Rebel Angels (40 page)

A:
Great question. I’m just glad that writing keeps calling to me. The urge to explore life and the human condition, to connect with other human beings, to whisper truths in their ears is a very powerful thing. I write to explore and understand myself, and it’s wonderful when that experience also creates something meaningful for the reader. If I weren’t a writer, and assuming I could be anything, I’d probably be a filmmaker, a theoretical physicist, or a humanitarian. As for where Gemma and company will go next, it’s always a mystery to me, and that’s a large part of the fun. I can’t wait to see where they take me.

A Great and Terrible Beauty + Libba Bray + 978-0-385-73231-4
Sixteen-year-old Gemma Doyle is sent to the Spence Academy in London
after tragedy strikes her family in India. Lonely, guilt-ridden, and prone to
visions of the future that have an uncomfortable habit of coming true, Gemma
finds her reception a chilly one. But at Spence, Gemma’s power to attract the
supernatural unfolds; she becomes entangled with the school’s most powerful
girls and discovers her mother’s connection to a shadowy group
called the Order. A curl-up-under-the-covers Victorian gothic.

Keeper of the Night + Kimberly Willis Holt + 978-0-553-49441-9
Living on the island of Guam, a place lush with memories and tradition,
young Isabel struggles to protect her family and cope with growing up after
her mother’s suicide.

Counting Stars + David Almond + 978-0-440-41826-9
With stories that shimmer and vibrate in the bright heat of memory,
David Almond creates a glowing mosaic of his life growing up in a
large, loving Catholic family in northeastern England.

Heaven Eyes + David Almond + 978-0-440-22910-0
Erin Law and her friends in the orphanage are labeled Damaged Children.
They run away one night, traveling downriver on a raft. What they find on
their journey is stranger than you can imagine.

Before We Were Free + Julia Alvarez + 978-0-440-23784-6
Under a dictatorship in the Dominican Republic in 1960, young Anita lives
through a fight for freedom that changes her world forever.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants + Ann Brashares + 978-0-385-73058-7
Over a few bags of cheese puffs, four girls decide to form a sisterhood and take
the vow of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. The next morning, they say
goodbye. And then the journey of the Pants, and the most memorable summer
of their lives, begin.

The Second Summer of the Sisterhood + Ann Brashares + 978-0-385-73105-8
With a bit of last summer’s sand in the pockets, the Traveling Pants and the
Sisterhood who wears them—Lena, Tibby, Bridget, and Carmen—embark on
their second summer together.

Girls in Pants: The Third Summer of the Sisterhood + Ann Brashares
978-0-385-72935-2
It’s the summer before the Sisterhood departs for college . . . their last real
summer together before they head off to start their grown-up lives. It’s the
time when they need the Pants the most.

Colibrí + Ann Cameron + 978-0-440-42052-1
At age four, Colibrí was kidnapped from her parents in Guatemala City, and
ever since then she’s traveled with Uncle, who believes Colibrí will lead him to
treasure. Danger mounts as Uncle grows desperate for his fortune—
and as Colibrí grows daring in seeking her freedom.

The Chocolate War + Robert Cormier + 978-0-375-82987-1
Jerry Renault dares to disturb the universe in this groundbreaking and now
classic novel, an unflinching portrait of corruption and cruelty
in a boys’ prep school.

Dr. Franklin’s Island + Ann Halam + 978-0-440-23781-5
A plane crash leaves Semi, Miranda, and Arnie stranded on a tropical island,
totally alone. Or so they think. Dr. Franklin is a mad scientist who has set up
his laboratory on the island, and the three teens are perfect subjects for his
frightening experiments in genetic engineering.

The Parallel Universe of Liars + Kathleen Jeffrie Johnson + 978-0-440-23852-2
Surrounded by superficiality, infidelity, and lies, Robin,
a self-described chunk, isn’t sure what to make of her hunky neighbor’s
sexual advances, or of the attention paid her by a new boy in town who
seems to notice more than her body.

