Rebel Angels (16 page)

The gorgon does not answer and does not slow.

The women are so beautiful; their song is so lovely.

“Gorgon,” I say. "Lower the plank.”

The snakes writhe as if in pain. “Is that your wish, Most High?”

“Yes, it is my wish.”

The great ship slows and the plank is lowered till it hovers just above the water. Our skirts gathered in our hands, we rush out and crouch down, looking for signs of them.

“Where are they?” Ann asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Felicity’s on all fours, the ends of her hair trailing in the water.
"Perhaps they’ve gone.”

I stand, trying to peer through the fog. Something cold and wet caresses my ankle. I shriek and wobble just as the creature’s webbed hand curves away from my leg, leaving sparkling scales on my stocking.

“Oh, no! I’ve scared it away,” I say. Its mermaid-like body slips under the plank and disappears.

The surface of the river is covered in a thick, oily sheen. After a moment, the creatures emerge once more. They seem as fascinated by us as we are by them. They bob in the small currents, their strange hands moving back and forth, back and forth.

Ann gets down on her knees. "Hello.”

One of the creatures moves close and begins to sing.

“Oh, how lovely,” Ann says.

Indeed, their song is so sweet, I want to follow them into the water and hear it forever. A crowd of them has gathered, six, then seven, then ten of them. With each addition, the song grows, becomes more powerful. I am drowning in its beauty.

One creature attaches herself to the boat. She meets my gaze. Her eyes are huge, like mirrors of the ocean itself. I look into them and see myself falling fast into the deep, where all light vanishes. She reaches up to stroke my face. Her song floats about my face.

“Gemma! Don’t!” I’m vaguely aware of Pippa calling my name, but it blends into the song and becomes a melody inviting me into the river.
Gemma . . . Gemma . . . Gemma . . .

Pippa yanks me back rudely and we fall to the plank in a pile. The nymphs’ song becomes a fierce shriek that sends gooseflesh rushing up my back.

“Wh-what?” I ask, as if waking from a dream.

“That thing nearly pulled you under!” Pippa says. Her eyes widen.
"Ann!” she shouts.

Ann has slipped both legs over the side of the plank. The most ecstatic smile crosses her lips as one of the things strokes her leg and sings so sweetly it would break the heart. Felicity reaches a hand out, her fingers inches from the webbed hands of two creatures.

“No!” Pippa and I shout in unison.

I grab Ann as Pippa ropes her arms round Felicity. They struggle against us, but we pull them back.

The creatures let loose another horrible screech. In a rage, they grab at the plank as if they mean to shake us into the water or rip it off completely.

Ann cowers in Pippa’s arms while Felicity kicks at their hands with her boots.

“Gorgon!” I shout. "Help us!”

“Omata!” It’s the gorgon’s voice now, booming and commanding.
"Omata! Leave them be or we shall use the nets!”

The creatures scream and back away. They look at us with disappointment before slipping slowly under the water again. There is nothing but an oily sheen on the surface to prove they’ve been here. I practically push the others onto the boat.

“Gorgon, lift the plank!” I shout.

“As you wish,” she answers, pulling up the heavy wing. The bald, shiny women do not like this. They screech again.

“What are those things?” I say, panting.

“Water nymphs,” the gorgon answers, as if I see them daily for tea. “ They are fascinated by your skin.”

“Are they harmless?” Ann says, rubbing at the colorful scales on her stocking.

“That depends,” the gorgon says.

Felicity stares down at the water. "Depends on what?”

The gorgon continues. "On how bewitching they find you. If they are particularly enchanted, they’ll try to lure you away with them to their pond. Once they have you trapped, they will take your skin.”

When I realize how close I came to following them into the depths, I’m shaking all over.

“I want to go back,” Ann whimpers.

So do I. "Gorgon, take us back to the garden at once,” I order.

“As you wish,” she says.

Behind us, I see the water nymphs poking above the churning surface, their glistening heads bobbing on the water like jewels from a lost treasure. A snippet of their beautiful song finds us, and for a moment, I drift toward the edge of the ship, wanting once again to dive under. We pull forward with a lurch, moving away from them, and their song turns to rage, a sound like birds deprived of food.

“Stop it,” I say under my breath, willing it to end. “Why won’t they stop?”

“They expected a gift, a token for the journey,” the gorgon answers.

“What sort of gift?” I ask.

“One of you.”

“That’s horrible,” I say.

“Yesss,” the gorgon hisses. “You have made them unhappy, I’m afraid. They can be rather vicious when cross. And they hold a grudge.”

