gray wool suit. It chafes and itches till I could scream. Mrs. Jones has laced me so tightly in my corset that if I dare take two sips of tea, one shall surely come out again. Five other girls have come with their mothers. I am horrified to find that I do not know any of them, though they seem to know each other. Even worse, not a one has been forced to wear drab wool. They look as fresh as spring, whilst I resemble the spinster aunt every girl dreads as chaperone. It is all I can do not to confide to the girl closest to me: ¡°If I should die during tea¡ªasphyxiated by my own corset¡ªplease do not let them bury me in such a hideous dress or I shall come back to haunt you.¡± I¡¯m under no illusions that this is simply tea; it is a marketplace, and we girls are the wares. While the mothers talk, we sip our tea silently, our smiles mirroring theirs as if we are players in a pantomime. I must remember to speak only when spoken to, to echo the sentiments of others. We work in concert to maintain the clear, pretty surface of this life, never daring to make a splash. With each question, each glance, we are being measured in the exacting scales of their minds, teetering in the balance between their expectations and their disappointments. This one laughs too frequently. That one¡¯s hair is coarse, her skin ruddy. That girl wears a dour expression; still another stirs her tea far too long, while one unfortunate girl daringly ventures that she finds the rain ¡°romantic,¡± and is told quite firmly that the rain is good only for the roses and for bringing on rheumatism. No doubt her mother will scold her mercilessly in the carriage and blame the misdeed squarely on the governess. Page 15 For a brief while, the women ask us questions: Are we looking forward to our debuts? Did we enjoy this opera or that play? As we give our slight answers, they smile, and I cannot read what is behind their expressions. Do they envy us our youth and beauty? Do they feel happiness and excitement for the lives that lie ahead of us? Or do they wish for another chance at their own lives? A different chance? Soon the mothers tire of asking us questions. They fall into talk that does not concern us. During a tour of Mrs. Sheridan¡¯s gardens¡ªof which she is exceedingly proud, though it is the gardener who has done all the work¡ªwe are left to our own devices, thank goodness. The trained masks melt away. ¡°Have you seen Lady Markham¡¯s tiara? Isn¡¯t it exquisite? I¡¯d give anything to wear a tiara such as that, even for a moment.¡± ¡°Speaking of Lady Markham, I suppose you have heard the gossip?¡± a girl named Annabelle says. The others are immediately drawn in. ¡°Annabelle, what is it? What has happened?¡± Annabelle sighs heavily but there is a certain joy in it, as if she has been bottled up all this time, waiting for a chance to share her news. ¡°I am burdened with a confidence I will disclose only if you make promises not to share it with anyone else.¡± ¡°Oh, yes!¡± the girls promise, no doubt thinking of who shall be first to hear the unfortunate tale. ¡°I have heard that Lady Markham has had a change of heart and that she may not present Miss Worthington at court after all.¡± The girls put gloved hands to mouths but their glee shows like a slipped petticoat. They¡¯re glad for the gossip and doubly glad it¡¯s not about them. I don¡¯t know what to say. Should I tell them that Felicity and I are friends? Do they know? The chorus begins: ¡°Oh, dear. Poor Felicity.¡± ¡°What a scandal.¡± ¡°But she is so very cheeky.¡± ¡°Quite right. It is her own fault.¡± ¡°I do adore her, but¡­¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± Annabelle cuts in. Clearly, she is the queen bee among them. ¡°Her independence does not endear her to the ladies who matter. And then there is the question of her mother.¡± ¡°Oh, what is it? I do hate my governess, for she never tells me a thing!¡± a girl with apple cheeks and a dainty mouth says. Annabelle¡¯s eyes twinkle. ¡°Three years ago, Mrs. Worthington went abroad whilst her husband, the admiral, was at sea. But everyone knows she ran off to Paris to be with her lover! If Admiral Worthington were not the hero he is and a favorite of Her Majesty¡¯s, Miss Worthington would have no place at all in decent society.¡± I know a great deal about the horrors the admiral has visited upon his daughter, how he went to her bedroom late at night as no father should. But I swore to keep that secret for Fee, and who would believe it even if the truth were told? People have a habit of inventing fictions they will believe wholeheartedly in order to ignore the truth they cannot accept. ¡°But there is more,¡± Annabelle says. ¡°Tell! Tell!¡± ¡°I overheard Mother telling Mrs. Twitt that if Miss Worthington does not make her debut, her inheritance is forfeit. Her grandmother¡¯s will states most emphatically that she must make her debut ¡®as a lady in fine moral standing,¡¯ else the money shall go to the Foundling Hospital, and Felicity will be at the mercy of the admiral to chart her course.¡± Felicity wants nothing more than to have her freedom. But now she¡¯s in danger of losing that dream. I cannot keep the blood from rising in me. My cheeks must be crimson for all to see. If I could, I would box Annabelle¡¯s lovely ears. My corset¡¯s too tight, for I can scarcely breathe. My skin tingles; my head is light, and for a moment, it is as if I leave my body. ¡°Ow!¡± Annabelle cries, turning to the girl beside her. ¡°Constance Lloyd! How dare you pinch me!¡± Constance¡¯s mouth opens in a surprised O. ¡°I didn¡¯t!¡± ¡°You most certainly did. I can feel the bruise rising on my arm!¡± The other girls try to contain their glee as Constance and Annabelle engage in a war of martyrdom. The lightheadedness I felt a moment earlier has vanished, and I feel strangely fine, better than I have in ages. ¡°When I mentioned we might host an English garden party, Mrs. Sheridan gave me the queerest look. Do you suppose she thought it too ordinary? I felt it would make quite a nice party. Don¡¯t you?¡± Grandmama has pestered me for the entire carriage ride home with such natter. She frets constantly over every possible slight or imagined judgment. Just once I wish she would live her life and not care so much about what others think. Page 16 Of course, I¡¯ve my own fretting. How can I tell Felicity what I¡¯ve heard without upsetting her? How does anyone talk sense to Felicity? It is like trying to tame a force of nature. ¡°I think an English garden party is quite lovely and appropriate. It isn¡¯t a Turkish ball, granted, but even Her Majesty finds such displays unseemly. Was it discussed among the young ladies? Did they find fault with it?¡± ¡°No, it was not discussed.¡± I sigh, leaning my head against the side of the carriage. The London gas fog is settling in. The streets are murky, the people appearing like phantoms. I spy a young man with dark curls and a newsboy cap, and my heart leaps. I half lean out the window. ¡°Pardon me! You there! Sir!¡± I call. ¡°Gemma Doyle!¡± my grandmother gasps. The young man turns. It¡¯s not Kartik. He offers the day¡¯s news. ¡°Paper, miss?¡± ¡°No,¡± I say, swallowing hard. ¡°No, thank you.¡± I settle back against the seat, determined not to look again and raise my hopes unnecessarily. Where are you, Kartik? ¡°That was most impolite,¡± my grandmother tuts. Her eyes narrow with a new thought. ¡°Did they find something wanting in you, Gemma, at the party? You didn¡¯t speak too freely or behave¡­strangely?¡± I grew claws and bayed at the moon. I confessed that I eat the hearts of small children. I told them I like the French. Why is the fault always mine? ¡°We spoke of Mrs. Sheridan¡¯s flowers,¡± I say evenly. ¡°Well, nothing wrong in that,¡± my grandmother says, reassuring herself. ¡°No, nothing at all.¡± By late evening of my last night in London, my misery has reached operatic proportions. Grandmama takes to her bed early, ¡°exhausted¡± by the day¡¯s events. Tom is to dine at the Athenaeum at the behest of Lord Denby. ¡°When I return, I shall be a great man,¡± he says, admiring himself in the mirror over the mantel. He has a new top hat, and it makes him look like a well-heeled scarecrow. ¡°I shall practice my genuflecting whilst you are away,¡± I respond. Tom turns to me with a sneer. ¡°I¡¯d send you to a nunnery, but even those saintly women haven¡¯t the patience for your petulance. But please don¡¯t see me out,¡± he says, striding for the door with a spring in his step. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t want to interrupt your sulking by the fireside.¡± ¡°You needn¡¯t worry,¡± I say, turning back to the fire with a sigh. ¡°You shan¡¯t.¡± My season has not even begun and already I feel a failure. It¡¯s as if I¡¯ve inherited a skin I cannot quite fit, and so I walk about constantly pulling and tugging, pinning and pruning, trying desperately to fill it out, hoping that no one will look at me struggling and say, ¡°That one there¡ªshe¡¯s a fraud. Look how she doesn¡¯t suit at all.¡± If only I could get into the realms. Oh, what is happening there? Why can¡¯t I get in? What has become of the magic? Where are my visions? To think I once feared them. Now the power I cursed is the only thing I long for. Not the only thing. But I¡¯ve no power over Kartik, either. I stare into the fire, watching the fat orange flames jumping about, demanding attention. Deep inside each one, a thin blue soul burns pure and hot, devouring every bit of tinder to keep the fire going. The mantel clock ticks off the seconds; the steady sound lulls me into drowsiness. Sleep comes and I am lost to dreaming. I¡¯m enveloped by a thick mist. Before me is an enormous ash tree, its twisted arms reaching up toward a vanished sun. A voice calls to me. Come to me¡­. My pulse quickens, but I can see no one. You¡¯re the only one who can save us, save the realms. You must come to me¡­. ¡°Can¡¯t get in,¡± I murmur. There is another way¡ªa secret door. Trust in the magic. Let it lead you there. ¡°I have no magic anymore¡­.¡± You¡¯re wrong. Your power is extraordinary. It builds within you and wants release. Unleash your power. That¡¯s what they fear, what you must not fear. I can help you, but you must come to me. Open the door¡­. The scene shifts. I am inside the Caves of Sighs before the well of eternity. Below the icy surface of the water lies Miss Moore, her dark hair spreading out like Kali¡¯s. She floats beneath her glass prison, lovely as Ophelia, frightening as a storm cloud. I feel a shudder across the very marrow of my bones. ¡°You¡¯re dead,¡± I gasp. ¡°I killed you.¡± Her eyes snap open. ¡°You¡¯re wrong, Gemma. I live.¡± Page 17 I wake with a start to find myself still in the chair, the mantel clock showing half past eleven. I feel odd, feverish. Strands of hair hang limp by my mouth, and my blood pumps ferociously. I feel as if I¡¯ve been visited by a ghost. It was only a dream, Gemma. Let it alone. Felicity¡¯s right¡ªCirce¡¯s dead, and if her blood is on your hands, you¡¯ve nothing to feel shamed about. But I cannot stop shivering. And what of the other part of the dream? A door. What I wouldn¡¯t give for a way back into the realms, to the magic. I¡¯d not be frightened of it this time. I¡¯d cherish it. Hot tears spring to my eyes. I¡¯m useless. I can¡¯t enter the realms. I can¡¯t help my friends or my father. I can¡¯t find Kartik. I can¡¯t even be merry at a garden party. I¡¯ve no place. I poke at the dying fire, but it falls to splinters. Seems I¡¯m hopeless at that, as well. I toss the poker to the floor and bang my hand upon the mantel. I should like to drown in heat and banish the shivers. My fingers tingle; my arms tremble. The same dizziness I felt earlier returns. I feel as if I might faint. A sudden hot breath pushes through the mouth of the chimney. The fire blazes to life. With a loud shout, I pull my hand away and fall to the floor. At once, the fire sputters and dies. I hold my hand in front of my face. Did I do that? My fingertips still tingle ever so slightly. I point them toward the quiet fireplace, but nothing happens. I close my eyes. ¡°I command you to make a fire!¡± A blackened log splinters and falls to soot. Nothing. Footsteps tap-tap nervously down the hall. Mrs. Jones hastens into the room. ¡°Miss Gemma? What has happened?¡± ¡°The fire. It was out, and then it caught all of a sudden so that the whole of the fireplace was aflame.¡± Mrs. Jones takes the discarded poker to the last of the kindling. ¡°It¡¯s out now, miss. Might be soot in the chimney. I¡¯ll call the sweep tomorrow first thing.¡± Tom has come home, and though the hour is late, I hadn¡¯t expected him until much later. He pours himself a tumbler of Father¡¯s scotch and settles into a chair. Mrs. Jones casts a disapproving eye. ¡°Good evening, sir. Will you be needing me?¡± ¡°No, thank you, Mrs. Jones. You may retire.¡± ¡°Very good, sir. Miss.¡± Tom glances at me with contempt. ¡°Isn¡¯t it past your bedtime?¡± ¡°How could I sleep knowing that the newest member of the Athenaeum Club would grace our home at any moment with his superior presence?¡± I bow with an excessive flourish and wait for Tom to return the jab. When he doesn¡¯t, I¡¯m not entirely sure he¡¯s my brother. It isn¡¯t like him to let me have the last word without even a feeble attempt to take me down. ¡°Tom?¡± He¡¯s slumped in his chair, his tie undone, his eyes red. ¡°They put Simpson through instead,¡± he says quietly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say, and I am. I might find Tom¡¯s preoccupation with the Athenaeum Club silly, but it matters to him, and it was cruel of them not to have seen it. ¡°Is there anything I can do?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± he says, draining the last of his glass. ¡°You can leave me be.¡± CHAPTER SEVEN THOUGH I NEVER THOUGHT I¡¯D SAY IT, I¡¯M OVERJOYED TO see the dour, imposing lady that is Spence again. The three days I passed in London were torturous, what with Tom¡¯s sulking, Grandmama¡¯s constant fussing, and Father¡¯s absence. I do not know how I shall survive the season. And there is that other matter: my troubling dream and the strange occurrence with the fireplace. The sudden flare of fire was only from stubborn soot inside the chimney¡ªthe sweep confirmed it. The dream is harder to dismiss, perhaps because I want to believe that there is a secret door into the realms, that the magic still lives inside me. But wishing won¡¯t make it true. The chapel bell tolls, calling us to morning prayers. Dressed in our pristine white uniforms, our hair ribbons securely in place, we traipse the well-worn path up the hill to the old stone-and-beam chapel. ¡°How was your visit home?¡± Felicity asks, falling in beside me. ¡°Hideous,¡± I say. Felicity grins. ¡°Well, it was an absolute misery here! Cecily insisted on playing charades, as if we are all still in nursery, and then, when Martha guessed hers straightaway, Cecily pouted. It was Wuthering Heights, and everyone knows that is her favorite book¡ªit¡¯s no mystery.¡± I laugh at her tale, and for a second, I have the urge to tell her of my dream. But that will only bring up the subject of the realms again, so I think better of it. ¡°It is nice to be back,¡± I say instead. Page 18 Felicity¡¯s eyes widen in horror. ¡°Are you ill, Gemma? Have you a fever? Honestly, I won¡¯t shed a single tear when it is time to say goodbye. I cannot wait to make my debut.¡± Annabelle¡¯s hateful gossip weighs heavily on my soul. ¡°And Lady Markham is to present you, is she not?¡± ¡°Yes, as I must have a sponsor to put me forth,¡± Fee says brusquely. ¡°My father may be a naval hero, but my family hasn¡¯t the standing yours enjoys.¡± I ignore the swipe. The sun has blessed us with the first taste of the warm weather to come, and we turn our faces toward it like flowers. ¡°What sort of woman is Lady Markham?¡± ¡°She¡¯s one of Lady Denby¡¯s followers,¡± Felicity scoffs. I wince at the mention of Simon¡¯s mother. Lady Denby has no love for Felicity or for Mrs. Worthington. ¡°You know how that sort is, Gemma. They like to be flattered and led to believe that you revere their every word as if it has dropped from Zeus¡¯s tongue. ¡®Why, Lady Markham, I thank you for your good advice.¡¯ ¡®How clever you are, Lady Markham.¡¯ ¡®I shall take it to heart. How fortunate am I to have your counsel, Lady Markham.¡¯ They want to own you.¡± Felicity stretches her arms overhead, reaching for the sky. ¡°I shall leave that to my mother.¡± ¡°And if Lady Markham were not to present you¡­what then?¡± I ask, my heart in my mouth. Felicity¡¯s arms drop to her sides again. ¡°I¡¯d be done for. If I do not make my debut, my inheritance shall go to the Foundling Hospital, and I shall be at Father¡¯s mercy. But that won¡¯t happen.¡± She frowns. ¡°I say, you are quite keen on this subject. Have you heard something?¡± ¡°No,¡± I say, hesitating. ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡± There¡¯s no getting around it. She¡¯ll badger me until I tell her the truth. ¡°Very well. Yes. I heard a bit of gossip in London that Lady Markham was having second thoughts about presenting you to court¡­because of¡­because of your reputation. And I only thought, with so much at stake, perhaps it would be best if you were to¡­to¡­behave.¡± The word is no more than a faint imprint. Felicity narrows her eyes, but there is hurt in them. ¡°Behave?¡± ¡°Just till after your season¡­¡± Felicity sneers. ¡°Shall I tremble at every scrap of nasty gossip? I¡¯ve survived worse. Honestly, Gemma, since you¡¯ve stopped taking us into the realms you¡¯ve become a dull mouse of a girl. I hardly know you anymore.¡± ¡°I only meant to warn you,¡± I protest. ¡°I don¡¯t need warnings; I need a friend,¡± she says. ¡°If you wish to scold me like a schoolmarm, you might as well sit with Nightwing.¡± She flounces away, joining arms with Elizabeth, and the sun, which felt so warm, is no longer a comfort. I eschew Nightwing for Ann. The morning sun illuminates the musty chapel¡¯s stained-glass windows. It shows the coating of grime on the angels and lends a fierce brightness to the bizarre panel of a lone warrior angel beside a severed gorgon¡¯s head. We bow our heads for prayer. We sing a hymn. And in the end, our French teacher, Mademoiselle LeFarge, reads a poem from William Blake. And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England¡¯s mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England¡¯s pleasant pastures seen? Will this be my life forevermore? Careful tea parties and the quiet fear that I don¡¯t belong, that I¡¯m a fraud? I held magic in my hands! I tasted freedom in a land where summer doesn¡¯t end. I outsmarted the Rakshana with a boy whose kiss I still feel somehow. Was it all for naught? I¡¯d rather not have known any of it than have it snatched away after a taste. With tears threatening, I fix my attention upon the stained glass and the odd mixture of dangerous angels and uncertain warriors to keep my composure. Mademoiselle LeFarge fills the chapel with Mr. Blake¡¯s lofty words. And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark satanic mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Several of the younger girls titter at desire and LeFarge must wait for silence before continuing. Bring me my spear! O clouds unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not cease from mental fight Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand Till we have built Jerusalem In England¡¯s green and pleasant land. LeFarge leaves the pulpit and Mrs. Nightwing takes her place there. ¡°Thank you, Miss LeFarge, for that. Most stirring. The poem reminds us that greatness lies even in the smallest of moments, in the humblest of hearts, and we shall, each of us, be called to greatness. Whether we shall rise to meet it or let it slip away is the challenge put before us all.¡± Page 19 Her eyes sweep the room and seem to rest on every girl, bequeathing each of us with an unseen mantle. My earlier urge to giggle vanishes, and a heaviness settles over me like a late spring snow. ¡°April is nearly upon us; May beckons. And for some of our girls, the time will soon come to leave us.¡± Beside me, Ann rubs absently at the scars on her arm. I put my hands in hers. ¡°Every year, we host a small tea to honor our graduates. This year, we shall not.¡± A low rumble of shock reverberates in the small chapel. The girls lose their grins. Elizabeth looks as if she might cry. ¡°Oh. Oh, no.¡± ¡°She wouldn¡¯t dare,¡± Cecily whispers, horrified. ¡°Would she?¡± ¡°Quiet, quiet, please.¡± Mrs. Nightwing¡¯s words echo. ¡°It is my great pleasure to tell you that this year, we shall not host a tea but rather a ball.¡± A surge of excitement ripples through the girls from pew to pew. A ball! ¡°It is to be a masked ball, a jolly spectacle of costume, held on May Day for patrons and parents. No doubt you have already begun to dream of fairy wings and noble Indian princesses. Perhaps there will be among you a pirate or Nefertiti or a stately Queen Mab.¡± Another ripple of girlish exhilaration disturbs the calm of the chapel. ¡°I shall make a splendid Queen Mab,¡± Felicity says. ¡°Don¡¯t you think?¡± Cecily¡¯s outraged. ¡°Why, Felicity Worthington, that was to be my costume.¡± ¡°Not anymore it isn¡¯t. I thought of it first.¡± ¡°How could you have thought of it first when I did!¡± ¡°Ladies! Grace, strength, beauty!¡± Mrs. Nightwing shouts over the din, reminding us of the Spence motto as well as our manners. We settle like a flower garden after a sudden tempest of wind. ¡°I¡¯ve another surprise. As you know, our Miss McCleethy has been away these months attending to urgent personal matters. I am pleased to say that her obligations elsewhere are at an end, and she will be returning to us soon. I¡¯ve a letter, which I shall read aloud.¡± She clears her throat. ¡°¡®Dear Ladies of Spence, I do hope this letter finds you well. Spring should be shining on our dear school. It must be a lovely sight, and I hope to enjoy it soon. Mrs. Nightwing has asked if I might permanently accept the position vacated by Miss Moore, and I am happy to say that I have accepted. It was not my intention to stay on at Spence, but it seems I am needed there, and I go wherever duty calls. It is my fervent hope to see you all by month¡¯s end. Until then, I wish you well with your studies and the best of luck with the porridge.¡¯¡± This is followed by laughter, as Spence¡¯s porridge is notoriously awful. ¡°¡®And for those leaving us soon to take their places in the world, I would ask them to remember their obligations as well as their dreams. Fondly, Your Miss McCleethy.¡¯¡± The gust has blown through: The girls fall into merry chatter again. Though I am excited too, I am not entirely at ease. I can¡¯t help feeling that this last bit is directed at me, an arrow flying straight from the hard bow of Miss McCleethy¡¯s desire to have the Order resume their place within the realms. The last I saw of Claire Sahirah McCleethy was at Christmastime in London. She pretended to forge an alliance with the Rakshana and tried to force me to take her into the realms. Once I bound the magic to myself, she expected me to return the power to the Order, to join with them on their terms. When I refused, she warned me not to make enemies of them. And then she was gone. Mrs. Nightwing told the girls of Spence little about her absence. Now she¡¯s coming back, and I wonder what it bodes for me. We pour out the chapel¡¯s ancient oak doors in twos and threes, talking breathlessly of what is to come. ¡°I am glad to hear Miss McCleethy¡¯s returning. That is welcome news, indeed,¡± Cecily says. ¡°We should prepare a song or poem to welcome our Miss McCleethy home,¡± Elizabeth trills. Her voice offends my ears at this hour. Martha¡¯s joined the fray. ¡°Oh, yes! I rather like Mr. Shakespeare¡¯s sonnets.¡± ¡°I c-c-could sing for her,¡± Ann offers. She¡¯s trailing just behind. For a moment, no one speaks. ¡°Oh, Elizabeth, you¡¯ve a lovely voice. Why don¡¯t you sing for our Miss McCleethy?¡± Cecily coos, as if Ann never said a word. She reminds me of a bee, seemingly in the business of honey but with a rather nasty sting. ¡°Yes, do,¡± Martha quickly agrees. ¡°Then it is settled. Martha and I shall read a sonnet. Elizabeth, you shall sing. Fee, perhaps you¡¯d prepare with us?¡± Page 20 I wish Ann would defend herself, tell Cecily what a toad she is. But she doesn¡¯t. Instead, she slows her steps, falling farther behind. ¡°Ann,¡± I say, holding out a hand. But she won¡¯t look at me, won¡¯t answer. She makes it clear that I¡¯m one of them now. It¡¯s weeks yet until we part but she¡¯s already pushing me away. Fine. Let her. I walk down the path to join the others. The trees wear their new greenery awkwardly still. Through the sparse leaves I spy the East Wing¡¯s progress. The turret is striking. I find I cannot help looking at it, as if it were a magnet pulling me in. Loud shouts and threats erupt from the site and we rush to see what they are about. A group of men stand on the lawn, fists at the ready. When I draw closer, I see they¡¯re not the workers; they¡¯re Gypsy men. The Gypsies have returned! I search their faces, hoping to catch sight of Kartik. He¡¯s traveled with them before. But he¡¯s not among their number today, and my heart sinks. The workers form a line behind their foreman, Mr. Miller. They outnumber the Gypsies two to one, but they keep their hammers close. ¡°Here now, what is all this fuss? Mr. Miller, why have your men stopped work?¡± Mrs. Nightwing demands. ¡°It¡¯s these Gypsies, missus,¡± Mr. Miller sneers. ¡°Causin¡¯ trouble.¡± A tall Gypsy with fair hair and a knowing smile steps forward. Ithal is his name. He is the Gypsy Felicity kissed behind the boathouse. Felicity sees him too. Her face goes pale. Hat in hand, he approaches Mrs. Nightwing. ¡°We look for work. We are carpenters. We are building for many people.¡± ¡°Shove off, mate,¡± Mr. Miller says in a low, tight voice. ¡°This is our job.¡± ¡°We could work together.¡± Ithal offers his hand. Mr. Miller doesn¡¯t take it. ¡°Oi. These are decent ladies. They don¡¯t need no dirty, thieving Gypsies here.¡± Mrs. Nightwing steps in. ¡°We have had the Gypsies on our land for years. We¡¯ve had no trouble from them.¡± Mr. Miller¡¯s eyes flash. ¡°I can see yer a fine, charitable lady, mum. But if you show them kindness, they¡¯ll never leave. They should go back to their own country.¡± Ithal holds tight to his hat, bending the brim. ¡°If we go back, they will kill us.¡± Mr. Miller smiles broadly. ¡°See? Their own country don¡¯t even want ¡¯em. You don¡¯t want to hire them Gypsies, missus. They¡¯ll rob you blind.¡± He lowers his voice. ¡°And what with young ladies present, mum¡­What could happen, well, I shouldn¡¯t like to say.¡± I do not like Mr. Miller. His smile is an illusion. It does not match the venom of his words. Ithal says nothing in return, but I can see by the tight line of his jaw that he would like to. Mrs. Nightwing straightens her spine as she does when she upbraids one of us. ¡°Mr. Miller, I trust you¡¯ll finish this portion in time for our ball?¡± ¡°Aye, missus,¡± Mr. Miller says, his eyes still on Ithal. ¡°¡¯Twas the rain what put us behind.¡± Mrs. Nightwing speaks to the Gypsies as she would to meddling children in need of bed. ¡°I thank you for your concern, gentlemen. At present we have it well in hand.¡± I watch the Gypsies go, still hoping I¡¯ll see Kartik at any moment. Mrs. Nightwing is occupied with Mr. Miller and I seize my chance. Palming a penny, I traipse after the Gypsies. ¡°Pardon me, sir. I believe you may have dropped this,¡± I say, offering the shiny coin. The Gypsy knows I¡¯ve invented the tale; I can see it in his suspicious smile. He looks to Ithal for guidance. ¡°It is not ours,¡± Ithal says. ¡°It could be!¡± I blurt out. The other man is intrigued. ¡°For what?¡± ¡°Careful, friend,¡± Ithal warns. ¡°We are like dirt beneath their feet.¡± He flicks his glance to Felicity, who does not even bother to see. ¡°I only wish to know if Mr. Kartik is among your company at present.¡± Ithal folds his arms across his chest. ¡°Why do you want to know?¡± ¡°He had hoped for work as a driver. I happen to know of a family in need of such and thought I might inform him.¡± I feel shamed by my lie. ¡°You see? Dirt.¡± Ithal glares at me. ¡°I have not seen Mr. Kartik for some months now. Perhaps he is already in the service of a fine family and cannot come to play anymore.¡± It¡¯s a slap of a comment, and I feel properly stung by it, but I¡¯m more stung by the knowledge that no one has seen Kartik. I¡¯m afraid something terrible has happened to him. Page 21 Mrs. Nightwing corrals the girls, and I hurry back into the fold. As I do, I hear Ithal talking to the other Gypsies. ¡°Do not be tempted by English roses. Their beauty fades, but their thorns are forever.¡± ¡°Miss Doyle! What were you doing with those men?¡± Mrs. Nightwing scolds. ¡°I¡¯d a pebble in my boot. I only stopped to remove it,¡± I lie. ¡°Scandalous,¡± Cecily whispers. Her whispers could be heard by the dead. Mrs. Nightwing takes hold of my arm. ¡°Miss Doyle, with the others, if you please¡ª¡± Her admonition is interrupted by a loud shout from one of the workers. ¡°Oi! There¡¯s somefin¡¯ down ¡¯ere!¡± Several of the men jump into the hole between the new turret and the old portion of the school. A lamp is called for and one is lowered. We follow Nightwing, crowding around the hole, hoping for a glimpse of whatever has been found. The workers discard their shovels. They whisk dirt-stained hands back and forth, clearing the clumps of drying mud away. There is indeed something beneath the ground¡ªpart of an old wall. The stone bears strange markings but they¡¯re too faint to see. Mr. Miller frowns. ¡°What¡¯s that, now?¡± ¡°Could be a woine cellar,¡± a man with a bushy mustache opines. ¡°Or a dungeon,¡± another says, grinning. He smacks the boot of the smallest among them. ¡°Oi, Charlie¡ªbe a good lad or it¡¯s into the ¡¯ole wif you!¡± He makes a sudden grab for the young man¡¯s ankle, scaring him, and the men fall into rowdy laughter. Mrs. Nightwing takes the lamp and holds it over the ancient stone. She examines it from above, pursing her lips, and then, just as quickly, gives the lamp back to Mr. Miller. ¡°Likely it is a relic from the Druids or even the Romans. They say Hannibal himself may have led his troops through these parts.¡± ¡°Ye might be right, missus. Looks to be a marker of sorts,¡± the burly man says. There is something strangely familiar about it all, like a dream I can¡¯t quite catch before it flies away forever. I can¡¯t keep from reaching fingers toward the relic. My breathing comes faster; my skin is warm. I want to touch it¡­ ¡°Careful, miss!¡± Mr. Miller pushes me back as I topple forward. The warmth leaves my hands, and I startle as if waking. ¡°Miss Doyle! You are entirely too close!¡± Mrs. Nightwing reprimands. ¡°None of you girls should be here, and I do believe, in fact, that Mademoiselle LeFarge is waiting for quite a few of you.¡± ¡°Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,¡± we answer, but we don¡¯t leave. ¡°Should we clear it away, missus?¡± Mr. Miller asks, and again that queer feeling surges through me, though I cannot say why. Mrs. Nightwing nods. The men strain to remove it. Again and again, they fall away, red-faced and gasping for breath. The biggest and strongest of them jumps into the hole and puts his full weight against it. He, too, steps aside. ¡°Won¡¯t budge an inch,¡± he says. ¡°Wot d¡¯yer wanna do, missus?¡± Mrs. Nightwing shakes her head. ¡°It¡¯s been here this long. Just leave it be.¡± CHAPTER EIGHT FELICITY¡¯S NOT FORGIVEN ME YET FOR MY ADVICE ABOUT Lady Markham, so I find myself shut out of her tent in the great hall. It¡¯s not that she tells me I¡¯m not welcome; she simply greets each of Cecily¡¯s dull tales with a jolly laugh and fawns over the simpering details of Elizabeth¡¯s latest trip to the dressmaker¡¯s, whilst every syllable I utter is met with complete disdain. Eventually, I take refuge in the kitchen. I¡¯m surprised to see Brigid leaving a bowl of milk on the hearth. Even more curious, she has affixed a crucifix to the wall beside the door, and small sprigs of leaves mark the windows. I help myself to a hard crust of brown bread from the larder. ¡°Brigid¡­,¡± I say then, and she jumps. ¡°By all the saints! Don¡¯t sneak up on your old Brigid like that,¡± she says, putting a hand over her heart. ¡°What are you doing?¡± I nod toward the milk. ¡°Is there a cat about?¡± ¡°No,¡± she says, grabbing her basket of sewing. ¡°And that¡¯s all I ¡¯ave to say on the subject.¡± Brigid always has more to say on every subject. It¡¯s simply a matter of luring the gossip out of her. ¡°Please, Brigid. I won¡¯t tell a soul,¡± I promise. ¡°Well¡­¡± She motions for me to sit with her by the fire. ¡°It¡¯s for protection,¡± she whispers. ¡°The cross and rowan leaves on the windows as well.¡± ¡°Protection from what?¡± Page 22 Brigid dips her needle into the fabric and pulls it through the other side. ¡°The East Wing. Ain¡¯t right putting that cursed place back as it was.¡± ¡°You mean because of the fire and the girls who died?¡± Brigid cranes her neck to be sure we¡¯re not overhead. Her sewing sits idle in her lap. ¡°Aye, that, but I always felt that there were somethin¡¯ not right about it.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± I say, taking another bite of bread. ¡°You just get a knowin¡¯ in your very bones about such things.¡± She fingers the cross she wears around her neck. ¡°And one day, I heard Missus Nightwing askin¡¯ Missus Spence somethin¡¯ about the East Wing and Missus Spence, God rest her as an angel, tellin¡¯ ¡¯er not to worry, that she would never let anything in, even if she ¡¯ad to die first. Gives me a shudder jus¡¯ thinkin¡¯ abou¡¯ it.¡± Eugenia Spence giving her life to save everyone from the Winterlands creatures. The bread I¡¯ve been chewing goes down hard. Brigid looks through the windows at the dark woods beyond. ¡°I wish they¡¯d leave it be.¡± ¡°But, Brigid, think how lovely it will look when it is complete and Spence is as she once was,¡± I argue. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t that be a fine tribute to Mrs. Spence?¡± Brigid nods. ¡°Aye, ¡¯twould. But still¡­¡± She cups my chin in her hand. ¡°You won¡¯t tell on your old Brigid ¡¯bout the milk, will you?¡± I shake my head. ¡°Of course not.¡± ¡°There¡¯s a good girl.¡± She pats my cheek, and that, more than any good-luck charm, has the power to rid my soul of ghosts. ¡°When you first came in your mourning weeds, I thought you the strangest thing. It¡¯s your green eyes¡ªthey put me in mind of that poor Mary Dowd ¡¯oo died in the fire and her friend, Sarah. But you¡¯re nothin¡¯ like them. Nothin¡¯ at all.¡± ¡°Thank you for the bread,¡± I say, though it¡¯s turned to lead in my belly. ¡°You¡¯re welcome, luv. Best get back. You¡¯ll be missed.¡± She looks again at the dark beyond. ¡°Ain¡¯t right putting it back. I can feel it. Ain¡¯t right.¡± The all-seeing eyes of Eugenia Spence watch me climb the stairs to my room. Her white hair is arranged in the fashion of the day, with curls on her forehead and a mass of coiled hair at the back of her head. Her dress has a high collar and an elaborate ruffle running down both sides of the bright green bodice¡ªno sedate gray or black for Eugenia Spence. And there at her neck is the crescent eye amulet that now hangs from my own, hidden beneath my gown. My mother caused your death. In my room, I take out my mother¡¯s diary and read again of Eugenia¡¯s heroism, of how she offered herself as a sacrifice in place of Sarah and my mother. ¡°I will have payment,¡± the creature cried, grabbing fast to Sarah¡¯s arm. Eugenia¡¯s mouth tightened. ¡°We must hie to the Winterlands.¡± We found ourselves in that land of ice and fire, of thick, barren trees and perpetual night. Eugenia stood tall. ¡°Sarah Rees-Toome, you will not be lost to the Winterlands. Come back with me. Come back.¡± The creature turned on her. ¡°She has invited me. She must pay, or the balance of the realms is forfeit.¡± ¡°I shall go in her place¡­.¡± ¡°So be it. There is much we could do with one so powerful¡­.¡± Eugenia threw to me her amulet of the crescent eye. ¡°Mary, run! Take Sarah with you through the door, and I shall close the realms!¡­¡± The thing caused her to cry out in pain then. Her eyes were filled with a pleading that took my breath away, for I had never seen Eugenia frightened before. ¡°The realms must stay closed until we can find our way again. Now¡ªrun!¡± she screamed¡­and the last I saw of Eugenia, she was shouting the spell to close the realms, even as she was swallowed by the dark without a trace. I close my mother¡¯s diary and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Eugenia Spence. If she hadn¡¯t thrown her amulet to my mother and closed the realms for good, there¡¯s no telling what sort of terrors might have been visited upon this world. In that one act, she saved us all, though it meant her destruction. And I wonder what became of her, what terrible fate befell the great Eugenia Spence because of my mother¡¯s sin, and if I could ever possibly be enough to atone for it. When my dreams find me, they are disquieting. A pretty lady in a lavender dress and hat races through London streets thick with fog. Her ginger hair falls loosely about her frightened face. She beckons me to follow, but I cannot keep pace; my feet are as heavy as lead and I can¡¯t see. The cobblestones are coated with paper adverts for a spectacle of some sort. I reach for one: Dr. Theodore Van Ripple¡ªIllusionist Extraordinaire! Page 23 The fog clears, and I¡¯m mounting the stairs of Spence, past the enormous portrait of Eugenia Spence. I climb until I find myself on the roof in my bedclothes. The wind rips through me. On the horizon, storm clouds gather. Down below, the men continue their work on the East Wing. Their hands are as quick as an owl¡¯s blink. The stone column rises higher. A shovel strikes the ground and will not go farther. It has hit something solid. The men look to me. ¡°Would you like to open it, miss?¡± The lady in the lavender dress opens her mouth. She¡¯s trying to tell me something, but there is no sound, only alarm in her eyes. Suddenly, everything moves very fast. I see a room lit by a single lamp. Words. A knife. The lady running. A body floating upon the water. I hear a voice like a whisper in my ear: ¡°Come to me¡­.¡± I wake with a start. I want to sleep again but I can¡¯t. Something¡¯s calling to me, pulling me downstairs and out to the lawn, where a full moon spreads its buttery light over the wooden skeleton of the East Wing. The turret rises into lowlying clouds. Its shadow reaches across the lawn and touches my bare toes. The grass is cold with dew. Upon the roof, the gargoyles sleep. The ground seems to hum beneath my feet. And once again, I am drawn to the turret and the stone there. I step down into the hole. The framing of the East Wing looms above my head, and the night clouds move like lashes from an angry whip. The crescent eye glows, and in the faint light, I see an outline in the stone that matches the amulet¡¯s shape. A tingling begins in my fingers. It travels through my body. Something inside me wants release. I can¡¯t control it, and I¡¯m afraid of whatever it may be. I put my hands to the stone. A surge of power pushes through me. The stone glows white-gold, and the world pitches. It is like looking at the negative of a photograph: Behind me is Spence; before me are the skeletal East Wing and, farther on, the woods. But if I turn my head, shimmering there is another image of something else that stands between. I blink, trying to clear the image. And when I look again, I see the outline of a door. ¡°Gemma, why have you brought us out here in the middle of the night?¡± Felicity grouses, wiping sleep from her eyes. ¡°You¡¯ll see,¡± I say, shining the light of a lamp over the back lawn. She shivers in her thin nightgown. ¡°We might at least have brought our cloaks.¡± Ann wraps her arms about her middle. Her teeth chatter. ¡°I w-want to go b-b-back to b-bed. If Mrs. Nightwing should f-find us¡­¡± She glances behind us for signs of our headmistress. ¡°I promise you won¡¯t be disappointed. Now. Stand here.¡± I position them beside the turret and place the lantern at their feet. The light washes them in an unearthly white. ¡°If this is some childish prank, I shall kill you,¡± Felicity warns. ¡°It isn¡¯t.¡± I stand on the ground above the old stone and close my eyes. The night air nips at my skin. ¡°Gemma, really,¡± Felicity complains. ¡°Shush! I need to concentrate,¡± I snap. Doubt whispers cruelly in my ear: You can¡¯t do it. The power¡¯s left you. I won¡¯t listen. Not this time. Slowly, I let go of my fear. The ground vibrates beneath my feet. The land itself seems to call to me, pulling me under its spell. My fingers thrum with an energy that both frightens and excites. I open my eyes and put out my hand, searching for the hidden door. I don¡¯t see it so much as feel it. The sensation is one of exquisite longing and joy. A wound of desire that cannot be healed. It¡¯s whispering to me secrets I don¡¯t comprehend, languages I do not know. The wind howls. It whips up small tornados of dust. The land shimmers. The faint outline of the door appears again. ¡°Blimey,¡± Ann gasps. Felicity reaches out tentatively. ¡°You believe that leads to the realms?¡± ¡°On the night of the fire, the Winterlands creature came to take Sarah,¡± I remind them. ¡°And Eugenia Spence offered herself in Sarah¡¯s place. She threw her amulet¡ªthis amulet¡ªto my mother and sealed the door into the realms. The East Wing burned. All traces of the door were gone.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t know that this is the same door,¡± Ann says, shivering. ¡°It could lead anywhere. To the Winterlands, perhaps.¡± ¡°I¡¯m willing to take that chance,¡± I say, embracing the glimmer of hope I¡¯ve been offered. ¡°W-we c-c-could be trapped,¡± Ann says. ¡°We¡¯re already trapped,¡± Felicity says. ¡°I want to find out what has happened to Pip.¡± She takes my arm. I grab the lantern. Page 24 ¡°Ann?¡± I reach out, and she slips her cold fingers into mine, holding tightly. I take a deep breath, and we step forward. For a second, it feels as if we¡¯re falling, and then there is nothing but the dark. It smells musty and sweet. ¡°Gemma?¡± Ann¡¯s whisper. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°What has happened to Felicity?¡± ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± Fee says. ¡°Wherever that may be.¡± I swing the lamp in first and am able to see a few feet ahead. It¡¯s a long passageway. The lamplight falls on high arched ceilings of pale stone. Roots dangle through cracks here and there. In back of us, Spence sleeps, but it¡¯s as if that world lies behind glass, and we push on. As we pass, the walls flicker with a faint glow, like hundreds of fireflies lighting the way ahead, while the path behind us shifts into darkness again. The passageway twists and turns in a confusing fashion. Ann¡¯s jitters echo in the tunnel. ¡°Don¡¯t get us lost, Gemma.¡± ¡°Will you be quiet?¡± Felicity scolds. ¡°Gemma, you¡¯d best be right about this.¡± ¡°Keep walking,¡± I say. We come to a wall. ¡°We¡¯re trapped,¡± Ann says in a shaky voice. ¡°I knew it would come to this.¡± ¡°Oh, do stop it,¡± Fee barks. It has to be here. I won¡¯t give up. Let the magic go, Gemma. Feel it. Unleash its power. Something¡¯s calling to me. It¡¯s as if the stones themselves are waking. The outline of another door appears in the wall, fierce light bleeding around its corners. I give the door a shove. It swings open, accompanied by a flurry of dust, as if it has been sealed for ages, and we step into a meadow redolent of roses. The sky is a clear blue in one direction and the golden orange of sunset in the other. It¡¯s a place we know well but have not seen for some time. ¡°Gemma,¡± Felicity murmurs. Her awe gives way to jubilation. ¡°You¡¯ve done it! We¡¯ve made it back to the realms at last!¡± CHAPTER NINE ¡°IT¡¯S SO BEAUTIFUL!¡± FELICITY SHOUTS. SHE TWIRLS ABOUT, making herself so dizzy she falls down in the tall grass, but she¡¯s laughing as she does. ¡°Oh, it is like the most wondrous spring I¡¯ve ever seen,¡± Ann murmurs. And indeed, it is. Long velvet ropes of moss hang from the tops of trees like gossamer green curtains; branches blossom with pink and white flowers. A gentle breeze sweeps them onto our upturned cheeks and lips. They nestle in my hair, making it smell sweet as new rain. I rub a flower between my fingers, inhaling its scent; I have to be sure that it is real, that I am not dreaming. ¡°We¡¯re really here, aren¡¯t we?¡± I ask as Fee entwines herself in the moss as if it were ermine. ¡°Yes, we are,¡± Fee assures me. For the first time in months, hope flutters up through my soul: If I can do this, bring us into the realms, then all is not lost. ¡°This isn¡¯t the garden,¡± Ann says. ¡°Where are we?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say, looking about. Tall slabs of stone have been erected in a seemingly random pattern that puts me in mind of Stonehenge. Winding through them is a faint dirt path that reaches from the door to the realms beyond. The path is difficult to see, as if it hasn¡¯t been used in a very long time. ¡°There¡¯s a little trail here,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯ll follow it.¡± As we walk away, the door fades into the rock. ¡°Gemma,¡± Ann gasps. ¡°It¡¯s gone!¡± It¡¯s as if someone has tightened a string around my heart. I try to keep my wits about me. I take a step toward the rock, and the door glows once again. ¡°Oh, thank heavens,¡± I say, letting my breath out in a whoosh, relieved. ¡°Come on,¡± Felicity pleads. ¡°I want to see the garden. I want¡­¡± She doesn¡¯t finish her sentence. We follow the path through the stones. Despite being pockmarked with age and dirt, they boast an impressive array of friezes showing women of all sorts. Some are as young as we are; others are as old as the earth itself. Some are clearly warriors, with swords held aloft to the rays of the sun. One sits surrounded by children and fawns, her hair flowing in loose waves to the ground. Another, dressed in chain mail, wrestles a dragon. Priestesses. Queens. Mothers. Healers. It is as if the whole of womanhood is represented here. Ann gawks at the woman with the dragon. ¡°Who do you suppose they are?