The Lightkeeper’s Daughter + Iain Lawrence + 978-0-385-73127-0
Imagine growing up on a tiny island with no one but your family.
For Squid McCrae, returning to the island after three years away unleashes a
storm of bittersweet memories, revelations, and accusations surrounding
her brother’s death.

Lord of the Nutcracker Men + Iain Lawrence + 978-0-440-41812-2
In 1914, Johnny’s father leaves England to fight the Germans in France. With
each carved wooden soldier he sends home, the brutality of war becomes more
apparent. Soon Johnny fears that his war games foretell real battles
and that he controls his father’s fate.

Gathering Blue + Lois Lowry + 978-0-440-22949-0
Lamed and suddenly orphaned, Kira is mysteriously taken to live in the
palatial Council Edifice, where she is expected to use her gifts as a weaver to do
the bidding of the all-powerful Guardians.

The Giver + Lois Lowry + 978-0-385-73255-0
Jonas’s world is perfect. Everything is under control. There is no war or fear or
pain. There are no choices, until Jonas is given an opportunity that will change
his world forever.

THE STUNNING FINALE TO
LIBBA BRAY’S NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERS,
A
GREAT
AND
TERRIBLE
BEAUTY
AND
REBEL
ANGELS,
WILL BE AVAILABLE IN THE AUTUMN OF 2007.
UNTIL THEN, PLEASE ENJOY THIS SPECIAL PREVIEW.

We make our nightly trip into the realms, and all cares fade under the warmth of the perpetual orange sunset. This is what we live for, burning through each day in coiled anticipation of what freedoms the night brings. We spend hours indulging our hearts’ desires, becoming warriors and princesses, fashioning elaborate chain mail from silver thread that sings as we weave it into shape. I should feel satisfied and happy. Instead, I’m restless. I want something I cannot name. I want more.

“What should we do next?” I ask, basking lazily on a bed of soft clover. I hold my hands up to the sunset and watch the outline of my fingers soften with the light.

“Oh, I know!” Ann says brightly. “Let’s make another rose garden! Or practice our flying!”

Felicity yawns. “We’ve done that already. We could take a ride on the gorgon.”

I shake my head. “She’ll only chide us about duty and ask when we’ll meet with Philon and the others.”

“Let them get their own magic!” Felicity says, blowing bubbles out of thin air.
"This is ours.”

I prop my head against a tree and stare out at the fiery horizon. “We could go exploring. Somewhere we’ve not yet been.”

Ann looks about, worried. "Do you suppose it’s safe?”

“Of course it’s safe,” Felicity scolds. “There is no magic left in the realms. Gemma’s got it all, the clever girl. They’ve no means of harming us now.”

It’s true. We are safe. And perhaps there is something terribly wrong with me, for I miss the danger.

“Where should we go?” I ask, stifling a yawn.

The realms are so vast, we’ve scarcely begun to explore them. We have the run of them now. But we’ve still not ventured beyond what we know, into the Borderlands and farther, into the Winterlands, where the wicked creatures live. It is curious, for we’ve not seen or heard of those beasts since I bound the magic to myself. Perhaps they’ve given up. Perhaps they are gone or have decided to hide in the Winterlands for good. And even if they haven’t, Felicity’s right. I hold all the magic. What harm could come to us?

“Exploring it is, then,” I say. “Ann, pick a new path today. We’ll follow it wherever it leads.”

She chooses a path that cuts through a flower-covered meadow. It smells of hyacinth and my father’s pipe tobacco, fresh dosa, and my mother’s skin-warmed rosewater. I turn around, half expecting to see 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—the 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.

“Gemma!” Felicity says.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been talking to you, and you’ve not heard a word I said!”

“Yes, I did,” I say, blushing. I put on my best concentrating face, all furrowed brows and thoughtful eyes. Satisfied, Felicity carries on.

“As I was saying, if only we could show the world the depth of our power. Oh, think of it! I should make those dowagers bend to my will. ‘Yes, Miss Worthington, how splendid, Miss Worthington, right you are again, Miss Worthington.’ ” She bows with a grand flourish, holding her skirts in her dainty fingers.

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!” She wades through the flowers, twirling.

“Not if you’re on the stage, you shan’t,” Felicity scoffs.