The thought of those cold, wet hands pulling one of us under makes me shiver.

“Are there more of these nymphs out there?” Pippa asks, her pale face illuminated by the orange sky.

“Yesss,” the gorgon says. “But I shouldn’t worry too much about them. They can only come for you if you’re in the water.”

There’s cold comfort.

The fog clears. My limbs are shaky, as if I have run for a very long time. The four of us lie on the floor of the boat, looking up at the bright sky.

“How will we find the Temple if these creatures use their own magic against us?” Ann asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

This is not the beautiful garden my mother showed me. It is quite obvious now that the realms beyond that garden are no place to let down my guard.

“Gorgon,” I ask when all is calm again and the garden is in sight, “is it true that you’re imprisoned on this barge as punishment?”

“Yes,” comes the hissing answer.

“By whose magic?”

“The Order’s.”

“But why?”

The great barge creaks and groans on the water. “It was I who led my people against the Order during the rebellion.”

The snakes of her head writhe and reach. One ropes itself around the pointed bow, its tongue inches from my hand. I pull back to a safer distance.

“Are you still loyal to the Order?” I ask.

“Yessss,” comes the answer. But it is not immediate, like a response compelled by magic. There is a moment’s hesitation. She stopped to
think
. And I realize that Philon’s warning is apt.

“Gorgon, did you know the water nymphs were near?”

“Yessss,” she says.

“Why didn’t you warn us?”

“You didn’t ask.” And with that, we reach the garden, where the large green beast closes her eyes.

Pippa squeezes us tightly, not wanting to let go. “Must you hurry back? When can you come again?”

“As soon as possible,” Felicity assures her. "Don’t let anything get you, Pip.”

“I shan’t,” Pippa says. She takes my hands. “Gemma, I saved your life today.”

“Yes, you did. Thank you.”

“I suppose that binds us, doesn’t it? Like a promise?”

“I suppose so,” I say uneasily.

Pippa gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Come back soon as you can!”

The door of light flares to life, and we leave her waving to us like the last fleeting image of a dream before waking.

Back in the bedchamber, we take stock of ourselves. We are all fine, if a bit shaken, and ready to resume our places for tea.

“Do you feel it?” Felicity asks as we clamber down the stairs.

I nod. The magic courses through me. My blood pumps faster, and every sense is keener for it. It is astonishing, like being lit from within. From behind the closed doors of the dining room, I can hear snippets of conversations, can feel the wants and desires, the petty jealousies and disappointments of every beating heart till I am forced to will them away.

“Ah, here is our Miss Bradshaw now,” the ample woman says as we enter the room. “We understand that you were trained by the finest masters in all of Russia as a child, and that this is how the czarina’s family knew at once you were their long-lost relative, by your lovely voice. Won’t you please do us the honor of singing one song?”

This story grows as wild as the magic of the realms with each telling.

“Yes, you simply must,” Felicity says, taking Ann’s arm.
"Use the magic,” she whispers.

“Felicity!” I whisper back. "We’re not supposed to . . .”

“We must! We can’t just abandon Ann.”

Ann gives me a pleading look.

“Just this once,” Felicity says.

“Just this once,” I repeat.

Ann turns back to the crowd, smiling. “I would be happy to sing.”

She waits for the rustling of skirts to subside as the women take their seats. Then she closes her eyes. I can feel her concentrating, drawing on the magic. It’s as if we are joined by it, working in concert to create this illusion. Ann opens her mouth to sing. She has a lovely voice quite naturally, but the music that tumbles out of her is very powerful and seductive. It takes me a moment to recognize the language. She’s singing in Russian, a language she doesn’t actually know. It is a very nice touch.

The women of the Alexandra are held in thrall. When Ann reaches the song’s crescendo, a few dab at their eyes, so moved are they. As Ann finishes with a small, respectful curtsy, the women applaud and rush to praise her. Ann basks in their adoration.

Lady Denby strides to Ann’s side and offers her congratulations.

“Lady Denby, how wonderful you look,” Felicity’s mother says. Lady Denby nods but does not respond. The slight is noted by everyone. There is an uncomfortable silence in the room.

Lady Denby regards Ann coolly. “You say you are a relation of the Duke of Chesterfield?”

“Y-yes,” Ann stammers.

“Strange. I don’t believe I’ve ever met the duke.”

I feel a tug, a change in the air. The magic. When I look over, Felicity has her eyes closed in concentration, and a faint smile curves those full lips. Suddenly, Lady Denby breaks wind with an enormous crackling sound. There is no hiding the shock and horror on her face as she realizes what she’s done. She breaks wind again, and several of the women clear their throats and look away as if they can pretend not to notice the offense. For her part, Lady Denby excuses herself, muttering something about being indisposed on her way out.