¡± ¡°Perhaps they were of the Order or older still,¡± I say. I run my hand across a carving of three women on a barge. The one on the left is a young lady; the one on the right is a bit older; and in the center is a crone holding a lantern aloft, as though she¡¯s waiting for someone. The picture gives me a strange sensation in my belly, as if I¡¯ve glimpsed the future. ¡°They¡¯re remarkable, aren¡¯t they?¡± Page 25 ¡°What¡¯s remarkable is that there isn¡¯t a single blasted corset among them,¡± Felicity says with a giggle. ¡°Oh, Gemma, let¡¯s do hurry. I can¡¯t wait much longer.¡± The path leads us through tall fields of wheat, past neat rows of olive trees and the grotto where the Runes of the Oracle once stood. At last we find ourselves in the garden we have come to think of as our own private fiefdom. The moment we¡¯re on familiar ground, Felicity is running. ¡°Pippa?¡± she calls. ¡°Pippa! Pippa, it¡¯s me, Felicity! We¡¯ve come back!¡± She searches every corner. ¡°Where is she?¡± I cannot bring myself to say what I¡¯m thinking¡ªthat our dear friend Pippa is lost to us forever now. Either she has crossed the river to the land beyond or she has banded together with the Winterlands creatures and become our enemy. I am waiting for the magic to spark inside me, but it doesn¡¯t behave as it has in the past. I am out of practice. Right. Begin with something simple, Gemma. I grab a handful of leaves and close my fingers over them. I shut my eyes. My heart flutters a few beats faster, and then a sudden fever takes me. It is as if the whole of the world¡ªall experience, past and present¡ªflows through me as quickly as lightning. My blood pulses with new life. A rapturous smile spreads across my lips. And when I open my eyes, the leaves have turned to rubies in my palm. ¡°Ha! Look!¡± I shriek. I toss the gems into the air and they fall like red rain. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s been so long since we¡¯ve played with magic.¡± Ann gathers leaves in her hands and blows. The leaves fly on her breath, then drift in a slow spiral to her feet. She frowns. ¡°I wanted them to become butterflies.¡± ¡°Here, let me try.¡± Felicity grabs a handful, but no matter how hard she tries, they become nothing new; they are only leaves. ¡°Why can¡¯t I change them? What¡¯s happened to the magic? How were you able to make the rubies, Gemma?¡± ¡°I simply wished it, and there they were,¡± I say. ¡°Gemma, you clever girl! You did bind the Temple magic to yourself after all!¡± Felicity says with a mix of awe and envy. ¡°Every bit of it must live inside you now.¡± ¡°I suppose that¡¯s true,¡± I say, but I can¡¯t make myself believe it. I turn my hands palms up, palms down, staring at them as if I¡¯ve never seen them before. They¡¯re the same dull, freckled hands I¡¯ve always had, and yet¡­ ¡°Do something else!¡± Felicity commands. ¡°Like what?¡± I ask. ¡°Turn that tree into a dragon¡ª¡± ¡°Not a dragon!¡± Ann interrupts, wide-eyed. ¡°Or make the flowers into gentleman callers¡ª¡± ¡°Yes, I like that,¡± Ann says. ¡°Oh, honestly, Gemma! You¡¯ve the whole of the Temple inside you. Do whatever you wish!¡± ¡°All right,¡± I say. There¡¯s a small rock at my feet. ¡°Hmmm, I¡¯ll, um, I¡¯ll just turn this into a¡­a¡­¡± ¡°Falcon!¡± Felicity shouts as Ann says, ¡°Prince!¡± I touch the rock, and for a moment, I feel as if we are one and the same; I¡¯m part of the land. Something slimy bumps against my palm with a loud ribbet. The frog looks about with big eyes, as if shocked to discover that he is no longer a rock. Ann grimaces. ¡°I¡¯d hoped for a prince.¡± ¡°You could always kiss him,¡± I offer, and Fee laughs. Ann pulls up a daisy and plucks its petals one by one. ¡°If you hold all the power, Gemma, what does that mean for us?¡± Felicity stops laughing. ¡°We¡¯ll have none of our own.¡± ¡°Once we make an alliance with the other tribes in the realms and join hands, we¡¯ll share the magic¡ª¡± ¡°Yes, but that could take months,¡± Felicity argues. ¡°What about now?¡± Ann cradles the mangled daisy in her lap. She won¡¯t even look at me. A moment ago I was overjoyed. Now I feel terribly guilty that I have this power and my friends do not. ¡°If I am the Temple with all its magic,¡± I say, haltingly, ¡°then I should be able to give some to you as the Temple has always given it to us.¡± ¡°I want to try,¡± Felicity says. She puts a hand to my arm. Her craving warms the skin beneath my sleeve, and I want to shake it off. For if I give it to her, will I be left with less? Will she have more? ¡°Gemma?¡± Felicity says. Her eyes are so very hopeful, and I¡¯m a rotten friend for thinking of denying her. ¡°Give me your hands,¡± I say. Within seconds, we are joined. There¡¯s a sharp pull, almost an exquisite pain. It¡¯s as if we¡¯re the same person for a moment. I can hear echoes of her wishes inside my head. Freedom. Power. Pippa. Pippa is the strongest wish, and I feel Fee¡¯s ache for our missing friend like a deep wound. We break apart, and I have to steady myself against a tree for a second. Page 26 Fee sports a huge grin. ¡°I feel it. I feel it!¡± As I watch, a shimmering breastplate appears over her nightclothes. Her hair hangs long and free. Strapped to her arm is a crossbow. On the other is a falcon. ¡°Oh, if those dowagers could see me now!¡± She adopts an imperious tone. ¡°I¡¯m afraid, Lady Ramsbottom, that if you should sneer at me once more, I shall have to allow my falcon to eat you.¡± Ann looks at me hopefully. ¡°Here, give me your hands,¡± I say. A moment later, Ann holds her arms out in front of her as if she can¡¯t believe the miracle of her own skin. Tears stream down her face. ¡°I feel alive again,¡± she says, laughing through them. ¡°I was so dead inside, but now¡­Oh, don¡¯t you feel it?¡± she asks. ¡°Yes,¡± I say, thrilled. ¡°Yes!¡± Ann gives herself a medieval gown of spun gold. She looks the part of a princess in a fairy tale. ¡°Ann, you¡¯re beautiful!¡± I call. I never want this night to end. Felicity lets the falcon go. It soars higher and higher, making daring loops. It is free, and even the sky cannot stop it. The river announces the arrival of something new. A great ship creaks upon the water. Along the bow is a massive fearsome creature with a green face, yellow eyes, and a head full of hissing snakes. The gorgon! I run to greet her, waving wildly. ¡°Gorgon!¡± I call. ¡°Gorgon, it is I, Gemma! We¡¯ve returned!¡± ¡°Greetings, Most High,¡± she answers in her slithery, whisper-thick voice. Her eyes register neither surprise nor happiness. She nestles into the grassy shore and lowers her plank, allowing me to clamber on board. The ship¡¯s planks are a seaworn gray. Along the sides hang nets of silver and a tangle of ropes. The boat is large but dingy. Centuries ago, the once-proud warrior was joined to this ship as punishment for her part in a rebellion against the Order. She is free to leave it now, but she hasn¡¯t yet. ¡°We had expected you sooner.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve not been able to enter the realms since I saw you last. I feared I¡¯d never return. But we¡¯re here now, and oh, Gorgon, you¡¯re well? Of course you¡¯re well!¡± I¡¯m overcome with happiness, for the magic has returned to me. I feel it setting my blood aflame. Yes, we¡¯ve come back to the realms at last. We¡¯ve come home. I venture onto the bow, taking a perch very near Gorgon¡¯s giant green face. The snakes about her head slither back and forth, watching me, but they make no move to strike. Gorgon¡¯s eyes narrow as she looks out to the horizon. ¡°The realms have been strangely quiet these days. I¡¯ve heard nothing from the Winterlands creatures.¡± ¡°I should think that is good news.¡± ¡°I wonder¡­,¡± Gorgon murmurs. ¡°And what of Pippa?¡± I ask, out of Fee and Ann¡¯s earshot. ¡°Have you seen her anywhere?¡± ¡°No,¡± Gorgon answers, and I don¡¯t know if I am relieved to hear it¡ªor afraid. ¡°I am ill at ease, Most High. I¡¯ve not passed so many days without a single sign from those creatures.¡± The air is scented with blossoms. The river sings pleasantly, as always. The magic sparks in my veins with such sweet ferocity that it is impossible to imagine that anything shall ever be amiss again. ¡°Perhaps they¡¯ve gone,¡± I say. ¡°Or crossed over at last.¡± The snakes rise and coil atop Gorgon¡¯s massive head, their pink tongues snapping into and out of their small cruel mouths. ¡°I¡¯ve seen no souls crossing the river.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean they didn¡¯t go. And it¡¯s quite possible none needed assistance.¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± Gorgon hisses, but the worry does not leave her face. ¡°There are other matters at hand. Philon is asking after you. The forest folk have not forgotten your promise to form an alliance with them, to join hands at the Temple and share the magic. Shall I take you to them now?¡± I¡¯ve not been in the realms a half hour, and already I am burdened with obligations. ¡°I think¡­¡± I look over at my friends scooping up handfuls of flowers and hurling them into the sky, where they fall in flakes of silver. ¡°Not just yet.¡± Gorgon¡¯s yellow eyes stare through me. ¡°You do not wish to part with the magic?¡± I hop down and gaze at my reflection in the pleasant surface of the river. It stares back at me, waiting. Even it has expectations, it would seem. ¡°Gorgon, I thought I¡¯d lost everything. I¡¯ve only just returned. I need to explore the realms and the magic, to sort out the best course,¡± I say slowly, thinking out loud. ¡°And I¡¯ve need of it in my world, too. I should like to help my friends, to change our lives while we can.¡± Page 27 ¡°I see,¡± Gorgon says, and I cannot read her feelings about the matter. The giant beast lowers her voice to a soft growl. ¡°There are other concerns, Most High.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°No person has ever held all the power. There must be a balance between chaos and order, dark and light. With the Temple magic bound to you, the realms are no longer in balance. The power could change you¡­and you could change the magic.¡± My happiness is evaporating. I drop a small pebble into the river. Ripples move across my reflection, distorting my face till I no longer recognize it. ¡°But if I hold the power, there is no magic for anyone to take,¡± I say, thinking aloud again as the idea forms in my mind. ¡°The realms might be safe at last. And¡±¡ªI watch Ann pull a leaf from a tree and turn it into a butterfly with one breath¡ª¡°I wouldn¡¯t hold it for long.¡± ¡°Is that a promise?¡± Gorgon hisses, her yellow eyes meeting mine. ¡°I promise.¡± Gorgon searches the horizon with an air of unease. ¡°There is much we do not know about the Winterlands, Most High. It is best to make the alliance, and quickly.¡± This fear of Gorgon¡¯s is odd. I¡¯ve not seen this side of her before. ¡°Tell Philon¡­¡± I stop. What can I tell Philon? That I need more time? That I¡¯m not sure of anything just now except that I am happy to be in the realms¡ªand I can¡¯t give up that happiness yet? ¡°Tell him we¡¯ll discuss that matter.¡± ¡°When?¡± Gorgon presses. ¡°Soon,¡± I say. ¡°How soon?¡± ¡°When I return,¡± I answer quickly, for I want to join my friends. ¡°I shall wait for you to return, Most High.¡± And with that, she closes her haunting eyes and sleeps. For hours we play, allowing the magic to flower fully within us till we feel that time itself is ours to hold. The hope that has been dormant in each of us blooms again, and we are giddy with the happiness that possibility brings. Felicity lazes in a swing she has fashioned from soft, leafy vines. She lets it cradle her and she drags her toes across the velvety grass. ¡°If only we could show the world the depth of our power¡­¡± Felicity trails off, smiling. Ann picks a dandelion puff from the tall grass. ¡°I should stand on the stage beside Lily Trimble.¡± I correct her. ¡°Lily Trimble should beg to stand beside you!¡± Ann brings her hands dramatically to her bosom. ¡°¡®Fair is foul, and foul is fair!¡¯¡± ¡°Bravo!¡± Felicity and I applaud. ¡°Oh, and I should be very, very beautiful. And wealthy! And I should marry an earl and have ten children!¡± Ann closes her eyes in a wish and blows hard on her dandelion, but the wind carries only part of the fluff away. ¡°What would you wish for, Gemma? What do you want?¡± Felicity asks. What do I want? Why is that simple question¡ªfour little words¡ªso impossible to answer? I would wish for things that cannot be: my mother alive again, my father well. Would I wish to be shorter, fairer, more lovable, less complicated? The answer, I fear, is yes. I would wish to be a child again, safe and warm, and yet I would also wish for something far more dangerous: a kiss from a certain Indian boy whom I have not seen since Christmas. I am a jumble of passions, misgivings, and wants. It seems that I am always in a state of wishing and rarely in a state of contentment. They are waiting for my answer. ¡°I should wish to perfect my curtsy so that I might not scandalize myself before Her Majesty.¡± ¡°That will take magic,¡± Ann says dryly. ¡°Thank you for your confidence. I do so appreciate it.¡± ¡°I should bring Pip back,¡± Felicity says. Ann bites her lip. ¡°Do you suppose she really is lost to the Winterlands, Gemma?¡± I look out over the endless meadow. The flowers sway in a gentle breeze. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°She isn¡¯t,¡± Felicity says, her cheeks reddening. ¡°That is where she was headed,¡± I remind her gently. The last time we saw our dear friend, she was already turning, becoming one of them. She wanted me to use the magic to bring her back to our world, but I couldn¡¯t. The creatures cannot come back. It is a rule I couldn¡¯t break, and Pippa hated me for it. Sometimes I believe Fee hates me for it too. ¡°I know Pip, I tell you. She would never leave me like that.¡± ¡°Perhaps we¡¯ll see her soon,¡± I say. But I¡¯m not looking forward to it. If Pippa has truly become a Winterlands creature, she is no longer our friend. She is our enemy. Page 28 Felicity grabs her sword and sets off for the trees. ¡°Where are you going?¡± I shout. ¡°To find Pip. You may come or not.¡± We go, of course. Once Fee has set her mind on something, there¡¯s no talking sense into her. And I want to know the truth, though I hope we¡¯ll not see Pip. For her sake and ours, I hope she¡¯s already crossed over the river. Felicity leads us through a flower-laden meadow. It smells of hyacinth and my father¡¯s pipe tobacco, fresh dosa, and my mother¡¯s skin-warmed rose water. I turn around, half expecting to see my mother behind me. But she isn¡¯t. She¡¯s gone, dead nearly a full year now. Sometimes I miss her so deeply it is as if I cannot breathe without feeling an ache lodged in my ribs. Other times I find that I¡¯ve forgotten small things about her¡ªthe shape of her mouth or the sound of her laugh. I cannot conjure her memory. When that happens, I¡¯m nearly in a panic to remember. I am afraid that if I cannot hold on to these memories exactly, I¡¯ll lose her forever. We come to the poppy fields below the Caves of Sighs. The bright red flowers show us their dark hearts. Felicity picks one and places it behind her ear. High above us, the cliffs rise. The char pots belch their rainbow of smoke, hiding the very top, where the Untouchables guard the Temple and the well of eternity. It is the last place I saw Circe. She¡¯s dead, Gemma. You killed her. Yet I heard her voice in a dream, telling me she was still alive. I saw her face, ghostly white, in the well¡¯s depths. ¡°Gemma, what is the matter?¡± Ann asks. I shake my head as if I can clear it of Circe¡¯s memory forever. ¡°Nothing.¡± We walk for some time, until the lush ripeness of the meadow gives way to thick copses of gnarled trees. The sky is gloomy here, as if it has been streaked with soot. There are no flowers, no bushes. In fact, there is no color at all, save for the brown of the brittle trees and the gray of the sky above them. ¡°Ugh,¡± Felicity says. She lifts her boot and shows us the bottom. It is dark and mealy, like rotted fruit. When I look up, I see that the trees are laden with what seem to be clusters of berries. They hang flat and defeated on the branches. ¡°Oh, what has happened here?¡± Ann wonders aloud, pulling a rotting husk from a branch. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s change it back, shall we?¡± We put our hands on a trunk. Color flows beneath its withered bark. Leaves burst through the broken skin of the tree with a sound like the earth itself cracking open. Vines slither along the dusty ground. The shrunken fruits grow fat and purplish red; the branches sag under their succulence. The magic surges in me, and I feel as ripe and beautiful as the fruit. I grab Ann, who yelps as I lead her about in a giddy waltz. I let go and take hold of Felicity, who, being Felicity, insists on leading. Soon we¡¯re all twirling round and round dizzyingly fast, my happiness fed by theirs. Sudden thunder rumbles in the distance; the sky pulses red like an angry abrasion. I lose my hold on the others and we fly apart. Ann lands hard with an ¡°oomph.¡± ¡°Really, Gemma!¡± ¡°Did you see that?¡± I ask, running toward the path. ¡°The sky turned all funny for a moment.¡± ¡°Where?¡± Felicity searches the sky, which has settled into dusk again. ¡°That way,¡± I say, leading them on. We walk until we reach a long wall of brambles whose thorns are both sharp and plentiful. ¡°What now?¡± Ann asks. Through the small gaps in the brambles, I see a strange mixture of green and rock, fog and twisted trees, much like the English moors in the Bront? sisters¡¯ eerie tales. And farther on, something rises from the mist. ¡°What is that?¡± I ask, squinting. Felicity searches for a peephole. ¡°This is hopeless. I can¡¯t see a thing. Let¡¯s find a way in.¡± She sets off running down the hard path, stopping here and there to test the strength of the bramble wall. ¡°Ahhh!¡± I pull my hand back. I¡¯ve pricked my finger on one of the sharp points. My blood stains the tip. With an anguished sigh, the brambles unclasp. The long, thorny threads slither free of each other like snakes scattering. We fall back as a wide hole appears. ¡°What should we do now?¡± Ann whispers. ¡°We go inside,¡± Felicity answers, and there is the hint of a dare in her smile. We squeeze through the narrow opening and toward the barren forest. The air is noticeably cooler. It tickles our skin into gooseflesh. Thick vines twist along the ground, strangling the trunks of the trees, choking off much of what might grow here. A few valiant flowers poke their heads up here and there. They are few but large and beautiful¡ªa deep purple with petals as fat as a man¡¯s fist. Everything is coated in a blue light that reminds me of dusk in winter. The land here has a peculiar feel. I am drawn to it, yet I want to run. It is like a warning, this land. Page 29 We reach the edge of the forest and are astonished at what we see. On a hill is a magnificent ruin of a castle. Its sides are overgrown with a pale, sickly moss and thick, ropelike vines gone tough with age. Tree roots have grown into the stones. They are like bony fingers twisting and turning about the castle, holding it tight in an unwelcome embrace. One limestone tower refuses to be taken, however. It rises majestically from the hill¡¯s grasping hands. The ground near it is covered in a fine coating of frost. It is like a doll¡¯s castle under a shaking of powdery sugar. It is odd here. Hushed as a first snowfall. ¡°What is this place?¡± Ann asks. ¡°Let¡¯s have a look inside!¡± Felicity leaps forward, but I pull her back. ¡°Fee! We¡¯ve no idea where we are or who lives there!¡± ¡°Exactly!¡± she says, as if I have missed the entire point of our excursion. ¡°Might I remind you of the Poppy Warriors?¡± I say, invoking the name of those gruesome knights who lured us to their cathedral in hopes of killing us and taking the magic for themselves. As we ran for our lives, they transformed into enormous black birds, chasing us out onto the water. We were lucky to escape them, and I shan¡¯t make the same mistake twice. Ann shivers. ¡°Gemma¡¯s right. Let¡¯s go back.¡± The stillness is broken by the rustling of leaves. A call comes from the forest; it puts a shiver up my spine. Whoo-oot! ¡°What was that?¡± Ann whispers. ¡°An owl?¡± I say, my breath coming fast. ¡°No, I don¡¯t think so,¡± Felicity says. We huddle close. Felicity draws her sword. Magic swoops through me, battling my fear. There¡¯s movement to my right, a flash of white amidst the green. Just as quickly, something scurries through the thicket of trees on the left. Whoo-oot. Whoo-oot. It seems to be all around us. A sound here; a sound there. A streak of color darts past. Whoo-oot. Whoo-oot. Closer now. I hardly know which way to turn. The bushes are still. But someone¡¯s watching us. I can feel it. ¡°Sh-show yourselves,¡± I say, my voice pale as a slice of moon. She steps from behind a tree. Framed in the dusky purple of night, she seems to glow. Her white gown¡¯s gone brown with dirt around the bottom; her skin is the color of the dead. In her matted hair, she wears a crown of flowers that have died and turned to weeds. But we know her all the same. She is the friend we buried months ago, the friend who would not cross the river, whom we thought lost to the Winterlands. I say her name on a terrified whisper. ¡°Pippa.¡± CHAPTER TEN FELICITY¡¯S EYES WIDEN. ¡°PIP? IS IT YOU?¡± Pippa rubs her hands up and down her arms as if trying to warm them. ¡°Yes. It¡¯s me. It¡¯s your Pip.¡± Not one of us dares to move. Tears streak Pip¡¯s pale cheeks. ¡°Will you not embrace me? Do I mean so little to you now? Have you forgotten me so quickly?¡± Felicity¡¯s sword clatters to the hard ground as she runs headlong to Pippa and wraps her arms about our lost friend. ¡°I told them you wouldn¡¯t leave without telling me goodbye. I told them.¡± Pip looks at Ann. ¡°Darling Ann, will you still welcome me as friend?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Ann says, reaching toward the small frail shell of her. At last Pip comes to me. ¡°Gemma.¡± She gives me a sad little smile, biting her bottom lip nervously. Her teeth have grown sharper, and her eyes change back and forth from a beautiful violet to an unsettling milky blue with tiny pricks of black at the center. Her beauty has changed, but she is still mesmerizing. Her hair, always long and dark, is now a tangle of curls as untamed as the vines twisting round the castle. She catches me staring. Her laugh is quick and bitter. ¡°Gemma, you look as if you¡¯d seen a ghost.¡± ¡°I thought you¡¯d gone to the Winterlands,¡± I say, uncertainly. ¡°I nearly did,¡± she answers, shivering. ¡°But what happened?¡± Felicity asks. Pippa calls out toward the forest. ¡°It¡¯s all right! You can come out! It¡¯s safe. These are my friends.¡± A ragged group of girls emerge one by one from their hiding places behind the trees and the bushes. Two carry long sticks that look as if they could do damage. As the girls come closer, I see the singed tatters of their dresses, the horrific burns on their faces and arms. I know who they are¡ªthe factory-fire girls we met months ago. We last saw them marching toward the Winterlands, toward corruption. I am relieved to see that they did not meet their end there, but I cannot imagine how they escaped. Page 30 One of the stick holders¡ªa big-boned lass with coarse skin and wounds running the length of her arms¡ªtakes a stand beside Pippa. I remember speaking to her in the realms before. Bessie Timmons. She¡¯s the sort I wouldn¡¯t want to be on the wrong side of. She glances at us suspiciously. ¡°Everfin¡¯ all righ¡¯, then?¡± ¡°Yes, Bessie. These are my friends, the ones I told you all about,¡± Pippa says proudly. ¡°The ones wot took the Temple magic and lef ¡¯ you ¡¯ere?¡± Bessie snorts. ¡°But you see they came back.¡± Beaming, Pippa puts her arm around Felicity. Bessie doesn¡¯t like it one bit. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be too ¡¯appy. They¡¯re not ¡¯ere to stay.¡± Pippa wags a finger as a schoolmarm would. ¡°Bessie, remember our motto: Grace, strength, beauty. A lady must be gracious when welcoming guests.¡± ¡°Yes, Miss Pippa,¡± Bessie says contritely. ¡°But, Pip¡­where have you been? I want to know everything!¡± Felicity says, embracing Pippa again. I know I should embrace her as Fee and Ann have done, but I can see only those disturbing eyes and sharp teeth, and I am afraid. ¡°I shall tell you everything. But come inside. It¡¯s far too chilly out here.¡± Pippa takes hold of Ann¡¯s and Felicity¡¯s hands, pulling them toward the castle. Grumbling, Bessie Timmons follows. The remaining girls fall into line, and I bring up the rear. Pippa throws back the iron latch on the castle¡¯s warped wooden door. The weeds snake through the planks, plastering themselves to the front. ¡°Here we are,¡± Pippa says, pushing open the door. ¡°Home.¡± It seems as if it might have been a beautiful stronghold in its day, but now it is nothing more than ancient bricks with vines for mortar. The walls are slick with moss. It smells of damp and decay. Brittle daisies, dead on their stalks, peek up between broken flagstones. The only thing that seems to grow is belladonna. The poisonous purple flowers hang above our heads like little bells. ¡°This is where you¡¯ve been¡­¡± I stop myself from saying living. ¡°Where you¡¯ve been all this time?¡± ¡°It¡¯s all that¡¯s left for me. A moldering castle for the Lady of Shalott.¡± Pippa laughs, but it is hollow. She rubs her palms across the elaborate carvings etched into a hearth. The carvings are like saints¡¯ faces gone black with time. ¡°But you can tell it was once magical and beautiful.¡± ¡°What happened to it?¡± Ann asks. Pippa glares at me. ¡°It was forgotten.¡± Felicity pulls aside a threadbare tapestry, revealing a winding staircase. ¡°Where does this lead?¡± ¡°To the tower,¡± Pippa says, smiling wistfully. ¡°It is my favorite place, for I can see for miles. I could even see you coming down the path. You looked so merry.¡± Her smile falters but she quickly puts a new one in its place. ¡°Shall I show you?¡± We follow Pippa up and around the antiquated staircase. Cobwebs cling to rotting wooden rafters far above us. The silvery strands glint with moisture. Some unfortunate creature has met its end there. In the center of a web, its carcass lies trapped and rotting as a spider inches toward it. I steady myself against the wall. The vines slither around my fingers. Startled, I leap back, slipping on the crumbling stone. Pippa reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me to safety. ¡°Hold still a moment,¡± she says. As we watch, amazed, the vines crisscross the stone like a conquering army. The walls groan with the strain, and I fear that the whole castle will fall down around us. Seconds later, it stops, but fresh tendrils have sprung up everywhere. ¡°What was that?¡± Felicity whispers. ¡°The land¡¯s swallowing it bit by bit every day,¡± Pippa says sadly. ¡°Soon, we¡¯ll need to find new lodgings, I suppose.¡± She releases my hand. ¡°Are you all right, Gemma?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s twice I¡¯ve saved your life,¡± she reminds me. ¡°Do you remember the first time? The water nymphs nearly took you under, but I pulled you back,¡± she says, and I feel the ledger book open between us. Pip is right about the tower: it¡¯s magnificent. From the top, we can see beyond the way we¡¯ve come¡ªthe Caves of Sighs, the olive trees that line the gardens, the blue sky and the orange sunset. We can also see beyond the Borderlands, where dark wintry clouds sit on their haunches on the horizon and an enormous wall stretches the length of the land. ¡°That is the way into the Winterlands,¡± Pippa says, answering an unspoken question. Page 31 Lightning throbs against the roiling mass of black-and-gray clouds. For a moment, a plume of red snakes through the dark. ¡°We¡¯ve seen that twice now. Do you know what it is?¡± I ask. Pippa shakes her head. ¡°Sometimes it happens. We should go downstairs. Wendy will be frightened, poor lamb.¡± ¡°Who is Wendy?¡± Ann asks. For the first time, Pip gives a true smile. Her eyes shift to violet, and I am reminded of the way she was, alive and beautiful, happy about new gloves or some romantic tale. ¡°How terrible of me, for I¡¯ve not introduced you properly to my new friends!¡± Pippa leads us down and into a tapestry-lined room, which is as dismal as a tomb. There are no candles, no lamps, no fire in the enormous hearth. The factory girls have made themselves at home, however. Bessie stretches out on a divan, among the weeds that wrap around it. Her friend Mae sits on the floor, braiding the hair of another girl, whose name appears to be Mercy, for Mae keeps saying, ¡°Mercy, sit still.¡± Another girl, younger than the rest, sits in a corner, staring at nothing. I cannot keep from glancing at their wounds, their ghostly pale faces. ¡°What are you lookin¡¯ at, then?¡± Bessie snarls, catching me. My cheeks burn red, and I¡¯m glad for the cover of dusk. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s just that the last time I saw you all¡ª¡± ¡°We thought you¡¯d followed the girls in white to the Winterlands and were lost forever,¡± Felicity interrupts. ¡°They were in the company of those ghouls,¡± Pippa says, settling into a dilapidated throne. ¡°What happened?¡± Ann asks, breathless. ¡°That is the story I wished to tell you. By chance, I was on the same path, completely brokenhearted and filled with despair.¡± ¡°Oh, Pip,¡± Felicity says. ¡°There, there.¡± Pip smiles. ¡°It has a happy ending. You know how I love happy endings.¡± I swallow hard. I was the one who turned Pip away, who broke her heart so. I wish I could take it back. ¡°When I saw these poor lambs, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I knew I had to do something or they would be lost. So I followed close behind. The moment they stopped to rest, and the girls in white went in search of berries, I took my chance. I told them what those hideous creatures were truly about. That they meant to lead them straight to those soul stealers, the trackers.¡± She smiles at them as if they were her dear children. ¡°I rescued them. I saved you, didn¡¯t I, my darlings?¡± The girls join in a chorus of agreement. They gaze at Pippa in absolute adoration, as we all have from time to time. ¡°She¡¯s a saint. Saved us, she did,¡± Mae says, wide-eyed. ¡°¡®You mustn¡¯t follow them,¡¯ she said. ¡®They mean you ¡¯arm. Come with me instead.¡¯¡± ¡°She saved us sure as we¡¯re standing ¡¯ere,¡± Bessie says, concurring. ¡°Didn¡¯t she, Wendy?¡± A girl of about twelve nods. She sucks on the ends of her pigtails, making them into wet points. ¡°The others weren¡¯t so lucky as us. They went on.¡± ¡°And have you seen any of the Winterlands creatures since then?¡± I ask. ¡°Not for ages now,¡± Mae says. ¡°But Wendy has.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve seen them?¡± I ask. Bessie gives a small snort of derision. ¡°Wendy don¡¯t see nuffin¡¯. Fire blinded ¡¯er.¡± ¡°But I hear things, sometimes,¡± Wendy says, pulling the remnants of a ruined shawl about her. ¡°Sounds like horses. And sometimes I ¡¯ear somefin¡¯ makes my skin crawl.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± I ask. ¡°What do you hear?¡± ¡°A scream,¡± she answers. ¡°Faraway-like. And I ¡¯ope it don¡¯t ever get no closer.¡± ¡°Gotcha!¡± Bessie shouts, wrapping her meaty paws about Wendy¡¯s neck. Wendy screams, making us all jump. Pippa is quite put out by the display. ¡°Bessie, that is enough.¡± Bessie pulls away her hands. ¡°You used to laugh at my tricks.¡± Pippa¡¯s eyes go blue-white. ¡°Tonight, I don¡¯t find it amusing. It isn¡¯t ladylike.¡± She turns to us, all smiles. ¡°I¡¯m teaching these girls to be ladies, just as if they were at Spence!¡± She claps as if she were Mrs. Nightwing herself. ¡°Come now. A small demonstration for our guests.¡± The girls rise obediently, eager to please their mistress. Under Pip¡¯s direction, they show off their curtsies one by one. This is followed by a particularly amusing elocution lesson in which Pip works with Mae Sutter to change her thick East London accent. Mae struggles to put hs into her words where there are none, and Bessie teases her mercilessly. Page 32 ¡°You ain¡¯t no lady, Mae. You ain¡¯t never gonna be a fine lady like Miss Pip.¡± ¡°¡¯Oo asked you?¡± Mae barks, and everyone laughs. ¡°Who asked you,¡± Pippa corrects. ¡°¡¯At¡¯s what I said,¡± Mae asserts. ¡°¡¯Oo asked ¡¯er?¡± There is more laughter, especially from Ann, who seems happy not to be the girl getting taunted for once. Little by little, our awkwardness slips away, easing into a new closeness, until it feels as if we have never been apart. I¡¯ve not seen Felicity like this in months. With Pip she¡¯s lighter, quicker to laugh than to challenge. And I feel a small pang of envy for the intimacy of their friendship. ¡°What are you thinking?¡± Felicity asks. I start to answer, but then I realize she¡¯s talking to Pip. ¡°I was thinking how different my life would have been had I done as my mother told me and married Mr. Bumble.¡± ¡°Mr. Bartleby Bumble the barrister,¡± Ann intones, pronouncing the Bs hard. The factory fire girls break into a fit of giggling. This is the only encouragement Ann needs to continue. ¡°This is my beloved, Mrs. Bumble,¡± Ann says in perfect imitation of Mr. Bumble¡¯s plummy tones. ¡°She wears a bright bauble bought from Barrington¡¯s Baubles.¡± We¡¯re lost to the giggles now. Ann can scarcely carry on for her own laughter. ¡°Beware barristers bringing baubles! Better the berries than barristers!¡± Felicity shrieks. ¡°Oh, Ann!¡± Ann giggles. ¡°Bite bitter berries before becoming Bumble¡¯s beloved!¡± Pippa¡¯s lips tremble. ¡°Was it the better choice? I wonder.¡± She buries her face in her hands and cries. ¡°Oh, Pip, darling. Don¡¯t cry.¡± Felicity runs to soothe her¡ªFelicity, who never offers kindness to anyone. ¡°Wh-what have I d-done?¡± Pip wails. Sobbing, she runs from the room. Bessie Timmons gives us a hard look. She¡¯s a big girl and, I daresay, a bit of a brawler. She could give us a good pounding if she wished. ¡°Miss Pippa¡¯s the kindest soul what ever lived. You best not make her cry again.¡± I can see from the set of her jaw that we have been warned. Felicity goes to Pip and returns a moment later. ¡°She wants to speak to you, Gemma.¡± I drift down a corridor thick with leaves and desiccated flowers. ¡°Gemma.¡± I hear my name whispered from behind a tattered tapestry. I pull it back amidst a flurry of dust. Pippa motions for me to come in. Felicity is right on my heels, but Pip stops her. ¡°I must have a word with Gemma,¡± she says. ¡°But¡­,¡± Felicity starts. ¡°Fee,¡± Pippa scolds playfully. ¡°Oh, very well.¡± Felicity turns on her heel, and Pip and I are alone in the grand room. An ornate marble altar sits at one end, and I surmise that this must have been the castle¡¯s chapel. It seems a strange place for a private conversation. The emptiness of the room and its tall, arched ceilings make our words loop and echo. Pip sits upon the altar, her heels knocking gently against the moldy engravings there. Her smile vanishes, and in its place is an expression of utter anguish. ¡°Gemma, I can¡¯t bear this anymore. I want you to help me cross over.¡± I don¡¯t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn¡¯t this. ¡°Pip, I¡¯ve never actually helped anyone cross before¡ª¡± ¡°Then I shall be the first.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say, thinking of Felicity and Ann. ¡°Perhaps we should discuss it¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯ve given it thought. Please,¡± she begs. I know she should cross. And yet a part of me wants to hold on. ¡°You¡¯re certain you¡¯re¡­ready to go?¡± She nods. Only the two of us are in this room neglected by time and magic. It is as hopeless a place as one could find. ¡°Shall I get the others?¡± I ask. ¡°No!¡± she cries so sharply I fear that the chapel¡¯s old stones will break. ¡°They¡¯ll try to stop me. Especially Felicity and Bessie. You can tell them goodbye for me. It was nice that we could be together one last time.¡± ¡°Yes, it was.¡± I swallow hard. My throat aches. ¡°Come back tomorrow alone. I¡¯ll meet you just beyond the bramble wall.¡± ¡°If I help you cross now, Felicity will never forgive me,¡± I say. ¡°She need never know. It will be our secret.¡± Pip¡¯s eyes fill with new tears. ¡°Please, Gemma. I¡¯m ready. Won¡¯t you help me?¡± Page 33 She takes my hands, and though hers are as cold and white as chalk, they are still Pip¡¯s. ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll help you.¡± CHAPTER ELEVEN THE TROUBLE WITH MORNING IS THAT IT COMES WELL before noon. Oh, to luxuriate in my bed for another hour. I¡¯ve slept no more than two, and whilst I did, a family of squirrels must have taken up residence in my mouth, for I am sure there is a coating of fur upon my tongue. My tongue tastes of squirrel, if squirrel has a taste somewhere between days-old porridge and foul cheese. ¡°Gemma!¡± Ann pushes me. She¡¯s smartly turned out in her proper Spence uniform of white blouse, white skirt, and boots. How did she manage that? ¡°You¡¯re late!¡± I lie on my back. The morning light hurts my eyes, so I close them again. ¡°Does your mouth taste of squirrel?¡± She makes a face. ¡°Squirrel? No, of course not.¡± ¡°Woodchuck, then?¡± ¡°Will you get up?¡± I rub my eyes and will my feet to the cold, unwelcoming floor. Even it is not ready to wake. I moan in protest. ¡°I¡¯ve laid out your clothing for you.¡± And so she has, just like a clever, good little girl. My skirt and blouse are stacked neatly across the foot of my bed. ¡°I thought you¡¯d rather find your stockings for yourself.¡± She blushes as she says this. Poor Ann. How is it she can enjoy bloodthirsty tales of all manner of carnage yet nearly faint at the notion of bare shins? I step behind the dressing screen for modesty¡¯s sake¡ªAnn¡¯s, that is¡ªand dress quickly. ¡°Gemma, wasn¡¯t it so marvelous to be in the realms once again, to feel the magic?¡± The night comes back to me¡ªthe discovery of the door, the joy of being there again, the magic. Yet my conversation with Gorgon about the alliance and my duties there has left a shroud upon my soul. So much is expected of me and so quickly. And I cannot shake the apprehension I feel about helping Pippa. I¡¯ve not helped a soul, let alone a friend, cross the river before. And if I fail, I dare not guess at the outcome. ¡°Yes, marvelous,¡± I say, fastening buttons. ¡°You don¡¯t seem very happy about it,¡± Ann says. I steady myself. At last we¡¯ve regained entry into the realms. I can¡¯t allow worries about Philon and the forest folk to take this happiness from me. And as for helping Pippa, it isn¡¯t a choice, or something to discuss or debate with Felicity or Ann. It is the only honorable thing a friend can do. And now that the magic is back¡­ I step from behind the screen and take Ann¡¯s hands. ¡°Perhaps there is a new beginning for us,¡± I tell her. ¡°Perhaps being a governess isn¡¯t your destiny at all.¡± Ann allows herself a miserly smile. ¡°But, Gemma,¡± she says, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, ¡°I¡¯ve only a little magic left. It¡¯s very weak. Have you¡­?¡± I can feel it inside me, a giddy wakefulness that has me attuned to everything, as if I¡¯ve had several cups of strong black tea. I close my eyes, feeling what Ann does. Hope with an undercurrent of envy. I see her as she would like to see herself: beautiful, admired, singing on a stage bathed in gaslight. A subtle change comes over Ann. I cannot say what exactly; I know only that I see her differently. Her nose, which is usually red and runny, is not. Her hair is shinier, and her eyes seem somehow bluer. Ann regards herself in the mirror. She smiles at what she sees. ¡°It¡¯s only the beginning,¡± I promise. Outside our room, girls rush for the stairs in a stampede, and I do wonder if we are ever able to get anywhere without running like bulls. Someone bangs on our door and pushes it open without waiting for a response. It¡¯s Martha. ¡°Here you are!¡± she trills. She tosses two frilly white nothings at Ann, who balks and throws them at me. ¡°What is this?¡± I ask, holding up a pair of what appear to be bloomers. ¡°For riding, of course!¡± Martha squeals. ¡°Haven¡¯t you heard?¡± ¡°No, we haven¡¯t,¡± I say, hoping my irritation is evident. ¡°There is to be no French instruction this morning. Inspector Kent has come and brought us bicycles! There are three of them. The inspector¡¯s waiting out front to teach us all! Bicycles! The darling!¡± Then she¡¯s off running down the hall. ¡°Have you ever ridden before?¡± Ann asks. ¡°Never,¡± I say, eyeing the ridiculous bloomers and wondering which shall be more humiliating¡ªthe riding or the costume. The other girls have gathered in front of Spence when Felicity and I arrive. We¡¯re outfitted in the latest fashion for bicycling¡ªlong bloomers, a blouse with leg-o¡¯-mutton sleeves, and straw hats encircled with ribbon. The bloomers make me feel like a large duck. But at least I¡¯m not as skittish as Elizabeth, who can barely walk for blushing. Page 34 She hides behind Cecily and Martha, shaking her head. ¡°Oh, I can¡¯t! They¡¯re immodest! Indecent!¡± Felicity grabs her by the hand. ¡°And absolutely necessary if you¡¯re to ride a bicycle. I find them a great improvement upon the uniform, I can tell you that.¡± Elizabeth shrieks and runs for cover again. Dear God. It is a wonder that she can even bathe herself without fainting at the immodesty of it all. ¡°Very well. Suit yourself,¡± Felicity says. She¡¯s not shamed a bit, of course. ¡°I cannot tell you how liberating it is to be without layers of skirts and petticoats. You are the witnesses to my solemn pledge: When I am free of these shackles and living in Paris on my inheritance, I shall never wear a dress again.¡± ¡°Oh, Fee,¡± Martha says, stricken. ¡°How could you not want to wear those lovely gowns your mother has sent from France? Did I mention that my own gown is to be made by Lady Marble¡¯s atelier?¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t!¡± Cecily says. They talk of dresses and gloves and stockings, buttons and baubles in such fevered, fawning detail I fear I shall go mad. The sounds of hammering and sawing drift out from the East Wing. The workmen glance at us, nudging each other, until Mr. Miller threatens to hold their pay. ¡°Ann, you look lovely this morning,¡± Felicity says, and Ann blooms at the compliment. Fee lowers her voice. ¡°Wasn¡¯t last night perfection? To see Pip again¡ªa weight has been lifted from me.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. ¡°It was good to see her again.¡± ¡°And the magic,¡± Ann whispers. ¡°Oh, the magic.¡± Felicity beams. ¡°I should like to have done everything I could think of with it, for I¡¯ve none today.¡± ¡°None at all?¡± Ann can barely hide her smile. Felicity shakes her head. ¡°Not a bit. Have you any?¡± Ann looks at me. ¡°It seems to be coming to life again in me. I gifted Ann this morning, and I shall do the same for you,¡± I say, holding her hands until I feel the magic spark between us. ¡°What are you three whispering about?¡± Martha asks, eyeing us suspiciously. ¡°Employing magic to better our lives,¡± I answer. Felicity turns away, giggling quietly. ¡°You are rude and common, Gemma Doyle,¡± Martha sniffs. ¡°And you are wicked to encourage her, Felicity Worthington. And as for you, Ann Bradshaw¡ªoh, why should I bother?¡± Thank goodness, the three bicycles are brought round. We shall have to take turns. I¡¯ve never seen a bicycle up close before. It¡¯s rather like a metal S with two wheels and a bar for steering. And the seat! It seems far too high to sit upon. Inspector Kent greets us in his brown cotton coat and cap. He is Mademoiselle LeFarge¡¯s betrothed, a detective with Scotland Yard and a kind man as well. We are genuinely happy they shall be married come May. Mademoiselle LeFarge looks on from her spot on the grass, where she has laid out a blanket. She wears a thick bonnet that frames her plump face, her merry eyes. Not so long ago, she pined for a lost love. But under Inspector Kent¡¯s kind attention, she has blossomed. ¡°The future Mrs. Kent is a picture of loveliness today, is she not?¡± the inspector says, making our French teacher blush. ¡°Do be careful no one is hurt, Mr. Kent,¡± she says, dismissing his kindness. ¡°I shall afford your charges the utmost care, Mademoiselle LeFarge,¡± he answers, and her face softens. ¡°I know you shall, Mr. Kent,¡± she says, returning the compliment. Inspector Kent¡¯s bushy mustache hides his smile, but we catch the twinkle in his eyes. ¡°Now, ladies,¡± he says, wheeling one of the bicycles toward us, ¡°who would like to ride?¡± Several of the younger girls bounce in excitement and beg to be chosen, but of course it¡¯s Felicity who marches forward and the question is answered. ¡°I shall go first,¡± she says. ¡°Very well. Have you ridden before?¡± he asks. ¡°Yes, at Falmore Hall,¡± she answers, naming her family¡¯s estate in the country. She mounts the wobbling bicycle, and I fear she¡¯ll land in a heap upon the ground. But she gives the pedals a solid push and then she¡¯s off, wheeling effortlessly about the grass. We clap and cheer. Cecily is next. Inspector Kent runs beside her, keeping her aloft. When he threatens to let go, she throws her arms about his neck and screams. Martha doesn¡¯t fare much better. She falls over, and though she has injured nothing more than her pride, she refuses to remount. The workmen snicker, apparently amused to see us fine ladies so undone by such a simple piece of machinery, one they could fashion with their bare hands. Page 35 Felicity returns from her second go on the bicycle. Inspector Kent is helping Ann with her turn. ¡°Oh, Gemma,¡± Felicity says, breathless and pink-cheeked. ¡°You must have a ride! It¡¯s simply marvelous! Here, I¡¯ll help you.¡± She places my hands upon the unwieldy handlebars. My arms shake as I straddle the bicycle. It is the most awkward thing I have ever attempted. ¡°Now, sit,¡± Felicity instructs. I struggle to perch on the high seat and lose my balance, splaying out over the handlebars in a most unladylike fashion. ¡°Oh, Gemma!¡± Felicity laughs, doubled over. I grab the handlebars with renewed determination. ¡°Right. All I need is a proper push and I¡¯ll be off,¡± I say with a sniff. ¡°Steady the beast, if you please.¡± ¡°Do you speak of the bicycle or of your behind?¡± ¡°Felicity!¡± I hiss. She rolls her eyes. ¡°Get on, then.¡± I swallow the lump in my throat and hoist myself onto the spectacularly uncomfortable seat. I grip the handlebars so tightly my knuckles ache. I lift one foot. The iron beast sways, and I put my foot down again quickly, my heart beating fast. ¡°You won¡¯t get far that way,¡± Felicity scolds. ¡°You have to let go.¡± ¡°But how¡­,¡± I say, alarmed. ¡°Just. Let. Go.¡± With a solid push, Felicity launches me across the grass and down the slight hill, toward the dirt path. Time seems to stand still. I am terrified and exhilarated all at once. ¡°Pedal, Gemma!¡± Felicity screams. ¡°Just keep pedaling!¡± My feet push jerkily against the pedals, propelling me forward, but the handlebars have a mind of their own. I cannot control them. You will behave, bicycle! A rush of power surges through my veins. Suddenly, the bicycle is very light. It¡¯s no trouble at all to keep it moving. ¡°Ha!¡± I shout in exultation. Magic! I am saved! I descend a small hill and come round the other side, the picture of Gibson Girl grace. The crowd on the lawn cheers. Cecily stares at me, openmouthed. ¡°There¡¯s a good girl!¡± Inspector Kent calls. ¡°Like she was born to it!¡± Felicity¡¯s mouth hangs open too. ¡°Gemma!¡± she scolds, knowing my secret. But I don¡¯t care. I am mad for bicycling! It is a most marvelous sport! The wind rips my hat from my head. It rolls down the hill, and three workmen run after it. Laughing, they fight amongst themselves over who will be the one to return it to me. This is freedom. I feel the turning of the wheels deep in my belly, as if we are one machine, and I cannot fall. It makes me bold. Picking up speed, I race up the hill and whoosh down the other side, toward the road, pushing harder and faster with each enchanted pedal stroke. The wheels leave the ground, and for one brief, glorious moment, I am airborne. My stomach tickles me from the inside. Laughing, I lift my hands from the handlebars, tempting fate and gravity. ¡°Gemma! Come back!¡± the girls yell, but it¡¯s their hard luck. I turn to offer them a cheery wave, watching as they grow smaller with distance. When I face front again, there¡¯s someone in the road. I don¡¯t know where he¡¯s come from, but I¡¯m headed straight for him. ¡°Look out!¡± I shout. He ducks out of the way. I lose concentration. The beast is no longer within my control. It weaves frantically from side to side before pitching me to the grass. ¡°Let me help you.¡± He offers his hand and I take it, standing on shaky legs. ¡°Are you hurt?¡± I¡¯m scraped and bruised. I¡¯ve a tear in my bloomers, and under it, where my stocking shows, is a stain of grass and blood. ¡°You might have been more careful, sir,¡± I scold. ¡°You might have been looking out, Miss Doyle,¡± he answers in a voice I know, though it has grown huskier. My head snaps up, and I take in the sight of him: the long, dark curls peeking out from beneath a fisherman¡¯s cap. The rucksack on his back. He wears a pair of dusty trousers, suspenders, and a simple shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. That is all familiar. But he¡¯s not the boy I left at Christmas. He has grown into a man these past months. His shoulders are broader, the planes of his face sharper. And there is something else changed about him that I cannot name. We stand facing each other, my hands tight on the handlebars, a thing of iron between us. I choose my words as carefully as knives. ¡°How good it is to see you again.¡± He offers me a small smile. ¡°You¡¯ve taken up bicycling, I see.¡± ¡°Yes, much has happened these months,¡± I snap. Page 36 Kartik¡¯s smile fades, and I am sorry for my uncivil tongue. ¡°You¡¯re angry.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± I say with a harsh slap of a laugh. ¡°I don¡¯t blame you for it.¡± I swallow hard. ¡°I wondered if the Rakshana had¡­if you were¡­¡± ¡°Dead?¡± I nod. ¡°It would seem not.¡± He lifts his head and I note the dark circles beneath his eyes. ¡°Are you well? Have you eaten?¡± I ask. ¡°Please don¡¯t worry on my account.¡± He leans in and for one giddy moment I think he means to kiss me. ¡°And the realms? What news of them? Have you returned the magic and formed the alliance? Are the realms secure?¡± He only wants to know about the realms. My stomach¡¯s as heavy as if I¡¯d swallowed lead. ¡°I have it well in hand.¡± ¡°And¡­have you seen my brother in your realms? Have you seen Amar?¡± he asks a bit desperately. ¡°No, I haven¡¯t,¡± I say, softening. ¡°So¡­you were not able to come sooner?¡± He looks away. ¡°I chose not to come.¡± ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t understand,¡± I say when I find words again. His shoves his hands into his pockets. ¡°I think it would be best if we parted ways. You have your path, and I have mine. It would seem that our fates are no longer intertwined.¡± I blink to keep the tears at bay. Don¡¯t cry, for heaven¡¯s sake, Gemma. ¡°B-but you said you wished to be part of the alliance. To join hands with me¡ªwith us¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯ve had a change of heart.¡± He is so cold I wonder that he has a heart to change. What has happened? ¡°Gem-ma!¡± Felicity calls from beyond the hill. ¡°It¡¯s Elizabeth¡¯s turn!¡± ¡°They¡¯re waiting for you. Here, I shall help you with that,¡± he says, reaching for the bicycle. I pull it away. ¡°Thank you, but I don¡¯t require your help. It isn¡¯t your fate.¡± Pushing the bicycle ahead of me, I run quickly to the road so that he cannot see how deeply he has wounded me. I excuse myself from the bicycling under the pretense of tending to my knee. Mademoiselle LeFarge offers to help me, but I promise her I shall repair straight to Brigid and bandages. Instead, I slip through the woods toward the boathouse, where I can take refuge and nurse my deeper wounds in private. The small lake reflects the slow migration of pilgrim clouds. ¡°Carolina! Carolina!¡± An old Gypsy woman, Mother Elena, searches the woods. She wears her silvery hair wrapped in a bright blue kerchief. Several necklaces hang to her chest. Every spring, when the Gypsies come around, Mother Elena is with them. It was her daughter, Carolina, whom my mother and Sarah led to the East Wing to sacrifice to the Winterlands. The loss of her beloved daughter was more than Mother Elena could bear; her mind frayed and now she is more a haunt than a woman. I¡¯ve not seen her since the Gypsies returned this time. She hasn¡¯t ventured far from their camp, and I¡¯m surprised to see how frail she is. ¡°Have you seen my little girl, my Carolina?¡± she asks. ¡°No,¡± I say weakly. ¡°Carolina, love, do not play with me so,¡± Mother Elena says, looking behind a large tree as if she were merely involved in a game of hide-and-seek. ¡°Will you help me find her?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say, though it makes my heart ache to join her folly. ¡°She¡¯s mischievous,¡± Mother Elena says. ¡°And a good hider. Carolina!¡± ¡°Carolina!¡± I call halfheartedly. I peek behind bushes and peer into the trees, pretending to look for a girl killed long ago. ¡°Keep looking,¡± Mother Elena instructs. ¡°Yes,¡± I lie, shame reddening my neck, ¡°I¡¯ll do that.¡± The moment Mother Elena is out of sight, I steal into the boathouse, exhaling in relief. I shall wait here until the old woman goes back to the camp. Dust motes shimmer in the cracks of weak sunlight. I can hear the hammering of the workers and the hopeful call of a mother searching for the daughter who will not be found. I know what happened to little Carolina. I know that the child was murdered, nearly sacrificed to the Winterlands creatures twenty-five years ago. I know the horrible truth of that night, and I wish I didn¡¯t. An oar propped haphazardly against a wall slides toward me. I feel the smooth weight of the wood in my hands as my body is seized by a sensation I have not had in months¡ªthat of a vision taking hold. Every muscle contracts. I squeeze the oar tightly as my eyelids flutter and the sound of my blood grows as loud as war drums in my ears. And then I am under, whooshing through light as if I alone am awake inside a dream. Images rush past and blend into one another as in a turning kaleidoscope. I see the lady in lavender writing furiously by lantern light, her hair plastered to her face with sweat. Sounds¡ªa mournful cry. Shouts. Birds. Page 37 Another turn of the kaleidoscope, and I am on the streets of London. The lady motions to me to follow. The wind blows a handbill at my feet. Another leaflet for the illusionist Dr. Van Ripple. I pick it up, and I¡¯m in a raucous music hall. A man with black hair and a neat goatee places an egg into a box and, as quick as a blink, he makes it disappear. The pretty lady who led me here takes the box away and returns to the stage, where the illusionist places her into a trance. He takes hold of a large slate, and with a piece of chalk in both hands, the lady writes upon it as if possessed: We are betrayed. She is a deceiver. The Tree of All Souls lives. The key holds the truth. The crowd gasps and applauds, but I¡¯m pulled out of the music hall. I¡¯m on the streets again. The lady is just ahead, running over cobblestones slick with the damp, past rows of narrow, unlit houses. She runs for her life, her eyes wild with fear. The rivermen shout to one another. With their long hooks they fish the cold, dead body of the lady from the river. She clutches one sheet of paper. Words scratch themselves onto the page: You are the only one who can save us¡­. The vision leaves me like a train whooshing through my body, out and away. I come back to myself inside the musty boathouse just as the oar snaps in my hands. Trembling, I slump to the floor and place the broken pieces there. I¡¯m unaccustomed now to a vision¡¯s force. I can¡¯t catch my breath. I stumble from the boathouse, sucking in a great lungful of fresh, cool air. The sun works its magic, dispelling the last remnants of my vision. My breathing slows and my head settles. The Tree of All Souls lives. You are the only one who can save us. The key holds the truth. I¡¯ve no idea what it means. My head aches, and it isn¡¯t helped by the steady syncopation of hammers drifting over the lawn. Mother Elena startles me. She pulls her braid, listening to the hammering. ¡°There is mischief here. I feel it. Do you feel it?¡± ¡°N-no,¡± I say, staggering toward the school. Mother Elena falls in behind me. I walk faster. Please, please go away. Leave me be. We reach the clearing and the small hill. From here, the top of Spence rises majestically above the trees. The workmen are visible. Great panes of glass are hoisted on heavy ropes from the roof and fitted into place. Mother Elena gasps, her eyes wide with fear. ¡°They must not do this!¡± She moves quickly toward Spence, yelling in a language I do not understand, but I can feel the alarm in her words. ¡°You do not know what you do!¡± Mother Elena screams to them, now in English. Mr. Miller and his men have a small chuckle at the mad Gypsy woman and her fears. ¡°Go on now and leave us to men¡¯s work!¡± they shout. But Mother Elena is not swayed. She paces on the lawn, pointing an accusing finger at them. ¡°It is an abomination¡ªa curse!¡± A worker yells a sudden warning. A pane of glass has gotten the better of its handlers. It twists on its rope, hovering precariously until it is guided into the hands of workers below. One man grabs for it and cuts his palm along the sharp edge. He cries out as the blood flows down his arm. A handkerchief is given. The bloody hand is wrapped. ¡°You see?¡± Mother Elena calls. There¡¯s murder in Mr. Miller¡¯s eyes. He threatens her with a hammer till the other men pull him back. ¡°You bloody Gypsies! You¡¯re the only curse I see!¡± The shouts have drawn the Gypsy men to the lawn. Ithal stands protectively in front of Mother Elena. Kartik is there as well. Mr. Miller¡¯s men grab hammers and irons to stand with their foreman, and I fear there shall be a terrible row. Someone has sent for Inspector Kent. He steps into the thin line of grass separating the Gypsies and the English workmen. ¡°Here now, what¡¯s all the trouble?¡± ¡°Bloody Gypsies, mate,¡± Mr. Miller spits. Inspector Kent¡¯s eyes go steely. ¡°I¡¯m not your mate, sir. And you¡¯ll have a care around these ladies or I¡¯ll have you at the Yard.¡± To Mother Elena, he says, ¡°Best go back, m¡¯um.¡± The Gypsies slowly turn but not before one of the workers¡ªthe man in the red-patched shirt¡ªspits at them, and the insult lands on Ithal¡¯s cheek. He wipes it away but he can¡¯t erase his rage so easily. Anger burns in Kartik¡¯s eyes too, and when he glances at me, I feel as if I am the enemy. Ithal speaks softly to Mother Elena in their native language. Her mouth tightens in fear as the men lead her away. ¡°Cursed,¡± she mutters, trembling. ¡°Cursed.¡± CHAPTER TWELVE DINNER IS A PERFECTLY FORGETTABLE AFFAIR OF FISH STEW that wants salt, and badly. Page 38 I¡¯ve not stopped thinking of Kartik, his coldness. The last time I saw him in London, he pledged his loyalty. What could have happened to change his affections? Or is that the way of men¡ªto pursue girls only to cast them aside? He seemed so haunted, so desperate about Amar, and I wish I knew what to say to comfort him, but I¡¯ve not seen his brother, and perhaps that is comfort enough. And then there is my vision. The Tree of All Souls lives. What tree? Where? Why is it important? You are the only one who can save us. ¡°Gemma, what are you brooding about?¡± Felicity taunts from her perch beside me. It wouldn¡¯t do for her to ask me discreetly. ¡°I¡ªI¡¯m not brooding.¡± I slurp my soup, eliciting a scowl from Cecily. ¡°No. Of course not. You¡¯ve merely forgotten how to smile. Shall I remind you? It¡¯s quite simple¡ªsee?¡± Fee beams charmingly. I grant her a strained smile that I¡¯m certain makes me look as if I¡¯ve a bad case of wind. I chose not to come. Why can I not release that one small phrase from the cage of my thoughts? ¡°I must tell Pip that the soup is as awful as she remembers it,¡± Felicity whispers, giggling. Pip. One more weight to add, for tonight I am to return to her and help her cross the river to whatever lies beyond. ¡°Really, you are brooding, Gemma, and have been all afternoon,¡± Felicity chides as we walk the well-worn path to the chapel for evening prayers. ¡°And I think I know why. I saw you speaking to that Indian,¡± she says, dismissing him in a word. ¡°Kartik, do you mean?¡± I say coolly. Ann¡¯s ears prick up at this. ¡°He¡¯s back?¡± Blast. Now I¡¯ve got both of them to badger me¡ªFelicity with her snideness and Ann with her disturbing, eerie stare. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s the one. What has he said this time?¡± Felicity pantomimes a wild-eyed soothsayer. ¡°Don¡¯t touch the magic! Don¡¯t go into the realms! The ghost of Jacob Marley will take your soul if you do. Stay home and darn your socks like a good, proper girl! Hmmm?¡± ¡°I see you¡¯ve not lost your gift for the dramatic. Ann, don¡¯t let her take your talent so easily,¡± I say, hoping to change the subject. ¡°He did, didn¡¯t he?¡± Fee presses. ¡°He simply came to say goodbye properly.¡± I don¡¯t want to tell them about Kartik. Fee is no friend of his, and if I told her the truth, she¡¯d only gloat. It would be too mortifying to bear. ¡°But if I am preoccupied, it is because I had a vision today¡ªmy first since Christmas.¡± Ann¡¯s eyes widen. Felicity yanks me to the side of the path, letting other girls pass us. ¡°What was it?¡± ¡°A lady I¡¯ve seen in my dreams before. She¡¯s a magician¡¯s assistant or a medium of some sort, for I see her with a Dr. Van Ripple, an illusionist. She writes on a slate as if in a trance¡ªa very odd message.¡± ¡°What?¡± Felicity prods. Mrs. Nightwing and Mademoiselle LeFarge are coming up the path. They talk of whatever it is ladies talk about when they are not on display. They seem at ease, jovial. We try to stay a few steps ahead of them. ¡°¡®We are betrayed. She is a deceiver. The Tree of All Souls lives. The key holds the truth.¡¯¡± Felicity has been hanging on my every word, but now she laughs. ¡°A tree? Really, Gemma. Are you sure you didn¡¯t hit your head when you fell off the bicycle?¡± I ignore her insult. ¡°The images in my visions don¡¯t always tell a story that I can see. But I think the lady in the vision might be dead.¡± ¡°Dead? Really?¡± Ann asks with a breathlessness that shows her love of the macabre. ¡°Why do you say that?¡± ¡°Because I saw her pulled from the Thames, drowned.¡± ¡°Drowned,¡± she repeats, clearly relishing the inherent wicked excitement of it. Up ahead, the chapel doors stand open. Candlelight brings a flickering drama to the windows, making them seem alive. ¡°What time are we meeting?¡± Felicity whispers as we reach the doors. I turn away. ¡°Not tonight. I¡¯m far too weary from the bicycling. I need sleep.¡± ¡°But, Gemma!¡± Felicity protests. ¡°We have to go back! Pippa is expecting us.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll go tomorrow night,¡± I say, forcing a smile though I feel sick at the prospect of what I must do. Felicity¡¯s eyes brim with tears. ¡°We¡¯ve finally found our way back, and you want to keep us from happiness.¡± ¡°Fee¡­,¡± I start, but she turns her back, and I realize I shall have to allow them to hate me tonight though it is hard to bear. Page 39 The woods dance with the sudden brightness of lanterns. The Gypsies have come; Kartik is among them, and I can scarcely keep myself from trying to catch his eye, no matter how much I loathe myself for it. ¡°Here now, what¡¯s this? What is the matter?¡± Mrs. Nightwing demands. Sensing a fight, the girls pour out of the church and congregate at its doors, despite Mademoiselle LeFarge¡¯s entreaties for them to go inside. She might as well try rounding up chickens in the rain. ¡°We watch the woods,¡± Ithal explains. He has a pistol stuck into his belt. ¡°Watch the woods for what, pray tell?¡± Nightwing bristles. ¡°Mother Elena does not like what she feels. I do not like what I see.¡± He jerks his head toward the workmen¡¯s camp. ¡°There will be no trouble between you and Mr. Miller¡¯s men,¡± Mrs. Nightwing says in a commanding tone. ¡°Spence has always offered kindness to Mother Elena. But do not push me too far.¡± ¡°We offer protection,¡± Ithal asserts, but Mrs. Nightwing will not be swayed. ¡°We require no such protection, I assure you. Good night.¡± Kartik places a hand on Ithal¡¯s shoulder and speaks to him in Romani; Ithal nods. Not once does Kartik look at me. At last, Ithal motions to his men. ¡°We go,¡± he says, and the Gypsies turn back toward the woods and their camp. ¡°Rubbish. Absolute madness. Protection! That is my duty, and I should think I am rather accomplished at it,¡± Mrs. Nightwing grumbles. ¡°To prayers, girls!¡± Nightwing and LeFarge shoo us into the church. I take one last glance at the woods. The men have moved on, their lanterns burning small holes in the evening gloom. All except for one. Kartik is still there, hidden behind a tree, silently watching over us. CHAPTER THIRTEEN I CONSIDER NOT GOING. I WRESTLE WITH THE THOUGHT for the better part of an hour. I imagine Fee¡¯s and Ann¡¯s faces the next time we travel to the realms and Pippa is simply gone. I wonder how the factory fire girls will get on without her. I don¡¯t know for certain that this is the right course, but I¡¯ve promised, and so I must go. I wait until Ann¡¯s snoring deepens, and then I sneak down the stairs, hoping I¡¯ll not be caught by Brigid, Nightwing, Felicity, or anyone else. Under the shadow of the East Wing¡¯s skeleton, I put my hand to the secret door. It flares to life, and I steal into the realms by myself, running all the way. Pippa is waiting by the bramble wall. ¡°You came,¡± she says, and I cannot tell whether there is relief or fear in her voice. Perhaps both. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Fee will never know,¡± Pippa says, as if reading my mind. We take the path to the garden and the river. I am at a loss as to what I should do. Is there something I should say¡ªa prayer or a spell? If so, I do not know it. So I close my eyes for a moment and say silently, Please. Please help my friend Pippa. A small boat bobs on the river behind a tall bunch of marigolds. We wade through the marshy grass, and I pull it to us. Pip picks a marigold and twirls it in her hands. ¡°It¡¯s so beautiful here. I forget sometimes.¡± ¡°We can go whenever you are ready,¡± I say gently. She tucks the posy behind her ear. ¡°I¡¯m ready now.¡± We settle ourselves in the rocking boat and push off from the shore. I have ridden to adventure, joy, and danger on this river, but never has my journey been tinged with such melancholy. This is goodbye forever, and though I feel it¡¯s right, it¡¯s still very hard to let her go. I keep seeing the Pip I knew before, the Pip who called me friend. I steer toward the other side of the river, where the horizon glows the golden orange of sunset. It makes me feel sleep-drunk, as if I am napping in the sun. And then, suddenly, the boat stops. It will go no further. ¡°Why have we stopped?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say. I try to push off, to no avail. ¡°I thought you had the power to take souls across,¡± Pippa says, sounding panicked. ¡°I¡¯ve never done it before. You¡¯re the first. I don¡¯t think I can take you any further. I think you have to go the rest of the way on your own.¡± Pip¡¯s eyes widen. ¡°No, I can¡¯t! I can¡¯t go in the water. Please, please don¡¯t make me.¡± ¡°Yes, you can,¡± I assure her, hoping my voice doesn¡¯t betray my nerves. ¡°I¡¯ll help you. Here, grab hold of my arms.¡± I ease her into the water and let go. Her skirts billow out like lotus blossoms. ¡°Goodbye, Gemma,¡± she says, moving against the current. Watching her go is like seeing a part of myself vanish, and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from shouting, ¡°Don¡¯t. Come back. Please.¡± The light is swallowing her up. My cheeks are wet with tears. Goodbye, Pip. Page 40 With a sudden lurch, she slips below the water. Her hands thrash violently. She pops up, coughing up water, desperate for air. ¡°Gemma!¡± she screams, terrified. ¡°Help me!¡± Panic seizes me. Is that what is supposed to happen? But no, I¡¯ve seen other souls cross without such anguish. ¡°Pip!¡± I scream. I lean far over the boat. She grabs my hand and I pull her aboard. ¡°Go back,¡± she says, coughing. ¡°Go back!¡± It isn¡¯t until we reach the shore safely and Pippa falls into the garden on her knees that she begins to breathe easily. ¡°What happened?¡± I say. ¡°I couldn¡¯t cross,¡± she cries. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t let me.¡± Her eyes are wide with fear. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t let me!¡± ¡°She cannot cross. It¡¯s too late.¡± Gorgon slides into view. Pippa grabs my arm, frantic. ¡°What is¡­she¡­saying?¡± ¡°You ate the berries,¡± Gorgon hisses. ¡°Over time, they have worked their magic on you and claimed you for the realms. You are one of us now.¡± I think back to that horrible day when Pippa was left behind while we escaped. I remember the creature chasing her into the river. I remember later finding her, cold and pale, in the water. And I remember the fateful moment when she made her choice to stay by eating the berries. Why did I leave her? Why didn¡¯t I fight harder to save her? Pippa rushes toward Gorgon and beats her with closed fists. The snakes roar to life, snapping and hissing. One nips Pip. She yelps and falls to the grass, cradling her hand. Her sobs come as hard as a choking rain. ¡°Do you mean¡­to tell me¡­that I shall have to stay here? Forever?¡± Gorgon¡¯s yellow eyes betray no emotion. ¡°Your lot is cast. You must adapt. Accept and live on.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t!¡± Pippa wails. She chokes out words between sobs. ¡°Gemma¡­you! You told me¡­I¡­had to cross!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I thought¡ª¡± ¡°Now¡­now you tell me I shall have to stay here¡­in the realms forever! All alone!¡± Pippa is in a heap upon the ground. She rolls her forehead back and forth against the cool grass. ¡°You¡¯re not alone. You have Bessie and Mae and the others,¡± I say, desperate to offer some hope, but even I can hear how hollow it sounds. Her head whips up quickly; her eyes glitter with tears. ¡°Yes, those horrid girls, with their hideous burns and coarse manners! What sort of friends are they? They were a way for me to pass the time¡ªthey¡¯ll never replace Fee and you and Ann. Please don¡¯t leave me here, Gemma. Take me back. Please, please, please¡­¡± She grabs fistfuls of grass in her tiny hands, crying as if her heart will break. I can scarcely hold back my own tears. I sit beside her, try to stroke her hair. ¡°There, there, Pip.¡± She pushes my hand away. ¡°It¡¯s your fault!¡± I¡¯ve never felt so desperate, so awful. ¡°Wh-what if you had magic to help you?¡± I blurt out between my own sobs. Pip¡¯s tears slow. ¡°Magic? Like we used to?¡± ¡°Yes, I¡ª¡± Gorgon cuts me off. ¡°Most High. May I have a word?¡± The ship¡¯s plank lowers to the ground with a soft creaking, and I climb on board and take my preferred seat near her face. ¡°What is it?¡± Gorgon whispers to me in that syrupy hiss of a voice. ¡°I would warn you against hastiness, Most High.¡± ¡°But I can¡¯t leave her here like this! She was one of us!¡± ¡°The girl has made her choice. Now she must accept the terms. She may choose the Winterlands, or she may choose another path. She need not fall.¡± I look over at Pip, who¡¯s tearing blades of grass neatly in two. Her skin is pale, but her cheeks are ruddy with grief. She seems a lost lamb. ¡°Pip has no talent for making decisions,¡± I say, feeling more tears threaten. ¡°Then it is time to learn,¡± Gorgon says. She¡¯s behaving as if she were my mother, as Miss Moore and Miss McCleethy have. I¡¯ve done with people telling me what to do. Tom and Grandmama and Mrs. Nightwing. So many who would lace me up tightly with their good intentions. Gorgon is unbothered by my tears. ¡°Sympathy can be a blessing and a curse. Be careful yours does not trap you. This is her battle, not yours.¡± ¡°You are too hard by half. I don¡¯t wonder that you are the last of your kind,¡± I say. I am sorry for it at once. But the damage is done. Something like pain moves across Gorgon¡¯s usually mysterious face. The snakes lie down softly, rubbing against her cheeks like children in need of soothing. Page 41 ¡°It is not the way of things,¡± she says. ¡°It wasn¡¯t the way of things. Everything is changing, and now that I have this power, I intend to make changes of my own,¡± I snap. Gorgon searches my face for what seems an eternity. At last, she closes her eyes, shutting me out. ¡°Do what you will.¡± I have insulted her. I shall have to tend to that wound later. For now, I must help Pippa. She is sobbing, stretched out upon the shore, blades of grass strangled tight in her closed fists. She sits up with ferocity. ¡°You¡¯ll go on, all of you. To dances and parties, marriage and children. You¡¯ll find happiness, and I shall be here forever, with no one but those horrid girls from the factory who¡¯ve never even been to a tea.¡± She falls in on herself, rocking like a small child. I cannot bear her pain or my guilt for having brought her to the realms in the first place¡ªand for not being able to help her now. I would do anything, say anything, to take this from her. ¡°Pip,¡± I say, ¡°shhh. Give me your hands.¡± ¡°Wh-why?¡± she hiccups. ¡°Trust me.¡± Her hands are cold and wet but I hold fast. I feel the magic leave me in a fierce pull, as always. A few seconds of us joined. Her memories and emotions become mine to see, traveling as fast as scenery viewed from train windows. Young Pip at the piano, learning her scales dutifully. Pippa submitting to her mother¡¯s harsh brushing, her hair gleaming beneath each endured stroke. Pippa at Spence, looking to Felicity for guidance, to know when to laugh at a jest or cut someone deliberately. Her whole life she has done what was asked, without questioning. Her only rebellion was to eat that handful of berries, and it has stranded her here in a foreign, unpredictable world. I feel her joy, sadness, fear, pride, longing. Fee¡¯s face flashes, the light turning her golden. I feel Pip¡¯s aching fondness for our friend. Pippa wears a rapturous smile. She is changing before me, bathed in sparkles of white light. ¡°I remember¡­Oh, it¡¯s wonderful, this power! I shall change!¡± She shuts her eyes tight and presses her lips together in furious determination. Slowly, her cheeks turn pink and her thick black ringlets return. Her smile is restored to its former glory. Only her eyes will not change. They waver between violet and that unsettling blue-white. ¡°How do I look?¡± she asks. ¡°Beautiful.¡± Pippa throws her arms about my neck, pulling me down. She¡¯s so like a child at times. But I suppose it is what we love about her. ¡°Oh, Gemma. You are a true friend. Thank you,¡± she murmurs into my hair. ¡°Dear me, I shall have to do something about this dress!¡± She laughs. Same old Pippa. And for once, I am glad of it. ¡°Did you ever imagine you¡¯d be so very powerful, Gemma? Isn¡¯t it marvelous? Think, you can do whatever you wish.¡± ¡°I suppose,¡± I say, softening. ¡°It¡¯s your destiny! You were born for greatness!¡± I should like to say that this statement brings a blush to my cheek and I quickly dismiss it as rubbish. But secretly, I treasure it. I am coming to realize that I should like to feel special. That I should like to make my mark upon the world. And that I don¡¯t want to have to apologize for it. CHAPTER FOURTEEN PIPPA AND I PART IN THE POPPY FIELDS. ¡°I SHALL SEE YOU soon, dear friend. And don¡¯t worry¡ªI shall keep our secret. I¡¯ll say that this change in me has happened of its own accord. A miracle.¡± ¡°A miracle,¡± I second, trying to push aside my misgivings. I can¡¯t gift Pippa forever. She waves to me and blows a kiss before running back toward the Borderlands. ¡°Gemma¡­¡± ¡°Who said that?¡± I whirl around, but there is no one about. I hear it again, like a faint cry on the wind. ¡°Gemma¡­¡± I crane my neck up toward the Caves of Sighs, where the Temple and the well of eternity lie. I have to know. The climb to the top of the mountain is longer than I remembered. Dust clings to my legs. When I pass through the rainbow of colorful smoke, Asha, the Untouchables¡¯ leader, is there, waiting for me as if she knew I would come. A breeze blows aside her deep red sari, revealing her misshapen, blistered legs. I try not to stare at her or at any of the other Untouchables, the Hajin, as they are also known, but it is difficult. They have all been disfigured by disease. For this, they have been reviled within the realms and thought of as less than slaves. Asha greets me as she always has: with a small bow, her palms pressed together as if in prayer. ¡°Welcome, Lady Hope.¡± Page 42 I return the gesture and am ushered inside the cave. Two of the Hajin carry bushels of bright red poppies gathered from the fields below. They sort through them, taking only the good, which they weigh on large scales before feeding them to the smoke pots. As I pass, the Untouchables welcome me warmly, offering flowers and smiles. ¡°Have you come to return the magic to the Temple?¡± Asha asks. ¡°Not just yet. But I shall,¡± I assure her. Asha bows, but I see from her lack of a smile that she does not believe me. ¡°How may the Hajin be of help to you?¡± ¡°I should like to approach the well of eternity.¡± ¡°You wish to face your fears?¡± ¡°There is something I must put to rest,¡± I answer. She shakes her head slowly. ¡°Putting to rest is not so easy. You are free to enter.¡± A wall of water separates me from what lies within. I need only pass through it, and I will know for certain. My lips are dry with fear. I moisten them with my tongue, try to steady myself. Holding my breath, I push through the water¡¯s skin, and then I¡¯m inside the sacred heart of the Temple. The well of eternity sits in the center. Its deep waters make no sound. Heart hammering in my chest, I approach the well, until my fingers light upon the rough edge of it. I can scarcely draw a breath. My tongue catches against the roof of my mouth. I grip the edge of the well tightly and peer in. The water inside has turned to ice. My face is reflected in its smoky surface. I trace the outline of it there. A woman¡¯s face presses against the surface, and I stumble back, gasping. Her features emerge from the murky deep of the well. The eyes and mouth are closed as in death. Her face is bleached of all color. Her hair floats on the water beneath the ice like the rays of a dark sun. Circe¡¯s eyes snap open. ¡°Gemma¡­you¡¯ve come.¡± I back away further, shaking my head. My stomach lurches. I want to vomit. But fear keeps me from doing even that. ¡°You¡­you¡¯re dead,¡± I whisper. ¡°I killed you.¡± ¡°No. I live.¡± Her voice is a strangled whisper. ¡°When you bound the magic to yourself, you trapped me here. I shall die when the magic is returned.¡± ¡°And I¡¯m g-glad of it,¡± I stammer, walking quickly toward the wall of water that separates this terrible room from the Caves of Sighs. Circe¡¯s eerie voice echoes in the cave like the imagined murmurs of demons. ¡°The Order is plotting against you. They plan to take back the realms without you.¡± ¡°You¡¯re lying,¡± I say, shivering. ¡°You forget, Gemma¡ªI was one of them for a time. They¡¯ll do anything to have the power again. You can¡¯t trust them.¡± ¡°You¡¯re the one I can¡¯t trust!¡± ¡°I did not kill Nell Hawkins,¡± she says, naming the girl whose blood is on my hands. ¡°You gave me no choice!¡± But it¡¯s too late. She has found my wound and gouged it further. ¡°There is always a choice, Gemma. While there is time, I can teach you to harness your power, to make it obey you. Do you want it to lead you, or will you be its master?¡± I approach the well cautiously. ¡°My mother might have taught me in time. But she never got the chance. You killed her first.¡± ¡°She killed herself.¡± ¡°To keep her soul safe from you and that horrid Winterlands creature¡ªthat tracker! She did not wish to be corrupted! I¡¯d have done the same.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have. For a daughter such as you, I¡¯d have fought with my very last breath. But Mary was never much of a fighter, not like you.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve no leave to speak of my mother,¡± I snap. I steal a quick glance, and for a second, I see in her face something of who she once was, a glimpse of my former teacher, Miss Moore. But then she speaks, and that chill runs up my spine. ¡°Gemma, you needn¡¯t worry about me. I would never harm you. But I might still help you. And all I ask in return is to have a taste of magic again¡ªjust once more before I die.¡± For a moment, her words sow doubt under my skin. But she is not to be trusted. It¡¯s only a ploy to get the power. She hasn¡¯t changed. ¡°I¡¯m leaving.¡± ¡°There is a plan in motion. You cannot imagine what dangers you face. You cannot trust the Order. Only I can help you.¡± I was wrong to come. ¡°You¡¯ll get nothing from me. You can rot in there for all I care.¡± She slips below the shadowy surface of the water, and the last thing I see before she disappears is one pale hand that seems as if it¡¯s reaching toward me. Page 43 ¡°You¡¯ll come back to me,¡± she whispers in a voice as cold as the icy water itself. ¡°When there is no one else to trust, you will have to.¡± ¡°Did you find what you sought, Lady Hope?¡± Asha asks as I return to the Cave of Sighs. ¡°Yes,¡± I answer bitterly. ¡°I know all I need to know.¡± Asha leads me down a corridor of faded frescoes and into a cave I remember. Carvings of lush-hipped women and sensual men adorn its walls. They draw me even though I blush at their nakedness. I spy something I¡¯ve not noticed before. It is an engraving of two hands clasped in the center of a perfect circle. It is familiar to me though I cannot say why, like something glimpsed in a dream. The stones seem to speak to me: This is a place of dreams for those who are willing to see. Place your hands inside the circle and dream. ¡°Did you hear that?¡± I ask. Asha smiles. ¡°This is a special place. It was where the Order and the Rakshana would come as lovers.¡± The word brings another fiery blush that will not cool. ¡°They would place their hands together inside the circle so that they could walk in each other¡¯s dreams. It forged a bond that could not be broken. The circle represents love in eternity. For there is no beginning and no end. You see?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say, letting my fingers trace the circle. ¡°They would come to test their devotion. If they could not walk in each other¡¯s dreams, they were not destined to be lovers.¡± Asha leads me down the Temple¡¯s colorful corridor. I wait for her to ask me about the magic and the alliance, but she doesn¡¯t. ¡°I do mean to form an alliance and bind the magic to us all,¡± I explain without her prompting. ¡°But there are matters I must attend to in my own world first.¡± Asha only smiles. ¡°I shall share it. You have my word.¡± She watches as I leave. ¡°Of course, Lady Hope.¡± I make my way alone across the poppy fields and down a dusty lane hidden beneath the green lace canopy of willow trees. Their delicate leaves sweep against the ground with a comforting swish. I take a deep breath and try to clear my mind but find I can¡¯t. Circe¡¯s warnings have found a home there. I shouldn¡¯t have gone. I shan¡¯t make that mistake twice. And Pippa? Perhaps there is a reason she couldn¡¯t cross. Perhaps there is a chance to save her still. That thought makes my steps lighter. I¡¯ve nearly reached the end of the lane when I hear the faint pounding of horses. Through the willows¡¯ curtain of green, I spy a quick flash of white. One horse? Ten? Are there riders? How many? The leaves shift, and I no longer see anything. But I can hear the pounding getting closer. I lift my nightgown and run for all I¡¯m worth, feeling the path hit hard against the soles of my feet. I slip between two trees and dart into the wheat field, parting the slapping stalks with my hands. Still I hear it. My heart beats its refrain: Don¡¯t look behind you; don¡¯t stop; run, run, run. I¡¯m nearly to the statue of the three-faced goddess that marks the ascent to the secret door. Gulping for breath, I turn the corner. Zigzag through the sentry stones, those watching women. Up ahead, the mossy hill gives no indication of a door. Behind me is the steady pounding of that unseen rider. I fling myself at the hill. Open, open, open¡­ The door appears and I push through, and the sound of horses fades. I race through the firefly glow of the passageway and out onto the lawn. The light settles and the door vanishes, as if it had never been there at all. Atop Spence¡¯s roof, the gargoyles sit on their perches, keeping watch over everything. With their shadowy backs pressed against the moon¡¯s light, they seem almost alive, as if their wings might unfurl and fling them into flight. The tingling starts in my hands, and before I can take my next breath, it¡¯s coursing through my blood with a power that brings me to my knees. The magic is strong. It surges like an animal that must run. I¡¯m panicked; I shall be devoured by it if I don¡¯t let it free. I stagger into the rose garden and run my hands over the sleeping buds. Where my fingers trail, the flowers burst into a symphony of color unlike anything I have ever seen¡ªdeep reds, fiery pinks, creamy white, and yellows as bright as summer sun. When I finish, spring has come to every rose. It has come to me, as well, for I feel magnificent¡ªstrong and alive. Color blooms inside me, a newfound joy. ¡°I did that,¡± I say, examining my hands as if they were not my own. But they are. I brought forth roses in my world with them. And that is only the beginning. With this power, there is no telling what I can do to change what needs to be changed¡ªfor me, for Felicity, and for Ann. And once we have secured our futures, we¡¯ll forge an alliance in the realms. Page 44 The magic urges me toward the East Wing. I put my hand to the half-built turret and feel energy flowing through me, as if the land and I are one. The earth is suddenly illuminated. A series of lines appear in the ground like pathways on a map. One line leads far over the hills toward the workers¡¯ camp. Another meanders through the woods to the chapel. A third snakes off into the vicinity of the old caves, where we first ventured into the realms. But it shines most brightly where I stand. Time has slowed. Light bleeds around the edges of the secret door. I feel its pull. I place my other hand against it, and my body is seized by a rush of energy. Images whip through my mind too quickly for me to grab hold; only threads remain: Eugenia¡¯s amulet tossed to my mother¡¯s hands, black sands flying past craggy mountains, a tree of stark beauty. I¡¯m released suddenly, and I fall to the ground. The night is still again, save for the fluttery beating of my heart. Dawn raises its alarm of pink. Already it creeps over the treetops, bringing a new morning, and a new me. CHAPTER FIFTEEN NOW THAT SPRING SEEMS TO BE MORE THAN A FICKLE suitor¡¯s promise, and the days are warming into a happy assurance that winter is on the run at last, Britain celebrates with a bounty of fairs. The morning after I¡¯ve been to see Pippa, Nightwing and LeFarge herd us onto a train, and we chatter animatedly in the belly of the great steel dragon as it storms through the lush countryside, belching a long plume of thick black smoke that leaves cinders on our skirts and gloves. It takes some time for me to woo Felicity from her ill temper about last night, but I promise her we shall go into the realms tonight without fail, and all is forgiven. And once Felicity forgives me, Ann soon follows. We disembark in a small town, and picnic baskets in tow, we amble along in the happy company of villagers, farmers, servants on holiday, excitable children, and men in search of work, coming at last to a large green, where the fair has been established. The outdoor marketplace spreads over nearly a half mile. Each stall offers some new temptation¡ªcrusty loaves of bread, milk with the cream hard on top, delicate bonnets and shoes. We take it all in with longing, granting ourselves a taste of sharp cheddar or a peek into the looking glass when trying on a new scarf. Everyone has come in her Sunday best in the hopes of an afternoon¡¯s worth of dancing and merriment. Even Nightwing allows herself to observe the jolly spectacle of a cockfight. In one corner, several men form a line to hire out as blacksmiths or sheepshearers. There is even a ship¡¯s captain who enlists young men as sailors, promising food and drink and the excitement of the sea. These bargains are struck with a signature, a handshake, and a penny given out as a token of the contract. Others are here with the purpose of selecting livestock. They mill about the sheep and horse stalls, listening to the assurances of the traders. ¡°You won¡¯t find better, gentlemen. That I can promise!¡± a man in a leather apron and tall boots bellows to the two farmers inspecting his prized sheep. The farmers run their hands across the animal¡¯s flanks. It baas loudly in what I believe to be utter mortification. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t like that either,¡± I say under my breath. ¡°Terribly rude.¡± All in all, it¡¯s a noisy, happy affair, what with the animals and the people, the farmers¡¯ wives calling out: ¡°The best cheese in England! Blackberry jam¡ªsweet as a mother¡¯s kiss! A plump goose, perfect for your Easter supper!¡± In the afternoon, we take our tea down by the riverbank, where people have gathered to watch the boat races. Brigid has packed us a lovely luncheon of boiled eggs, brown bread and butter, raspberry jam, and currant tarts. Ann and I spread thick crusts of bread with generous slabs of butter and jam whilst Felicity grabs for the tarts. ¡°I¡¯ve had a letter from Mother,¡± Fee says, biting happily into the fruit. ¡°That doesn¡¯t usually put you in such a fine humor,¡± I say. ¡°She doesn¡¯t often present me with such a grand opportunity,¡± she answers, cryptically. ¡°Very well,¡± I say. ¡°Out with it.¡± ¡°We are to see Lily Trimble in Macbeth at the Drury Lane Theatre.¡± ¡°Lily Trimble!¡± Ann exclaims through a mouthful of bread. She swallows it in a lump, wincing. ¡°You¡¯re awfully lucky.¡± Felicity licks her fingers clean. ¡°I would take you, Ann, but Mother would never allow it.¡± ¡°I understand,¡± Ann says dully. Mrs. Worthington has not forgotten Ann¡¯s fraud at Christmas while Ann was a guest in their home. It¡¯s no matter that we all had a hand in passing her off as a duke¡¯s daughter. In Mrs. Worthington¡¯s mind, Felicity and I are blameless, the victims of Ann¡¯s devious scheme. It is amazing what mothers will believe despite all evidence to the contrary¡ªanything to save themselves. Page 45 ¡°You couldn¡¯t go as yourself, Ann,¡± I say. ¡°But you could go as someone else.¡± She gives me an odd look. ¡°The magic,¡± I whisper. ¡°Don¡¯t you see? This will be our first chance to change our fortunes.¡± ¡°Right under Mother¡¯s nose.