“Felicity, that was terrible of you!” I whisper.

“Why?” she asks, cool as can be. "She is an old windbag, after all.”

Now that Lady Denby has left, people gravitate to Ann and Mrs. Worthington, congratulating Felicity’s mother for having such an esteemed guest in her home. Invitations for tea, dinner, calls are offered in abundance. The slight has been forgotten.

“I shall never be powerless again,” Felicity says, though I don’t know exactly what she means by it, and she doesn’t offer to explain.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BY THE TIME I RETURN HOME, NIGHT IS SETTLING over London like a balm, gaslight smoothing the rough edges into a hazy dark sameness. The house is quiet. Grandmama is off to play cards with her friends. Father’s sleeping fitfully in his chair, his book open upon his lap. My father, haunted even in his dreams.

The last remnants of the magic flow through me. I close the doors and lay my hand on his brow. Just once, as Felicity said. That’s all I need. I’m not using this power for a new ball gown; I’m using it to heal my father. How can that possibly be wrong?

But how to begin? Mother told me I must concentrate. I must be sure of what I want and intend. I close my eyes and let my thoughts go to my father, to curing him of his affliction.

“I wish to heal my father,” I say. “I wish that he will never again have a desire for laudanum.” My hands tingle. Something is happening. Fast as a swollen stream, the magic rages through me and into Father. He arches his back with it. My eyes still shut, I see clouds race across the sky, see Father laughing and healthy again. He sweeps me into a playful dance and offers Christmas boxes to all the servants, whose eyes light up in gratitude and goodwill. This is the father I knew. I did not realize how much I missed him till now. Tears wet my face.

Father stops moaning in the chair. I am ready to move my hand from him but cannot. There is one last thing, quick as a magician’s trick. I see a man’s face, his eyes lined in black. “Thank you, poppet,” he snarls. And then I am free.

The candles on the Christmas tree burn brightly. I’m shaking, perspiring from the effort. Father is so peaceful and quiet I fear I have killed him.

“Father?” I say gently. When he does not rouse, I shake him.
"Father!”

He blinks, surprised to see me so agitated. “Hello, darling. Dozed off, did I?”

“Yes,” I say, watching him closely.

He touches his fingers to his forehead. "Such strange dreams I had.”

“What, Father? What did you dream?”

“I . . . I can’t recall. Well, I’m awake now. And I’m suddenly famished. Have I slept through tea? I shall have to throw myself upon the mercy of our dear cook.” He crosses the room with an energetic stride. In a moment, I hear Father’s booming voice and the cook laughing. It is such a lovely sound that I find I’m crying.

“Thank you,” I say to no one in particular. “Thank you for helping me to make him well.”

When I enter the kitchen, Father is seated at a small table, taking bites of roast duck and relish on bread, while thrilling our cook and a maid of all work with his adventures.
"There I was, face to face with the biggest cobra you could imagine— rising up tall as a sapling with a neck fat as a man’s arm.”

“Gracious me,” the cook says, hanging on every word.
"What ever did you do, sir?”

“I said, ‘Here now, my good fellow, you don’t want to eat me. I’m nothing but gristle. Take my associate, Mr. Robbins.’ ”

“Oh, you didn’t, sir!”

“I did.” Father is enjoying his audience. He jumps up to act out the rest like a pantomime. “He went for Robbins straightaway. I’d only an instant to act. Quiet as a church mouse, I pulled out my machete and
sliced
through the cobra just before he would have struck old Robbins and killed him.”

The maid, a girl of about my age, gasps. Beneath the bit of soot on her nose, she’s quite lovely.

“He was most delicious.” Father sits with a satisfied smile. I am so happy to see him this way, I could listen to his stories all night.

“Oh, sir, that was thrilling. The adventures you’ve had.”The cook hands a plate to the maid.
"Here. Take this to Mr. Kartik for me.”

“Mr. Kartik?” I say, feeling as if I should faint.

“Yes,” Father says, sopping up his relish. “Kartik. Our new coachman.”

“I’ll go, if you don’t mind,” I say, taking the plate from the rather disappointed-looking maid. “I should like to meet our Mr. Kartik.”

Before anyone can object, I make my way to the mews, passing a charwoman covered in soot and a weary laundress, her hands pressed to her back. There are entire families living in the rooms above these stables. It is hard to imagine. The smell has me pressing my hand to my nose. Our carriage house is the fourth down on the right. A groom tends Father’s two horses. Seeing me, the young boy removes his cap.
"Evenin’, miss.”