¡± Felicity grins. That temptation alone is enough to pull her in. ¡°What if it doesn¡¯t work?¡± Ann says. ¡°Shall we let that stop us from trying?¡± I protest. Felicity puts out her hand. ¡°I¡¯m for it.¡± Ann adds hers, and I put mine on top. ¡°To the future.¡± Excitement ripples through the crowd of fairgoers. The rowers are within sight. People crowd the banks to cheer them on. We scramble down beneath a bluff, where we can be closer to the river but hidden from Nightwing¡¯s view. Three boats battle for the lead with a trail of lesser rowers following in their wake. The men have rolled up their shirtsleeves to their elbows, and as they pull past us, we can see their brawny arms at work. Hands tight on the oars, they move as one, forward and back, forward and back, like a great engine of muscle and flesh. The movement is hypnotic and we are under its spell. ¡°Oh, they¡¯re quite strong, aren¡¯t they?¡± Ann says dreamily. ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°Quite.¡± ¡°Which would you marry?¡± Ann asks. Kartik¡¯s face flashes in my mind, unbidden, and I shake my head to remove the thought before I feel melancholy. ¡°I should have the one in the front,¡± I say, nodding toward a handsome man with fair hair and a broad chest. ¡°Oh, he is lovely. Do you suppose he has a brother for me?¡± Ann says. ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°And you shall honeymoon in Umbria.¡± Ann laughs. ¡°He¡¯s rich, naturally.¡± ¡°Naturally,¡± I echo. Already the game has me in a lighter mood. Take that, Kartik. ¡°Which do you fancy, Felicity?¡± Ann asks. Felicity barely considers them. ¡°None.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve not even looked,¡± Ann complains. ¡°As you wish.¡± Felicity hops onto a rock. She crosses her arms and scrutinizes the men. ¡°Hmmm, that one is balding. The fellows in the back are barely in whiskers. This one nearest us¡­dear me, are those ears or wings?¡± My laugh is a harsh bark. Ann covers her mouth as she giggles. ¡°But the pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance is the one on the right,¡± she says, pointing to a man with a round, doughy face and a large red nose. ¡°He has a face to make a girl contemplate drowning.¡± ¡°He¡¯s not as bad as all that,¡± I say, giggling. It¡¯s a lie. For all the times men weigh us according to our beauty, we are none the better about it. Felicity¡¯s eyes take on a sinister gleam. ¡°Why, Gemma, how could I possibly stand between you and true love? He shall be your intended, I think.¡± ¡°I think not!¡± ¡°Oh, yes, he shall,¡± Felicity taunts in a singsong. ¡°Think of all the grisly children you shall have¡ªall with big, fat, red noses, just like his!¡± ¡°I can¡¯t bear your envy, Fee. You should have him. Please. I insist.¡± ¡°Oh, no. No, I am not worthy of such loveliness. He must be yours.¡± ¡°I¡¯d die first.¡± ¡°It would be the less painful course.¡± Felicity jumps to her feet and waves her handkerchief. ¡°Good afternoon!¡± she calls, bold as you please. ¡°Fee!¡± I squeal in embarrassment. But it is too late. We have their full attention now, and there is nowhere to run. The race forgotten, their boat floats on the river as they call out and wave to us young ladies under the bluff. ¡°You, sir,¡± she says, pointing to the unfortunate fellow. ¡°My dear friend here is far too modest to make a confession of her admiration for you. Therefore, I¡¯ve no choice but to make a case on her behalf.¡± ¡°Felicity!¡± I choke out. I dart behind the rock. The poor fellow stands in the boat and I see, sadly, that he is as wide as his face¡ªless a man, more a barrel in trousers. ¡°I should like to make the lady¡¯s acquaintance, if she would be so kind as to show herself.¡± ¡°Do you hear that, Gemma? The gentleman wishes to make your acquaintance.¡± Felicity tugs on my arm in an attempt to get me to my feet. ¡°No!¡± I whisper, pulling back. This foolishness has gone far enough. ¡°I¡¯m afraid she¡¯s rather shy, sir. Perhaps if you were to woo her.¡± He recites a sonnet that compares me to a summer day. ¡°Thou art more lovely and more temperate,¡± he intones. On that score, he is sadly misguided. ¡°Tell me your name, fair lady!¡± Page 46 It is out of my mouth before I can stop myself: ¡°Miss Felicity Worthington of Mayfair.¡± ¡°Admiral Worthington¡¯s daughter?¡± ¡°The same!¡± I shout. Now it is Felicity who pulls on my arm, begging me to stop. In their zeal to speak to us, two other fellows leap up, upsetting the boat¡¯s delicate balance. With a shout, they topple into the cold river, to the amusement of everyone. Laughing like lunatics, we race away down the side of the bluff and take cover behind tall hedges. Our laughter is contagious: Each time the giggles subside, one of us begins anew, and it starts all over again. At last we lie on the grass, feeling the late-March breeze sweep over us as it carries along the merry shouts of the party in the distance. ¡°That was horrid of us, wasn¡¯t it?¡± Ann says, still giggling. ¡°But merry,¡± I answer. Overhead the clouds are full and promising. A note of worry creeps into Ann¡¯s voice. ¡°Do you think God shall punish us for such wickedness?¡± Felicity makes a diamond of her thumbs and forefingers. She holds them up to the sun as if she can catch it. ¡°If God has nothing better to do than punish schoolgirls for a bit of tomfoolery, then I¡¯ve no use for God.¡± ¡°Felicity¡­¡± Ann starts to scold but stops. ¡°And do you really think we can change the course of our lives with magic, Gemma?¡± ¡°We¡¯re going to try. Already I feel more alive. Awake. Don¡¯t you?¡± Ann smiles. ¡°When it¡¯s inside me, it¡¯s as if I can do anything.¡± ¡°Anything,¡± Felicity murmurs. She props herself up on her side, a beautiful S of a girl. ¡°And what about Pip? What might we do for her?¡± I think of Pippa in the water, thrashing about, unable to cross. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t know if the magic can change her course. They say¡ª¡± ¡°They say,¡± Felicity snorts in derision. ¡°We say. You hold all the magic now, Gemma. Surely we can make changes in the realms, as well. For Pippa, too.¡± I hear Gorgon¡¯s words in my head: She need not fall. A ladybug struggles on her back. I right her with a finger, and she toddles through the grass before getting stuck again. ¡°There¡¯s so little I know about the realms and the magic and the Order¡ªonly what people tell me. It is time we found out for ourselves what is possible and what is not,¡± I say. Felicity nods. ¡°Well done.¡± We lie back in the grass and let the sun warm our winter-weary faces, which is a form of magic in itself. ¡°I wish it could be like this always,¡± Ann says, sighing. ¡°Perhaps it can,¡± I say. We lie close together, holding hands, and watch the clouds, those happy ladies in their billowing skirts, as they dance and curtsy and become something else entirely. In the afternoon, the business in the marketplace has begun to dwindle, and several of the exhibitors have packed their goods. It¡¯s time for dancing and entertainment. Jugglers thrill children with gravity-defying acts. Men flirt with servant girls enjoying that rare day off from their labors. A troupe of mummers presents a pageant about Saint George. With their cork-reddened faces and tunics, they¡¯re a merry, boisterous sight. As it¡¯s near Easter, a morality play is staged at the far end of the green, near the hiring stalls. Nightwing takes us to see it, and we stand among the crowd, watching as a pilgrim makes his progress through his soul¡¯s darkest hours and on into morning. From the corner of my eye, I spy Kartik at the ship captain¡¯s stall, and my stomach does a small flip. ¡°Felicity,¡± I whisper, tugging on her sleeve. ¡°I¡¯ve just spied Kartik. I must speak with him. If Nightwing or LeFarge looks for me, tell them I¡¯ve gone to see the cockfights.¡± ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°Please?¡± Felicity nods. ¡°Be quick about it.¡± Swift as a hare, I slip through the crowd, catching Kartik just as he shakes hands with the captain, sealing their bargain. My heart sinks. ¡°Excuse me, sir. Might I have a word?¡± I say. My familiarity draws the consternation of a few farmers¡¯ wives, who must wonder what business a well-brought-up girl could have with an Indian. I glance toward the captain. ¡°Are you going to sea?¡± He nods. ¡°The HMS Orlando. It leaves from Bristol in six weeks¡¯ time, and I shall be on it.¡± ¡°But¡­a sailor? You told me you didn¡¯t care for the sea,¡± I say, a sudden lump forming in my throat at the memory of the first night we spoke in the chapel. Page 47 ¡°If the sea is all there is, it will suffice.¡± From his pocket Kartik takes a worn red bandana, the one we used as a silent communiqu¨¦ before. I would place it in my bedroom window if I needed to speak with him, and he would tie it in the ivy nestled below if he needed me. He presses it to his neck. ¡°Kartik, what has happened?¡± I whisper. ¡°When I left you in London, you pledged your loyalty to me and to the alliance.¡± ¡°That person doesn¡¯t exist any longer,¡± he answers, his eyes darkening. ¡°Has this anything to do with the Rakshana? What of all your talk of destiny and¡ª¡± ¡°I no longer believe in destiny,¡± Kartik says, his voice shaking. ¡°And if you recall, I am also not a member in good standing of the Rakshana. I am a man without a place, and the sea will suit me fine.¡± ¡°Why do you not come with me into the realms?¡± His voice is barely a whisper. ¡°I¡¯ll not see the realms. Not ever.¡± ¡°But why not?¡± He won¡¯t look at me. ¡°I have my reasons.¡± ¡°Then tell me what they are.¡± ¡°They are my reasons, and mine alone.¡± He rips the bandana in two and places half in my hand. ¡°Here, take it. Something to remember me by.¡± I stare at the crumpled ball of fabric. I should like to throw it at him and walk away in triumph. Instead, I clutch it tightly, hating myself for this weakness. ¡°You shall make a fine sailor,¡± I say sharply. It is nearly sundown when we return to Spence, laden with parcels from the fair. Mr. Miller¡¯s men are quitting for the day. Dirty and damp with sweat, they load their tools onto a wagon and wash up in the buckets of water the scullery maid has left for them. Brigid offers them cool lemonade, and they drink it in greedy gulps. Mrs. Nightwing inspects the day¡¯s work with the foreman. ¡°Oi, Mr. Miller, sir,¡± one of the men calls. ¡°That old stone in the ground. It¡¯s broke clean in two.¡± Mr. Miller squats down to have a look. ¡°Aye,¡± he says, brushing his dirty hands against his strong thighs. ¡°Can¡¯t say how it happened, though, thick and tough as it is.¡± He turns to Nightwing. ¡°It ain¡¯t but an eyesore, missus. Should we take it out?¡± ¡°Very well,¡± Mrs. Nightwing says, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. The men grab shovels and picks and plunge them into the sodden earth around the stone. I hold my breath, wondering if the secret door will be revealed or if their efforts shall affect our ability to enter. But there¡¯s little I can do about it except hope. The men pry the pieces of stone loose and deposit them into the wagon. ¡°Might fetch a price somewhere,¡± Miller muses. Mother Elena staggers toward us from the woods. ¡°You mustn¡¯t do this!¡± she cries, and I realize she¡¯s been hiding and watching. It gives me a shiver, though I can¡¯t say why, exactly. Mother Elena is mad; she¡¯s always saying strange things. It¡¯s gotten to a few of the men, as well. They stop digging. ¡°Back to it, mates,¡± Mr. Miller shouts. ¡°And you, Gypsy¡ªwe¡¯ve ¡¯ad enough of your mumbo jumbo.¡± ¡°Off you go, Mother,¡± Brigid says, starting toward the old woman. But Mother Elena doesn¡¯t wait. She backs away. ¡°Two ways,¡± she mutters. ¡°Two ways. You¡¯ll bring the curse on us all.¡± CHAPTER SIXTEEN WE DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL AFTER MIDNIGHT TO make our escape from Spence. Everyone is so exhausted from the fair I can hear the snores resounding in the hallways. But the three of us are more awake than ever, giddy with anticipation. We gather in the great room. I try to make the door of light appear once more, but I cannot seem to summon it. I feel Fee¡¯s and Ann¡¯s eagerness turning to desperation, so I abandon that way for the other. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± I say, leading the charge out onto the lawn. The night is a living, breathing thing filled with possibility. The cloudless sky twinkles with thousands of stars that seem to urge us on. The moon sits fat and content. I put out my hand and conjure the door in my mind. The energy of it makes my hand shake. The secret portal shimmers into view, as strong as before, and I let out my breath in relief. ¡°What are we waiting for?¡± Fee asks, grinning, and we race each other through the glowing passageway, laughing. We come out in the realms. Arm in arm, we take the trail that winds among the stones, sneaking about so that we¡¯re not seen, looking for any signs of trouble. ¡°Oh, Winterlands creatures,¡± Felicity singsongs as we near the Borderlands. ¡°Come out of your hiding places.¡± Page 48 Ann shushes her. ¡°I d-d-don¡¯t think we sh-should¡­¡± ¡°Can¡¯t you see they¡¯ve gone? Or something has happened to them. When Gemma took the magic out of the Temple, perhaps that was the end of them.¡± ¡°Then why hasn¡¯t Pip¡­¡± I let the words die on my tongue. ¡°Because she¡¯s not one of them,¡± Felicity snaps. When we come to the Borderlands, we step carefully through the thorn wall. Its snares are easier to escape this time, and we make it through without so much as a scratch. Woo-oot! Woo-oot! The call resonates in the blue-tinged forest. Bessie Timmons and Mae Sutter, sticks in hand, pop out from behind the trees, eliciting a yelp from Felicity. ¡°You needn¡¯t do that. It¡¯s only us,¡± Felicity says. ¡°Can¡¯t be too careful,¡± Bessie says. ¡°I don¡¯t care for how familiar they are,¡± Felicity whispers to me. ¡°Or how vulgar.¡± Pippa waves to us from the castle¡¯s tower. ¡°Don¡¯t go away¡ªI¡¯m coming down!¡± ¡°Pip!¡± Felicity leads the charge to the castle¡¯s doors. Mercy opens them up and welcomes us inside. The castle seems a bit tidier than it was before. Some care has been taken. The floors swept, the fire lit. It is almost cozy. Even the vines do not seem quite so intimidating, their deadly nightshade flowers a pretty purple against the crumbling stone. Pippa races into the room. ¡°I saw you at the bramble wall! I counted the seconds until you reached us¡ªtwo hundred thirty-two, to be exact!¡± Pippa¡¯s dress is in tatters again, but the rest of her is still lovely. The magic seems to have lasted for her, which is curious, for when I have gifted Fee and Ann, it hasn¡¯t lasted longer than a few hours at best. ¡°You¡¯re absolutely radiant,¡± Fee says, embracing her. Pippa slides me a sly glance. ¡°Yes! It must have been the joy of being reunited with my friends again, for I feel a different girl altogether. Oh, Gemma, will you help me with the kindling?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± I say, ignoring Fee¡¯s curious stare. Pip leads me behind the tapestry and into the old chapel. ¡°How are you?¡± I ask. Her lips tremble. ¡°How should I be? I am doomed to live here forever. To be this age forever while my friends grow older and forget about me.¡± ¡°We shan¡¯t forget about you, Pip,¡± I say, but it feels like a false balm. Pippa puts her hand on my arm. ¡°Gemma, it gave me hope to feel the magic once again. But now, it¡¯s slipping away.¡± She gestures to her tattered dress. ¡°Can you give me more? Something to keep my spirit bright while I try to make my peace with my fate? Please?¡± ¡°I¡ªI can¡¯t do this forever,¡± I say haltingly, afraid of what will happen, whichever course I take. ¡°I didn¡¯t ask you to do it forever.¡± Pippa pulls a shriveled berry from a bowl and eats it, making a face. ¡°And anyway, you were the one who offered. Please, Gemma. It means the world to me. If I must endure this place¡­¡± She wipes away tears, and I feel the perfect louse of a friend. For all my talk of changing things, why do I hesitate with Pippa? If I could change her lot, wouldn¡¯t that prove it¡¯s a new world, a new hope, with no limits? ¡°Give me your hands,¡± I say, and Pippa embraces me. ¡°I¡¯ll not forget it,¡± she says, kissing my cheek. Then her brow furrows. ¡°Can¡¯t you give me more this time, so that I might make it last?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t control how long it lasts,¡± I explain. ¡°I¡¯m only just trying to understand it.¡± We hold hands, and once again, that thread connects us. I feel what she feels. I see her in a fine ball gown, dancing happily with her friends, twirling beneath Fee¡¯s arm, laughing all the while. Underneath, there¡¯s something else, though. Something unsettling, and I break the contact. ¡°There you are,¡± I say, hoping she can¡¯t hear the nerves in it. Pippa stretches her arms over her head and licks her lips, which are already getting pink. The change comes over her more quickly this time, and it¡¯s richer. Her eyes shine. ¡°Am I beautiful?¡± ¡°You are the most beautiful girl of all,¡± I say, and it is the truth. ¡°Oh, Gemma, thank you!¡± She embraces me again like a grateful child, and I melt under her charm. ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Pip.¡± Pippa flounces into the main hall, her eyes shining. ¡°Darlings!¡± Bessie rises as if Pip were her beloved sovereign. ¡°Miss Pip. You look grand.¡± Page 49 ¡°I feel grand, Bessie. In fact, I am reborn. Look!¡± She puts her hands to Bessie¡¯s neck, and a beautiful cameo with a velvet ribbon looped through it hangs there suddenly. ¡°I don¡¯t believe it!¡± Bessie shouts. ¡°Yes, I have magic,¡± Pippa says, glancing in my direction. ¡°Gemma gave it to me. All the power of the realms rests with her now.¡± Felicity actually kisses my cheek. ¡°I knew you¡¯d do right by her,¡± she whispers. The girls have a million questions: Where is the magic from? How does it work? What can it do? ¡°I wish I knew more about it myself,¡± I say, shaking my head. ¡°Sometimes it¡¯s very powerful indeed. Other times, I can scarcely feel it. It doesn¡¯t seem to last long.¡± ¡°Can you give it to us?¡± Mae asks, eyes bright, as if I can change their lot. ¡°I¡­I¡¯d rather¡­,¡± I stammer. I don¡¯t want to give too much of it away, I find. What if my power should diminish? What if it meant I couldn¡¯t help us in our own world? The factory fire girls¡¯ eyes are on me. Bessie Timmons snorts. ¡°No, course she don¡¯t wanna share it wif the likes of us.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t true,¡± I say, but in my heart, I know she¡¯s not entirely wrong. Why shouldn¡¯t they have magic too? Is it only because they worked in a factory? Because they speak with an accent different from my own? ¡°We¡¯re not ladies, like them, Bessie,¡± little Wendy offers meekly. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t expect it.¡± ¡°Yes, we can¡¯t all expect it,¡± Felicity adds as if speaking to a servant. Pippa leaps up from the weed-choked floor. ¡°I will gift you, Mae. Here, hold out your hands.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t feel nuffin¡¯,¡± Mae says after a moment, and I¡¯m glad that they cannot feel my relief. I like being the one who holds the magic. Disappointment shows on Pip¡¯s face. ¡°Well, it¡¯s only just come to me. If I could, my darling, I would gift you with it.¡± ¡°I know you would, Miss Pip,¡± Mae says, downhearted, and new shame takes me. Looking at the girls¡¯ terrible burns and sorry state, how can I possibly be so callous as to deny them a bit of happiness? ¡°Right. Let¡¯s have a jolly time now we¡¯re here, shall we?¡± I say, and I join hands with every one of them but Wendy, who insists she doesn¡¯t want to play. Soon we¡¯re all brimming with a shining power and even the walls cannot contain our jubilant cries. They creak and groan as the vines tighten their hold. Felicity and Ann show the factory girls how to turn their ragged skirts into sumptuous silks with beads and embroidery like those from the finest shops in Paris. Everyone is merry except for Wendy. She sits in a corner, hugging her knees to her chest. I take a seat beside her on the cold, weedy floor. ¡°What is the matter, Wendy?¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid,¡± she says, holding tightly to her legs. ¡°Of what?¡± ¡°Of wantin¡¯ it too much, miss.¡± She wipes her nose on her sleeve. ¡°You said it don¡¯t last forever. But what if, once I go¡¯ a taste of it¡­¡± A tear slips down her dirty cheek. ¡°What if I can¡¯t go back to how it was?¡± ¡°A teacher of mine once said that we can¡¯t go back; we can only move forward,¡± I say, parroting Miss Moore¡¯s words. Back when she was Miss Moore in my mind and not Circe. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do it.¡± She nods. ¡°Maybe I could ¡¯ave just a little? Not too much?¡± I give her only a little, and when I feel her pulling away, I stop. ¡°So, Wendy, what will it be first¡ªa ball gown? Ruby earbobs? A prince?¡± I swallow hard and touch my fingers to her useless eyes. ¡°Or¡­I might¡­¡± She nods. ¡°Yes, miss, if you please.¡± I cover her eyes and will the magic to its purpose. ¡°Did it¡­,¡± I begin. Wendy¡¯s mouth settles into a thin line. ¡°Sorry, miss.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t see?¡± She shakes her head. ¡°It was too much to hope for.¡± ¡°Nothing¡¯s ever too much to hope for,¡± I say, but my heart is heavy. It is the first limit to the magic: It cannot heal, it would seem. ¡°Is there something else? Anything at all?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll show you,¡± she says, taking my hands. Feeling her way, she leads me outside and around the castle to a small patch of grass bitten with frost. She kneels, pressing her palms to it. A perfect white rose snakes from the ground. Its petals are edged with a deep blood red. Page 50 She inhales deeply. A smile crosses her lips. ¡°Is it there?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s beautiful.¡± ¡°Mum sold roses at the pub. I always liked the smell.¡± A sweet brown hare hops past, its nose wiggling at the ground. ¡°Wendy,¡± I whisper. ¡°Don¡¯t move.¡± I brush the frost from a patch of bitter herbs and offer them to the bunny. Curious, he hops closer, and I nestle him into my arms. ¡°Here, feel,¡± I say, putting the rabbit near Wendy. She strokes his fur, and a smile lights her face. ¡°What shall we call him?¡± I ask. ¡°No, you should name ¡¯im,¡± Wendy insists. ¡°Very well.¡± I peer closely at his twitching nose. There¡¯s something noble and aloof about him. ¡°Mr. Darcy, I should think.¡± ¡°Mr. Darcy. I like it.¡± I fashion a cage for him of twigs and vines and a bit of magic and place the little fellow inside. Wendy holds fast to the cage as if it contains her dearest dreams. Though it is hard to say goodbye, our night must come to an end, and we must return to our world. We embrace with promises of tomorrow, and Pippa and the others escort us as far as the bramble wall. We¡¯re on our way to the secret door when the ground begins to shake with the sound of horses. ¡°Let¡¯s go! Quickly!¡± I shout. ¡°What is it?¡± Ann asks, but we are already running and there is no time for replies. ¡°They¡¯re cutting us off,¡± I call. ¡°To the garden.¡± We run hard and fast with the riders in pursuit, but we¡¯re no match for them. By the time the river is in view, they¡¯ve got us trapped. ¡°Use the magic,¡± Felicity begs, but I¡¯m so frightened I cannot gain control of it. It races through me till I¡¯m on my knees. Several magnificent centaurs step out from behind the lush ferns. They are led by one named Creostus. He doesn¡¯t care for any mortal, and he especially doesn¡¯t care for me. He crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest and eyes me with contempt. ¡°Hello, Priestess. I believe you owe my people a visit.¡± ¡°Yes. I had planned to do so,¡± I lie. Creostus leans close. His eyebrows are thick and his thin wisp of a beard comes to a point beneath a wide, cruel smile. He smells like earth and sweat. ¡°Of course you did.¡± ¡°All is in readiness, Most High. I shall take you to Philon now,¡± Gorgon calls, slipping into view, and I know she¡¯s had a hand in this. She wants me to make the alliance no matter what. ¡°Yes, you see? We were on our way,¡± I say, flashing Gorgon a glance, which she ignores. She lowers the plank for us, keeping her eyes on the centaur. Creostus allows Felicity and Ann to pass but cuts me off. He puts his face near my ear, his voice a harsh purr that raises gooseflesh on my neck. ¡°Betray us, Priestess, and you¡¯ll be sorry.¡± As I board, Felicity pulls me aside. ¡°Must we go with that overgrown goat?¡± I sigh. ¡°What choice do we have?¡± ¡°What if they mean to make the alliance now, before we¡¯ve really had a chance to change anything?¡± Ann asks, and I know it¡¯s her very existence she¡¯s speaking of. ¡°It is only a discussion,¡± I tell them. ¡°Nothing is decided yet. The magic is still ours for now.¡± ¡°Very well,¡± Felicity says. ¡°But please, let¡¯s not stay long. And I won¡¯t sit near that Creostus. He¡¯s vile.¡± We sail the river, doing our best to ignore Creostus and his centaurs, who watch our every move as if we might jump ship. At last, Gorgon takes the familiar turn toward the home of the forest folk. A veil of shimmering water hides their island from view. The boat parts the curtain of it, and we pass through a fresh, cool mist that coats our skin with jeweled flecks, turning us into golden girls. The haze lifts. The verdant shore of the forest folk slides into view, a thick green as inviting as a feather bed. As our massive ship anchors, several of the forest children stop their game and step forward to gape at the terrible wonder that is the gorgon. Gorgon is not charmed by their staring. She turns toward them and lets the snakes about her head stretch and hiss, their forked tongues quick whips of red among all the green. The children yelp and run for the cover of the trees. ¡°That wasn¡¯t very kind of you,¡± I scold. I¡¯m still angry that she¡¯s betrayed our presence to Philon. ¡°Miscreants,¡± Gorgon says in her slithery voice. ¡°No better than toads.¡± ¡°They¡¯re only children.¡± Page 51 ¡°I am unbothered by the maternal instinct,¡± she purrs. With that, the snakes settle into rest. The gorgon closes her eyes and speaks no more. The floating lights that live in the forest beckon for us to follow. They lead us through tall trees that smell of Christmas morning. The spiciness makes my nose run. At last we reach the thatched-roof huts of the village. A woman the color of twilight plods past carrying buckets of glistening rainbow-hued water. She catches my eye, and quick as you please, she changes in appearance till I am staring at my own reflection. ¡°Gemma!¡± Ann cries. ¡°How did you do that?¡± I ask. It is odd to have two of me. She smiles¡ªmy smile on another face!¡ªand transforms once more, becoming an exact replica of Felicity, with the same full mouth and pale blond hair. Felicity is not amused. She picks up a rock and palms it. ¡°Stop that this instant or you¡¯ll be sorry.¡± The woman slides into her twilight self. With a sharp cackle, she hoists her glistening pails and walks away. Philon greets us at the edge of the village. The creature is neither man nor woman but something in between, with a long, lean body and skin of dusky purple. Today Philon wears a coat of fat spring leaves. Their deep hue brings out the green in its wide, almond-shaped eyes. ¡°So you¡¯ve come at last, Priestess. I had begun to think you¡¯d forgotten us.¡± ¡°I hadn¡¯t forgotten,¡± I mumble. ¡°I am glad to hear it, for we would hate to think you¡¯d prove no kinder to us than the Order priestesses who came before you,¡± Philon says, exchanging glances with Creostus. ¡°I¡¯ve come,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s not tarry here exchanging pleasantries,¡± Creostus snarls. We follow Philon¡¯s willowy, graceful form into the low thatched-roof hut where we first met. It is as I remember it: sumptuous pallets sit on a floor made of golden straw. The room holds four more centaurs and a half dozen forest folk. I do not see Asha or any of the Untouchables but perhaps they are on their way. I take a seat on one of the pallets. ¡°There was a woman who transformed into me before my eyes. How could she do that?¡± ¡°Ah. Neela.¡± Philon pours a red liquid into a silver chalice. ¡°She is a shape-shifter.¡± ¡°Shape-shifter?¡± Ann repeats. She¡¯s having difficulty balancing on the pallet. She topples into me twice before finding a level spot in the middle. ¡°We had the ability to change into other forms. It served us well in your world. We could become any mortal¡¯s fantasy. Sometimes the mortals chose to follow us into this world, to become our playthings. It did not sit well with the Order and the Rakshana.¡± Philon tells the tale with no apparent regret or remorse whatsoever. ¡°You stole mortals from our world,¡± I say, horrified. Philon sips from the chalice. ¡°The mortals had a choice. They chose to come with us.¡± ¡°You enchanted them!¡± A smirk pulls at the corners of Philon¡¯s thin lips. ¡°They chose to be enchanted.¡± Philon has been our ally, but I find this knowledge disturbing, and I wonder just whom I¡¯ve made promises to. ¡°That power died out in many of us from lack of use. But it has remained in some, such as Neela.¡± As he says this, the twilight woman enters the tent. She looks from us to Philon and Creostus and says something to Philon in their language. Philon answers in kind, and with a suspicious glance in my direction, she takes her place beside Creostus. She places a hand on his back and rubs his soft fur. Philon crosses the room in two long strides and settles into a large chair made of palm fronds. As we watch, the creature lights a long, slender reed and draws deeply from it until its eyes are soft and glassy. ¡°We must discuss the future of the realms, Priestess. We gave aid to you when you needed it. Now we expect payment.¡± ¡°It is time to make the alliance,¡± Creostus thunders. ¡°We would go to the Temple and lay hands together. The magic will belong to each of us then, and we will govern ourselves as we see fit.¡± ¡°But there are other considerations,¡± I say, the knowledge that they took mortals for their own amusement burdening my mind. ¡°What considerations?¡± Philon asks, cocking an eyebrow. ¡°The Untouchables,¡± I say. ¡°Where are they? They should be here.¡± ¡°The Untouchables,¡± Neela spits. ¡°Bah!¡± Philon exhales and the room grows hazy. ¡°I sent word. They did not come, as I knew they would not.¡± ¡°Why?¡± I ask. Page 52 ¡°They fear change,¡± Philon answers. ¡°They serve without question.¡± ¡°They are cowards! They have always been slaves to the Order¡ªdiseased filth! I should rid the realms of them if I could,¡± Creostus bellows. ¡°Creostus,¡± Philon says, rebuking the centaur and offering him the pipe. He sneers and bats it away. Unperturbed, Philon smokes more, till the room is filled with a strong, spicy perfume that dizzies me. ¡°There are many tribes within the realms, Priestess. You will never bring them all into accord.¡± ¡°How do we know that you even told the Untouchables about this meeting?¡± Fee says accusingly. Philon blows a stream of smoke into her face. She coughs, then raises her head for more. ¡°You have only my word,¡± Philon answers. 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¡ª¡± Neela pounces. ¡°But, Philon¡ª¡± ¡°We shall give you time,¡± Philon repeats, glaring hard at Neela. She slinks off to Creostus¡¯s side, 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¡ªas 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?¡± Page 53 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. ¡°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 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¡ªin 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?¡± Page 54 ¡°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.¡± ¡°¡®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¡ªblood!¡± 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. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine Brigid leaving her bed in the night to mark the stones. She complains about her back day in and day out,¡± I remind them. Cecily dips her brush in the pail of murky red water. ¡°Suppose that¡¯s a ruse. What if she¡¯s really a witch?¡± ¡°She does know a lot about fairies and such,¡± Martha says, wide-eyed. It¡¯s becoming a game, this suspicion. Felicity¡¯s eyes match Martha¡¯s. She leans close. ¡°Come to think of it, didn¡¯t the bread taste just like the souls of children? I shall faint!¡± She puts a hand to her forehead. ¡°I¡¯m quite serious, Felicity Worthington,¡± Martha scolds. ¡°Oh, Martha, you¡¯re never serious,¡± Felicity teases. ¡°But why mark the East Wing with blood?¡± I ask. Cecily mulls it over. ¡°For revenge. To frighten the workers.¡± ¡°Or to raise evil spirits,¡± Martha offers. ¡°What if it¡¯s the sign of a witch or¡­or the devil?¡± Elizabeth whispers. ¡°It could be for protection,¡± Ann says, still scrubbing. Elizabeth scoffs. ¡°Protection? From what?¡± ¡°From evil,¡± Ann replies. Cecily narrows her eyes. ¡°And how do you know this?¡± Ann suddenly realizes she¡¯s walked into it. ¡°I¡ªI¡¯ve read such things¡­in the B-Bible.¡± Something hard flashes in Cecily¡¯s eyes. ¡°You did it, didn¡¯t you?¡± Ann drops her brush into the pail and the water splashes her apron with muck. ¡°N-no. I¡­I d-didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t bear our happiness, our talk of parties and teas, can you? And so you want to ruin it for us!¡± ¡°No. I d-don¡¯t.¡± Ann retrieves her brush and resumes cleaning, but under her breath she mutters something. Cecily turns Ann around to face her. ¡°What did you say?¡± ¡°Stop it, Cecily,¡± I say. Ann¡¯s face is flushed. ¡°N-nothing.¡± Page 55 ¡°What did you say? I should like to hear it.¡± ¡°I should too,¡± Martha says. ¡°Oh, Cecily, really. Do leave her alone, won¡¯t you?¡± Felicity says. ¡°I¡¯ve a right to hear what is said behind my back,¡± Cecily declares. ¡°Go on, Ann Bradshaw. Repeat it. I demand that you tell me!¡± ¡°I s-said, you¡¯ll be sor-sorry someday,¡± Ann whispers. Cecily laughs. ¡°I¡¯ll be sorry? And what, pray, will you do to me, Ann Bradshaw? What could you possibly ever do to me?¡± Ann stares at the stones. She moves the brush up and down in the same spot. ¡°I thought not. In a month¡¯s time, you shall take your rightful place as a servant. That¡¯s all you were meant to be. It¡¯s high time you accepted that.¡± Our work finished, we empty the disgusting water from the pails and trudge toward Spence, exhausted and filthy. Talk has turned to the masked ball and what costumes we shall wear. Cecily and Elizabeth want to be princesses. They¡¯ll have their pick of silks and satins from which to fashion pretty dresses. Fee insists she will go as a Valkyrie. I say I should like to go as Miss Austen¡¯s Elizabeth Bennet, but Felicity tells me it is the dullest costume in the history of costumes and no one should know who I was, besides. ¡°I should have told Cecily to jump in the lake,¡± Ann mutters. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you?¡± I ask. ¡°What if she told Mrs. Nightwing I painted the stones? What if Mrs. Nightwing believed her?¡± ¡°What if, what if,¡± Felicity says with an irritated sigh. ¡°What if you stood up to her for once?¡± ¡°They hold all the power,¡± Ann complains. ¡°Because you give it to them!¡± Ann turns away from Felicity, wounded. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect you to understand.¡± ¡°No, you¡¯re right. I shan¡¯t ever understand your willingness to lie down and die,¡± Felicity barks. ¡°If you won¡¯t at least try to fight, I have no sympathy for you.¡± The day is as regimented as a soldier¡¯s. French is followed by music, which is followed by a joyless luncheon of boiled cod. The afternoon is taken up with dance. We learn the quadrille and the waltz. As it is wash day, we are sent to the laundry to give our linens and clothing to the washerwoman, along with a shilling for her work. We copy sentences from Mr. Dickens¡¯s Nicholas Nickleby, perfecting our penmanship. Mrs. Nightwing strides between the neat rows of our desks, scrutinizing our form, criticizing the loops and the flourishes she feels fall short of the mark. If we have an inkblot upon the page¡ªand with our leaky nibs and weary fingers, it is nearly impossible not to¡ªthen we must start the whole page over again. When she calls time, my eyes have begun to cross and my hand will surely never be rid of its ghastly cramp. By the time the evening rolls around, we¡¯re exhausted. I¡¯ve never been so grateful to see my bed. I pull the thin blanket up to my chin, and as my head dents the pillow, I fall into dreams as intricate as mazes. The lady in lavender beckons to me from her cloak of London fog. I follow her into a bookseller¡¯s. She pulls books furiously from the shelves, searching until she finds the one she wants. She lays it open and begins to draw, covering the page in strange lines and markings that put me in mind of a map. She inks the page as quickly as possible, but we are interrupted by the sound of horses. The lady¡¯s eyes grow wide with fear. The window crackles with frost. Cold fog creeps around the cracks in the door. It blows open suddenly. A wretched monster in a tattered cape sniffs the air¡ªa Winterlands tracker. ¡°The sacrifice¡­,¡± he growls. I wake with a start to find I¡¯ve pulled every one of my books from the shelf. They lie in a heap upon the floor. Ann calls to me in a sleep-soaked voice. ¡°Gemma, why are you making such a racket?¡± ¡°I¡­I had a nightmare. Sorry.¡± She rolls over and returns to her dreams. Heart still beating fast, I go about putting my books away. A Study in Scarlet has only a few bent pages but Jane Eyre has a wretched tear in it. I mourn the injury done to it as if I, myself, have been cut, and not Miss Eyre. Mr. Kipling¡¯s The Jungle Book is mangled. Miss Austen¡¯s Pride and Prejudice is wounded but still intact. In fact, the only book to escape without a scratch is A History of Secret Societies, and I suppose I should be grateful something has survived my midnight rampage. I place them all neatly on the shelf, spines out, except for Pride and Prejudice, for I have need of the comfort of an old friend. Miss Austen keeps me company by lamplight until well into the morning, when I fall asleep dreaming only of Mr. Darcy, which is as good a dream as a girl may reasonably hope for. Page 56 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ¡°I CAN¡¯T BELIEVE THAT I, ANN BRADSHAW, SHALL SEE LILY Trimble perform her greatest role!¡± ¡°Yes, well, you will see her, but not as Ann Bradshaw,¡± I say, bustling about my dressing table. I try the simple straw hat with a deep green ribbon. It does not make me into a beauty, but it is rather handsome. ¡°I am sorry that you cannot go as yourself, Ann.¡± She nods, resigned. ¡°It¡¯s no matter. I shall see her, and that is all I care about.¡± ¡°Have you given thought to your illusion?¡± I ask. ¡°Oh, yes!¡± She beams. ¡°Very well, then. Let¡¯s give this a try, shall we?¡± I take Ann¡¯s hands in mine. She¡¯s still got a bit of magic left inside her and it joins with what I¡¯m giving her. Her joy over seeing her idol is contagious. I feel it traveling from my hand to hers and back again, an invisible thread connecting us. ¡°Go on, then. Make yourself into whomever you like,¡± I say, smiling. ¡°We¡¯ll wait for you.¡± ¡°It will only take a moment!¡± she says, exulting. Her cheeks are already rosy. ¡°I promise.¡± ¡°This will end in misery, I¡¯ve no doubt,¡± Felicity grumbles when I go downstairs. She¡¯s fumbling with a bow at her neck. I put my hand over it, and it fluffs out, full and pretty. ¡°You¡¯re the one always saying the magic¡¯s no good unless we can make use of it here,¡± I say. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean for little jaunts to the shows and new hats,¡± she snaps. ¡°It means the world to Ann.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t see how attending a matinee will change her life,¡± Felicity grouses. ¡°Instead of being a governess, she¡¯ll be a governess who has been to the theater.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know either. But it¡¯s a start,¡± I say. ¡°Hello.¡± We turn at Ann¡¯s voice, but it isn¡¯t Ann who¡¯s standing on the stairs above us. It is someone else entirely¡ªa Gibson Girl, roughly twenty years of age, with sumptuous dark curls, an upturned nose, and eyes the color of sapphires. There¡¯s no trace of our Ann in this creation. She wears a dress that could be on the cover of La Mode Illustr¨¦e. It¡¯s a peach silk confection with black moir¨¦ piping and a wide lace collar. The sleeves puff out at her shoulders but taper down the length of her arm. It is topped off by a hat of butterscotch velvet adorned with a single plume. A dainty parasol completes the ensemble. She poses at the top of the stairs. ¡°How do I look?¡± ¡°Simply perfect,¡± Felicity answers, astonished. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it!¡± Ann regards me curiously. ¡°Gemma?¡± She¡¯s waiting for my response. It isn¡¯t that she¡¯s not lovely; she is. It¡¯s that she¡¯s no longer Ann. I look for the features I find so comforting in my friend¡ªthe pudgy face, the shy smile, and the wary eyes¡ªand they are not there. Ann has been replaced by this strange creature I don¡¯t know. ¡°You don¡¯t like it,¡± she says, biting her lip. I smile. ¡°It¡¯s only that you look so very different.¡± ¡°That is the point,¡± she says. She holds out her skirts and gives a small twirl. ¡°And you¡¯re certain no one will be able to tell?¡± ¡°I cannot tell,¡± I assure her. Her face clouds. ¡°And how long will the illusion hold?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t say,¡± I answer. ¡°Several hours at least. Perhaps even the whole day¡ªcertainly long enough for our purposes.¡± ¡°I wish it could be forever,¡± she says, touching a gloved hand to her new face. Cecily prances through, all grins. She wears a beautiful pearl necklace with the daintiest cameo pendant. ¡°Oh, Fee, come look! Isn¡¯t it absolutely gorgeous? Mother sent it. I shouldn¡¯t wear it before my debut but I can¡¯t resist. Oh, how do you do?¡± she says, seeing Ann for the first time. Felicity jumps in. ¡°Cecily, this is my cousin, Miss¡ª¡± ¡°Nan Washbrad,¡± Ann says coolly. Felicity and I nearly burst with laughter, for only we realize that that is an anagram of her name, Ann Bradshaw. The spell is working well for Ann. Cecily seems absolutely enchanted with Felicity¡¯s ¡°older cousin,¡± as if she were speaking to a duchess. ¡°Will you be joining us for tea, Miss Washbrad?¡± she asks, breathlessly. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I cannot. We¡¯re to see Miss Lily Trimble in Macbeth.¡± ¡°I am a great admirer of Miss Trimble¡¯s,¡± Cecily coos. Liar. Page 57 Ann is like a cat who has cornered the mouse. ¡°What a lovely necklace.¡± She runs a finger boldly over the pearls and frowns. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s paste.¡± Horrified, Cecily brings her hand to her neck. ¡°But they can¡¯t be!¡± Ann gives her a look that is both pitying and contemptuous. ¡°I am well versed in jewels, my dear, and I am so very sorry to inform you that your necklace is a forgery.¡± Cecily¡¯s face reddens, and I fear she will cry. She pulls the necklace off and examines it. ¡°Oh, dear! Oh! I¡¯ve shown everyone. They will think me a fool!¡± ¡°Or a fraud. Why, I heard a tale recently of a girl who passed herself off as nobility, and when her crime came to light, she was ruined. I should hate for such a fate to befall you,¡± Ann says, a hardness creeping into her tone. Panicked, Cecily cups the pearls in her hands, hiding them. ¡°What shall I do? I shall be ruined!¡± ¡°There, there.¡± Ann gently pats Cecily¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You mustn¡¯t worry. I shall take the necklace for you. You may tell your mother it was lost.¡± Cecily bites her lip and gazes at the pearls. ¡°But she¡¯ll be so angry.¡± ¡°It is better than being thought the fool¡ªor worse¡ªisn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Cecily mumbles. ¡°I thank you for your good advice.¡± Reluctantly, she passes the necklace to Ann. ¡°I shall dispose of it for you, and you may be confident that no one shall ever know of it,¡± Ann assures her. ¡°You are most kind, Miss Washbrad.¡± Cecily wipes away tears. ¡°There is something in you that brings out this kindness,¡± Ann purrs, and her smile is like the sun. ¡°That was a remarkable forgery,¡± I say when we are alone. ¡°How could you tell they were false? I could have sworn they were real pearls.¡± ¡°They are real,¡± Ann says, clasping the jewels around her own neck. ¡°I am the remarkable forgery.¡± ¡°Why, Ann Bradshaw!¡± Felicity exclaims. ¡°You are brilliant!¡± Ann beams. ¡°Thank you.¡± We hold hands, relishing the moment as one. At last, Ann has bested the hideous Cecily Temple. The air feels lighter, as it does after a rain, and I am certain we are on our way to a happier future. Mademoiselle LeFarge lets us know that the carriage has arrived. We introduce ¡°Nan¡± to her and hold our breath, waiting for her response. Will she see through the illusion? ¡°How do you do, Miss Washbrad?¡± ¡°V-v-very well, thank you,¡± Ann answers in a faltering voice. I hold her hand tightly, for I fear that any lack of confidence might weaken the illusion she¡¯s created. She must believe it wholeheartedly. ¡°It¡¯s odd, but I can¡¯t help feeling we¡¯ve met before. There is something so familiar about you, though I cannot put my finger on it,¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge says. I squeeze Ann¡¯s hand, strengthening our bond. You are Nan Washbrad. Nan Washbrad. Nan Washbrad. ¡°I am often m-mistaken for others. Once I was even taken for a poor mouse of a girl at a boarding school,¡± Ann answers, and Felicity bursts out laughing. ¡°Forgive me,¡± Fee says, collecting herself. ¡°I¡¯ve only just gotten a joke told me last week.¡± ¡°Well, I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Washbrad,¡± LeFarge says. ¡°Shall we? The carriage awaits.¡± I let out the breath I¡¯ve been holding. ¡°That was a bit thick at the end, wasn¡¯t it?¡± I whisper as the coachman opens the carriage door. Ann grins. ¡°But she believed it! She didn¡¯t sense anything amiss. Our plan is working, Gemma.¡± ¡°That it is,¡± I say, patting her arm. ¡°And it¡¯s only the beginning. But let¡¯s keep our heads about us.¡± ¡°My, what a beautiful necklace,¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge remarks. ¡°Such exquisite pearls.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± Ann says. ¡°They were given to me by someone who did not properly appreciate their worth.¡± ¡°What a pity,¡± our teacher clucks. The train ride to London is the most exciting yet. It is exhilarating to have such a powerful secret. I do feel a touch of remorse for tricking LeFarge, whom I like, but it was necessary. And I cannot deny that there is a thrill in knowing how easy it is to secure our freedom. Freedom¡ªwe¡¯ll have more of that. Curiously, I find that as I make use of the magic, I feel better¡ªmore alive and awake. Nearly giddy. ¡°What shall you do in London today, Mademoiselle LeFarge?¡± I ask. Page 58 ¡°I¡¯ve arrangements to make. For the wedding,¡± she says with a happy sigh. ¡°You must tell us simply everything,¡± Felicity insists, and we badger her with questions. Will she carry a fan? Will there be lace? A veil? Will she have orange blossoms embroidered on her dress for luck as Queen Victoria did? ¡°Oh, no, nothing so grand.¡± She demurs, glancing down at her plump hands resting in her ample lap. ¡°It will be a simple country wedding in the Spence chapel.¡± ¡°Will you stay on at Spence?¡± Ann asks. ¡°After you¡¯re married?¡± ¡°That rather depends on Mr. Kent,¡± she answers, as if that settles it. ¡°Would you want to stay on?¡± Felicity presses. ¡°I should like a new life once I am married. In fact, the inspector has begun to ask my thoughts on his cases, to have a woman¡¯s perspective. I know it¡¯s out of the ordinary for a wife¡¯s duties, but I confess I find it quite thrilling.¡± ¡°That is lovely,¡± Ann says. She¡¯s smiling in that romantic way of hers, and I know that in her head she¡¯s conjured images of herself bustling about a kitchen, sending her husband off to work with a kiss. I try to imagine myself in such a life. Would I like it? Would I grow bored? Would it be a comfort or a curse? My thoughts turn to Kartik¡ªhis lips, his hands, the way he once kissed me. In my mind I see myself running my fingers across those lips, feeling his hands at the nape of my neck. A warm ache settles below my belly. It ignites something deep inside me that I cannot name, and suddenly, it¡¯s as if I am inside a vision. Kartik and I stand in a garden. My hands are tattooed with henna, like an Indian bride¡¯s. He takes me into his arms and kisses me under a steady rain of falling petals. He gently lowers the edges of my sari, baring my shoulders, his lips trailing down my bare skin, and I sense that everything between us is about to change. I come back to myself suddenly. My breathing is labored and I feel flushed from head to toe. No one seems to notice my discomfort, and I do my best to regain my composure. ¡°I shall never marry,¡± Felicity announces with a wicked smile. ¡°I shall live in Paris and become an artist¡¯s model.¡± She¡¯s trying to shock, and Mademoiselle LeFarge supplies the requisite admonishment¡ª¡°Really, Miss Worthington¡±¡ªbut then she changes course. ¡°Have you no desire for a husband and children, Miss Worthington?¡± she asks plainly, as if on this train we have ridden from girls to young ladies who might be trusted to hold a different sort of conversation. It is nearly as powerful as the magic, this trust. ¡°No, I don¡¯t,¡± Felicity says. ¡°And why not?¡± LeFarge presses. ¡°I¡­I wish to live for myself. I should never want to be trapped.¡± ¡°One needn¡¯t be trapped. One¡¯s life can be made so rich by sharing burdens and joys.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve not seen it to be so,¡± Fee mumbles. Mademoiselle LeFarge nods, considering. ¡°It takes the right sort of husband, I suppose, the sort who¡¯ll be a friend and not a master. A husband who will care for his wife with small, everyday kindnesses and trust her with his confidences. And a wife must be such a friend in return.¡± ¡°I¡¯d not make a good wife,¡± Felicity says so softly it is nearly drowned out by the clacking of the train. ¡°What sorts of goodies will you shop for today?¡± Ann asks, abandoning the sophisticated Nan for a moment with a single girlish question. ¡°Oh, me, this and that. Nothing so nice as your necklace, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Ann takes the pearls from her neck and holds them out. ¡°I should like you to have this.¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge pushes them away. ¡°Oh, no, you are far too kind.¡± ¡°No,¡± Ann says, blushing. ¡°I¡¯m not. You must have something borrowed, yes?¡± ¡°I couldn¡¯t possibly,¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge insists. I take Mademoiselle LeFarge¡¯s hand and imagine her in her wedding dress, the pearls at her neck. ¡°Take them,¡± I murmur, and my wish, borne on the wings of magic, travels quickly between us and nests inside her. Mademoiselle LeFarge blinks. ¡°You¡¯re certain?¡± ¡°Oh, yes. Nothing would make me happier.¡± Ann smiles. Mademoiselle LeFarge secures the clasp around her own neck. ¡°How do they look?¡± ¡°Beautiful,¡± we all say as one. Ann, Felicity, and Mademoiselle LeFarge fall into easy conversation. I stare out the train¡¯s windows at the hills rolling by. I want to ask them if they know what my future holds: Will my father¡¯s health be restored and my family healed? Will I survive my debut? Can I prove myself within the realms and live up to expectations, especially my own? Page 59 ¡°Can you tell me?¡± I whisper to the window, my warm breath making a foggy snowflake pattern upon the glass. It melts quickly away, as if I have never said a word. The train slows and the hills disappear behind billowing clouds of steam. The porter calls the station. We have arrived, and now our true test begins. Mademoiselle LeFarge delivers us to Mrs. Worthington on the platform. With her fair hair and cool gray eyes, Mrs. Worthington is like her daughter, but finer. She lacks Felicity¡¯s bold, sensual features, and it gives her an air of fragile beauty. Every man takes note of her loveliness. As she walks, they turn their heads or hold her glance a second too long. I shall never have this sort of beauty, the sort that paves the way. Mrs. Worthington greets us warmly. ¡°What a nice day we shall have. And how lovely to see you again, darling Nan. Did you have a pleasant trip?¡± ¡°Oh, yes, quite pleasant,¡± Ann answers. They fall into polite chatter. Felicity and I exchange glances. ¡°She really believes Ann is your cousin,¡± I gloat quietly. ¡°She didn¡¯t notice anything amiss!¡± Felicity scoffs. ¡°She wouldn¡¯t.¡± On the street, we pass an acquaintance of Mrs. Worthington¡¯s and she stops to chat. We stand idly by, not seen, not heard, not noticed. A few feet away, another group of women makes a bid for attention. The women wear sandwich board signs that announce a strike. Beardon¡¯s Bonnets Factory Fire. Six Souls Murdered for Money. Justice Must Be Served¡ªFair Wages, Fair Treatment. They call to passersby, imploring them to have a care for their cause. The well-heeled people on their way to the theater and the clubs turn away, their faces registering distaste. A girl of about fifteen hurries over, a tin can in her hands. Her gloves are a farce. Ragged holes eat at the wool like a pox. Her knuckles peek through, red and raw. ¡°Please, miss. Spare a copper for our cause?¡± ¡°What cause is it?¡± Ann asks. ¡°We work at Beardon¡¯s Bonnets Factory, miss, and a sorrier place there never was,¡± she says. Dark half-moons shadow her eyes. ¡°A fire took our friends, miss. A terrible fire. The factory doors was locked to keep us in. What chance did they have, miss?¡± ¡°Bessie Timmons and Mae Sutter,¡± I whisper. The girl¡¯s eyes widen. ¡°Did you know them, miss?¡± I shake my head quickly. ¡°I¡­I must have read their names in the accounts.¡± ¡°They was good girls, miss. We¡¯re striking so it won¡¯t happen again. We want fair wages and fair treatment. They shouldn¡¯t¡¯ve died in vain.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure that wherever your friends may be now, they would be proud of your efforts.¡± I drop a shilling into her cup. ¡°Thank you, miss.¡± ¡°Come along, girls.¡± Mrs. Worthington clucks, ushering us on our way. ¡°Why were you speaking to those unfortunate women?¡± ¡°They¡¯re striking,¡± I answer. ¡°Their friends were burned in a factory fire.¡± ¡°How horrid. I don¡¯t like to hear such things.¡± A gentleman passes, giving Mrs. Worthington a furtive glance. She responds with a satisfied smile. ¡°They should have husbands to look after them.¡± ¡°What if they don¡¯t?¡± Felicity asks, her voice harsh. ¡°What if they are alone? What if they have children to feed and wood to buy for the fire? What if they have only themselves to rely upon? Or¡­or what if they have no wish to be married? Do they have no merit on their own?¡± It is astonishing to see the fire in Felicity¡¯s eyes, though somehow I doubt this display is born of a reformer¡¯s zeal. I believe it is a way to goad her mother. Ann and I dare not enter this fray. We keep our eyes on the ground. ¡°Darling, there shall always be the poor. I don¡¯t very well see what I can do about it. I¡¯ve my own obligations.¡± Mrs. Worthington adjusts her fur stole until it sits high against her neck, soft armor for her soft world. ¡°Come now. Let¡¯s not talk of such unpleasant business on such a beautiful spring day. Ah, a confectionary. Shall we go in and see what sweets there are for us? I know that girls enjoy their treats.¡± She smiles conspiratorially. ¡°I was a girl once, too.¡± Mrs. Worthington steps inside, and Felicity stares hard after her. ¡°You will always be a girl,¡± she whispers bitterly. CHAPTER NINETEEN MRS. WORTHINGTON TAKES FOREVER TO DECIDE ON HER sweets, and we arrive at the Drury Lane with barely a moment to spare. The dusk particular to theaters descends, a romantic twilight that takes us away from our cares and makes the fantastic possible. The Drury Lane is known for its spectacle, and we are not to be disappointed. The enormous curtains part, revealing an extravagant set¡ªa forest that appears as real as can be. In the center of the stage, three old witches tend a cauldron. Thunder crashes. This is only a man banging a large piece of copper, but it produces shivers anyway. The wizened crones speak to us: Page 60 ¡°When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain?¡± ¡°When the hurly-burly¡¯s done, When the battle¡¯s lost and won.¡± ¡°That will be ere the set of sun.¡± ¡°Where the place?¡± ¡°Upon the heath.¡± ¡°There to meet with Macbeth.¡± ¡°I come, Graymalkin!¡± ¡°Paddock calls: Anon! Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Hover through the fog and filthy air.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t this marvelous?¡± Ann whispers, delighted, and I¡¯m glad for what we¡¯ve done. When Lily Trimble makes her entrance, the audience sits taller. Miss Trimble is a compelling creature with thick waves of auburn hair that cascade down the back of her purple cloak. Her voice is deep and honeyed. She struts and preens, plots and laments with such a fervor that it is almost impossible to believe she is not truly Lady Macbeth herself. When she walks in her sleep, crying with remorse for her evil deeds, she is riveting, and all the while, Ann sits on the edge of her seat, watching with keen attention. When the play comes to its end, and Lily Trimble takes her bow, Ann applauds more loudly than any other in attendance. I have never seen her quite so moved, so alive. The lamps are brought to their full, dazzling light. ¡°Wasn¡¯t it marvelous?¡± Ann asks, beaming. ¡°Her talent is extraordinary, for I actually believed her to be Lady Macbeth!¡± Mrs. Worthington looks bored. ¡°It isn¡¯t a pleasant play, is it? I so much preferred The Importance of Being Earnest. That was jolly.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure the performances could not have been nearly so fine as the one we¡¯ve just seen by Miss Trimble,¡± Ann opines. ¡°Oh, it was splendid! It was more than splendid. They shall have to invent the word to describe Lily Trimble, for none presently do her justice. I¡¯d give anything to meet her. Anything.¡± As we fold into the crowd, Ann looks back longingly toward the stage, where a young man pushes a broom, erasing all traces of the performance that held her so in thrall. I allow a man and his wife to separate us from Mrs. Worthington. ¡°Ann, do you truly want to meet her?¡± I whisper. She nods. ¡°Desperately!¡± ¡°Then you shall.¡± Felicity pushes in, annoying a matron, who decries her rudeness with an ¡°I say!¡± ¡°Gemma,¡± Fee says, curiosity piqued. ¡°What are you about?¡± ¡°We¡¯re taking Ann to meet Lily Trimble.¡± Mrs. Worthington cranes her neck over the exiting crowd, looking for us. She reminds me of a lost bird. ¡°Right, and how shall we rid ourselves of my mother?¡± We need only a few moments of freedom. A distraction of sorts. I have to concentrate, but it is so difficult with the crowd bustling about me. Their thoughts invade mine till I can scarcely see. ¡°Gemma!¡± Fee whispers. She and Ann link their arms through mine. I struggle to hold fast to my original intent. I repeat it silently as we near Mrs. Worthington: You see a friend in the crowd. You must go to her. We shall be fine here alone. I repeat it till even I believe it. ¡°Oh!¡± Mrs. Worthington suddenly exclaims. ¡°Why, there is my dear friend Madame LaCroix from Paris! How could she come without writing me! Oh, she¡¯s getting away! Excuse me, I won¡¯t be but a moment.¡± Like a woman possessed, Mrs. Worthington presses into the crowd in search of her dear friend who is, no doubt, still in Paris as we stand there. ¡°What did you do?¡± Felicity asks with glee. ¡°I gave her a wee suggestion. Now, let¡¯s see about meeting Lily Trimble, shall we?¡± Behind the stage, it is another world entirely. A swarm of workers busy themselves with props and machinery. Burly men move long painted canvases to and fro. Several others hoist ropes whilst a man with a porkpie hat and a cigar clenched between his lips barks orders to them. We slip down a narrow corridor in search of Lily Trimble. The actor playing Banquo passes us in his dressing gown without the slightest bit of shame. ¡°Hello, my dears,¡± he says, eyeing us up and down. ¡°We very much enjoyed your performance,¡± Ann says earnestly. ¡°My next performance shall be in my dressing room. Perhaps you would like to attend? You are quite lovely.¡± ¡°We are looking for Miss Trimble,¡± Felicity says, narrowing her eyes. The man¡¯s smile fades to a thin shadow. ¡°To your left. Should you change your mind, I am on the right.¡± ¡°The very cheek of some people,¡± Felicity fumes, pulling us on. Page 61 ¡°What do you mean?¡± Ann asks. Felicity is in full stride and we struggle to keep pace. ¡°He made an improper advance toward you, Ann.¡± ¡°Toward me?¡± Ann asks, wide-eyed. A lightning-quick grin splits her face. ¡°How wonderful!¡± At last, we find Lily Trimble¡¯s door. We knock and await a response. A maid answers, her hands filled with costumes. I present my card. It is only a plain card from a shop, but that is no matter, for her eyes widen as she reads the illusion there. ¡°Begging your pardon, Your Grace,¡± she says, giving a slight curtsy. ¡°I¡¯ll be just a minute.¡± ¡°What did you put on that card?¡± Felicity asks. ¡°Something that would gain us entrance.¡± The maid returns. ¡°This way, if you please.¡± She ushers us into Lily Trimble¡¯s dressing room, which we take in at a glance: the damask chaise; the lamp with a red silk scarf thrown over the top; the dressing screen covered with a collection of silk robes and gowns and stockings sprawled in a shameless display; the vanity, where an array of creams and lotions sit next to a silver hairbrush and hand mirror. ¡°Miss Trimble, Misses Doyle, Worthington, and Washbrad to meet you,¡± the maid says. A familiar smoky voice comes from behind the screen. ¡°Thank you, Tillie. And, darling, please, you must do something about that wig. It¡¯s like wearing a hornets¡¯ nest.¡± ¡°Yes, miss,¡± Tillie says, leaving us. Lily Trimble emerges from behind the dressing screen in a deep blue velvet robe she secures about her waist with a gold tasseled tie. The long, flowing hair was only a wig; her true hair¡ªa muted auburn¡ªshe wears in a simple braid. Ann is slack-jawed, awed to be in the presence of such a star. When Miss Trimble takes her hand, Ann curtsies as if greeting the Queen. The actress¡¯s laugh is as thick as cigar smoke and just as intoxicating. ¡°Well, this is a fancy reception, isn¡¯t it?¡± she quips with an American accent. ¡°I must confess, I haven¡¯t met too many duchesses in my time. Which one of you is the Duchess of Doyle?¡± Felicity offers me a naughty smile for my duplicity but there is something so very straightforward about Lily Trimble, I find it impossible to lie to her. ¡°I have a confession to make. None of us is a duchess, I¡¯m afraid.¡± She arches a brow. ¡°You don¡¯t say?¡± ¡°We are from the Spence Academy for Young Ladies.¡± She takes in our unchaperoned state. ¡°My. A lady¡¯s education has changed rather dramatically since my time. Not that my time was so long ago.¡± ¡°We think you are the most marvelous actress in the whole world, and we simply had to meet you!¡± Ann blurts out. ¡°And how many actresses have you seen?¡± Miss Trimble asks. She notes Ann¡¯s blush. ¡°Mmmm, thought so.¡± She sits before her dressing mirror and rubs cream over her face in practiced strokes. ¡°Our Ann, er, Nan is quite talented,¡± I say in a rush. ¡°Is she?¡± Miss Trimble does not turn around. ¡°Oh, yes, she can sing beautifully,¡± Felicity adds. Ann looks at us in horror, and for a moment, the illusion flickers. I shake my head and smile at her. I see her close her eyes for a moment, and everything is as it was. Lily Trimble opens a silver case and pulls out a cigarette. The shock registers on our faces. We¡¯ve never seen a woman smoke. It is terribly scandalous. She places the cigarette between her lips and lights it. ¡°And I suppose you¡¯d like me to secure you a berth in the company?¡± ¡°Oh, I c-c-couldn¡¯t ask s-such a thing,¡± Ann stammers, red-faced. ¡°In my experience, my dear, if you don¡¯t ask, you do not get.¡± Ann can barely force the words from her lips. ¡°I should like¡­to try.¡± The actress appraises our friend through a stream of cigarette smoke. ¡°You¡¯re certainly pretty enough to be on the stage. I was that pretty once.¡± She pulls her hair forward and grasps it tightly in one hand, brushing the long ends with the other. ¡°No one is as beautiful as you are, Miss Trimble.¡± Another smoky laugh escapes from Lily Trimble. ¡°There, there, you¡¯re not auditioning for me, darling. You can keep a lid on the charm. And speaking of charm school, what would your mother have to say about all of this?¡± Ann clears her throat softly. ¡°I don¡¯t have a mum. I¡¯ve no one.¡± Lily puffs thoughtfully on her cigarette. She blows a ring of smoke. ¡°The hand you hold the longest is your own.¡± She glances at herself in the mirror, then holds Ann¡¯s gaze there. ¡°Miss Washbrad, this life is not for the faint of heart. It is a vagabond¡¯s life. I have no husband, no children. But my life is my own. And there is the applause and the adoration. It helps to keep a girl warm at night.¡± Page 62 ¡°Yes. Thank you,¡± Ann manages to say. Lily regards her for a moment. She puffs on her cigarette. Her words push out in a stream of hazy smoke. ¡°Are you quite certain this is what you want?¡± ¡°Oh, yes!¡± Ann chirps. ¡°A quick answer.¡± She drums her fingers on her dressing table. ¡°Quick answers often lead to quick regrets. No doubt you¡¯ll return to your charm school, meet a perfectly respectable man at a tea dance, and forget all about this.¡± ¡°No, I shan¡¯t,¡± Ann says, and there is something that cannot be ignored in her answer. Lily nods. ¡°Very well. I¡¯ll secure you an appointment with Mr. Katz.¡± ¡°Mr. Katz?¡± Ann repeats. Lily Trimble places her cigarette in a brass ashtray, where it smolders as she tends to her hair. ¡°Yes. Mr. Katz. The proprietor of our company.¡± ¡°Is he a Jew, then?¡± Ann asks. In the mirror, Miss Trimble¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°Do you have an objection to Jews, Miss Washbrad?¡± ¡°N-n-no, miss. At least I don¡¯t think so, for I¡¯ve never met one.¡± The actress¡¯s laughter comes fast and hard. Her face eases into a pleasant mask. ¡°You¡¯ll have ample opportunity to get acquainted. You¡¯re speaking to one now.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a Jewess?¡± Felicity blurts out. ¡°But you don¡¯t look at all Jewish!¡± Lily Trimble lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow and holds Felicity¡¯s gaze till my friend has to look away. I¡¯ve rarely seen Fee so cowed. It is a moment of pure happiness, and I¡¯m enjoying it immensely. ¡°Lilith Trotsky, of Orchard Street, New York, New York. It was suggested that Trimble would make a more suitable name for the stage¡ªand for the well-bred patrons who come to see famous actresses,¡± she remarks dryly. ¡°You¡¯re lying to them,¡± Felicity says, challenging her. Lily glares at her. ¡°Everyone¡¯s trying to be someone else, Miss Worthless. Here I have the good fortune of being paid for it.¡± ¡°It¡¯s Worthington,¡± Felicity says, her teeth as tight as soldiers. ¡°Worthless, Worthington. Honestly, I can¡¯t tell the difference. You sort all look alike. Be an angel, Nannie, and hand me those stockings, will you?¡± Ann, the girl who can scarcely say the word stockings, rushes to give Lily Trimble hers. She places them in the woman¡¯s hands with a reverence reserved for royalty and gods. ¡°Here you are, Miss Trimble,¡± she says. ¡°Thank you, honey. You¡¯d better be off now. I¡¯ve got a suitor waiting for me. I¡¯ll send word to you regarding the appointment. Spence Academy, you say?¡± ¡°Yes, Miss Trimble.¡± ¡°Very good. Until then, don¡¯t take any wooden nickels.¡± Ann¡¯s brow furrows in confusion until Lily explains. ¡°Look after yourself.¡± She casts a withering glance at Felicity and me. ¡°Somehow, I think you¡¯ll need to.¡± Two gentlemen move a length of painted canvas past us as we scurry back to Felicity¡¯s mother. This close, it doesn¡¯t look at all like Birnam Wood, only blotches of color and brushstrokes. Ann hasn¡¯t stopped talking since we left Lily Trimble¡¯s dressing room. ¡°Wasn¡¯t she frightfully clever? ¡®Everyone¡¯s trying to be someone else.¡¯¡± She parrots the words in Miss Trimble¡¯s broad American accent. I cannot decide if this habit will prove annoying or endearing. ¡°I found her common,¡± Felicity sniffs. ¡°And overly dramatic.¡± ¡°She is an actress! It is her nature to be dramatic,¡± Ann protests. ¡°I do hope it won¡¯t become yours. It would be unbearable,¡± Felicity mocks. ¡°Ann, you aren¡¯t in earnest about the stage, are you?¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Ann answers, a glumness creeping into her voice, her high spirits dampened. ¡°Because it isn¡¯t for decent girls. She¡¯s an actress.¡± Felicity gives the word a sneer. ¡°What other choice have I? To be a governess for the rest of my days?¡± ¡°Of course not,¡± I say, glaring at Felicity. For all her intentions, Felicity does not understand Ann¡¯s dilemma. She cannot see that Ann¡¯s life is a trap from which she cannot easily be sprung. We¡¯ve come to the foyer, which still boasts a small crowd. Up ahead, I see Mrs. Worthington looking about for us. ¡°And anyway, you¡¯ve a bigger problem, Nannie,¡± Fee says, deliberately using Miss Trimble¡¯s pet name for her. ¡°You went wearing another girl¡¯s face¡ªNan Washbrad. She¡¯s the girl they expect to see, not Ann Bradshaw. How will you get past that?¡± Page 63 Ann¡¯s lips tremble. ¡°I suppose they wouldn¡¯t want a girl like me¡ªthe true me¡ªon their stage.¡± Every bit of confidence she¡¯s mustered disappears, and the illusion of Nan Washbrad flickers. ¡°Ann,¡± I warn. It¡¯s no use. The full knowledge of what she¡¯s done, the complications of it, overwhelm her. The illusion is fading fast. She can¡¯t become Ann¡ªnot here, not now. It would prove disastrous. ¡°Ann, you¡¯re fading,¡± I whisper urgently, pushing her behind a long velvet curtain. Her eyes widen in horror. ¡°Oh! Oh, no.¡± Her hair shifts from a lustrous black to a dull, light brown. The gown she has fashioned fades to drab gray wool. We watch in horror as it begins with the sleeves and travels quickly up her arm to the bodice. ¡°If my mother sees you like this, we¡¯re as good as finished,¡± Felicity snarls. ¡°Ann, you must change it back,¡± I say, my heart beating fast. ¡°I can¡¯t! I can¡¯t see it in my mind!¡± She¡¯s too frightened. The magic will not respond. The dress reverts to its former self. Her hat vanishes. I must do something to stop it, and quickly. Without asking, I grab hold of her hands and force the magic on her, imagining Nan Washbrad standing before me once again. ¡°It¡¯s working,¡± Ann whispers. What I¡¯ve begun she completes, and within seconds, Nan is with us, her jaunty butterscotch hat securely on her head. ¡°Thank you, Gemma,¡± she says, trembling, as we step out from behind the curtain. ¡°There you are,¡± Mrs. Worthington purrs. ¡°I was afraid I¡¯d lost you. It¡¯s very odd, for I was certain I saw Madame LaCroix, but when I reached the woman, she looked nothing at all like her. Shall we?¡± On the street, a man wearing a sandwich board passes out adverts for an exhibition at the Egyptian Hall. ¡°Amazing and astounding! See the spectacle of all spectacles! Late of Paris, France¡ªfor a one-week engagement only at the Egyptian Hall¡ªthe astonishing Wolfson brothers¡¯ famous magi-clantern show¡ªmoving pictures! Prepare to be amazed! Sights beyond your wildest dreams! Here you go, miss¡ªwouldn¡¯t want to miss it.¡± He puts the leaflet into my hand. The Wolfson Brothers present: The Rites of Spring. A Phantasmagoria. ¡°Yes, thank you,¡± I say, folding it in my hand. ¡°Oh, no.¡± Felicity stops suddenly. ¡°What is it?¡± I ask. ¡°Lady Denby and Lady Markham,¡± she whispers, glancing up the street. I spy them in the afternoon crowd. Lady Denby, Simon Middleton¡¯s mother, is an imposing woman, both in form and in reputation. Today she wears one of her famous hats with a brim so broad it could blot out the sun, and she walks with the commanding stride of a naval hero. Lady Markham is as thin as a twig and struggles to keep pace with her friend. She nods as Lady Denby holds forth. Ann gives a little gasp. It was Lady Denby who revealed Ann¡¯s charade at Christmas, largely to humiliate Mrs. Worthington. I hold my friend¡¯s arm to steady her. I won¡¯t risk another mishap with the magic. ¡°Lady Markham, Lady Denby,¡± Mrs. Worthington says, all smiles. ¡°How grand it is to see you. What a lovely surprise!¡± ¡°Yes. How nice.¡± Lady Markham does not take Mrs. Worthington¡¯s hand. Instead, she looks to Simon¡¯s mother. ¡°Good afternoon, Mrs. Worthington,¡± Lady Denby says without smiling. ¡°We¡¯ve just come from the theater and were about to take tea. Would you care to join us?¡± Mrs. Worthington asks, blushing at the slight. ¡°Well¡­,¡± Lady Markham says, sparing a glance at Felicity. ¡°I¡¯m afraid we cannot,¡± Lady Denby answers for her. ¡°My dear cousin, Miss Lucy Fairchild, has arrived from America, and I¡¯m most anxious to introduce her to Lady Markham.¡± ¡°Yes, of course.¡± Mrs. Worthington¡¯s smile falters. Desperation creeps into her voice. ¡°Lady Markham, I thought perhaps Felicity and I might pay a call at Easter, if you would be so good as to receive us.¡± Lady Markham fidgets, casts a glance toward her imperious friend again. ¡°Yes, well, I am rather full of engagements, it would seem.¡± Lady Denby¡¯s thoughts intrude on my own: This is what comes of not playing by the rules. Your daughter shall pay the price. No one will present her, and her inheritance shall be forfeit. I should like to slap Lady Denby. How could I have ever thought she was a good woman? She is petty and controlling, and I shan¡¯t let her ruin my friend¡¯s life. I summon my courage and close my eyes, sending my intent to Lady Markham: Felicity Worthington is the most wonderful girl in the world. You want to present¡ªno, you¡¯ll insist upon presenting¡ªher at court. And a lovely party in her honor is in order, I should think. Page 64 ¡°But I should like very much to receive you,¡± Lady Markham says suddenly, brightening. ¡°And how is our darling Felicity? Oh, what a beauty you are, my dear!¡± Felicity looks as if a pile of books has fallen on her head. She smiles uncertainly. ¡°I am well, thank you, Lady Markham.¡± ¡°Of course you are. I shall expect you at Easter, and we shall speak of your debut¡ªand a party!¡± ¡°Lady Markham, we must be on our way,¡± Lady Denby says, her jaw tight. ¡°Good day,¡± Lady Markham calls gaily. Lady Denby marches away, forcing her friend to catch up. Everyone¡¯s in high spirits as we wait for our train back to Spence. A greatly relieved Mrs. Worthington chats pleasantly with Mademoiselle LeFarge, who clutches her few precious purchases, Cecily¡¯s purloined pearls shining at her neck. ¡°I should like to see that expression on Lady Denby¡¯s face forever in my mind,¡± Felicity says. ¡°It was rather satisfying, wasn¡¯t it?¡± I agree. ¡°¡®Lady Markham, we must be on our way,¡¯¡± Ann says, in perfect imitation of Lady Denby¡¯s pompous voice. ¡°Gemma, are you still holding on to that rubbish?¡± Fee points to the leaflet for the exhibition at the Egyptian Hall. ¡°Why, it isn¡¯t rubbish at all,¡± I say with mock sincerity. ¡°We have the Wolfson Brothers and their Phantasmagoria!¡± Ann arches a brow. ¡°Nothing compared to the realms, I daresay.¡± ¡°But there is more!¡± I protest. In smaller script is a list of others who will exhibit at the hall, their names growing tinier in proportion to their importance. I read them one by one, making Ann and Felicity giggle. And at the very bottom is Dr. Theodore Van Ripple, master illusionist. CHAPTER TWENTY FELICITY EXAMINES THE LEAFLET BY THE FIRELIGHT. ¡°WE must get to the Egyptian Hall.¡± ¡°How shall we do it?¡± Ann asks. She¡¯s no longer Nan, but some hint of magic remains, enough to keep a twinkle in her eyes. She¡¯s like a princess in a fairy tale who has been cursed to sleep and is finally awakening. ¡°Gemma, will you make everyone at Spence fall asleep or leave an illusion of us behind so that no one notices our absence¡ªor will you put the thought so firmly in Nightwing¡¯s head that she insists on attending and bringing us along?¡± ¡°I thought I would simply ask Mademoiselle LeFarge to take us. She loves this sort of exhibition.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Ann says, clearly disappointed. Felicity unwraps a toffee and plops it onto her tongue. ¡°And you think this Dr. Van Ripple can tell us about the lady in your visions?¡± ¡°I hope so. I see her with him. Perhaps he knows something about this Tree of All Souls as well.¡± ¡°Do you hear that?¡± Ann asks. Horses, coming closer. It is nine o¡¯clock. I can¡¯t imagine who would be calling at this hour. ¡°Mrs. Nightwing, it¡¯s a carriage!¡± one of the younger girls calls. We push aside the draperies and peek out. The carriage approaches in the distance. The maids rush outside with their lanterns and form a line at the door. We girls beg to be let out as well, and Mrs. Nightwing relents. The night¡¯s chilly breath tickles up my neck and finds my ear, whispering secrets only the wind knows. The dust rises on the path. The carriage draws to a stop, and the driver puts the steps to the door. The passenger emerges¡ªa slender woman in a well-appointed blue-gray suit. She raises her head to take in the sight of the school, and I know her at once: dark, searching eyes under full brows; a small mouth set in a sharp face; and the stealthy grace of a panther. Miss Claire McCleethy has returned. She greets our headmistress with a tight smile. ¡°Good evening, Lillian. I am sorry for the late hour but the roads were muddy.¡± ¡°It¡¯s no matter; now you¡¯re here,¡± Mrs. Nightwing answers. The servants scurry about, Brigid barking orders and inviting the driver to come round the back to the kitchen for a repast. The younger girls rush toward Miss McCleethy to welcome her. I try to conceal myself, but as I¡¯m tall, it¡¯s impossible for me to hide for long. Miss McCleethy¡¯s eyes find mine, and it¡¯s enough to make my heart beat more quickly. ¡°Ladies, I shall allow an additional hour that we might welcome our Miss McCleethy properly,¡± Mrs. Nightwing announces to delighted cheers. The fires in the great hall are stoked to blazing again. Biscuits and tea are brought round. We toast Miss McCleethy¡¯s return, and the girls regale her with tales of Spence and the coming London season and the costumes they shall wear for the masked ball. Miss McCleethy listens to it all without divulging anything about herself or her whereabouts these past three months. Page 65 At half past ten o¡¯clock, Mrs. Nightwing announces that it is time for bed. Reluctantly, the girls soldier toward the staircase. I am nearly there when Miss McCleethy stops me. ¡°Miss Doyle, could you remain a moment?¡± Felicity and Ann and I exchange furtive glances. ¡°Yes, Miss McCleethy.¡± I swallow the lump rising in my throat and watch my friends climb the stairs to safety while I wait behind with the enemy. Miss McCleethy and I perch on the velvet settee in the small parlor used to receive guests, listening to the ormolu clock on the mantel tick off the excruciating silence in seconds. Miss McCleethy turns her dark eyes to me, and I begin to perspire. ¡°How nice it is to be at Spence once again,¡± she says. ¡°Yes. The gardens are lovely,¡± I answer. It is like a game of lawn tennis in which neither of us returns the same ball. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. ¡°And you are excited to be having your season, I trust?¡± ¡°Yes, quite.¡± Tick. Tock. Tick. ¡°There is that other matter we must discuss. The matter of the realms.¡± Tock. ¡°Miss Doyle, I¡¯ve begun the task of trying to find the last members of the Order. I do not know how many have survived or what powers remain, but it is my hope that soon we shall return the realms and our sisterhood to their former glory.¡± Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock. Miss McCleethy presses her lips into a semblance of a smile. ¡°So you see, I¡¯ve been trying to help you.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve been helping yourself,¡± I correct. ¡°Is that so?¡± She turns that penetrating gaze on me. ¡°You¡¯ve had no trouble from the Rakshana, I trust?¡± ¡°No,¡± I say, surprised. ¡°And did you not wonder why?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± ¡°It is because of me, Miss Doyle. I have kept them at bay through my own means, but I cannot keep them from you forever.¡± ¡°How could you stop the Rakshana?¡± ¡°Do you think I would leave that to chance? We have our spies within their ranks, just as they have had theirs within ours,¡± she says pointedly, and my stomach tightens at the memory of Kartik¡¯s last terrible mission for the Rakshana. The brotherhood ordered him to kill me. ¡°I might remind you that your judgment has been hasty before.¡± ¡°What do you want from me?¡± I snap. ¡°Miss Doyle. Gemma. You don¡¯t understand yet that I am your friend. I should like to help you¡ªif you would allow it.¡± She places a gentle hand on my shoulder. I wish that small motherly gesture held no power over me, but it does. It is funny how you do not miss affection until it is given, but once it is, it can never be enough; you would drown in it if possible. I blink against the sudden surprise of tears. ¡°You told me not to make an enemy of you.¡± ¡°I spoke rashly. I was disappointed that you did not come to us.¡± Miss McCleethy takes my hands in hers. Her hands are bony and far too light and feel as if they are not accustomed to holding another¡¯s. ¡°You have been able to do what no one before you has. You were able to open the realms again. You defeated Circe for us.¡± At Circe¡¯s name, my heartbeat quickens. I stare at a big brown spot on the floor where the wood is warped. ¡°And what about my friends? What of Felicity and Ann?¡± Miss McCleethy slides her hands from mine. She walks around the room, her fingers clasped behind her back, like a priest in thought. ¡°If the realms haven¡¯t chosen them, there is nothing I can do about it. They are not destined for this life.¡± ¡°But they are my friends,¡± I say. ¡°They¡¯ve helped me. So have some of the tribes and creatures within the realms.¡± Miss McCleethy brushes an invisible speck of dirt from the mantel. ¡°They cannot be a part of us. I am sorry.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t turn my back on them.¡± ¡°Your loyalty is commendable, Gemma. Truly it is. But it is misplaced. Do you suppose that if your roles were reversed and they were chosen for membership in the Order, the others would hesitate to abandon you?¡± ¡°They are my friends,¡± I repeat. ¡°They are your friends because you have power. And I have seen how power changes everything.¡± Miss McCleethy settles into the large wingback chair across from me. Her gaze bores into me. ¡°Your mother fought bravely for our cause. You wouldn¡¯t want to sully her memory, to disappoint her, would you?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve no leave to speak of my mother.¡± My hair falls into my face. I push it furiously behind my ear but it will not stay. Page 66 Miss McCleethy¡¯s voice is low and sure. ¡°Haven¡¯t I? She was one of us¡ªa sister of the Order. She died trying to protect you, Gemma. I would honor her memory by looking after you.¡± ¡°She didn¡¯t want me to be part of your Order. That¡¯s why she kept me hidden in India.¡± Gently, Miss McCleethy secures the errant hair behind my ear, where it has the bad manners to obey her by staying put. ¡°And yet, she asked your father to send you here should anything happen to her.¡± I¡¯ve been so certain these past few days, but now my thoughts feel mud-soaked, and I cannot see the way clearly. What if they are right and I am wrong? ¡°What will you do, Gemma? How will you manage all on your own?¡± ¡°But you¡¯ve not been inside in twenty-five years,¡± I say, coming round again. ¡°You are the one who doesn¡¯t know how it is now.¡± She stiffens. That motherly smile fades from her lips. ¡°You¡¯d be wise to listen to me, Miss Doyle. You may believe you can show largesse to these creatures, befriend them, join with them, but you are deceived. You¡¯ve no idea what terrible acts they are capable of committing. They will betray you in the end. We are your friends, your family. There is only one way¡ªour way¡ªand it must be exercised with no exceptions.¡± The clock tsk-tsks in time. The brown spot in the wood seems to grow. I can feel Miss McCleethy¡¯s eyes upon me, daring me to look. Her voice softens once more to that motherly coo. ¡°Gemma, we¡¯ve been protectors of the magic for generations. We understand its ways. Let us carry the burden. We shall bring you into the Order as one of our own. You¡¯ll take your rightful place.¡± ¡°And if I refuse?¡± Miss McCleethy¡¯s voice turns razor-sharp. ¡°I can no longer protect you.¡± She means to frighten me. But I shan¡¯t give up so easily. ¡°Miss McCleethy, there is something I must confess,¡± I say, still staring at the floor. ¡°I cannot enter the realms. Not anymore.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± I force myself to meet her gaze. ¡°I¡¯ve tried, but the power has left me. I was afraid to tell you. I¡¯m not who you thought me to be. I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°But I thought you¡¯d bound the magic to yourself.¡± ¡°I thought I had, too. But I was wrong. Or it wouldn¡¯t take in me after all.¡± ¡°I see,¡± she says. For the longest moment of my life, McCleethy holds my gaze while I try desperately not to flinch, and the clock measures our unspoken hate in ticks and tocks. At last, she turns her attention to a small ceramic angel figurine perched near the edge of a side table. ¡°Miss Doyle, if you¡¯re lying, I¡¯ll know in time. Such power can¡¯t easily be hidden.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry to be such a disappointment,¡± I say. ¡°Not half as sorry as I am.¡± She tries to move the angel back from the table¡¯s edge and nearly drops it. It wobbles precariously, then stops. ¡°May I go to bed now?¡± I ask, and she dismisses me with a wave of her hand. ¡°Gemma. Pssst!¡± It¡¯s Felicity. She and Ann have hidden in Ann¡¯s bed. She pops up like a jack-in-the-box in hair ribbons. ¡°What happened? Did McCleethy bite you with her fangs?¡± ¡°In a manner of speaking,¡± I say, pulling at my boots. I loosen the tiny loops from the hooks. ¡°She wanted me to become one with the Order and follow their training.¡± ¡°She wanted you to give them all your power, you mean,¡± Felicity scoffs. ¡°Did she mention taking us into the Order?¡± Ann asks. ¡°No,¡± I say, leaving my stockings on the floor in a heap. ¡°She only wanted me.¡± Felicity¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°You told her no, then?¡± It is not so much a question as a demand. ¡°I told her I no longer held the power and that I couldn¡¯t enter the realms at all.¡± Felicity snorts in delight. ¡°Well done, Gemma!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think she believed me,¡± I warn. ¡°We shall have to be very careful.¡± ¡°She¡¯ll be no match for us.¡± Felicity bounds out of Ann¡¯s bed. ¡°Till morning, mes amies!¡± ¡°Mawah meenon ne le plus poohlala,¡± I say with an affected bow. Felicity laughs. ¡°What, pray tell, was that?¡± ¡°My French. I daresay it¡¯s improving.¡± Ann falls asleep within minutes, and I am left to stare at the cracks branching off left and right in the ceiling. What if Miss McCleethy is right? What if the realms don¡¯t choose my friends or the forest folk? Whom will they blame for that? Then again, Miss McCleethy tried to force me to take her into the realms once before. She¡¯d say or do anything to return the realms to the Order. Page 67 So many decisions, so many responsibilities, and no clear path. Out my window, the woods are dark save for the firelight coming from the Gypsy camp. There is one matter I can put to rest tonight, and I will have answers about that, at least. I creep down the stairs, taking care not to make a single sound. The doors to the great hall are ajar. A lamp still burns inside. I hear whispering voices, and I crouch low, listening. ¡°You¡¯re certain?¡± ¡°It¡¯s the only way. We can¡¯t leave it to chance. The risk is too great.¡± ¡°You would place all your faith in this plan? We have no real proof¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t question me. I cannot do this without you.¡± ¡°I am loyal. You know that I am.¡± ¡°I do.¡± The door is opened, and I hide behind a tall potted fern. I watch Miss McCleethy and Mrs. Nightwing ascend the stairs, the candle flame casting their long shadows on the wall and ceiling till they seem to loom over everything. I wait until long after I hear the baize door click. When I am satisfied that they are gone, I fly on angel feet to the Gypsy camp. I approach the camp stealthily, searching for the best way in. I wish I¡¯d brought scraps to quiet the dogs. A twig breaks to my right, and suddenly, I¡¯m yanked hard to the ground and the full weight of another pins me there. ¡°I shall scream,¡± I gasp, but I¡¯ve barely enough breath to speak. ¡°Miss Doyle!¡± Kartik lifts me from the ground. ¡°What are you doing out here?¡± ¡°What are you¡­doing throwing me¡­about like a¡­highwayman?¡± I brush the leaves from my skirt and try to force air back into my lungs. ¡°I am sorry, but you shouldn¡¯t creep about the woods at night. It isn¡¯t safe.¡± ¡°So I see,¡± I reply. ¡°You¡¯ve not answered my question. Why are you here?¡± ¡°I came to find you.¡± My breath comes shakily but now it has little to do with being thrown to the ground. ¡°I want answers, and I shan¡¯t leave until I have them.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve nothing to tell you,¡± he says, turning away. I fall in beside him. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving. I need your help. Wait¡ªwhere are you going?¡± ¡°To feed the horses,¡± he answers without stopping. ¡°But the Order has a secret plan!¡± I protest. ¡°That does not change the fact that the horses are hungry and must be fed. You may tell me along the way.¡± I match his stride. ¡°Miss McCleethy returned this evening.¡± ¡°She¡¯s here now?¡± Kartik cranes his neck toward Spence. ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°But she¡¯s sleeping. We¡¯re safe.¡± ¡°Not with that woman about,¡± Kartik mumbles. ¡°What did she tell you?¡± ¡°She wanted me to join the Order but I refused. And just now, I overheard her talking with Mrs. Nightwing. They mentioned a plan of some sort. She also said that she¡¯s kept the Rakshana from coming for me, but that if I don¡¯t join the Order, she won¡¯t protect me any longer.¡± I steal a glance at him. ¡°She has a spy within your ranks. Do you know anything about it?¡± Kartik¡¯s pace doesn¡¯t slow. ¡°They are not my ranks. I am no longer Rakshana.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve heard nothing, then?¡± ¡°The Rakshana think me a dead man, and I¡¯d like to keep it that way.¡± I stop. ¡°Why? What do you mean?¡± ¡°Some matters are best not discussed,¡± he says, pushing on till I have to catch him. We reach a small clearing where the horses are tethered. Kartik pulls an apple from his pocket and offers it to a dappled mare. ¡°Here you are, Freya. Enjoy. This is Ithal¡¯s horse. She¡¯s a fine old girl,¡± he says, stroking her nose gently. ¡°Never a moment¡¯s trouble.¡± I fold my arms across my chest. ¡°Is that what makes a fine girl, then? A lack of trouble?