“I’m looking for Mr. Kartik,” I say.

“ ’E’s over there, miss, by the carriage.”

I go around the side of it and there he is, shining the already clean coach with a rag. He’s been given a proper uniform— trousers, shoes, a striped waistcoat, a fine shirt, and a hat. His curls have been oiled into obedience. He looks very much the gentleman. It quite takes my breath away.

I clear my throat. He turns and sees me, a wicked grin lighting up his face.

“How do you do?” I say quite formally for the benefit of the groom, who is spying on us this very instant.

Kartik catches on. "Good evening, miss. Willie!” he calls out to the boy.

“Yes, Mr. Kartik?”

“Be a good lad and stretch Ginger’s legs, will you?”

The boy leads the chestnut horse from the stable.

“What do you think of my new suit?” Kartik asks.

“Don’t you think it’s rather bold of you to take a job as our coachman?” I whisper.

“I said that I would be close.”

“So you did. How ever did you arrange it?”

“The Rakshana have their ways.”The Rakshana. Of course. It is quiet. I can hear Ginger snorting softly on the other side of the stables.

“Well,” I say.

“Well,” Kartik echoes.

“Here we are.”

“Yes. It was good of you to come see me. You look well.”

I should die from politeness. “I’ve brought your supper,” I say, offering the plate.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling over a stool for me and removing the volume of
The Odyssey
that sits atop it. He perches on the steps of the carriage. “I suppose Emily isn’t coming, then.”

“Who is Emily?” I ask.

“The maid. She was to bring my dinner. She seems a most congenial girl.”

My cheeks flush. “And you have decided her character after knowing her but a day.”

“Yes,” he says, peeling the flesh from a precious orange, no doubt put there by the congenial Emily. I wonder if Kartik could ever think of me as an ordinary girl, someone to hope for, to long for, to consider “congenial.”

“Have you any news about the Temple?” he says, without looking up.

“We visited a place today called the Forest of Lights,” I tell him. “I met a creature called Philon. It did not know where to find the Temple, but it offered help.”

“What sort of help?”

“Weapons.”

Kartik’s eyes narrow. "It felt you would need them?”

“Yes. Philon gave us magic arrows. I’m useless with them, but Feli—Miss Worthington is rather skilled. She—”

“What did it ask in return?” Kartik’s stare is penetrating.

“A share of the magic when we find the Temple.”

“You refused, of course.” When I do not answer, Kartik tosses the orange onto his plate in disgust. “You made an alliance with creatures from the realms?”

“I didn’t say that!”I snap. It isn’t the truth, but it isn’t a lie, either.
"If I’m not doing this to your liking, why don’t you go?”

“You know we cannot enter the realms.”

“So then I suppose you will have to trust that I am doing all I can.”

“I trust you,” he answers softly.

The small sounds of night surround us, tiny creatures scurrying here and there, looking for food and warmth.

“Did you know that the Rakshana and the Order were once lovers?” I ask.

“No, I didn’t,” Kartik says after a few seconds’ hesitation. “How . . . interesting.”

“Yes. It is.”

He removes a stray white thread of pith from the orange and offers me a freshly plucked section.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the fruit from his fingers and placing it on my tongue. It is very sweet.

“You’re welcome.” He gives me a little smile. We sit for a moment, savoring the orange.
"Do you ever . . .”

“What?”

“I wondered if you have ever seen Amar there in the realms?”

“No,” I answer. "I’ve never seen him.”

Some sort of relief washes over Kartik. “He must have already crossed over then, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“What are the realms like?” he asks.

“Some of it is beautiful. So beautiful you don’t ever want to leave it. In the garden, you can turn stones to butterflies or have a gown of silver thread that sings or . . . or whatever you wish.”

Kartik smiles at this. "Go on.”

“There is a ship, like a Viking vessel, with a gorgon’s head attached. She took us through a wall of golden water that left sparkles of gold all over our skin.”

“Like the gold in your hair?”

“Much finer,” I say, blushing, for it’s most unlike Kartik to notice anything about me.

“There are some parts that are not as nice. Strange creatures— horrid things. I suppose that’s why I must bind the magic, so that they cannot wield it.”

Kartik’s smile disappears. "Yes. I suppose so. Miss Doyle?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think—that is, what if you were to stay there, in the realms, once you’d found the Temple?”

“What do you mean?”

Kartik rubs his fingers where the juice of the orange has turned them a chalky white. “It sounds like a very fine place to hide.”