¡± He shakes his head, a small smile starting. ¡°No, that is what makes for good horses.¡± ¡°What do you think of my story?¡± I stroke Freya¡¯s soft mane, and she allows it. ¡°Gemma¡­¡± He trails off. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t tell me anything more about the realms. I am no longer privy to their secrets.¡± ¡°But I¡ª¡± ¡°Please,¡± he says, and something in his eyes silences me. ¡°Very well. If you wish it.¡± ¡°I do,¡± he says, sounding relieved. A hedgehog flees from the safety of a bush, startling me. It darts past us in a terrible hurry. Kartik nods toward the furry little thing. ¡°Don¡¯t mind him. He¡¯s off to meet his lady friend.¡± Page 68 ¡°How can you be sure?¡± ¡°He has on his best hedgehog suit.¡± ¡°Ah, I should have noticed,¡± I say, happy to play this game¡ªany game¡ªwith him. I put my hand on a tree¡¯s trunk and swing myself around it slowly, letting my body feel gravity¡¯s pull. ¡°And why has he worn his best?¡± ¡°He¡¯s been away in London, you see, and now he has returned to her,¡± Kartik continues. ¡°And what if she is angry with him for being away so long?¡± Kartik circles just behind me. ¡°She will forgive him.¡± ¡°Will she?¡± I say pointedly. ¡°It is his hope that she will, for he didn¡¯t mean to upset her,¡± Kartik answers, and I am no longer sure we speak of the hedgehog. ¡°And is he happy to see her again?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Kartik says. ¡°He should like to stay longer, but he cannot.¡± The bark chafes against my hand. ¡°Why is that?¡± ¡°He has his reasons, and he hopes his lady will understand them one day.¡± Kartik has changed direction. He comes around the other side of the tree. We are face to face. A palm of moonglow reaches through the branches to caress his face. ¡°Oh,¡± I say, heart beating fast. ¡°And what would the lady hedgehog say to that?¡± he asks. His voice is soft and low. ¡°She would say¡­¡± I swallow hard. Kartik steps closer. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°She would say,¡± I whisper, ¡°¡®If you please, I am not a hedgehog. I am a woodchuck.¡¯¡± A small sad smile plays at Kartik¡¯s lips. ¡°He is fortunate to have found so witty a lady friend,¡± he says, and I wish I could have the moment back again to play differently. We offer more of the apple to Freya, who gobbles it greedily. Kartik strokes her mane and she softens under his touch, nuzzling him with her nose. Around us the night creatures have their say. We are surrounded by a symphony of crickets and frogs. Neither of us feels the need to speak, and I suppose that is one of the qualities I find comforting in Kartik. We can be alone together. ¡°Well, that¡¯s done,¡± he says, wiping his hands on his trousers. ¡°No more for you, Freya.¡± Yawning, Kartik stretches his arms overhead. His shirt comes untucked. It rises with his arms and a faint trail of dark hair is visible on the muscled plain of his stomach. ¡°Y-you seem tired,¡± I stammer, grateful that he cannot see my red cheeks in the dark. ¡°You should go to bed.¡± ¡°No!¡± he says. ¡°I thought I might walk by the lake, if you care to join me.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± I say, happy to be asked. The lake laps lazily at the bank in a peaceful rhythm. An owl hoots in the distance. A light breeze blows my hair against my cheeks, tickling them. Kartik sits with his back against a tree. I settle near him. ¡°What did you mean when you said our fates were no longer intertwined?¡± I ask. ¡°I thought my fate was to be Rakshana. But I was wrong. Now I don¡¯t know what my destiny is. I don¡¯t even know if I believe in destiny.¡± As much as I¡¯ve been infuriated by Kartik¡¯s arrogance, his sureness, I find I miss it now. It is hard to see him so lost. We fall into silence again. His eyes flutter with sleep, but he fights it. ¡°There¡¯s only one thing I must know and then I¡¯ll not ask again. Have you seen Amar?¡± ¡°No. I promise.¡± He seems relieved. ¡°That is good. Good.¡± His eyes close, and within seconds, he¡¯s asleep. I sit beside him, listening to his breathing, stealing secret glances at his beauty: long, dark eyelashes resting on high cheekbones; strong nose leading to full, slightly parted lips. They say a lady should not feel such desires, but how could a lady not? I should have to sleepwalk through my life not to feel the pull of those lips. I reach out a tentative hand to touch them. Kartik startles awake violently, gasping for breath and frightened. I yelp, and he grabs hold of me and won¡¯t let go. ¡°Kartik!¡± I call, but he¡¯s fighting me. ¡°Kartik, stop!¡± He comes back to himself, releasing me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I have these dreams,¡± he says, breathing heavily. ¡°Such awful dreams.¡± ¡°What sorts of dreams?¡± I still feel the imprint of his hands on my arms. He rakes shaking fingers through his hair. ¡°I see Amar on a white horse, but he¡¯s not as I remember him. He¡¯s like some horrible cursed creature. I try to run after him, but he¡¯s always just ahead. The mist thickens, and I lose him. When the mist parts, I¡¯m in a cold, bleak land¡ªa terrible, beautiful place. An army of lost souls comes out of the mist. They¡¯re looking to me, and I¡¯m so very powerful. More powerful than I could have imagined.¡± Page 69 He wipes an arm across his brow. ¡°And is that all?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± He steals a quick glance. ¡°I see your face.¡± ¡°Me? I¡¯m there?¡± He nods. ¡°Well¡­what happens next?¡± He doesn¡¯t look at me. ¡°You die.¡± Gooseflesh rises on my arms. ¡°How?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± He stops. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± The breeze coming off the lake gives me another shiver. ¡°They¡¯re only dreams.¡± ¡°I believe in dreams,¡± he answers. I take hold of his hands, not caring if it¡¯s too bold. ¡°Kartik, why don¡¯t you come into the realms with me and look for Amar yourself? Then you would know for certain and perhaps the dreams would go away.¡± ¡°But what if they¡¯re right?¡± He slips his hands from mine. ¡°No. As soon as I have paid my debt to the Gypsies for their aid, I¡¯ll be on my way to Bristol and the HMS Orlando.¡± I stand. ¡°So you won¡¯t even try to fight?¡± I say, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. Kartik stares straight ahead. ¡°Make the alliance without me, Gemma. You¡¯ll be fine on your own.¡± ¡°I¡¯m tired of being on my own.¡± Wiping away tears, I march into the woods. Just past the Gypsy camp, I see Mother Elena heaving a pail toward Spence. ¡°What are you doing?¡± I demand. I yank the pail away, and the dark liquid in it sloshes against the sides. ¡°What is this?¡± ¡°The mark has to be made in blood,¡± she says. ¡°For protection.¡± ¡°You¡¯re the one who painted the East Wing. Why?¡± ¡°Without protection, they¡¯ll come,¡± she says. ¡°Who will come?¡± ¡°The damned.¡± She grabs for the pail and I hold it out of her reach. ¡°I¡¯ll not spend another morning scrubbing,¡± I say. Mother Elena tightens her shawl about her. ¡°Two ways! The seal is broken. Why would Eugenia allow it? She knows¡ªshe knows!¡± The whole ghastly night rises in me like a battered dog who¡¯ll take no more taunting. ¡°Eugenia Spence is dead. She¡¯s been dead for twenty-five years. You¡¯re not to do this again, Mother Elena, or I shall tell Mrs. Nightwing it was you, and you¡¯ll be banished from these woods forever. Do you want that?¡± Her face crumples. ¡°Have you seen my Carolina?¡± ¡°No,¡± I say wearily. ¡°She¡¯s a good hider.¡± ¡°She¡¯s not¡­¡± I trail off. It¡¯s no use talking sense to her. She¡¯s mad, and I feel if I stand here talking longer, I¡¯ll tip into madness myself. I empty the bucket into the grass and hand it back. ¡°You mustn¡¯t do it again, Mother Elena.¡± ¡°They¡¯ll come,¡± she growls, and limps away, the empty pail clattering against her bangles like chimes. It¡¯s noticeably colder on my return to Spence, and I curse myself for not bringing a wrap. Just one of the many foolish things I¡¯ve done, such as trying to change Kartik¡¯s mind. Something flies close to my head and I yelp. ¡°Caw! Caw!¡± it cries, soaring ahead of me. Nothing but a bloody crow. It settles in the rose garden, pecking at the blooms. ¡°Shoo, shoo!¡± I flap at it with my skirts and it rises. Then I see a curious thing: A patch of frost has taken out several of the budding roses. They are stillborn on their stalks, half-formed and blue with cold. ¡°Caw! Caw!¡± The crow perches on the East Wing turret, watching me. And then, before my astonished eyes, it flies over the spot that marks the secret entrance to the realms, and disappears. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE BY THE FOLLOWING EVENING, OUR LAST AT SPENCE BEFORE Easter week, we are desperate to enter the realms again. I don¡¯t try to conjure the door of light on my own anymore; it¡¯s hardly worth the effort when I shall only be disappointed and we¡¯ve another way in that never fails. Once we¡¯re certain our teachers are gone to bed, we run straight for the secret door by the East Wing and then on to the Borderlands. We no longer bother with the garden. It feels like child¡¯s play, somehow, a place where we turned pebbles into butterflies as girls do. Now we fancy the blue twilight of the Borderlands, with its musky flowers and the magnetic pull of the Winterlands. Each time we play, we find ourselves a toehold closer to that imposing wall that separates us from its unknown expanse. Even the castle has grown less forbidding to us. The wealth of deadly nightshade blooming from its walls gives it color¡ªlike a Mayfair parlor covered in the most exotic paper. We burst through the castle¡¯s vine-twisted doors, shouting Pip¡¯s name, and she runs to us, squealing with delight. Page 70 ¡°You¡¯re here at last! Ladies! Ladies, our fine party can begin!¡± After the magic has joined us in blissful communion, we own the night. The party spills out of the castle into the blue-tinged forest. Laughing, we play hide-and-seek behind the fir trees and the berry bushes, running merrily across the tangled vines that crisscross the frosty ground. Ann begins to sing. Her voice is lovely but here in the realms it achieves a freedom it does not have in our world. She sings without apology, and the song is like wine, loosening our cares. Bessie and the other factory girls cheer wildly for her¡ªnot with the polite, tempered applause of drawing rooms but with the boisterous, joyful whoops of the music hall. Bessie, Mae, and Mercy have clouded themselves in a glamour of gowns, jewels, and fancy shoes. They¡¯ve never owned such finery before, and it does not matter that it is borrowed by magic; they believe, and the believing changes everything. We¡¯ve the right to dream, and that, I suppose, is the magic¡¯s greatest power: the notion that we can pick possibility from the trees like ripe fruit. We are filled with hope. Alive with transformation. We can become. ¡°Am I a lady, then?¡± Mae asks, strutting in her new blue silks. Bessie shoves her affectionately. ¡°The Queen of Bloody Sheba!¡± She laughs hard and loud. Mae shoves her back, a bit less gently. ¡°¡¯Oo are you, then? Prince Albert?¡± ¡°Oi!¡± Mercy chides. ¡°Enuf! It¡¯s a happy occasion, ain¡¯t it?¡± Felicity and Pip perform a comical waltz, pretending they are a Mr. Deadly Dull and a Miss Ninny Pants. In a ridiculously stuffy voice, Felicity prattles on about fox hunting¡ª¡°The fox should be grateful to face our guns, for they are the finest guns in all of society trained on his lowly form. How lucky indeed!¡±¡ªwhilst Pippa bats her lashes and says only, ¡°Why, Mr. Deadly Dull, if you say it¡¯s so, it must be so, for I¡¯m sure I have no opinions of my own upon the subject!¡± It is rather like Punch and Judy come to life and we laugh till tears fall. Yet for all their silliness, they move beautifully. With exquisite grace, they anticipate each other¡¯s steps, sweeping round and round, Pip¡¯s gems winking in the dust. Pippa prances about, grabbing each of us in turn for a dance. She sings a merry bit of doggerel. ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve a love, a true, true love, who waits upon yon shore¡­¡± This makes Felicity laugh. ¡°Oh, Pip!¡± It¡¯s all the encouragement Pippa needs. Still singing, she pulls Fee into yet another dance. ¡°And if my love won¡¯t be my love, then I will live no more¡­¡± Indeed, Pip is charming at the moment; she¡¯s irresistible. I¡¯ve not always liked her. She can annoy and delight in equal measure. But she saved these girls from a terrible fate. She saved them from the Winterlands, and she means to look after them. The old Pip would never have been able to look beyond her own troubles to help someone else, and that must count for something. When at last we are exhausted, we sprawl on the cool forest floor. The fir trees stand guard. The jagged-leaved bushes offer a handful of tiny hard berries, no bigger than new peas. It smells like cloves and oranges and musk. Felicity lays her head in Pip¡¯s lap and Pip braids her hair into long, loose plaits. Bessie Timmons eyes them miserably. It is hard to be replaced in Pippa¡¯s affections. Sparkling lights appear on the thick boughs of a fir. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Mae rushes to the tree and the lights fly away to another tree branch. We follow them. Upon closer inspection, I see that they are not lights at all, but small fairylike creatures. They flit from branch to branch, and the tree swirls with movement. ¡°You have magic,¡± they call. ¡°We can feel it.¡± ¡°Yes, what of it?¡± Felicity says, challenging them. Two of the tiny creatures land on my palm. Their skin is as green as new grass. It glistens as if dew-kissed. They¡¯ve hair like spun gold; it hangs in waves that tumble down their iridescent backs. ¡°You¡¯re the one¡ªthe one who holds the magic,¡± they whisper, breaking into ecstatic smiles. ¡°You¡¯re beautiful,¡± they whisper sweetly. ¡°Gift us with your magic.¡± Ann has come up behind me. ¡°Oooh, may I see?¡± She leans close and one of the fairies spits in her face. ¡°Go away. You are not our beautiful one. Not our magical one.¡± ¡°Stop that at once,¡± I say. Ann wipes the spit from her cheek. Her skin glistens where it has been. ¡°I have magic, too.¡± ¡°You ought to crush them with it,¡± Felicity says. Page 71 The fairies moan and cling to my thumb and fingers. They stroke their faces against my skin like little pets. I reach out and touch one. Its skin is like a fish¡¯s. It leaves a wake of glittering scales on my fingers. ¡°What do you want, then?¡± Felicity demands. She flicks at one with her fingernail and it falls on its backside. ¡°Beautiful,¡± the fairy creatures murmur again and again. I know I¡¯m not beautiful in the way that Pippa is, and I don¡¯t have Felicity¡¯s allure. But their words bathe me in new hope. I want to believe them, and that is enough to keep me listening. The larger fairy steps forward. She moves with a seductive grace, the way I have seen cobras dance for their masters: compliant yet able to strike at a moment¡¯s notice. I should like to hear them tell me that I am beautiful again. That they love me so very well. It is a curious thing: The more they say it, the more I feel a void opening inside me that I am desperate to fill. The little creatures grab hold of me. ¡°Oh, yes, lovely, lovely, our fair one is. We worship you. We would have some of you for our own, we love you so.¡± I put my hand to their heads. Their hair is as soft as corn silk. Eyes closed, body humming, I can feel the magic starting. But they are impatient. Their miniature hands grab greedily for my fingers. The scaly roughness of their skin is a surprise, and for a moment, I lose my concentration. ¡°No! Foolish mortal!¡± The voice hurts my ears. When I look down, they are staring at me with longing¡­and hatred, as if they would kill and eat me given the chance. Instinctively, I pull my hand back. They jump for my fingers just out of reach. ¡°Give it back! You were going to gift us!¡± ¡°I¡¯ve changed my mind.¡± I place them on a branch of the tree. They turn their most brilliant shade of green yet. ¡°We could never hope to be as grand as you, fair one. Love us, as we love you.¡± They smile and dance for me, but their words are not as intoxicating this time. I can hear the gritty hiss beneath their declarations. ¡°You love what I can do for you,¡± I say, correcting them. They giggle but there¡¯s no warmth in it. It reminds me of a dying man¡¯s cough. ¡°Your power is nothing compared to that of the Tree of All Souls.¡± I turn quickly. ¡°What did you say?¡± They sigh in ecstasy. ¡°One touch of it, and you will know true power¡ªall your fears banished, all your desires granted.¡± I grab one in my fist. It struggles. Fear distorts its features into a terrible mask. ¡°Let me go, let me go!¡± The other creature hops down and bites my thumb. I bat it away, and it somersaults through the air, grabbing hold of a branch to break its fall. ¡°I shall let you go in a moment! Stop struggling! I only want to know about this tree.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t tell you anything.¡± ¡°Squeeze it into juice,¡± Felicity says, goading me. The creature¡¯s mouth forms a terrified O. ¡°Please¡­I¡¯ll tell you all¡­.¡± Felicity gives a satisfied smile. ¡°That is how you get what you need.¡± I cradle the creature in my palms. ¡°What is the Tree of All Souls?¡± The creature relaxes. ¡°A place of very great magic deep within the Winterlands.¡± ¡°But I thought the Temple was the only source of magic in the realms.¡± The creature¡¯s grin is like a death mask. It hops to a higher branch just out of reach. ¡°Wait¡­don¡¯t go,¡± I call after it. ¡°If you would know more, you will have to travel to the Winterlands and see for yourself. For how can you rule the realms if you¡¯ve never even seen its stark beauty? How can you rule when you know only half the tale?¡± ¡°I know what I need to know about the Winterlands,¡± I answer, but I¡¯m not convinced. There is truth in the little beast¡¯s words. ¡°You know only what they have told you. Would you accept it as true without questioning it? Without seeing it for yourself? Have you never thought that they meant to keep you ignorant of its charms?¡± ¡°Go away!¡± Felicity blows hard. With a yelp, the creature falls, bouncing off branches till it lands on a fat leaf with an audible oof. ¡°You¡¯re a fool, a fool!¡± it gasps. ¡°In the Winterlands, it shall be decided! You will know what true power is and tremble¡­.¡± ¡°What appalling little beasts. I¡¯ll show you how to tremble!¡± Felicity gives chase. The frightened things fly away through the trees. ¡°Go away! Leave us be, foolish mortals.¡± Page 72 Little Wendy cowers, covering her ears. ¡°There it is again, the screamin¡¯.¡± Mr. Darcy hops wildly in his cage, and Wendy holds fast to it. ¡°Wendy, you stop that!¡± Mae scolds. ¡°There ain¡¯t no screamin¡¯.¡± ¡°¡¯Ere now, luv, take my hand,¡± Mercy soothes, wrapping an arm around Wendy. Far off over the Winterlands, a streak of red floods the gray sky. It burns for a moment, then disappears. ¡°Did you see it?¡± Ann asks. ¡°Let¡¯s get closer.¡± Bessie runs through the tall reeds and cattails that stretch between the forest and the wall into the Winterlands. The heavy fog seeps into the Borderlands here, coating us in a fine shroud till we are like handprints in wet paint. We stop short of the enormous wall. On the other side of the gates, sharp mountaintops, black as onyx, rise above the fog. Ice and snow cling to them precariously. The sky churns gray, a constant storm. It spreads a tingle through me. It is forbidden; it is temptation. ¡°Can you feel it?¡± Mae asks. ¡°Slips under your skin, don¡¯t it?¡± Pippa steals in beside me and takes my hand. Felicity wraps an arm around Pip¡¯s waist, and Ann comes to take my other hand. ¡°Do you suppose there really is such a place of power inside the Winterlands?¡± Pippa asks. The Tree of All Souls lives. That was what the mysterious lady wrote upon the slate. But no one has ever mentioned it to me before. I realize, once again, that there is very little I know about this strange world I am to help govern. ¡°It is so quiet. We¡¯ve seen no Winterlands creatures at all since we¡¯ve returned. What do you suppose is there now?¡± Ann asks. Pippa leans her head against mine sweetly. ¡°We should find out for ourselves.¡± CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO THE MORNING BRINGS A FOYER FILLED WITH CASES AND trunks, girls going home for Easter week. They stand hugging goodbye as if they shall see each other never again rather than Friday next. I have come down in my most sensible traveling dress¡ªa brown tweed that will not show the train¡¯s smudges and soot. Ann has donned her drab traveling suit. Felicity, of course, will not be outdone. She wears a beautiful moir¨¦ silk dress in the perfect color of blue to complement her eyes. I shall look like a field mouse beside her. The carriages that will take us to the train station are brought round. Groups of girls are paired with their chaperones. Spirits are high, but the true excitement is happening between Mrs. Nightwing and Mr. Miller. ¡°One of our men went missing last night,¡± Mr. Miller says. ¡°Young Tambley.¡± ¡°Mr. Miller, how is it that I may keep watch over scores of schoolgirls yet you cannot keep watch over grown men?¡± Brigid looks up from the back of a carriage, where she¡¯s instructing the footman on exactly how to secure our cases, much to his annoyance. ¡°Whiskey! Devil whiskey!¡± she offers with a firm nod. Mrs. Nightwing gives a sigh. ¡°Brigid, if you please.¡± Mr. Miller shakes his head fervently. ¡°It weren¡¯t whiskey, m¡¯um. Tambley was on watch in the woods and up by the old graveyard, where we¡¯d ¡¯eard noises. Now ¡¯e¡¯s gone.¡± He hisses through gritted teeth. ¡°It¡¯s them Gypsies, I tell ya.¡± ¡°And the reason you were behind on the East Wing was the rain, as I recall. There is always some blame, some excuse.¡± Mrs. Nightwing sniffs. ¡°I¡¯m sure your Mr. Tambley will show up. He is young, as you said, and the young tend to be rebellious.¡± ¡°You might be right, m¡¯um, but it ain¡¯t like Tambley not to show.¡± ¡°Have faith, Mr. Miller. I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll return.¡± Felicity and I embrace Ann. We¡¯re both to go to London, whilst Ann will spend the holiday with her horrid cousins in the country. ¡°Don¡¯t let those ghastly brats get the better of you,¡± I tell Ann. ¡°It will be the longest week of my life,¡± she says with a sigh. ¡°Mother will insist on paying calls so that we might ingratiate ourselves,¡± Felicity says. ¡°I¡¯ll be on display like some hideous china doll.¡± I look about, but Miss McCleethy is nowhere to be seen. ¡°Here,¡± I say, taking their hands. ¡°A bit of courage to see you through.¡± Soon we all have magic running under our skin; it brings a glow to our eyes, a flush to our cheeks. A crow flies past and with a loud cry settles on the turret, where one of Miller¡¯s men shoos it away. I¡¯m reminded of the bird I saw the other night that vanished. Or did it? It was late, I tell myself, and dark, and the two make for unreliable impressions. And anyway, with the magic running high, I feel lovely just now, too lovely to worry. Page 73 Our carriage clippity-clops down the drive behind the others. I look back at Spence¡ªat the men on the scaffolding mortaring stones into place, Mrs. Nightwing standing like a sentry at the front doors, Brigid helping girls on their way, the thick carpet of grass and the bright yellow of daffodils. The only threat is a band of rain clouds moving in. They puff out their cheeks and blow, sending shrieking girls after their hats. I laugh. The magic has me in its warm embrace, and I feel that no harm shall come to me. Even the dark clouds pressing against the silent gargoyles can¡¯t catch us. Without warning, my blood gallops hard inside my veins till it is all I can hear¡ªthrum-thrum-thrum-thrum. Outside, the world¡¯s merry-go-round gathers speed too. Storm clouds slither and stretch, dancing in the sky. I blink, the sound a cannon in my ears. The crow is in flight. Blink. It settles on the gargoyle¡¯s head. Blink. Sharp as a whip, the gargoyle¡¯s head twists round. My breath catches, and in that instant, the gargoyle¡¯s sharp teeth come down. My head feels light. My eyelids flutter, as frantic as the crow¡¯s wings. ¡°Gemma¡­¡± Felicity¡¯s voice carries as if underwater, and then it¡¯s clear as day. ¡°Gemma! What is the matter?¡± My blood settles into its normal cadence. Felicity¡¯s wide-eyed. ¡°Gemma, you fainted!¡± ¡°The gargoyle,¡± I say, trembling. ¡°It came alive.¡± The two other girls in the carriage regard me cautiously. The four of us crane our necks out the windows and peer up at the school¡¯s roof. It¡¯s quiet and still, nothing but stone. A fat raindrop hits me squarely in the eye. ¡°Ow,¡± I say, sitting back. I wipe the rain from my face. ¡°It seemed so real. Did I really faint?¡± Felicity nods. Worry creases her forehead. ¡°Gemma,¡± she whispers. ¡°The gargoyles are made of stone. Whatever you saw was some hallucination. There¡¯s nothing there, I promise you. Nothing.¡± ¡°Nothing,¡± I echo. I chance a last look behind us, and it¡¯s an ordinary spring day before Easter, a patch of rain moving in from the east. Did I really see those things or did I only think so? Is this a new trick of the magic? My fingers shake in my lap. Without a word, Felicity places her hands over mine, silencing my fear. It is said that Paris in springtime is a glory to behold, that it makes a man feel as if he shall never die. I should not know, for I have never been to Paris. But spring in London is a wholly different affair. The rain pitters and patters against the carriage¡¯s roof. The streets are choked equally with traffic and gas fog. Two young boys, crossing sweepers, have barely swept the muck and filth from the cobblestones so that a fashionable lady might pass when they are nearly run over by an omnibus whose driver curses them quite heatedly. The driver¡¯s curses are nothing compared to what the horses leave for them to clean away, and despite my misgivings about what I shall find in Belgravia, I am eternally grateful I am not a crossing sweeper. By the time we reach the house, I¡¯m bruised from the carriage¡¯s incessant bumping and my skirts wear mud an inch thick. A parlor maid takes my boots at the door, saying nothing about the large hole in the toe of my right stocking. Grandmama emerges from the parlor. ¡°Good heavens! What on earth?¡± she exclaims at the sight of me. ¡°Spring in London,¡± I explain, pushing a limp lock behind my ear. She closes the parlor doors behind her and leads me to a quiet spot beside an enormous painting. Three Grecian goddesses dance in a grove by a hermitage whilst Pan plays his flute nearby, his little goat feet stepping merrily over clover. It is so ghastly as to take one¡¯s breath away and I cannot imagine what possessed her to purchase it, let alone display it proudly. ¡°What is that?¡± ¡°The Three Graces,¡± she tuts. ¡°I am quite fond of it.¡± It is possibly the most appalling painting I¡¯ve ever seen. ¡°There is a goat-man dancing a jig.¡± Grandmama appraises it proudly. ¡°He represents nature.¡± ¡°He¡¯s wearing pantaloons.¡± ¡°Really, Gemma,¡± Grandmama growls. ¡°I did not pull you aside to discuss art, of which it is apparent you know little. I wished to discuss your father.¡± ¡°How is he?¡± I ask, the painting forgotten. ¡°Delicate. This is to be a peaceful trip. I¡¯ll have no outbursts, none of your peculiar habits, nothing to upset him. Do you understand?¡± My peculiar habits. If she only knew. ¡°Yes, of course.¡± After I¡¯ve exchanged my muddy dress for a clean one, I join the others in the drawing room. Page 74 ¡°Ah, here is our Gemma now,¡± Grandmama says. Father rises from his chair by the fireplace. ¡°Dear me, could this beautiful and elegant young lady be my daughter?¡± His voice is weaker, his eyes do not quite twinkle as they once did, and he is still very thin, but his mustache bends with a broad smile. When he holds out his arms, I run to him, his little girl again. Sudden tears threaten and I blink them back. ¡°Welcome home, Father.¡± His embrace is not as strong as it once was, but it is warm, and we shall fatten him up as soon as possible. Father¡¯s eyes soften. ¡°You look more like her every day.¡± Tom sits sulking in a chair, taking tea and biscuits. ¡°The tea has most likely gone cold by now, Gemma.¡± ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have waited for me,¡± I say, still holding on to my father. ¡°That is what I said,¡± Tom complains. Father offers me a chair. ¡°You used to sit at my feet when you were a child. But as you are a child no more but a young lady, you shall have to sit properly.¡± Grandmama pours tea for us all, and despite Tom¡¯s grumbling, it is still hot. ¡°We¡¯ve been issued an invitation to dine at the Hippocrates Society in Chelsea this week, and Thomas has accepted.¡± Scowling, Tom drops two fat lumps of sugar into his tea. ¡°How nice,¡± I say. Father allows Grandmama to pour milk into his cup, turning it cloudy. ¡°They¡¯re a fine bunch of fellows, Thomas¡ªmark my words. Why, Dr. Hamilton himself is a member.¡± Tom bites into a biscuit. ¡°Yes, old Dr. Hamilton.¡± ¡°It¡¯s far more suited to your station than the Athenaeum,¡± Father says. ¡°It¡¯s for the best that nonsense is done with.¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t nonsense,¡± Tom says sullenly. ¡°It was and you know it.¡± Father coughs. It rattles in his chest. ¡°Is the tea too cold? Shall I see about more? Oh, where has that girl gone to?¡± Grandmama stands, then sits, then stands again until Father waves her off, and she takes her seat again. Her nervous fingers fold her napkin into neat tiny squares. ¡°You do look so like her,¡± Father says again. His eyes are moist. ¡°How did we get here? Where did it go wrong?¡± ¡°John, you¡¯re not yourself just now,¡± Grandmama says. Her lips tremble. Tom stares at the floor miserably. ¡°I would give my soul to forget,¡± Father whispers through his tears. He is broken, and the fault line runs through us all. I feel that my heart will break. It would take only a little magic to change the situation. No, put that thought out of your mind, Gemma. But why not? Why should I allow him his suffering when I might take it away? I cannot spend another wretched week in their company. I close my eyes and my body shakes with its secrets. Far away, I hear my grandmother call my name, confused, and then, time slows till they are a strange, frozen tableau: Father, his head in his hands; Grandmama stirring her worry into her tea; Tom with a scowl on his face that speaks to his discontent with us. I say my wishes aloud, touching them each in turn. ¡°Father, you shall forget your pain.¡± ¡°Thomas, it is time for you to be less the boy and more the man.¡± ¡°And, Grandmama, oh, do let¡¯s have a bit of fun, shall we?¡± But the magic isn¡¯t finished with me yet. It finds my own fierce longing for a family I once had but lost to tempests I could not control. For a moment, I see myself happy and carefree, running under blue Indian skies. My laugh echoes in my head. Oh, if I could, I would have that happiness back again. The power of that desire pulls me to my knees. It forces tears to my eyes. Yes, I should like to have that back again. I should like to feel safe. Protected. Loved. If magic can buy me that, then I will have it. I take a deep breath and let it out shakily. ¡°Now, let¡¯s begin again.¡± Time rushes forward. They raise their heads as if waking from a dream they are glad to be rid of. ¡°I say, what were we discussing?¡± Father asks. Grandmama blinks her large eyes. ¡°It is the strangest thing, for I can¡¯t remember. Ha! Ha, ha, ha! Dotty old me!¡± Tom takes another biscuit. ¡°Fantastic biscuits!¡± ¡°Thomas, how do you think our men will fare against Scotland today in the championship?¡± ¡°England shall be victorious, of course! Best cricket in the world.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a good lad!¡± ¡°Father, I¡¯m hardly a lad anymore.¡± ¡°Right you are! You¡¯ve been in long trousers some time now.¡± Father laughs, and Tom joins him. Page 75 ¡°The Gentlemen shall make Lord¡¯s proud,¡± Tom adds. ¡°Gregory¡¯s a good man.¡± Father strokes his mustache. ¡°Gregory? A fine cricketer. Mind, he¡¯s no W. G. Grace. Seeing the Doctor play was thrilling. Nothing like it.¡± Father eats two biscuits, only stopping to cough once. Grandmama fills our cups to the brim. ¡°Oh, this room wants light! We must have light!¡± She does not call the housekeeper but ambles to the windows herself and throws open the heavy drapes. The rain has cleared. There¡¯s a hint of sun peeking through London¡¯s gray shroud like hope itself. ¡°Gemma?¡± Grandmama says. ¡°My dear, what on earth is the matter? Why are you crying?¡± ¡°No reason.¡± I smile through tears. ¡°No reason at all.¡± It is one of the happiest evenings together I can remember. Father challenges us to a game of whist, and we play well into the evening. We place our wagers using walnuts, but as they are so delicious, we eat them sneakily, and soon, there is nothing left with which to make a bet, and we are forced to abandon our game. Grandmama settles herself at the piano and bids us sing along to a rousing round of novelty songs. Mrs. Jones brings us mugs of steaming chocolate, and even she is pulled to the piano to sing a chorus or two. As the evening winds down, Father lights the pipe I gave him for Christmas, and the smell conjures childhood memories that wrap themselves around me like a cocoon. ¡°If only your mother were here to share this fire with us,¡± Father says, and I hold my breath, afraid this house of cards I¡¯ve constructed shall fall in on itself. I¡¯m not ready to let go of this happiness. I give him just a touch more. ¡°How odd,¡± he says, his face brightening. ¡°I had a remembrance of your mother, but it¡¯s left me now, and I can¡¯t get it back.¡± ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s for the best,¡± I say. ¡°Yes. Forgotten,¡± he says. ¡°Now, who would like a story?¡± We all want one of Father¡¯s stories, for they are the most entertaining ever. ¡°I say, have I ever told you the one about the tiger¡­,¡± he begins, and we grin. We know it well; he has told it hundreds of times, but it hardly matters. We sit and listen and are enthralled anew, for good stories, it seems, never lose their magic. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE EASTER SURPRISES US ALL WITH A GLORIOUS BLUE MORNING of such purity it makes the eyes ache. After a morning at church, we stroll amiably toward Ladies¡¯ Mile in Hyde Park. The streets become a sea of frilly white as parasols are opened to block the dim British sun. Weak as it is, it may still freckle, and our skins are to be as unblemished as our reputations. My skin is already covered in small brown spots, much to my grandmother¡¯s eternal dismay. The ladies in their Easter finery strut like peacocks. Under cover of their parasols, they examine Lady Spendthrift¡¯s new fur-trimmed coat or Mrs. Fading Beauty¡¯s attempt at looking younger than her days, her corset pulled to straining. They pass sentence with no more than a glance or a pursing of the lips. The nannies and nurses follow the mothers and fathers, pushing prams, correcting children who get away from them. Even in early bloom, the park is magnificent. Many ladies have placed their chairs on the grass so that they might chat and watch the horses. The path belongs to those eager to prove their skill in the saddle. Here and there, the horsewomen break free, showing a fierce competitive spirit. But then it is as if they remember themselves. They slow to a polite trot. That is a shame, for I should like to see them blazing a path through Hyde Park, their eyes alive with will, their mouths set in joyful, determined smiles. I have the misfortune of walking with a wealthy merchant¡¯s daughter who must be mortally afraid of silence, for she never ceases talking. I give her the secret name Miss Chatterbox. ¡°And then she danced with him for four dances! Can you imagine?¡± ¡°How scandalous,¡± I answer without enthusiasm. ¡°Exactly so! Everyone knows that three is the limit,¡± she answers, missing my point entirely. ¡°Steady. Here come the dowager soldiers,¡± I warn. We adopt a pose of demure innocence. A team of old ladies, powdered and puffed to the stiffness of meringue tarts, passes us with barely a nod. The crowd thins just a bit, and my heart nearly stops. Simon Middleton, resplendent in his white suit and boater hat, walks in our direction. I¡¯d forgotten how handsome he is¡ªtall, well formed, with brown hair and eyes the blue of clear seas. But it is the naughty twinkle in those eyes that makes a girl feel as if she has been undressed and has not cared to object. Strolling beside Simon is a lovely brunette. She is as small and dainty as the figurine on a music box. Her chaperone marches in time with her, the picture of respectability. Page 76 ¡°Who is that girl with Simon Middleton?¡± I whisper. Miss Chatterbox is overjoyed that I have joined her in gossip. ¡°Her name is Lucy Fairchild, and she is a distant cousin,¡± she relates breathlessly. ¡°American and very well-to-do. New money, naturally, but heaps of it, and her father has sent her in hopes she¡¯ll marry some poor second son and come home with a title to add luster to their wealth.¡± So this is Lucy Fairchild. My brother would throw himself on the tracks to gain her attention. Any man would. ¡°She¡¯s beautiful.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t she absolute perfection?¡± Miss Chatterbox says wistfully. I suppose I¡¯d hoped to hear that I was mistaken¡ª¡°Why, I don¡¯t think she¡¯s as pretty as all that. She has a funny neck and her nose is oddly shaped.¡± But her beauty is confirmed, and why is it that her beauty casts such a long shadow over me that every bit of my light is extinguished? Miss Chatterbox continues. ¡°There are rumors of a betrothal.¡± ¡°To whom?¡± My companion giggles. ¡°Oh, you! To Simon Middleton, of course. Wouldn¡¯t they make a lovely couple?¡± An engagement. At Christmas Simon made the same pledge to me. But I turned him away. Now I wonder if I might have been too hasty in refusing him. ¡°But the betrothal is only a rumor,¡± I say. Miss Chatterbox glances about furtively, positioning her umbrella to hide us. ¡°Well, I shouldn¡¯t repeat this, but I happen to know that the Middletons¡¯ fortunes have turned. They are in need of money. And Lucy Fairchild is exceedingly well off. I should expect they¡¯ll announce the engagement any day now. Oh, there is Miss Hemphill!¡± Chatterbox exclaims excitedly. Having spied someone far more important than I, she is off without so much as another word, for which, I suppose, my ears should be grateful. While Grandmama prattles away with an old woman about gardens and rheumatism and the sorts of subjects that might very well be found printed in a primer under the heading What Old Women Must Talk About, I stand along Rotten Row, watching the horses and feeling sorry for myself. ¡°Happy Easter to you, Miss Doyle. You¡¯re looking well.¡± Simon Middleton stands beside me. He is strong and shining and dimpled¡ªand alone. ¡°Thank you. How lovely to see you,¡± I say. ¡°And you.¡± I clear my throat. Say something witty, Gemma. Something beyond the obvious, for heaven¡¯s sake. ¡°It¡¯s a lovely day, isn¡¯t it?¡± Simon smirks. ¡°Quite. Let¡¯s see¡­you look lovely. It¡¯s lovely to see one another. And, of course, the weather is quite lovely. I do believe we have encompassed the loveliness of all things lovely.¡± He has made me laugh. It is a talent of his. ¡°How beastly a conversationalist I am.¡± ¡°Not at all. In fact, I daresay you are¡­a lovely conversationalist.¡± Several horses streak past, and Simon greets them with a cheer. ¡°I hear congratulations may soon be in order.¡± It is bold of me to say it. Simon arches an eyebrow. His lips press into a wicked smile that makes him ever so attractive. ¡°For what, pray tell?¡± ¡°They say your suit of Miss Fairchild is quite serious,¡± I reply, looking down the dirt path to where Lucy Fairchild mounts her horse. ¡°It occurs to me that cricket is not the true sport in London,¡± Simon says. ¡°Gossip is.¡± ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have repeated it. I am sorry.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be. Not on my account. I rather adore rudeness.¡± The wicked smile is back. It works its magic, and I find I am lighter. ¡°Actually, I do have my heart set on a new girl.¡± My stomach tightens. ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°Yes. Her name is Bonnie. She¡¯s right over there.¡± He points to a gleaming chestnut mare being led to the starting line. ¡°Some say her teeth are too strong for her face, but I disagree.¡± ¡°And think of what you shall save on a groundskeeper, for your grass shall be kept quite tidy by Bonnie,¡± I say. ¡°Yes. Ours will be a happy union. Quite stable,¡± he says, drawing a laugh from me. ¡°There is a matter I wanted to discuss with you, if I may,¡± I say haltingly. ¡°It concerns your mother.¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± He looks disappointed. ¡°What has she done now?¡± ¡°It is about Miss Worthington.¡± ¡°Ah, Felicity. What has she done now?¡± ¡°Lady Markham is to present her at court,¡± I say, ignoring his jibe. ¡°But your mother seems to object.¡± Page 77 ¡°My mother is not an admirer of Mrs. Worthington¡¯s, and their feud wasn¡¯t helped by your prank at Christmas with Miss Bradshaw. My mother felt her own reputation was injured by that.¡± ¡°I am sorry. But Felicity must make her debut. Is there anything I can do to help her?¡± Simon turns his wicked gaze to me, and a blush rises on my neck. ¡°Leave well enough alone.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± I plead. Simon nods, considering. ¡°Then you shall have to secure Lady Markham¡¯s affections. Tell Felicity to charm the old bat and her son, Horace, as well. That should win the day¡ªand her inheritance. Yes,¡± he says, seeing my expression, ¡°I know she must make her debut in order to claim her fortune. Everyone does. And there are plenty in London who¡¯d rather see the brash Felicity Worthington under her father¡¯s control.¡± Down at the far end of Ladies¡¯ Mile, the horsewomen are at the line. They sit tall in their saddles, the picture of restraint and elegance, while their blindered horses snort and prance. They are ready to run, to show what they can do. ¡°It is good to see you, Gemma.¡± Simon brushes my arm ever so slightly. ¡°I have wondered how you were, if you still had the false-bottom box I gave you, and if you still kept your secrets locked inside it.¡± ¡°I still have it,¡± I say. ¡°The mysterious Gemma Doyle.¡± ¡°And does Miss Fairchild possess secrets?¡± I ask. He glances down the path, where Lucy Fairchild sits tall on her mount. ¡°She is¡­untroubled.¡± Untroubled. Carefree. There is no dark lining to her soul. The hand comes down. The horses are running. They kick up a dust storm along the path, but the dust cannot hide the naked ambition on the riders¡¯ faces, the ferociousness in their eyes. They mean to win. Lucy Fairchild¡¯s horse crosses the line first. Simon rushes to congratulate her. Fresh from battle, Lucy¡¯s face is dusty. Her eyes blaze. It doubles her beauty. But upon seeing Simon, she quickly sheds her fierceness; her expression settles into one of sweet shyness as she strokes her horse¡¯s neck gently. Simon offers to help her down, and though she could easily dismount on her own, she lets him. It is a pas de deux they seem to execute flawlessly. ¡°Congratulations,¡± I say, offering my hand. ¡°Miss Doyle, may I present Miss Lucy Fairchild of Chicago, Illinois.¡± ¡°How do you do?¡± I manage to say. I search her face for faults but find none. She¡¯s a true rose. ¡°Miss Doyle,¡± she says sweetly. ¡°How very nice it is to meet a friend of Simon¡¯s.¡± Simon. His Christian name. ¡°You ride beautifully,¡± I offer. She bows her head. ¡°You¡¯re too kind. I am only passable.¡± ¡°Gemma!¡± I¡¯m relieved to see Felicity coming our way. She¡¯s wearing a small velvet bonnet decorated with a cluster of silk flowers. It frames her face most agreeably. ¡°Here comes trouble,¡± Simon mutters through his smile. Felicity greets me warmly. ¡°Happy Easter! Wasn¡¯t it an interminable sermon? Honestly, I can¡¯t see why we have to bother with church at all. Hello, Simon,¡± she says, deliberately abandoning proper etiquette. ¡°Jaunty hat. Did you take it from a bandstand?¡± ¡°Happy Easter, Miss Worthington. Tell me, when is Lady Markham to host a party in your honor, for I don¡¯t believe I¡¯ve heard my mother mention it?¡± Felicity¡¯s eyes blaze. ¡°Soon, I¡¯m sure.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Simon says, smiling in triumph. ¡°Simon, I don¡¯t believe you¡¯ve introduced me to your dear companion,¡± Felicity purrs, turning the full glory of her charm on Lucy Fairchild. ¡°No, I didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Simon,¡± Lucy whispers, mortified. I step in. ¡°Felicity, this is Miss Lucy Fairchild. Miss Fairchild, may I present Miss Felicity Worthington.¡± ¡°How do you do?¡± Lucy offers her hand, and Felicity grasps it firmly. ¡°Miss Fairchild, how lovely to make your acquaintance. You simply must allow Miss Doyle and me to take proper care of you while you are in London. I¡¯m sure Simon¡ªMr. Middleton¡ªwould want us to be true friends to you, wouldn¡¯t you, Simon?¡± ¡°That is very kind,¡± Lucy Fairchild answers. Felicity beams with her victory, and Simon gives a small nod in recognition of his defeat. ¡°Do be careful, Miss Fairchild. Accepting Miss Worthington¡¯s ¡®proper care¡¯ is not unlike lying down with lions.¡± Page 78 Felicity laughs. ¡°Oh, our Simon is such a wit, isn¡¯t he, Miss Fairchild?¡± ¡°We would love to stay and chat, but I¡¯m afraid Mother is expecting us.¡± Simon raises an eyebrow. ¡°Best of luck with your efforts, Miss Doyle.¡± ¡°What did he mean by that?