“That’s an odd thing to say.”

“I meant live. A fine place to live, don’t you think?” Sometimes I don’t understand Kartik at all.

A lantern throws its light over the straw and dirt at our feet. The lovely kitchen maid appears out of nowhere, a look of astonishment on her face.
"Beggin’ your pardon, miss. I forgot to bring Mr. Kartik his coffee.”

“I was just leaving,”I say to her, practically leaping to my feet. I assume this is the aforementioned Emily. “Thank you for that, um, most, most informative, ah, instruction in . . . in . . .”

“Carriage safety?” Kartik offers.

“Yes. One cannot be too careful about such things. Good night to you,” I say.

“Good night,” he answers. Emily does not make any effort to leave. And as I stride past the horses, I hear her laughing gently—girlishly—at something Kartik has said.

Ginger snorts at me.

“It is impolite to stare,” I say to her, before running up to my room to sulk in private.

Simon’s box sits on a table beside my bed. I pull open the false bottom and see the wicked brown bottle lying there.

“You shan’t be needed again,” I say. The box slides easily into a corner of my cupboard, where it is lost among petticoats and dress hems. From my window, I can see the lanterns of the mews and our carriage house. I see Emily returning from the stable, her lantern in hand. The light catches her face as she looks back to smile at Kartik, who waves to her. He glances up and I duck out of sight, quickly extinguishing my lamp. The room is swallowed in shadow.

Why should it bother me so that Kartik fancies Emily? What are we to each other but a duty? That, I suppose, is what bothers me. Oh, I should forget this business with Kartik. It is foolish.

Tomorrow is a new day, December 17. I shall dine with Simon Middleton. I will do my best to charm his mother and not make a nuisance of myself. After that, I’ll go about finding the Temple, but for one evening, one glorious, carefree evening, I intend to wear a fine gown and enjoy the handsome company of Simon Middleton.

“How do you do, Mr. Middleton?” I say to the air. "No,” I answer, lowering my voice, “How do you do, Miss Doyle?” “Why, I’m absolutely splendid, Mr.—”

The pain has me in its grip. I can’t breathe. God! I can’t breathe! No, no, no, please leave me alone, please! It’s no use. I’m pulled out like the tide, slipping into a vision. I don’t want to open my eyes. I know they’re there. I can feel them. I can hear them.

“Come with us . . . ,” they whisper.

I open one eye, then the other. There they are, those three ghostly girls. They seem so lost, so sad, with their pallid skin, the dark shadows carved into their cheeks.

“We’ve something to show you. . . .”

One of them puts her hand on my shoulder. I stiffen and feel myself falling into the vision. I don’t know where we are. A castle of some sort, a great ruined fortress of stone. Deep green moss grows up the side of it. Bright laughter floats out, and through the tall, arched windows, I can see flashes of white. They’re girls playing. Not just any girls—the girls in white. But how lovely they look, so fresh and alive and merry!

“Catch me if you can!” one shouts, and my heart aches, for that was the game my mother played with me as a child. The other two girls jump out from behind a wall, startling her. They laugh at this. “Eleanor!” all three call out. “Where are you? It’s time! We shall have the power—she’s promised.”

They run toward the cliff ’s edge; the sea churns below. The girls step across rocks, outlined by the gray sky like Greek statues come to life. They’re laughing, so happy, so happy.

“Come, don’t dawdle!” they shout merrily to the fourth girl. I can’t see her very well. But I see the woman in the dark green cloak coming fast, can see her long, wide sleeves catching the wind. The woman takes the hand of the girl who lags behind.

“Is it time?” the others shout.

“Yes,” the woman in the green cloak shouts back. Holding the girl’s hand fast in hers, she closes her eyes and raises both their hands toward the sea. She’s muttering something. No— she’s summoning something! Terror rises in me like nausea, making me gag. It’s coming up from the sea, and she’s calling it! The girls scream in terror. But the woman in green does not open her eyes. She does not stop.

Why are they showing me this? I want to get away! Must get away from that thing, from their terror. I’m back in my room. The girls hover near. Their pointed boots move across the floor—
scrape, scrape, scrape
. I think I shall go mad from it.

“Why?” I gasp, trying not to vomit. "Why?”

“She lies . . . ,”
they whisper.
“Don’t trust her . . . don’t trust
her . . . don’t trust her . . .”

“Who?” I pant, but they are gone. The pressure leaves me. I’m struggling for breath, my eyes teary, my nose running. I can’t bear these horrible visions. And I don’t understand them. Don’t trust whom? Why shouldn’t I trust her?