¡± Felicity asks as we stroll in the park a clever distance behind our families. It¡¯s a beautiful day. Several children run after a wooden hoop they¡¯ve set to rolling. Bright spring flowers waggle their petal finery at us. ¡°If you must know, I was soliciting Simon¡¯s help with his mother and Lady Markham. It doesn¡¯t help our cause to have you taunt him so.¡± Felicity looks as if I¡¯ve said she should dine on maggots and chutney. ¡°Court the Middletons¡¯ favor? I shan¡¯t. She¡¯s hateful, and he¡¯s a rake you¡¯ve done well to be rid of.¡± ¡°You want your inheritance, don¡¯t you? Your freedom?¡± ¡°My mother is the one who begs favor. I shan¡¯t bow to anyone but the Queen,¡± Felicity says, twirling her parasol. She glares in Lady Denby¡¯s direction. ¡°Really, Gemma, can¡¯t we cast a spell so that she wakes with a full mustache?¡± ¡°No. We can¡¯t.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t still care for Simon. Tell me you don¡¯t.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± I say. ¡°You do still care! Oh, Gemma.¡± Felicity shakes her head. ¡°What¡¯s done is done. I made my choice.¡± ¡°You could have him back if you wished it.¡± I glance at Simon. He and Lucy make their rounds, smiling at all they greet. They seem content. Untroubled. ¡°I don¡¯t know what I wish,¡± I say. ¡°Do you know what I wish?¡± Felicity asks, stopping to pick a daisy. ¡°What?¡± ¡°I wish Pip could be here.¡± She plucks the daisy¡¯s petals one by one. ¡°We were to see Paris in the summer. She would have loved it so.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say. Her face darkens. ¡°Some things can¡¯t be changed about us, then, no matter how much we wish it.¡± I don¡¯t know what she means, but Fee doesn¡¯t give me time to ponder it. She pulls the last petal from the daisy with a cryptic smile. ¡°He loves me,¡± she says. A shadow falls over Felicity and me. Her father, Admiral Worthington, stands on the path, blocking the sun. He¡¯s a handsome man with a genial manner. If I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d be as charmed by him as everyone else is. He holds the hand of his ward, Polly, who is only seven. ¡°Felicity, will you look after our Polly for a spell? Her governess is undone by the heat and your mother is occupied at present.¡± ¡°Yes, of course, Papa,¡± Felicity says. ¡°That¡¯s my good girl. Careful of the sun,¡± the admiral warns, and, dutifully, we raise our parasols. ¡°Come on, then,¡± Felicity says to the child once her father is gone. Polly walks two paces behind us, dragging her doll in the dirt. It was a Christmas gift, and already, it is bedraggled. ¡°What is your doll¡¯s name?¡± I ask, pretending for a moment that I am not completely useless with small children. ¡°She hasn¡¯t got one,¡± Polly answers sullenly. ¡°No name?¡± I say. ¡°Why not?¡± Polly pulls the doll roughly over a rock. ¡°Because she¡¯s a wicked girl.¡± ¡°She doesn¡¯t seem so bad. What makes her wicked?¡± ¡°She tells lies about Uncle.¡± Felicity pales. She crouches low, covering the two of them with her umbrella. ¡°Did you remember to do what I told you, Polly? To lock your door at night to keep the monsters out?¡± ¡°Yes. But the monsters still come in.¡± Polly throws the doll to the ground and kicks it. ¡°It¡¯s because she¡¯s so wicked.¡± Felicity lifts the doll and smooths the dirt from its face. ¡°I had a doll like this once. And they said she was wicked, too. But she wasn¡¯t. She was a good and true doll. And so is yours, Polly.¡± The little girl¡¯s lips tremble. ¡°But she lies.¡± ¡°The world is a lie,¡± Felicity whispers. ¡°Not you and me.¡± She hands the child the doll, and Polly cradles it to her chest. ¡°Someday, I shall be a rich woman, Polly. I¡¯ll live in Paris without Papa and Mama, and you could come to live with me. Would you like that?¡± The child nods and takes Felicity¡¯s hand, and they head up the path together, greeting people with defiant faces and fresh wounds. Page 79 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE HIPPOCRATES SOCIETY IS HOUSED IN A CHARMING IF slightly worn building in Chelsea. The butler takes our coats and ushers us through a wide parlor¡ªwhere several gentlemen sit smoking cigars, playing chess, and arguing politics¡ªand into the largest library I have ever seen. An assortment of mismatched chairs fill out the corners. Several are grouped about the roaring fire as if there has just been a rousing debate there. The rugs are Persian and so old that they¡¯ve worn through in spots. Every single bookcase is stuffed and seems it can hold no more. Medical texts; scientific studies; Greek, Latin, and classic volumes line the shelves. I should like to sit and read for weeks. Dr. Hamilton greets us. He is a man of seventy with white hair gone to mere threads on top. ¡°Ah, you¡¯re here. Good, good. Our man has prepared a marvelous feast. Let¡¯s not keep him waiting.¡± There are twelve of us at the table, a lively mix of doctors, writers, philosophers, and their wives. The conversation is spirited and fascinating. A bespectacled gentleman at the other end of the table argues vehemently with Dr. Hamilton. ¡°I tell you, Alfred, socialism is the way of the future! Imagine it! Economic and social equality among men. No more classes, perhaps the end to poverty. Complete social harmony. Utopia is at hand, gentlemen, and its name is socialism.¡± ¡°Ah, Wells, best stick to writing fantastical novels, old boy. I did rather enjoy that time-travel story. Bit dotty at the end with the Eloi, though.¡± A man with ruddy cheeks and a broad belly speaks up. ¡°Wells, perhaps you¡¯ve confused us with the Fabian Society.¡± Everyone has a good chuckle at this. Some raise their glasses. ¡°Hear, hear!¡± they say. The man in the spectacles excuses himself. ¡°I am only sorry that I must take my leave and cannot stay to argue the point with you. But I shall take up the cause when next we meet.¡± ¡°Who was that gentleman?¡± I try to ask quietly. ¡°Mr. Herbert George Wells,¡± the ruddy-cheeked man answers. ¡°You may know him as H. G. Wells, the novelist. Good man. Solid mind. Wrong on socialism, though. Life without a queen? Without landowners but ¡®cooperative societies¡¯? Anarchy, I say. Sheer madness. Ah, here is dessert.¡± A silent butler places a great cr¨¨me souffl¨¦ before the man and he plunges his spoon into it with relish. We discuss science and religion, books and medicine, the social season as well as politics. But it is Father who truly commands the table with his wit and tales of India. ¡°And then there is the story of the tiger, but I fear I have already held your attention far too long,¡± Father says, that merry twinkle back in his eyes. The guests will have their curiosity satisfied. ¡°A tiger!¡± they cry. ¡°Why, you must tell it.¡± Delighted, Father leans forward. His voice grows hushed. ¡°We had taken a house in Lucknow for a month, hoping to escape the heat in Bombay.¡± ¡°Lucknow!¡± a woolly-haired gentleman exclaims. ¡°I do hope you didn¡¯t meet up with any mutinous Indian sepoys!¡± The assembled break into arguments about the famous Indian uprising decades before. ¡°To think those savages murdered innocent British citizens, and after all we¡¯d done for them!¡± One of the wives clucks. ¡°The fault was ours, dear lady. How could they ask Hindu and Moslem soldiers to bite cartridges greased with pig and cow fat when such a thing is abhorrent to their religious beliefs?¡± Dr. Hamilton argues. ¡°Come now, old chap, surely you¡¯re not justifying slaughter?¡± the woolly-haired man protests. ¡°Certainly not,¡± Dr. Hamilton says. ¡°But if we are to remain a great empire, we must have a greater understanding of the hearts and minds of others.¡± ¡°I should like to hear Mr. Doyle¡¯s tale about the tiger,¡± a woman in a tiara says, reminding us. The guests are agreed, and Father continues his story. ¡°Our Gemma was no more than six. She loved to play in the garden that bordered the trees whilst our housekeeper, Sarita, hung the wash and kept watch. That spring, the news spread from village to village: a Bengal tiger had been seen walking the villages, bold as you please. The daring fellow had destroyed a market in Delhi and scared the life out of a regiment there. There was a reward of one hundred pounds sterling offered for its capture. We never dreamed the tiger would reach us.¡± Every head is inclined toward Father and he basks in his audience¡¯s attention. ¡°One day, as Sarita tended to the wash, Gemma played in the garden. She was a knight, you see, with a sword fashioned out of wood. Most formidable, she was, though I didn¡¯t quite know how formidable. As I sat in my study, I heard screaming from outside. I ran to see what the commotion was about. Sarita called to me, wide-eyed with fear, ¡®Oh, Mr. Doyle, look¡ªover there!¡¯ The tiger had entered the garden and was making his way toward where our Gemma frolicked with her wooden sword. Beside me, our house servant, Raj, drew his blade so stealthily it seemed to simply appear in his hand by magic. But Sarita stayed his hand. ¡®If you run for him with your knife, you will provoke the tiger,¡¯ she advised. ¡®We must wait.¡¯¡± Page 80 A hush has fallen over the table. The guests are enthralled with Father¡¯s story, and Father is delighted to have an audience. Playing the charming raconteur is what he does best. ¡°I must tell you that it was the longest moment of my life. No one dared move. No one dared draw a breath. And all the while, Gemma played on, taking no notice until the great cat was upon her. She stood and faced him. They stared at one another as if each wondered what to make of the other, as if they sensed a kindred spirit. At last, Gemma placed her sword upon the ground. ¡®Dear tiger,¡¯ she said. ¡®You may pass if you are peaceful.¡¯ The tiger looked at the sword and back at Gemma, and without a sound, it passed on, disappearing into the jungle.¡± The guests chuckle in relief. They congratulate my father on his tale told. I¡¯m so very proud of him at this moment. ¡°And what of your wife, Mr. Doyle? Surely she heard the screaming?¡± one of the ladies asks. My father¡¯s face falls a bit. ¡°Fortunately, my dear wife was tending to the hospital¡¯s charity ward as she so often did.¡± ¡°She must have been a pious and kind soul,¡± the woman says sympathetically. ¡°Indeed. Not a bad word could be said about Mrs. Doyle. Every heart softened at her name. Every home welcomed her with open arms. Her reputation was above reproach.¡± ¡°How lucky you are to have had such a mother,¡± a lady to my right says. ¡°Yes,¡± I say, forcing a smile. ¡°Very lucky.¡± ¡°She was tending to the sick,¡± my father tells them. ¡°Cholera had broken out, you see. ¡®Mr. Doyle,¡¯ she said, ¡®I cannot sit idly by while they suffer. I must go to them.¡¯ Every day she went, her prayer book in hand. She read to them, mopped their feverish brows, until she took ill herself.¡± It has the air of one of his well-told tales, but though those may be embellished, none of this is true. My mother was many things: strong yet vain, loving at times and ruthless at others. But she was not this confection¡ªa self-sacrificing saint who looked after her family and the sick without question or complaint. I look at Father to see if anything betrays him, but no, he believes it, every word. He has made himself believe it. ¡°What a kind and noble soul,¡± the woman in the tiara says, patting Grandmama¡¯s hand. ¡°The very picture of a lady.¡± ¡°Not a harsh word could be said about my mother,¡± Tom says, neatly echoing Father. Forget your pain. It was what I said when I took Father¡¯s hand in the drawing room yesterday, what I repeated again tonight. But I didn¡¯t mean this. I must be more careful. Yet what bothers me isn¡¯t the power of the magic or how, to a person, they¡¯ve all accepted it as truth. No, what unsettles me most is how much I want to believe it too. The carriages are brought round, signaling the end of our evening. We congregate outside the club. Father, Tom, and Dr. Hamilton are deep in conversation. Grandmama has taken a tour of the club with some of the wives and hasn¡¯t returned yet. I¡¯ve wandered down to see the garden when I¡¯m pulled into the shadows. ¡°Luv¡¯ly evenin¡¯, innit?¡± The thug¡¯s hat is low on his forehead, but I know that voice as well as the angry red scar marring the side of his face. Mr. Fowlson, the Rakshana¡¯s loyal guard dog. ¡°Don¡¯t scream,¡± he advises, taking my arm. ¡°I just want a word on behalf of my employers.¡± ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°Awww, coy is it?¡± His smile turns to a hard scowl. ¡°The magic. We know you¡¯ve bound it to yourself. We want it.¡± ¡°I gave it to the Order. They¡¯re in possession of it now.¡± ¡°Now, now, you tellin¡¯ fibs again?¡± His breath smells of ale and cod. ¡°How do you know I¡¯m not telling you the truth?¡± ¡°I know more than you fink, luv,¡± he whispers. The steel of his blade gleams in the chilly night. I look over at Father talking happily with Dr. Hamilton. He is very like the father I¡¯ve missed. I would do nothing to upset that fragile peace. ¡°What do you want from me?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve told you. We want the magic.¡± ¡°And I¡¯ve told you. I don¡¯t have it.¡± Fowlson rubs the flat of the blade along my arm, sending a dangerous tickle through my skin. ¡°¡¯Ave it your way. You¡¯re not the only one wot can play games.¡± He glances toward my father and Tom. ¡°Good to see your father out and about. And your brother. I hear ¡¯e wants to make a name for himself in the worst way. Old Tom. Good old Tom.¡± Fowlson flicks a button from my glove with the point of his knife. ¡°Maybe I should ¡¯ave a lil chat wif ¡¯im about wot his sister gets up to when ¡¯e¡¯s not payin¡¯ attention. A word in his ear, and ¡¯e could have you thrown in Bedlam.¡± Page 81 ¡°He wouldn¡¯t do that.¡± ¡°Sure of it, are you?¡± Fowlson flicks another button from my glove. It skitters along the cobblestones. ¡°Oi¡¯ve seen girls ¡¯oo won¡¯t buckle down given the old pick-and-mallet to the brain to cure their ills. ¡¯Ow would you like spendin¡¯ your days in a room there, looking out at the world through a lil window?¡± The magic flares inside me, and I use all my strength to keep it down. Fowlson mustn¡¯t know I have it. It isn¡¯t safe. ¡°Give the magic to me. I¡¯ll see it¡¯s taken care of proper.¡± ¡°You¡¯d use it for yourself, you mean.¡± ¡°¡¯Ow¡¯s our friend Kartik?¡± ¡°You should know more than I, for I¡¯ve not seen him at all,¡± I lie. ¡°He proved as disreputable as the rest of you.¡± ¡°Good ol¡¯Kartik. When you see ¡¯im next¡ªif you should see ¡¯im¡ªtell ¡¯im old Fowlson was askin¡¯ after ¡¯im.¡± Kartik said the Rakshana assumed he was dead, but if Fowlson believes he is alive, then Kartik is in danger. Suddenly, Fowlson sheaths his knife. ¡°Looks like your carriage ¡¯as arrived, miss. I¡¯ll be seein¡¯ you round. You can count on it.¡± He gives me a little shove from the shadows. Oblivious to what has just taken place, Tom motions to me. ¡°Come along, Gemma.¡± The footman secures the steps. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m coming,¡± I answer. When I turn back, Fowlson has gone, disappeared into the night, as if he¡¯d never been beside me at all. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE I WAKE TO SEE GRANDMAMA STANDING OVER MY BED, SMILING. ¡°Wake up, Gemma! We¡¯re off to the shops today!¡± I rub my eyes, for I must be dreaming. But no, she¡¯s still standing there. Smiling. ¡°We shall go to Castle and Sons to have a dress made. And then we shall take ourselves to Mrs. Dolling¡¯s Sweet Shoppe.¡± My grandmother wants to take me for an outing. It is fantastic! Mr. Fowlson¡¯s threat seems no more substantial than the fog to me now. Try to frighten me, will he? I hold all the magic of the realms, and neither the Order nor the Rakshana shall know it until I¡¯ve accomplished what I must. After all, I¡¯ve already worked a miracle with my own family, haven¡¯t I? ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve not been to Mrs. Dolling¡¯s in ages. So many cakes!¡± Grandmama blinks. ¡°Why have I not been? It¡¯s no matter. We shall go today and have whatever we wish and¡­Gemma! Why are you not dressed? We¡¯ve so much to do!¡± She does not need to ask again. I fly to gather my things, grabbing my dress so quickly that the whole of my cupboard is made a mess by my carelessness. Grandmama and I pass the most marvelous day together. Rather than stern and fearful, she is jolly. She greets everyone¡ªfrom the boy who wraps our cake to strangers in the street¡ªwith a smile and a nod. She gives a pat on the head to a shoeshine boy, who doesn¡¯t know at all what to make of such a grandmotherly touch, as he is well past the age of eight. ¡°Oh, do look at those hats there, Gemma! The darling feathers! Should we see the milliner and be fitted for our own?¡± She veers toward the door. I hold tightly to her arm. ¡°Perhaps another day, Grandmama.¡± Already the carriage was so laden with her purchases there was barely room for us to sit. Grandmama sent our driver back with an extra few shillings, insisting we¡¯d take a hansom cab back to Belgravia. ¡°Oh, this is glorious, isn¡¯t it? I can¡¯t think why we shouldn¡¯t have done this sooner!¡± She pats my arm. ¡°Good day!¡± she calls cheerily to a milkman, who regards her warily, as if she were someone¡¯s eccentric aunt let out of the attic. ¡°Dear me, not terribly chatty, is he? I said, good day, sir!¡± ¡°Good day to you.¡± The milkman gives a careful smile and a tip of the hat but his eyes never lose their suspicion. ¡°Ah, much better.¡± Grandmama smiles. ¡°You see? They only need a bit of encouragement to come out of their shells.¡± Castle and Sons, dressmakers, lies in Regent Street, and this is where we have come to have a dress made for my debut. A harried assistant, whose hair threatens to escape from its pinnings at any moment, carries out bolts of white silk for Grandmama to scrutinize. My measurements are taken. As the tape is crossed round my bosom, the seamstress shakes her head and gives me a sympathetic smile. My goodwill vanishes rapidly. We cannot all be Gibson Girls. When every single bit of me has been measured and recorded, I join Grandmama on a divan. Bins of buttons and lace, ribbon and feathers are hastily displayed for her, and just as quickly, Grandmama sends them back. I fear I shall have the plainest dress in all of London. Page 82 The shopgirl shows Grandmama the most exquisite dress I have ever seen. A small sigh escapes me. It has a corsage of silk roses along one shoulder and short, high sleeves adorned with bows. The skirt is embroidered with delicate rose beads, and the train¡ªwhich appears to be miles long¡ªis trimmed with a beautiful fluted ruffle. It is the gown of a princess, and I long to have one like it. Grandmama runs a hand over the beaded silk. ¡°What do you think, Gemma?¡± Grandmama has never asked my opinion on any matter ever. ¡°I think it is the loveliest dress I have ever seen,¡± I answer. ¡°It is, isn¡¯t it? Yes, we shall have this one made.¡± I could kiss her. ¡°Thank you, Grandmama.¡± ¡°Yes, well, I¡¯m sure it will be far too dear,¡± she grumbles. ¡°But we are only girls once.¡± When we step out into the London murk, it is five o¡¯clock, and already the sky is darkening and the streets are thick with gas fog that makes me cough. I don¡¯t care. I am a new girl who shall wear silk roses and carry a fan of ostrich feathers. And we shall buy cakes from the confectionary. Let the choking gas lamps do their worst! At the corner, Grandmama and I cross the street, heading for Mrs. Dolling¡¯s Sweet Shoppe, and that is when the world goes topsy-turvy. My skin warms. A sweat breaks upon my brow. And the magic flows through my veins like a swollen river. I am flooded by thoughts, wounds, desires, secrets. Every private longing invades my soul. ¡°¡­the long days without end. He loved me once¡­¡± ¡°¡­a beautiful home we¡¯ll make with a lovely garden in the front¡­¡± Can¡¯t think. Breathe. Make it stop. I¡­ ¡°¡­fancy a tumble with the likes of you¡­¡± My head turns but I can¡¯t tell which direction the offense comes from¡ªthere are too many to fight. ¡°¡­I shall offer my proposal this evening and be made the happiest of men¡­¡± ¡°¡­my poor little baby laid to rest, and do they know I am dying inside, too¡­¡± ¡°¡­a new dress with a bonnet to match¡­¡± Please stop. I can¡¯t. I can¡¯t breathe. I¡­ Everything around me slows to a crawl. Beside me, Grandmama¡¯s foot hovers above the street midstep. On the curb, an organ-grinder moves the bellows of his instrument with excruciating slowness. One note takes an eternity, and matched to the slow toll of Big Ben¡¯s bells, the melody has the air of a funeral march. The wheels of wagons and carriages, the ladies and gentlemen, the liniment vendor hawking his miracle cure¡ªthey are like dreamy figures in a pantomime. ¡°Grandmama?¡± I say, but she cannot hear me. I see quick movement from the corner of my eye. The lady in the lavender dress marches toward me; her eyes flash with anger. She grabs my wrist tightly, and my skin burns in her rough grasp. ¡°Wh-what do you want?¡± I say. She thrusts out her arm, pulling up her sleeve to expose her flesh. Words etch themselves into her skin: Why do you ignore me? The cold metal taste of fear lies on my tongue. ¡°I¡¯m not ignoring you, but I don¡¯t understand what¡ª¡± She pulls me hard into the street. ¡°Wait,¡± I say, struggling. ¡°Where are you taking me?¡± She places her hands over my eyes, and I am joined to her in a vision. It¡¯s quick, too quick. The footlights of the music hall stage. The illusionist. The lady writing upon the slate: The Tree of All Souls lives. The key holds the truth. A woman in a tea shop. She turns her head and smiles. Miss McCleethy. I hear the quick gallop of horses on cobblestone. The vision lady¡¯s head snaps up, and she looks about wildly. A black carriage drawn by four sleek horses breaks out of the London gloom and barrels swiftly down the street. Black curtains blow out its windows. ¡°Stop!¡± I scream, but the horses pick up speed. The carriage is nearly upon us. We shall be trampled. ¡°Let me go!¡± I scream, and the lady dissolves into leaves and blows away. The carriage passes through me as if I were made of air and disappears into the fog. The world snaps back into place, and I¡¯m squarely in the road, between wagons and hansoms trying to navigate around me. A footman shouts at me to get out of the street. Grandmama looks up, horrified. ¡°Gemma Doyle! What are you doing?¡± I stagger to her. ¡°Did you not see it?¡± I gasp. ¡°A carriage came out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly.¡± Grandmama¡¯s dismay fights with the magic inside her. ¡°Now we shan¡¯t have our sweets.¡± She pouts. Page 83 ¡°I tell you, I saw it,¡± I mumble. I¡¯m still searching the streets for signs of the carriage and the lady. They are nowhere to be seen, and I can¡¯t be certain I saw them at all. But one thing I am certain of: That was Miss McCleethy in the vision. Whoever this lady was, she knew my teacher. Father rescues me from exile in my room, asking me to join him in the small study on the second floor. It is filled with his books and papers, his maps of distant places where he has traveled on various adventures. Only three photographs sit on his desk¡ªa small daguerreotype of Mother on their wedding day, another of Thomas and me as children, and a grainy photograph of Father and an Indian man making camp on a hunting expedition, their faces grim and determined. Father looks up from his birding journal, in which he has made a new entry. His fingers are stained with ink. ¡°What is this I hear about carriage drivers gone amok in the streets of London?¡± ¡°I see Grandmama could not wait to share the news,¡± I say, sullenly. ¡°She was quite concerned about you.¡± Do I tell him? What would he say if I did? ¡°I was mistaken. In the fog, it was difficult to see.¡± ¡°In the Himalayas, men have been known to lose their way when the clouds roll in. A man might find himself disoriented and see things that are not there.¡± I sit at Father¡¯s feet. I¡¯ve not done this since I was a little girl, but I have need of comfort just now. He pats my shoulder gently as he tends to his journal. ¡°Was that photograph on your desk taken in the Himalayas?¡± ¡°No. It was a hunting expedition near Lucknow,¡± he offers without further explanation. I gaze at the photograph of my mother, searching for some of me in her face. ¡°What did you know about Mother before you married her?¡± Father winks. ¡°I knew she was foolish enough to say yes to my suit.¡± ¡°Did you know her family? Or where she lived before?¡± I press. ¡°Her family died in a fire. That is what she said. She didn¡¯t wish to discuss so unpleasant a memory, and I never insisted.¡± That is the way of my family. We do not talk about the unpleasant. It does not exist. And if it pokes its ugly head out of its hole, we cover it quickly and walk away. ¡°She could have had secrets, then.¡± ¡°Mmmm?¡± ¡°She could have had secrets.¡± Father packs tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ¡°All women have their secrets.¡± I keep my cheek against the comfort of his leg. ¡°So it is possible that she could have led a secret life. Perhaps she was a circus clown. Or a pirate.¡± I swallow hard. ¡°Or a sorceress.¡± ¡°Oh, I say, I rather like that one!¡± Father puffs on his pipe. The smoke lends the room a hazy sweetness. ¡°Yes,¡± I continue, feeling bolder. ¡°A sorceress who could enter a secret world. She had great power¡ªso great that she passed it on to me, her only daughter.¡± Father cups my cheek. ¡°She did, indeed.¡± My heart beats faster. I could tell him. I could tell him everything. ¡°Father¡­¡± Father coughs and coughs. ¡°Blasted tobacco,¡± he says, searching for his handkerchief. Our housekeeper enters, bringing Father a brandy without having to be asked. ¡°Ah, Mrs. Jones,¡± Father says, taking a soothing sip. ¡°Like an angel of mercy, you appear.¡± ¡°Would you care for your supper now, sir?¡± she asks. Father did not dine with us this evening. He claimed not to be hungry. But he is so thin, I hope he¡¯ll take something. ¡°A bowl of soup will do nicely, I should think.¡± ¡°Very good, sir. Miss Doyle, your grandmother asks that you keep her company in the sitting room.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± I say, my heart falling. I don¡¯t want to face her yet. Mrs. Jones leaves the room noiselessly, as servants do, as if even her skirts should not dare to make a sound lest they bring notice to the one wearing them. Father looks up from his journal, his face ruddy from his coughing fit. ¡°Gemma, was there something else you wanted to tell me, pet?¡± I have a power, Father¡ªan enormous power that I do not begin to understand. It is a blessing and a curse. And I fear if you knew it, I would never be your pet again. ¡°No, there was nothing,¡± I say. ¡°Ah. Well. Off you go, then. Wouldn¡¯t want to keep your grandmama waiting tonight.¡± He bends his head in concentration over his birds, his maps, his notes on the constellations¡ªthings that can be observed and recorded and understood. Page 84 And when I leave the room, he scarcely takes notice. Grandmama sits in her chair, her fingers busy with her needlework, while I try to make a house of cards. ¡°I was very upset with your behavior this afternoon, Gemma. What if you had been seen by someone we know? There is your reputation¡ªand ours¡ªto think of.¡± I drop a card onto the square I¡¯ve built. ¡°Isn¡¯t there more to be concerned about than what others think of us?¡± ¡°A woman¡¯s reputation is her worth,¡± Grandmama explains. ¡°It¡¯s a small way to live.¡± I drop a queen of hearts on top. The card walls shiver and collapse under the new weight. ¡°I don¡¯t know why I bother,¡± she sniffs. Her stitching picks up new, furious speed. When she can¡¯t bring me to heel with scolding, she bends me into shape with guilt. I try arranging the cards again, perfecting my balancing act. ¡°Stay,¡± I whisper. I place the last card on top and wait. ¡°Is that all you have to occupy your time? Card houses?¡± Grandmama sneers. I sigh, and the tiny gust of breath tears down my work. The cards flutter into a messy pile. I¡¯m in no humor for this. The afternoon¡¯s events were upsetting enough, and if I cannot have comfort, I should like some peace. A little magic can remove her disappointment and my own. ¡°You¡¯ll forget everything that happened today after we left the dressmaker¡¯s shop, Grandmama. I am your beloved granddaughter, and we are happy, all of us¡­,¡± I intone. Grandmama looks helplessly at the needlework in her lap. ¡°I¡­I¡¯ve forgotten my stitch.¡± ¡°Here, I¡¯ll help you,¡± I say, guiding her hands till she picks it up again. ¡°Ah, me. Thank you, Gemma. You are such a comfort to me. What would I do without you?¡± Grandmama smiles, and I do my best to return it, though somewhere deep inside I wonder if I have traded one life of lies for another. A terrible knocking has me awake and not at all happy about it. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I creep downstairs. It¡¯s Tom who is making such a racket. He¡¯s returned in a lively mood; in fact, he enters the drawing room singing. It is an unnatural occurrence, like watching a dog ride a bicycle. ¡°Gemma!¡± he says happily. ¡°You¡¯re awake!¡± ¡°Yes, well, it would prove difficult to sleep through this cacophony.¡± ¡°I am sorry.¡± He bows and comes up too quickly, stumbling into a small table and knocking over a vase of flowers. The water spills onto Grandmama¡¯s precious Persian carpet. Tom tries to rescue the vase but it only spins away from him. ¡°Tom, what are you doing?¡± ¡°This poor vessel is not well. It requires my care.¡± ¡°It is not a patient,¡± I say, taking it from him. He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s still not well.¡± Tom flops into a chair and tries to muster what dignity he has left by arranging and rearranging his disheveled tie. The smell of spirits is quite strong on his breath. ¡°You¡¯re drunk,¡± I whisper. Tom holds up his finger like a solicitor addressing a witness. ¡°That is a scur¡ªshcurous¡ªschurress¡­terrible thing to say.¡± ¡°Scurrilous,¡± I say, correcting him. He nods. ¡°Precisely.¡± I¡¯ve been awakened by an idiot. I shall go back to bed and leave him to torment the servants and wither under their judging eyes come morning. Clearly, whatever magic I¡¯ve given Tom has gone and he is back to his impossible self. ¡°Go on, ask me about my evening,¡± he says, far too loudly. ¡°Tom, mind your voice,¡± I whisper. Tom wags his head. ¡°Exactly so, exactly so. Quiet as a church mouse, that¡¯s me. Now. Ask.¡± He folds his arms, nearly clocking himself in the face. ¡°Very well,¡± I say. ¡°How was your evening?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve done it, Gem. Proved myself. For I have been asked to join a very exclusive club.¡± Exclusive comes out sounding more like ¡°ex-cuusif.¡± Seeing my puzzled face, he frowns. ¡°You could offer congratulations, you know.¡± ¡°Is it the Athenaeum, then? I thought¡­¡± His face darkens. ¡°Oh. That.¡± He waves it away with his hand. ¡°They don¡¯t take chaps like me. Haven¡¯t you heard? Not good enough.¡± The liquor has only added to his bitterness. ¡°No. This is different. Like the Knights Templar. Men of crusades! Men of action!¡± He gestures broadly, nearly taking out the vase again. I rescue it quickly. ¡°Men of clumsiness is more like it,¡± I grumble. ¡°Very well, you¡¯ve intrigued me. What is this saintly club?¡± Page 85 ¡°No. I can¡¯t tell. Not yet. For now, it will remain a private matter,¡± Tom says, putting his finger to his lips and scraping his nose. ¡°A secret.¡± ¡°That is why you are discussing it openly with me, no doubt.¡± ¡°You mock me!¡± ¡°Yes, and I shouldn¡¯t, for it is far too easy.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t believe a club would choose me?¡± His eyelids waver and his head nods a bit. He¡¯ll be out in a moment. ¡°Why, just this evening¡­¡± ¡°Just this evening,¡± I prompt. ¡°¡­gave me a token. A mark of dish¡­dishtinction¡­They said it would protect me from¡­unwanted¡­influence¡­¡± ¡°From what?¡± I ask, but it¡¯s no use. Tom snores in the chair. Sighing, I take the blanket from the settee and place it over his legs. I pull it up to his chin, and my blood goes cold. There on his lapel is a familiar pin¡ªthe skull-and-sword insignia of the Rakshana. ¡°Tom,¡± I say, shaking him. ¡°Tom, where did you get this?¡± He turns slightly in the chair, his eyes still closed. ¡°I told you, I¡¯ve been called to membership in a gentlemen¡¯s club. At last, I shall make Father proud and prove¡­myself¡­a man¡­¡± ¡°Tom, you mustn¡¯t trust them,¡± I whisper, holding fast to his hand. I try to join our thoughts with my power, but the spirits he has drunk begin to work on me. I pull away, light-headed and reeling. Fowlson has made good on his promise. Bile rises in my throat, and a new fear washes over me. I¡¯ve been caught in his endgame: If I tell Tom my secret, he¡¯ll think me mad. If I employ the magic, the Rakshana will know I still have it, and they¡¯ll come for me before I¡¯ve had a chance to do what I must. For the time being, I can¡¯t trust my brother. He is one of them. The next morning, Tom delivers me to the railway station, where I am to meet a Mrs. Chaunce, an elderly acquaintance of Grandmama¡¯s, who will travel as far as Spence for a small fee. Tom¡¯s the worse for wear this morning. He¡¯s not a drinker, and the pallor of his face shows it. He¡¯s in a foul humor and it serves him right. Tom continues to check his pocket watch, complaining bitterly. ¡°Where is she? Women. Never on time.¡± ¡°Tom, this club you¡¯ve pledged to¡­,¡± I start, but just then Mrs. Chaunce arrives, and Tom cannot hand me over fast enough. ¡°Cheerio, Gemma. Pleasant trip.¡± After a brief round of pleasantries, Mrs. Chaunce, who, thank goodness, has as little interest in me as I have in her, sees to the luggage. She offers the porter one penny for his trouble. He looks at it with disdain, and I rummage in my purse to find two more. Mrs. Chaunce is not a very good chaperone, for I¡¯ve lost her already, but I spy her boarding the train and hurry to catch up. ¡°Did you drop this, miss?¡± I turn to see Mr. Fowlson behind me holding a lady¡¯s handkerchief. It isn¡¯t mine but it¡¯s no matter; it is merely a means for talking to me. ¡°Stay away from my brother or¡ª¡± ¡°Or what, luv?¡± ¡°I shall go to the authorities.¡± He laughs. ¡°And say what? That yer brother ¡¯as joined a gentlemen¡¯s club and you don¡¯t approve? Why, I¡¯ll be in Newgate before mornin¡¯!¡± I lower my voice to a hiss. ¡°Leave him alone or I¡­I¡­¡± His smile is replaced by a flinty stare. ¡°You¡¯ll what? Use your power on me? But you don¡¯t have it anymore, right, luv?¡± The magic rears up inside me like horses ready to run, and it takes every bit of my strength to tether it. I mustn¡¯t let it loose; not now. Mrs. Chaunce calls to me from an open window, coughing through the steam. ¡°Miss Doyle! Miss Doyle! Do hurry!¡± ¡°Nice bloke, your brother. Wants to be respected in the worst way. And that¡¯s a lot to work wif. Ambition¡¯s a good match against magic. Safe journeys, Miss Doyle. I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll see you soon.¡± I settle into my compartment with Mrs. Chaunce, and the train is under way. Fowlson¡¯s threat is fresh in my mind, and I wish I had someone with whom to share it. The train is filled with people eager to reach their destinations or happy to be leaving others. They chatter with one another; mothers offer children small bits of food to keep them content; fathers look on admiringly; ladies traveling together watch the scenery roll by with excited smiles. I can¡¯t hold back the magic anymore, and I feel the constant press of their thoughts till I fear I shall go mad. I try to stop it, but it proves too difficult with so much going on around me, so I do the only thing I know how to: I make a wish that I could hear nothing. Soon, though life pulses on around me, I¡¯m alone in a cocoon of quiet. Page 86 And I wonder, what good is this power if it only makes me feel more alone? CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Two days later SPENCE ACADEMY THE RAIN HAS BEEN AT US AGAIN. FOR TWO DAYS IT HAS kept us captive, soaking the woods and turning the lawn to a muddy mess. It lashes my bedroom window as I finally remove the soggy red bandana I posted there upon my return from London, and hide it under my pillow again, out of sight. Kartik has always come before, but not this time. At first, I¡¯d feared he¡¯d gone on to Bristol and the Orlando without bothering to say goodbye. But just yesterday, I saw him from my window. He noted the red cloth and left it behind without a second glance. Since then, I¡¯ve begun three different letters to him. My Dear Kartik, I am afraid I must end our acquaintance. I am enclosing the bandana. Please use it to dry your tears¡ªthat is, if you have any to shed, for I have begun to wonder. Fondly, Gemma Dear Kartik, I am terribly upset to hear that you have gone blind. You must have, for surely if you had sight you would have seen the red bandana I affixed to my bedroom window, and understood it to be an urgent correspondence. I wish you to know that, though you are sightless as Mr. Rochester, I remain your friend and shall make every effort to visit you in your hermitage. With greatest sympathies, Gemma Doyle Mr. Kartik. You are a wretched excuse for a friend. When I have become a great lady, I will pass you on the street without so much as a nod. If you are half so kind to the Orlando, it shall surely sink. Regretfully, Miss Doyle 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¡ªand I saw Miss McCleethy in this one.¡± I tell them about the lady and the ghostly carriage. Firelight shadows writhe on the curtains of 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¡ªshe¡¯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.¡± Page 87 ¡°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¡ªmidnight 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.¡± Felicity snorts. ¡°Are you mad? She¡¯ll probably come for our skins¡ªwhile 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¡ª¡± ¡°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. 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. Page 88 ¡°Dear Mademoiselle LeFarge,¡± I say, taking her hands. ¡°Miss Doyle? What¡ª¡± 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¡ª¡± ¡°See for yourself¡ªthe 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. 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¡ªface 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¡ªa surprise¡ªand 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. 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. Page 89 ¡°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.¡± ¡°Pip, I¡¯ve got a present for you,¡± Felicity says, holding up the box. ¡°And I can¡¯t wait to see it. I¡¯ll just be a moment!¡± Felicity¡¯s face falls as Pip spirits me away to the crumbling abbey, humming a merry tune. Once we¡¯re safely behind the rotting tapestry, she empties her berries into a large bowl and grabs my hands. ¡°All right, I¡¯m ready for the magic.¡± I pull away. ¡°And hello to you, too, Pip.¡± ¡°Gemma,¡± she says, putting her arms round my waist. ¡°You do know how very much I love you, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Is it me or the magic you love?¡± Hurt, Pippa takes refuge on the altar, tearing marigolds from the floor by their stalks and tossing them aside. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t deny me some measure of happiness, would you, Gemma? I shall be trapped here an eternity with no one but those coarse, common girls as my companions.¡± ¡°Pippa,¡± I say gently. ¡°I want your happiness, truly I do. But someday soon, I¡¯ll have to return the magic to the Temple and form an alliance to oversee its safety. I won¡¯t always have it at my fingertips like this. Have you given any thought to how you will spend the rest of your days?¡± Tears pool in her eyes. ¡°Can¡¯t I join your alliance?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re not¡ª¡± I bite the word off before it comes out of my mouth. ¡°Alive? A member of a tribe?¡± A fat tear rolls down her cheek. ¡°I don¡¯t belong to your world and I don¡¯t belong to theirs. I¡¯m not a part of the Winterlands, either. I don¡¯t belong anywhere, do I?¡± It¡¯s as if she¡¯s pierced me straight through, for how often have I felt that way myself? Pip buries her head in her hands. ¡°You don¡¯t know how it is for me, Gemma. How I count the hours until the three of you return.¡± ¡°It is the same for us,¡± I assure her. For when we are together, everything seems possible, and there is no end in sight. We will simply go on like this forever, dancing and singing and running through the forest laughing. That alone is enough to make me take her hands and share the power with her. ¡°Here,¡± I say. I stretch out my arms and she comes running. ¡°Pip, I¡¯ve a present for you!¡± Felicity says again when we return. She unfurls the fur-trimmed cape. ¡°Oh,¡± Pip sighs, cuddling it. ¡°It¡¯s extraordinary! Darling Fee!¡± She gives Felicity a sweet kiss on the cheek, and Felicity smiles as if she were the happiest girl in the world. Bessie Timmons muscles between them. She holds the cape up, examining it. ¡°Don¡¯t seem so special.¡± ¡°Now, Bessie,¡± Pip scolds, snatching it from her hands. ¡°That won¡¯t do. A lady must say something kind or not speak at all.¡± Bessie leans against a marble column whose many cracks are threaded with weeds. ¡°Guess I¡¯ll keep it shut, then.¡± Pippa lifts her hair and allows Felicity to secure the cape¡¯s ribbons around her slender neck, and she preens and prances about in it. Ann and the factory girls take over the altar. She tells them about Macbeth. She makes it sound like a ghost story, which I suppose it is. ¡°I ain¡¯t never been to no real theater,¡± Mae Sutter says when Ann finishes. ¡°We shall have our own here,¡± Pippa promises. She settles into the throne as if born to it. Felicity finds an old drape. Under her touch it becomes a cape just like the one she¡¯s given Pip. It¡¯s lovely, but when she settles beside Pip, the illusion shows. It cannot compare to the real one. ¡°Our Ann is to have an audience with Lily Trimble.¡± ¡°Go on!¡± Mae laughs. ¡°I am,¡± Ann says. ¡°In the West End.¡± ¡°Back there,¡± Mercy says with a mixture of admiration and jealousy. ¡°Remember them chips we could get on Wednesdays, Wendy?¡± ¡°Aye. Greasy.¡± ¡°Drippin¡¯ with grease and pipin¡¯ hot!¡± Mercy¡¯s smile fades. ¡°I miss it.¡± ¡°Oi, not me.¡± Bessie Timmons jumps up from her spot by the fire and pushes to the front. ¡°Nuttin¡¯ but misery. Work from dark to dark. And nuttin¡¯ waitin¡¯ for yer at home, neither, ¡¯cept yer mum with too many moufs to feed and no¡¯ enuf to go round.¡± Page 90 Mercy keeps her eyes on her boots. ¡°Wasn¡¯t all bad. M¡¯sister Gracie was right sweet. And I ¡¯ad grand dreams.¡± Tears come, and she sniffles, wiping her nose. Bessie crouches low and brings her snarl to the girl¡¯s face. ¡°A bellyache and stiff fingers from the cold is wot you ¡¯ad, Mercy Paxton. Don¡¯t go cryin¡¯ fer it.¡± Mae steps in. ¡°We¡¯ve got ever¡¯thin¡¯ here, Mercy. Don¡¯t you see?¡± ¡°Mercy, come to me,¡± Pippa commands. The girl struggles up from the floor and walks shyly to her. Pippa cups the girl¡¯s face in her palm, smiling at her. ¡°Mercy, that¡¯s all done now, so let¡¯s dry our tears. We¡¯re here, and it shall be everything we ever dreamed it could be. You¡¯ll see.¡± The girl rubs her nose on her sleeve, and with that one movement, her youth shows. She¡¯s no more than thirteen. It¡¯s terrible to think of her working in that factory from sunup till sundown. ¡°Who wants to go on a merry adventure, then?¡± Pippa asks. The girls erupt in enthusiastic cries. Even Mercy manages a smile. ¡°What sort of adventure?¡± Ann asks. Pippa giggles. ¡°You¡¯ll have to trust me. Now, close your eyes and follow me. There shall be no peeking!¡± With Pip at the lead, we¡¯re pulled along holding hands, a paper chain of girls. We¡¯re out of the castle. I can feel the cool of the Borderlands on my skin. ¡°Open!¡± Pip commands. Before us is an enormous hedge, well over eight feet tall. At one end I spy an entrance. Ann breaks into a grin. ¡°It¡¯s a maze!¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Pip says, clapping. ¡°Isn¡¯t it splendid? Who¡¯s game?¡± ¡°I am,¡± Bessie Timmons says. She runs around the corner, disappearing into the maze¡¯s belly. ¡°And me.¡± Mae runs after her. ¡°I love a good hide-and-seek. Find me, Fee!¡± With that, Pippa pulls up her skirts, and Felicity, giggling, gives chase. I¡¯m the last in. I don¡¯t know how the others could have gotten away from me so fast. I turn corner after corner, but all I see is a maddening flutter of color and then nothing. The hedge walls are the most unusual I¡¯ve ever seen, made of tightly woven clover and small black flowers, and I swear they shift so that when I look behind me, the passage has changed. The isolation sends my mind into strange corners, and I quicken my steps. ¡°Ann!¡± I cry. ¡°Over here!¡± she shouts back. The sound comes from everywhere at once, so I cannot be at all certain where to go next. I hear whispering. Is it coming from up ahead? When I go round the edge, there are Felicity and Pippa standing close, foreheads touching, hands clasped. They murmur in private conference, and I can hear only a word here, a phrase there. ¡°¡­there¡¯s a way¡­¡± ¡°¡­but how¡­¡± ¡°¡­we could¡­together¡­you see?¡± ¡°¡­Pip¡­¡± ¡°¡­promise me¡­¡± ¡°¡­promise¡­¡± I step on a downed branch. It breaks with a loud crack. At once, they drop hands and charm me with too-quick smiles. ¡°You oughtn¡¯t sneak up like that, Gemma,¡± Fee scolds, but her hand is at her heart, and her face is flushed. Pippa jumps in, all smiles. ¡°Fee was teaching me how to curtsy for the Queen. It¡¯s hideously difficult, but she can do it brilliantly, can¡¯t you, Fee?¡± On cue, Felicity drops to the ground, her arms holding her skirt, her head low. Those cool eyes dart a glance upward at me. ¡°You were discussing the curtsy,¡± I repeat dumbly. ¡°Yes.¡± Pippa¡¯s smile is a lie. ¡°It¡¯s no matter. You needn¡¯t tell me,¡± I say, turning. ¡°Gemma, you¡¯re being silly!¡± Felicity calls after me. ¡°It was the curtsy we were speaking of!¡± I hear them whispering behind my back as I walk away. Fine. Let them have their secrets. I twist and turn through the maze. The magic swirls and eddies inside me. I could eat the world, devour it whole. I need to run. To hit. To wound and heal in equal measure. I need, and it is more than I can bear. On nimble feet, I fly into the forest. Where my hands touch, something new is born. Strange flowers as tall as men. A flock of butterflies with shiny yellow wings edged in black. Dark purple fruit, fat and heavy on the branch. I squeeze one hard in my hand and the juice turns to maggots. I throw it quickly away from me; the disgusting creatures burrow into the earth, and the earth responds with a crop of wildflowers. Page 91 Lights blink in the trees, and a fairy creature appears. ¡°Such power,¡± she says, marveling. My head is light; I¡¯m swollen with magic. Suddenly, I want only to get rid of it. ¡°Here,¡± I say, laying my hand upon her head. It¡¯s as cold as snow where we touch, and I glimpse a vast darkness before I pull away. The creature turns loops, trailing sparkles. ¡°Ahhh, I know you now,¡± she purrs, and trails a finger across my heart. I shake my head. ¡°No one knows me.¡± The creature circles me slowly till I feel dizzy. ¡°There is a place where you will be known. Loved.¡± Her cold breath whispers in my ear. ¡°Wanted. You need only to follow.¡± She flies deep into the fog banks that obscure the Winterlands, and I give chase, letting the mist swallow me till my friends¡¯ laughter is a faint memory of sound. I¡¯m farther in than I¡¯ve ever been. Slimy vines slither across my bare feet like serpents come aground; I hold still, calming my breath. The fairy creature hovers near my shoulder. Her eyes are black jewels. ¡°Listen,¡± she whispers. Close in my ear, I hear a voice from the Winterlands, as soft as a mother¡¯s goodnight kiss: ¡°Tell us your fears and your desires¡­.¡± Something deep inside me wants to answer. Such longing, as if I¡¯ve found a piece of myself I never knew was missing till now. The voice comes again: ¡°This is where you belong, where your destiny lies. There is nothing to fear¡­.¡± The fairy¡¯s lips turn up in a smile. ¡°Do you hear it?¡± I nod, but I can¡¯t speak. The pull is strong. I want only to go, to join with whatever waits on the other side. ¡°I could show you the way to the Tree of All Souls,¡± the thing with the bright golden wings says. ¡°And then you would know true power. You¡¯d never be lonely again.¡± The vines caress my ankles; one slithers up my leg. The mist parts; the gate to the Winterlands beckons. I take a step toward it. The little creature shoos me on with her spindly fingers. ¡°That¡¯s it. Go on.¡± ¡°Gemma!¡± My name drifts through the mist, and I take a step back. ¡°Don¡¯t listen! Go on!¡± the fairy hisses, but my friends call out again, and this time I hear something else¡ªhorses riding hard and fast. I turn away from the Winterlands and the fairy creature, running till the fog thins and I¡¯m back near the castle. The girls spill out of the maze. ¡°What is it? What¡¯s happening?¡± Ann shouts. She¡¯s got Wendy by the arm. ¡°Over there!¡± Felicity shouts, and we run to the bramble wall. Coming quickly up the path is a band of centaurs, Creostus in the lead. They slow at the sight of us. Creostus points to me. ¡°Priestess! You¡¯re coming with me.¡± ¡°She isn¡¯t going anywhere with the likes of you,¡± Felicity says, standing to my right like a soldier. The centaur paces on his strong legs. ¡°She is called by Philon. She must account for herself.¡± ¡°We shall accompany you, Gemma,¡± Ann vows. ¡°But we were having such fun.¡± Pippa pouts. ¡°Shall we come?¡± Felicity asks, but she doesn¡¯t let go of Pip¡¯s hand. I think of the two of them whispering behind my back, sharing secrets, leaving me out. Well, perhaps I¡¯d like a secret of my own. ¡°No. I¡¯ll go alone,¡± I say, and duck through the brambles to the other side. ¡°Yes, Gemma will sort it all out, won¡¯t you?¡± Pippa says, dragging Felicity toward the maze again. Creostus eyes Wendy hungrily. ¡°I should like to take you with me and make you my queen. Have you ever ridden on a centaur¡¯s back?¡± Mae pulls Wendy away. ¡°¡¯Ave a care, sir. We are ladies.¡± ¡°Yes, I know. Ladies. My favorite sort.¡± ¡°Creostus, if you¡¯ve done with your suit of Miss Wendy, I shall accompany you to Philon,¡± I interrupt, wondering what is so urgent that Philon has sent for me. Creostus¡¯s booming laugh leaves gooseflesh upon my arms. He paces close to me. ¡°Jealous, Priestess? Do you wish to compete for my affections? I should like to see that.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure you would. But you will die first and so let us journey to Philon, if you please.¡± ¡°She worships me,¡± he says with a wink, and I have the urge to put a bonnet on his head and paint him dancing to the pipes to hang on a fashionable lady¡¯s wall. ¡°Creostus, do we ride or not?¡± He brushes my body with his. ¡°Desperate to be alone with me, are you?¡± Page 92 ¡°I shall turn you into a ladybug. See if I won¡¯t.¡± With seemingly no effort at all, Creostus swoops me up onto his back. As we ride toward the forest, I clutch his waist for dear life. Whatever the reason for this visit, it can¡¯t be good. Down below in the river, I see that Gorgon steams ahead, keeping pace with us. No, this isn¡¯t good at all. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN THERE IS A DIFFERENT AIR TO THE FOREST TODAY. THE creatures do not loll about. The children do not play their games. Instead, they are hard at work. Some whittle wood into sharp points. Others test crude crossbows. A hail of arrows screams over my head, making me duck. They find their targets in the soft bark of distant trees. Gorgon slides to the shore, and I run to her. ¡°Gorgon, what is the matter?¡± ¡°I cannot say, Most High. But there is trouble.¡± Philon strides toward us in a magnificent coat of twigs and leaves with a high collar and sleeves that end in points near the tips of those long fingers. The catlike eyes narrow at the sight of me. ¡°You have betrayed us, Priestess.¡± ¡°What do you mean? Betrayed you? How?¡± The forest folk gather around Philon. Some carry spears. Neela hops onto Creostus¡¯s back, her lips curled in disgust. ¡°You have been seen at the Temple in secret talks with the Hajin,¡± Philon says, accusing me. ¡°I haven¡¯t!¡± I protest. Philon and Creostus share a glance. Is Philon tricking me? Is this a ruse or a test of some sort? ¡°Do you deny that you have paid visits to the Temple?¡± I¡¯ve been to see Circe, but I cannot tell them that. ¡°I have been to the Temple,¡± I say carefully. ¡°That is where we shall join hands in alliance, is it not?¡± Neela climbs onto a stump and crouches down. As she talks, her hair shimmers from blue to black and back again. ¡°She will join with them and betray us for the Order! They will build the runes once again!¡± she shouts. ¡°While we toil here, the filthy Hajin reign over the poppy fields and we are forced to bargain for their crop.¡± Discontent ripples through the assembly. Neela smirks. ¡°While Philon has us wait, the Hajin will enter into secret alliance with the Order. It will give them all the power. Things will be as they always have been, and once again, it is the forest folk who will suffer.¡± ¡°Nyim syatt!¡± Philon thunders, but the forest folk¡¯s leader is drowned out by the loud arguing of the tribe. They shout, ¡°What of our share?¡± and ¡°Let us not be taken again!¡± ¡°How long before they come for our land? Before they take the little power we do have?¡± a centaur demands angrily. Neela returns to Creostus¡¯s back. ¡°I say we fight! Let us force this priestess to join hands now.¡± Philon prepares the leaf pipe. Those long, dusky fingers press the crumbled red petals down into the mouth of it. ¡°What do you say to these charges, Priestess?¡± ¡°I gave you my word that I would honor your tribe, and I shall keep my promise.¡± Neela appeals to the crowd. ¡°Do you hear how smoothly she lies?¡± ¡°I am not lying!¡± I shout. Creostus takes a stand behind me, blocking the path to escape. ¡°I told you she could not be trusted, Philon. She¡¯s one of them, and they will never part with the magic willingly. The Order.¡± Creostus sneers. He paces as he speaks, as if addressing his soldiers. ¡°I remember when the Order punished my family. They stripped us of everything. Our fathers were banished to the Winterlands. The cold was too much for our kind. Those who did not die from the elements were taken by the creatures there. They were tortured and worse. A generation of centaurs was lost. We will not allow that to happen again. Never again.¡± The centaurs beat their hooves against the ground and roar. ¡°They took my father from me. I will take two of their people for my honor.¡± ¡°Honor,¡± Gorgon hisses from the lagoon. ¡°What do you know of it?¡± Creostus sidles up to the giant beast at the head of the ship. ¡°More than one who would be their lackey. Have you told her how you betrayed your own people?¡± ¡°That is enough talk,¡± Gorgon growls. ¡°Philon, if the Hajin plot against us with the Order, we should strike while we still can, before they take everything from us,¡± Neela argues. ¡°The Hajin are peaceful,¡± I protest. ¡°They are traitors and cowards.¡± Neela nestles close to Philon. She takes a puff from the pipe and blows it into the creature¡¯s mouth. ¡°Why should those filthy diseased have all the poppies, Philon? Why should we need to barter for them?¡± Page 93 ¡°It has been their right since the rebellion,¡± Philon answers. ¡°Because they sided with the Order. Now they plot against us! The Order will take what is ours and give it to the Untouchables! We will be left with nothing!¡± ¡°Do you have so little faith in me, Neela?¡± Philon¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°You do not see clearly. You have too much faith in the girl. A battle for the realms has begun. They mean to destroy us. We must strike to defend ourselves.¡± ¡°They did not strike us first.¡± Creostus bellows, ¡°Have you forgotten what they did to us?¡± More angry shouting erupts in the crowd, each fear more terrible than the last, till they¡¯re frenzied. ¡°They will take our land! They will kill our children! We must strike!¡± An arrow splits the air above my head and skitters across the ground behind me. ¡°Nyim!¡± Philon thunders. ¡°We are not at war with the Hajin or the Order. Yet. As for you, Priestess, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. For now. But you must prove good faith to me.¡± ¡°How?¡± Philon¡¯s gaze is inscrutable. ¡°I require an act of good faith. You said you could gift others with the magic. Very well. I accept. Gift me so that I might hold magic of my own.¡± I did say that, but now I am not so sure that I should have. ¡°What will you do with it?¡± I ask. Philon regards me coolly. ¡°I do not ask what you do with yours.¡± When I make no move, Creostus crosses his arms and smirks. ¡°She hesitates. What further proof do you need?¡± ¡°The magic does not last for long,¡± I say, stalling. ¡°What help will it be to you?¡± ¡°Because you put some enchantment upon it!¡± Creostus spits. ¡°No! I have no control over it.¡± ¡°We shall see.¡± Philon¡¯s eyes are glassy. ¡°Will you gift us? Or is it war?¡± The forest folk wait for my answer. I¡¯m not at all sure this is the best course, but what choice do I have? If I don¡¯t give them any, it¡¯s war. If I do, there¡¯s no telling how they might use the power. But no one says I have to give them much. I join hands briefly with Philon, and when I break away, the creature regards me with those cool eyes. ¡°And is that all, Priestess?¡± ¡°I told you I have no control over it,¡± I say. Philon shakes my hand but whispers in my ear. ¡°That is your first lie. Do not let there be a second.¡± As I leave, Neela shouts after me. ¡°You witches cannot be trusted! Soon, we will no longer live in your shadow!¡± Gorgon steers a course back to the garden. I perch beside her neck, listening to the gentle rhythm of the water sluicing against the ship¡¯s enormous sides. Gorgon has said nothing since we left the forest. ¡°Gorgon, what was Creostus speaking about earlier?¡± ¡°It is nothing. Creostus knew me as a warrior.¡± ¡°But why do you choose to stay here in this prison?¡± Gorgon¡¯s voice deepens. ¡°I have my reasons.¡± I know this tone. It means the conversation will go nowhere. But I am not in a stopping humor. I wish to know more. ¡°But you could be free¡ª¡± ¡°No,¡± she says bitterly. ¡°I will never be truly free. I do not deserve it.¡± ¡°Of course you do!¡± The snakes nestle about her face, making it hard to see her eyes. ¡°I am many things, Most High, not all of them noble.¡± One of the snakes slithers close to me. Its thin pink tongue flicks against my skin. Instinctively, I pull my hand back, but its dangerous kiss lingers. ¡°We should not be speaking of the past but of the future of the realms.¡± I sigh. ¡°The tribes can¡¯t even agree amongst themselves. How will they form an alliance when they are constantly fighting?¡± ¡°It is true they have fought always. But they may still be joined in a common cause. Discord need not be an impediment. Differences can bring strength.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t see how. It makes my head hurt to hear them.¡± I stretch my arms and feel the river spray on my face, cool and sweet. ¡°Oh, why can¡¯t there be peace like this moment always?¡± Gorgon glances sideways at me. The line of her mouth tightens. ¡°Peace is not happenstance. It is a living fire that must be fed constantly. It must be tended with vigilance, else it dies out.¡± ¡°Why has this power come to me, Gorgon? I can scarcely govern myself. At times, I feel as if I could dance through the halls with happiness, and then, just as suddenly, my thoughts are dark and lost and frightening.¡± Page 94 ¡°The question is not why, Most High. The question is what. What will you do with this power?¡± We¡¯ve come to a narrow strait bordered by mossy rocks. The water shines with iridescent scales. A school of water nymphs emerges from under the current. They¡¯re exotic creatures, half mermaid, with bald heads, webbed fingers, and eyes that show the depths of the oceans. Their song is so lovely it can bewitch any mortal, and once they have you in thrall, they take your skin. I¡¯ve had one encounter with those ladies and barely lived to tell it; I shan¡¯t chance another. ¡°Gorgon,¡± I warn, moving to the nets that hang from the side of the ship. ¡°Yes, I see them,¡± Gorgon says. But the nymphs make no move toward us. Instead, they dive under again, and I see the bow of their silvery backs as they swim away. ¡°That¡¯s odd,¡± I say, watching them go. ¡°All is strange these days, Most High,¡± Gorgon answers, cryptic as ever. I settle again at Gorgon¡¯s neck. We¡¯re nearing the Borderlands. The air is hazier here, and in the distance the sky is the color of lead. ¡°Gorgon, what do you know about the Winterlands?¡± ¡°Very little, and yet it is too much.¡± ¡°Do you know of something called the Tree of All Souls?¡± Gorgon startles; the snakes hiss at the sudden movement. ¡°Where did you hear that name?¡± Gorgon asks. ¡°You do know of it! I want to know. Tell me!¡± I command, but Gorgon¡¯s as still as stone. ¡°Gorgon, you were once bound to tell only truth to the Order!¡± Her lips pull back in a snarl. ¡°Only moments ago, you reminded me of my freedom.¡± ¡°Please?¡± She takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. ¡°It is only a myth passed down through the generations.¡± ¡°Which states¡­?¡± I prompt. ¡°It is said that hidden within the Winterlands is a place of enormous power, a tree which holds great magic much like that of the Temple.¡± ¡°But if that¡¯s so,¡± I argue, ¡°why haven¡¯t the Winterlands creatures made use of it to take over the realms?¡± ¡°Perhaps they cannot retrieve its power. Perhaps they were stopped by the seal of the runes or the Temple.¡± Gorgon slides her yellow eyes toward me. ¡°Or perhaps it does not exist at all. For none that I know have seen it.¡± ¡°But what if it does exist? Shouldn¡¯t we venture into the Winterlands and find out for ourselves?¡± ¡°No,¡± Gorgon hisses, ¡°it¡¯s forbidden.¡± ¡°It was forbidden! But I hold all the magic now.¡± ¡°That is what worries me.¡± We¡¯ve reached the Borderlands. A light snow has begun to fall. Torches have been lit. They cast an eerie glow over the scene. ¡°You must forget about the Winterlands. No good can come of it.¡± ¡°How would you know? You¡¯ve never seen it,¡± I say bitterly. ¡°No one has.¡± ¡°None who can be trusted,¡± Gorgon answers, and at once, I think of Circe. ¡°Gemma!¡± Felicity yells from the shore. She¡¯s in her chain mail, and Pippa wears her beautiful cape and they both shine like borrowed jewels. Gorgon lowers the plank for me. ¡°Most High, the sooner you can make the alliance and share the magic, the better.¡± She stares intently at the sky toward the Winterlands. ¡°What are you looking for?¡± I ask. The snakes move restlessly. Gorgon¡¯s placid face darkens. ¡°Trouble.¡± ¡°Hooray! Our Gemma has returned,¡± Pippa says, half dragging me into the forest, where the girls have set up a game of croquet. They take turns with their mallets. Ann lounges on a blanket of silver threads. She plucks them like a harp and beautiful music drifts over to us. Wendy sits stroking Mr. Darcy¡¯s fuzzy head. ¡°How were the horrid forest folk?¡± Felicity asks as she prepares to take her shot. ¡°Angry. Impatient. They think I will betray them,¡± I say, settling next to Wendy and Ann. ¡°Well, they will just have to wait until we¡¯re ready, won¡¯t they?¡± Felicity knocks her ball cleanly through the hoop. ¡°Bessie, when you were with the three girls in white on your way to the Winterlands, did they mention the Tree of All Souls?¡± I ask. Bessie shakes her head. ¡°They wasn¡¯t the chatty sort.¡± ¡°And you¡¯ve still not seen any Winterlands creatures?¡± I ask them all. ¡°Not a one,¡± Pippa says. I want to be comforted by this, but a small voice deep inside reminds me that Pippa and the girls are still here, and beneath that glamour they wear, their cheeks are pale, their teeth sharp. Page 95 Yet they are not like those horrible trackers, those hideous wraiths that steal souls. But what are they? She need not fall. That was what Gorgon said. Is there a way around it? Do I want there to be? If I gave this power to McCleethy and the Order tonight, I¡¯d not have to worry about it; it would be their decision to make, not mine. And they¡¯d banish Pip to the Winterlands, for sure. No, the choice is mine to make. I¡¯ve got to see this through. ¡°What are you brooding about now, Gemma?¡± Felicity asks. I shake my head, clearing it of the night¡¯s heaviness. ¡°Nothing. Here, let me have a try.¡± I take the mallet and knock it against the ball, and the ball rolls far out into the Winterlands fog. Our visit over, we travel the now familiar path back to the secret door and step into the long, ill-lit corridor. It feels odd to me, though, as if someone else might be inside with us. ¡°Do you hear anything?¡± I whisper. ¡°No,¡± Felicity says. It¡¯s a faint rustling, like leaves. Or wings. We¡¯ve gone no more than a few feet when I hear it again. I turn quickly and catch a slight glimmering like a firefly. It is there just long enough for me to make out wings, a tooth. And just like that it¡¯s gone. ¡°I know you¡¯re in here,¡± I say. ¡°I saw you.¡± Fee and Ann peer into the dark. ¡°I don¡¯t see a thing,¡± Felicity says with a shrug. ¡°I saw something,¡± I say, whirling about. ¡°I swear that I did.¡± ¡°Right! Show yourself!¡± Felicity demands. Only the dark answers. ¡°Gemma, there¡¯s nothing there, I tell you. Let¡¯s move on.¡± ¡°Yes. All right,¡± I agree. Felicity sings the bit of doggerel she learned from Pippa, and Ann joins in. ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve a love, a true, true love¡­¡± I chance one last look behind me. Tucked away under a rafter is the fairy creature from the Borderlands, teeth bared in an ugly sneer. The creature gleams as brightly as a burning coal, then quickly fades to black. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT THE EGYPTIAN HALL IN PICCADILLY IS A MAGNIFICENT building. From the front, it looks as if we are about to walk into an ancient tomb resurrected from the sands of the Nile itself. The entrance is adorned by giant statues of Isis and Osiris. A large placard above advertises the Wolfson brothers¡¯ exhibit, at three and eight o¡¯clock. There is another for the Dudley Gallery, where many an artist has exhibited his work. Inside, it seems a perfect replica of those far-off temples. There is a great room supported by rows of columns fashioned in the Egyptian style, complete with hieroglyphs. I should not be surprised to see Cleopatra walking among us. We¡¯ve received our souvenir program for tonight¡¯s spectacle. The Wolfson brothers appear on either side of the cover, and in the center are drawings of a strange metal box on three legs, a levitating table, a fearsome specter, and a skeleton kicking his bony head about. The first page promises an evening we¡¯ll not soon forget. The Wolfson Brothers Present: THE RITES OF SPRING A Phantasmagoria Conjuring Spirits Before Your Very Eyes! ¡°How exciting!¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge exclaims. ¡°I¡¯m so grateful Mrs. Nightwing allowed us to come. I hear it isn¡¯t at all like looking at photographs. The pictures move as if they were real as you and I!¡± ¡°I should like to see that,¡± Ann says. ¡°Soon, we shall,¡± Miss McCleethy grumbles, fanning through her own program with little interest. Felicity holds fast to my arm. ¡°How shall we find Dr. Van Ripple with her here?¡± she asks irritably. ¡°I don¡¯t know¡ªyet,¡± I answer. Several exhibitors have taken the opportunity to promote themselves within the hall. They have set up tables¡ªsome elaborate, some small¡ªto show their wares. They call to us like barkers, and we are not certain where to look first. ¡°I¡¯d have them all before the magistrate on Bow Street,¡± Inspector Kent mutters, mentioning London¡¯s famous court. ¡°Oh, Mr. Kent,¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge chides. ¡°Mr. Kent, sir. I hear congratulations are in order.¡± A policeman offers his hand to the inspector, who introduces his soon-to-be wife. Now is the perfect time to slip away¡ªif I can distract McCleethy. If I make use of the magic, will she truly know it? If I cast an illusion, will she see through it? Do I dare chance it? ¡°Gemma, what shall we do?¡± Felicity whispers. ¡°I¡¯m thinking,¡± I whisper back. McCleethy eyes us suspiciously. ¡°What are you girls whispering about back there?¡± Page 96 ¡°We¡¯d like to see the exhibits,¡± I say. ¡°May we?¡± ¡°Certainly. I should like to see them as well.¡± ¡°Well done,¡± Felicity growls. ¡°She¡¯ll not leave our sides.¡± ¡°I said I was thinking, didn¡¯t I?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen many exhibitions here,¡± an older woman says to her companion. ¡°When I was a girl, my father brought me to see the famous Tom Thumb. He stood no taller than my waist, and I was but a child.¡± ¡°Tom Thumb!¡± Ann exclaims. ¡°How marvelous!¡± ¡°This hall has housed many an extraordinary exhibition,¡± McCleethy lectures. ¡°In 1816, Napoleon¡¯s carriage was on display, and later, the wonders of the tomb of Seti the First were shown.¡± ¡°Oh, what else?¡± Ann draws McCleethy into a conversation like a clever girl, and I¡¯ve a moment to think. What would draw McCleethy from our sides? A raging lion with canines bared? No, they¡¯d probably greet each other as fellow predators. Blast! What would threaten the unthreatenable McCleethy? My lips twist into a wicked grin. An old friend, that¡¯s what we need. I start to summon my power, and stop. What if I am too overcome by the magic? It is so unpredictable. And she said she would know if I employed it. There is only one way to find out, I suppose. I draw in a deep breath and try to calm myself. The voices of McCleethy and my friends, the calls of the exhibitors, and the noise of the crowd fade to murmurs. My fingers itch, and the tingling travels the length of my arms toward my heart. Steady, Gemma. Set your mind to your purpose. Within seconds, Fowlson appears in the crowd, for I¡¯ve conjured him¡ªor the illusion of him, at least. ¡°Miss McCleethy, it would seem you are wanted,¡± I say quietly, nodding toward the imaginary Fowlson. Shock registers on McCleethy¡¯s face as the horrible man crooks a finger to beckon her. I do my best to remain impassive. Breathe in, breathe out. Simplest thing in the world, really. ¡°How dare he¡­¡± Miss McCleethy glowers. ¡°Ladies, I¡¯m afraid I shall have to take you back to Mademoiselle LeFarge for a moment.¡± ¡°Miss McCleethy, can¡¯t we wait here? Please? We won¡¯t move at all,¡± Felicity pleads. ¡°Fowlson¡± makes his way toward the back of the hall. ¡°Yes, yes, all right, but behave yourselves,¡± McCleethy snaps. ¡°I won¡¯t be a moment.¡± ¡°What just happened?¡± Felicity asks as our teacher hurries away. My smile is as big as life as I tell them what I¡¯ve done. ¡°Now we know McCleethy is a liar. She can¡¯t tell when I¡¯ve drawn on the magic, for I just did, and she didn¡¯t suspect a thing.¡± ¡°I knew it!¡± Felicity exults. ¡°Right, look about, eyes sharp,¡± I command. ¡°Dr. Van Ripple is a tall, thin man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.¡± Watched by the eyes of indifferent gods, we wander the hall, searching for the man I¡¯ve seen in my visions, the one I hope can shed light on the curious messages I¡¯ve received. ¡°Would you care to see the Book of the Dead?¡± a red-nosed gentleman asks. His wife sits behind him, arranging books on a table. The book in his hands has an engraving of a god with a jackal¡¯s head. ¡°Book of the Dead?¡± Ann asks. Her face lights up at the mere mention. Smelling a mark, the man opens the book, flipping through its pages so quickly that we see snow. ¡°The Book of the Dead. With this sacred tome, the ancient Egyptians mummified their dead and prepared them for the afterlife. Some say they could even call the dead from their graves.¡± Felicity¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°Does it mention gorgons or water nymphs? Does it say how to defeat the creatures of the Winterlands?¡± The man laughs uncomfortably. ¡°Course not, miss.¡± ¡°Well, then it isn¡¯t much use, is it?¡± A man in a turban offers to tell our fortunes for two shillings. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you like to know your fortune, Gemma?¡± Ann asks, and I know she¡¯d like me to loan her the money for it. ¡°After all, what if he tells you that you will marry a handsome stranger?¡± ¡°What if he tells me I shall die alone surrounded by many cats and a collection of ceramic dolls? That isn¡¯t our purpose here,¡± I remind her as she purses her lips. Felicity hurries to us. ¡°You must see this!¡± We scurry to a corner where a burly man with a walrus mustache has a small booth. A handful of ladies gather there. ¡°Step up, don¡¯t be shy,¡± the man calls merrily. ¡°Mr. Brinley Smith, photographer, at your service.¡± Photographs. I cannot understand in the least why Felicity should find this exciting or why she¡¯d squander valuable time on it. Page 97 ¡°What I have here will astound you. For in this box is proof that life continues after death.¡± I daresay we know a good deal more about the subject than dear Mr. Smith. He opens a box of photographs and offers one to the lady in front for inspection. We peer over her shoulder as best we can. It isn¡¯t much, just a picture of a man at his desk, writing a letter. But when I look again, I see something else. Beside the man is a ghostly presence in white, a woman as sheer as lace. ¡°These are true spirit photographs, ladies. See the spirit world come to life before your very eyes. Herewith lies irrefutable proof of ghosts among us, of life after death!¡± ¡°Oh, may I see?¡± a lady to our right asks. ¡°See it? Why, madam, for a mere ten pee, you can own it. Amaze your friends and family! I took this very photograph at a s¨¦ance in Bristol.¡± He lowers his voice to a charged whisper. ¡°What I saw there changed my life¡ªspirits, among us!¡± The ladies gasp and whisper. One pulls out her coin purse. ¡°I should like proof, if you please.¡± ¡°Any one you like, madam, plenty to go round.¡± I nudge my friends. ¡°We¡¯ve no time for this. We¡¯ve got to¡ª¡± A commanding voice breaks through from behind us. ¡°Do not believe his claims, dear ladies. This is nothing more than optical trickery at work.¡± An elegant gentleman with a thicket of black hair, streaked through with silver, and a neatly trimmed goatee steps forward. There are deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and he leans upon a walking stick, but though he is an older man than I¡¯ve seen in my visions, there is no doubt he is the man we seek: Dr. Theodore Van Ripple. ¡°That¡¯s him,¡± I whisper to Ann and Fee. The doctor hobbles closer. ¡°This ghostly image is no more a spirit than you or I. It is simply an ordinary photograph soaked too long in a photographer¡¯s bath. A trick, you see?¡± ¡°Do you call me a liar, sir?¡± Mr. Smith sniffs. The man bows. ¡°You¡¯ll forgive me, sir, but I cannot allow such kind, good-hearted ladies to be taken in by untruths.¡± Mr. Smith can smell doubt robbing him of a sale. ¡°Ladies, I assure you, I saw these spirits with my own eyes! Here is proof, I tell you!¡± But it is too late. The lady in front has walked away, shaking her head. Others come to take her place. They still want to believe. Felicity pushes her way toward Dr. Van Ripple. ¡°Is that true, sir?¡± ¡°Oh, yes. Quite. I am familiar with a great many illusions. I deal in the world of smoke and mirrors myself. I am a magician by trade. In fact, I performed this evening. For a few moments,¡± he adds bitterly. ¡°But I shall perform a special show for you.¡± He reaches into his pocket and produces a deck of cards. ¡°Here. I shall show you. Take a card. Any card you wish. You may reveal it to your dear friends but do not show the card to me.¡± I crane my neck, but I don¡¯t see McCleethy yet, so I select a card¡ªthe ace of spades¡ªand reveal it to Ann and Felicity before tucking it into my palm out of sight. Dr. Van Ripple passes the deck to Mr. Smith. ¡°Would you do me the favor of shuffling these cards, dear sir?¡± With great irritation, Mr. Smith rearranges the deck. He hands it back to Dr. Van Ripple, who shuffles the cards again and again, making polite chatter the entire time like a born showman. At last, he places his white-gloved hand upon the deck and pronounces, ¡°You hold the ace of spades, dear lady. Do you not?¡± Astonished, I show him the ace. ¡°How ever did you do it?¡± His eyes twinkle. ¡°The rules of magic, my dear, are best not discussed. For once we understand the illusion, we no longer believe in it.¡± ¡°He¡¯s marked the cards,¡± Mr. Smith huffs, indignant. ¡°Sheer fakery.¡± Dr. Van Ripple tips his hat and produces a frog from inside it. The frog hops onto the shoulder of a very startled Mr. Smith. ¡°Ahh, slimy beast!¡± The photographer nearly topples his own table trying to get away. The crowd laughs. ¡°Dear me,¡± Dr. Van Ripple says. ¡°Perhaps we should stand elsewhere.¡± The doctor hobbles ahead, leading us past other exhibitions: A painted Turk¡¯s head pushes fortunes out of its mechanical mouth; a snake dancer balances a giant serpent across her shoulders, undulating slowly as the beast coils and slithers; a man holding a stuffed bird trumpets the wonders of a traveling museum of natural history. I even spy Madame Romanoff, otherwise known as Sally Carny of Bow¡¯s Bells, conducting a s¨¦ance. I once took this false spiritualist to the realms by accident. We lock eyes and Sally abruptly ends her reading. Page 98 Dr. Van Ripple pauses before a statue of Osiris to mop his brow with a handkerchief. ¡°Our Mr. Smith was nothing more than a faux-tographer, it would seem.¡± ¡°Your card trick was most impressive!¡± Ann says. ¡°You are too kind. Allow me to present myself properly. I am Dr. Theodore Van Ripple, master illusionist, scholar, and gentleman, at your service.¡± ¡°How do you do? I am Gemma Dowd,¡± I say, giving my mother¡¯s maiden name. Ann holds fast to ¡°Nan Washbrad¡± whilst Felicity becomes ¡°Miss Anthrope.¡± ¡°Dr. Van Ripple, I do recall hearing of you,¡± I begin. ¡°I believe my mother attended one of your shows.¡± His eyes sparkle with interest. ¡°Ah! Here, in London? Or was it perhaps in Vienna or Paris? I have played for both princes and the populace.¡± ¡°It was here in London, I am sure,¡± I offer. ¡°Yes, she said it was a most marvelous spectacle. She was amazed by your talents.¡± The doctor positively glows with the adulation. ¡°Splendid! Splendid! Tell me, which illusion did she prefer¡ªthe disappearing doll or the glass of ruby smoke?¡± ¡°Ah¡­yes, em, I think she rather fancied both.¡± ¡°They are my specialties. How marvelous!¡± He cranes, searching the crowd. ¡°And is your dear mother with you here tonight?¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid not,¡± I say. ¡°I do remember that she said there was one illusion which thrilled her beyond all the others. It was one in which a beautiful lady was placed into a trance and instructed to write upon a slate.¡± Dr. Van Ripple regards me warily. His voice has a chill in it. ¡°The illusion you speak of belonged to my assistant. She was a medium of sorts. I no longer perform that trick¡ªnot since her tragic disappearance three years ago.¡± ¡°She disappeared during the performance?¡± Ann gasps. ¡°Dear me, no,¡± Dr. Van Ripple replies. He fluffs his collar, and I imagine that in his day he was quite the dandy. ¡°What happened to her?¡± I prod. ¡°My associates suggested she ran away with a sailor or perhaps joined a circus.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°But I think otherwise, for she claimed she was being hunted by dark forces. I am quite certain she was murdered.¡± ¡°Murdered!¡± we say as one. Dr. Van Ripple is not one to lose an audience of any sort, even for a tale so unseemly as this one promises to be. ¡°Indeed. She was a woman of many secrets, and, I am sorry to say, she proved quite untrustworthy. She came to me when she was but a girl of twenty, and I knew very little of her life other than that she was an orphan who had lived away at school for a time.¡± ¡°She didn¡¯t speak of her past?¡± I ask. ¡°She could not, dear lady, for she was a mute. She had a remarkable talent for drawing and transcendental writing.¡± The doctor takes a bit of snuff from an enameled box and sneezes into a handkerchief. ¡°What is transcendental writing?¡± Ann asks. ¡°The medium goes into a trance, and whilst communing with the spirits, she receives messages from beyond which are communicated through writing. We turned a tidy profit¡­.¡± He coughs. ¡°That is, we aided those poor grieving souls desperate to speak with loved ones who had passed on to the spirit realm. ¡°Then one day, she came to the theater quite merry. When I asked her why she was so happy, she wrote upon the slate¡ªfor that was how we spoke to one another¡ªthat her dear sister had visited her, and they had a plan to ¡®restore what has been too long lost.¡¯ I did not know what she meant, nor did she explain. I was rather astonished at the mention of a sister, as I knew of no family she had. It seems the lady in question was a cherished friend from her school days. When I asked if I might meet her sister, she was evasive, callous. ¡°¡®That would not be possible,¡¯ she wrote, smiling. She was one for small cruelties, and I was quite certain she felt her dear friend to be far above my station. ¡°Soon after, she changed. One day, I found her in the shop among our many tricks and properties, holding fast to her slate. ¡®My sister has deceived us,¡¯ she wrote. ¡®She is a monster. Such a wicked, wicked plan.¡¯ When I asked her what could have caused her such distress, she wrote that she had had a vision¡ª¡®a most terrible vision of what should come to pass, for what I took as fair is foul and all shall be lost.¡¯¡± ¡°Did she tell you what she saw in the vision?¡± I press. ¡°I¡¯m afraid not.¡± The doctor¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°I should say that she had an unfortunate habit¡ªa fondness for cocaine. She could not be without it. I believe it began to destroy her, body and soul.¡± Page 99 I think of my father, and my stomach tightens at the memory of finding him in the opium den. ¡°But cocaine is perfectly harmless,¡± Ann says. ¡°It is in many tonics and lozenges.¡± Dr. Van Ripple¡¯s smile is strained. ¡°So they say, but I think otherwise, my dear. For I saw how it ruined the girl so that she no longer knew what was truth and what illusion. She was suspicious in the extreme, seeing haunts in the shadows. She insisted that she was the only one who might stop this terrible plan, and she wrote long into the night on a secret tome which she said was of the utmost importance. Once, I surprised her as she worked past midnight in the studio, the candle burned nearly to the last of its wick. She startled and covered the pages quickly. She would not show it to me. I suspected her of divulging the secrets of my magic. I dismissed her, and that was all I saw of her for many months, until one spring day three years ago. Just after I¡¯d dined, she knocked upon my door. ¡°I scarcely recognized her, so shocking was her appearance. Her eyes were those of the doomed. She¡¯d not slept or taken food in some time. And her behavior was most odd. She asked for paper and pen, and I provided them. ¡®I am wicked,¡¯ she wrote. Naturally I thought her unsettled in mind and implored her to stay. But she insisted that dark forces were at work. ¡®They will keep me from revealing the truth,¡¯ she wrote. ¡®I must act quickly before I am found.¡¯¡± ¡°What forces did she speak of?¡± Ann presses. The doctor stretches his long fingers over the top of his walking stick, preening like a rooster. ¡°It seems we shall never know. The lady left my home¡ªand vanished.¡± ¡°What became of the pages she wrote?¡± I ask. He takes a deep breath. ¡°I cannot say. Perhaps that terrible secret she feared died along with her. Or perhaps, even now, some diabolical plan is at work, and we are at its mercy.¡± The doctor smiles like a kind uncle. He offers his card. ¡°For your mother. She might have need of a magician to entertain her guests some evening?¡± I take the card; he closes his hands over mine. ¡°Open them.¡± When I do, they are empty. The card is gone. ¡°How did you¡ª¡± He pulls the card from behind my ear and places it triumphantly in my palm. ¡°Ah, there it was! Such mischievous calling cards I have, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Dr. Van Ripple pats his pockets and frowns. ¡°Oh, dear. Oh, my.¡± ¡°What is the matter?¡± Felicity asks. ¡°I seem to have misplaced my wallet. I do hate to impose, but might you lend an old man a few shillings? I give you my word as a gentleman that I shall repay you in full on the morrow¡ª¡± ¡°There you are! Really, girls, you had me quite worried,¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge announces, hastening straight for us with a fuming McCleethy behind her. I do hope the magic lantern show is a wonder, for this may be my last night on earth. Dr. Van Ripple¡¯s smile is kind. ¡°Fear not, dear lady. Your daughters are well in hand and safe from the riffraff, I assure you.¡± ¡°These young ladies are not my daughters, sir. They are my charges,¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge splutters. ¡°You had me quite worried indeed, girls.¡± ¡°Trouble, my dear?¡± Inspector Kent takes a stand beside Mademoiselle LeFarge. He gives the doctor the penetrating stare he has perfected as a policeman, and the magician blanches. ¡°Well, I shall be off, then,¡± Dr. Van Ripple says quickly. ¡°Hold a moment. I know that face¡ªBob Sharpe. It¡¯s been a while, but I see the years haven¡¯t changed everything about you, sir.¡± Inspector Kent stares hard at Dr. Van Ripple. ¡°You weren¡¯t attempting to extort money from these young ladies, were you?¡± ¡°Inspector, you do wound me,¡± Dr. Van Ripple says. ¡°I merely watched over them like a mother hen.¡± The inspector folds his arms and looms over Dr. Van Ripple. ¡°Like a fox guarding the hens, you mean. Mr. Sharpe, I trust that you have no desire to return to prison, and that I¡¯ll not see you again this evening?¡± ¡°As it happens, I have a previous engagement.¡± Miss McCleethy¡¯s stare nearly stops my blood. ¡°I am sorry, Mademoiselle LeFarge. I was gone but a moment,¡± she says. ¡°Ladies,¡± Mademoiselle LeFarge chides, ¡°if you ever wish to leave the confines of Spence again¡ª¡± ¡°Spence, you say? Spence Academy for Young Ladies?¡± Dr. Van Ripple asks. Mademoiselle LeFarge nods. ¡°The very same, sir.¡± Dr. Van Ripple gives us a little push. ¡°Yes, well, wouldn¡¯t want to miss the show. Best to take your seats now. A good evening to you all. Inspector.¡± And with that, the old man hobbles away, as fast as he can. Page 100 LeFarge shakes her head. ¡°What an odd fellow.¡± ¡°Dr. Theodore Van Ripple, n¨¦ Bob Sharpe. Magician, thief, fraud. Did he tell you ladies a fantastic tale, then claim he could not find his wallet?¡± the inspector inquires. We nod sheepishly. ¡°He told us of a vanishing lady. His assistant,¡± Ann says. ¡°He believed her to be murdered.¡± Miss McCleethy frowns. ¡°I think that¡¯s quite enough.¡± ¡°Yes, I assure you Dr. Van Ripple is a conjurer of tales and cannot be trusted,¡± Inspector Kent says. ¡°Now, shall we see the miracle of moving pictures?¡± It would seem that Dr. Van Ripple is nothing but a con. I can¡¯t understand why my visions have led me to this aging magician with a vivid imagination and a coat as shabby as his reputation. And to think I¡¯ve chanced magic on it. ¡°Did you find your acquaintance, Miss McCleethy?¡± Felicity asks, and I should like to kick her for it. ¡°I did, indeed,¡± she says. ¡°At first, I thought my eyes deceived me, for he disappeared in the crowd, but happily, I found him again.¡± I¡¯m confused. How could she have met up with Fowlson when he was nothing more substantial than ether? Is she lying? Or is Fowlson really here among us? We¡¯re led to our seats, which have been arranged so that we face the wall. A strange instrument is wheeled in and placed in the center aisle¡ªa box perched upon metal legs, much like a camera, but larger. One of the Wolfson brothers, in full tails and top hat, stands before us, rubbing his white-gloved hands together in anticipation. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to the Egyptian Hall, where in this hour, you shall witness an amazing spectacle of spirits, ghosts, and hobgoblins conjured before your very eyes! ¡°The Wolfson brothers, masters of the magic lantern, shall astonish and astound you with our feats of illusion¡ªor are they illusion after all? For some would swear that these spirits walk among us, and that this machine powered by gas and light is but an instrument for their release into our world. But I shall leave that to your discretion. It is my duty to advise you that in Paris alone, no fewer than fourteen ladies fainted within the first several minutes, and one gentleman¡¯s hair turned white as snow from sheer terror!¡± Gasps and excited whispers roll through the audience, to the manager¡¯s delight. ¡°Why, even the great Maskelyne and Cooke, those renowned illusionists and our gracious hosts here at this famed house of mystery, found the spectacle thrilling beyond all imagining. Therefore, it is my solemn duty to ask any here who may be weak of heart or otherwise unsound in mind or body to please leave now, as the management cannot be held accountable.¡± Three ladies and a gentleman are ushered from the hall. It heightens the excitement. ¡°Very well. I cannot say what shall happen this afternoon, whether the spirits will prove kind¡ªor angry. I bid you all welcome¡­and good luck.¡± The lights are dimmed until the hall is nearly black. In the center aisle, the iron machine hums and hisses to life. It casts an image upon the far wall¡ªa sweet-faced girl standing in a meadow. As we watch, she bends to pick a flower and brings it to her nose. She moves! Oh, the wonder of it. Delighted, the audience breaks into applause. Ann squeezes my hand. ¡°She seems so real¡ªas if she were here now.¡± Another image comes, one of a regiment on horseback. The horses prance, their legs moving up and down. We see an angel hovering over the bed of a peaceful sleeping child. Each image is more spectacular than the one before it, and in the dim gaslight, every face gazes straight ahead in awe. The wall flickers with new light. A woman, chalky pale, appears in her nightgown, sleepwalking. Slowly, she transforms¡ªthe arms lose their flesh; the face becomes a death mask¡ªuntil standing before us is a skeletal creature. Now there are gasps of a different sort. And then the skeleton seems to move closer to us. Small cries of fear pierce the dark. Someone shouts, ¡°My sister! She¡¯s fainted! Oh, do stop the show!¡± Inspector Kent leans in toward us. ¡°Not to worry, ladies. All part of the act.¡± And I confess I¡¯m grateful for his aside. ¡°Spirits!¡± Mr. Wolfson calls. ¡°Leave us now!¡± The ghostly specters stretch across the wall, their faces shifting from benevolent to grisly. ¡°Please, do not leave your seats! I¡¯m afraid I must inform you that the spirits will no longer listen to the Wolfson brothers! They do not obey our commands! Be on your guard, for I cannot say what shall come next!¡± The air is thick with excitement and fear. And then, quickly, the apparition shifts. It grows smaller until it is nothing more than a sweet-faced child offering a flower. Relieved laughter fills the hall.