Ann stops twirling. "What do you mean?”

“Actresses do not marry earls. There isn’t enough magic in any realm for that to be true.”

“What does it matter?” Ann says quietly. “It’s nothing more than dreams.” She blows hard on her dandelion, but the wind carries only part of the fluff away. Her wish will not come true.

“What would you wish for, Gemma? What do you want?” Felicity asks.

What do I want? Why is that simple question—four little words—so 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.

Pippa. We have not mentioned the name of our dear dead friend since we saw her last in these realms, running toward the cruel, wicked Winterlands. She was turning, becoming one of them, a corrupted creature. If only I could have used the magic to bring her back. But I couldn’t. The creatures of the realms must stay here; they are not to cross back over to our world. It is the one rule I cannot break, and Pippa hated me for it. Sometimes I believe Felicity hates me for it too.

Ann bites her lip. “Do you suppose she really is lost to the Winterlands, Gemma?”

“I don’t know.”

“She isn’t,” Felicity says, her cheeks reddening.

“That is where she was headed,” I remind her gently.

“I know Pip, I tell you. I know her far better than the two of you!” It is meant to wound. Neither Ann nor I are brave enough to take Felicity on when she’s on the attack.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Ann says, sounding apologetic.

“I know I’m right. Pip would never leave me like that.”

Then why haven’t we seen her in nearly four months? I look out over the endless meadow. The flowers sway in a gentle breeze. “Perhaps we’ll see her soon,” I say. But I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. If Pippa has truly become a Winterlands creature, she is no longer our friend. She is our enemy.

“She wouldn’t leave me,” Felicity says again. She pushes past us on the path, and we let her lead.

We walk for some time, until the lush ripeness of the meadow gives way to thick copses of gnarled trees. The sky is a gloomy color 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 what’s on 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. "But we have the power. Let’s change it back, shall we?”

We put our hands on the tree. 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 withered fruits grow fat and purplish red; the branches sag under their succulent weight.

“Ah, that’s jolly,” Felicity says, brushing bark dust from her hands.

“We should do this everywhere,” I say. “We could make every place as beautiful as the garden.”

We get to work immediately. Where we see rotting fruit or decaying trees, we join hands, close our eyes, and use our power. Our eyes open and there is a gorgeous oak tree in full radiance or a bright bunch of blue-red berries, juicy and inviting on the vine. They are small corrections, and we are rather proud of ourselves for the work. Felicity touches the grass and slender sprigs of it spring to life, vibrant and green. Ann breathes upon a crumbling heap of leaves that transform into butterflies. They spiral up in a blur of gold and black, circling us with their winged beauty before flying out and away. Under our care, the withered trees soon become a thriving orchard. It is satisfying, but we are tired from our efforts. Wielding the magic is no small feat.

I wipe the moist sheen from my brow. “Shall we go back?”

“Just a little farther,” Felicity says. “I want to see what is around that bend on the path.”

She wants to find Pippa. She doesn’t have to say it.

“A little farther,” I agree. "Then we’ll turn back.”

The ground is less forgiving here. Brambles form an impenetrable wall. Their thorns are sharp and plentiful. We’re wise to stay back from them. But when I peer through the holes in the bramble wall, I can see more ruined land. It is a strange mixture of green and rock and mist, much like the English moors in the Brontë sisters’ eerie tales. More twisted trees dot the land. And farther on, something rises from the mist.

“Do you see that?” I ask, blinking.

“What?” Ann asks, trying to peer in without pricking herself.

“There, by the hill. Is that a castle?”

“Let me see!” Felicity searches for a peephole. “This is hopeless. I can’t see a thing. Gemma?”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

She looks at me as if I’m the village idiot. “Use your magic to clear the brambles.”

“Right you are,” I say, blushing.

I put my hand on the great thorny wall, careful not to prick my skin on the nasty little barbs. In a moment, a wide hole has appeared in its side. We squeeze ourselves in, stepping carefully over the brambles, and thread through the barren forest. 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—a rich purplish red with petals 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 strange feel to it. I am drawn to it, and yet I want to run. It is like a warning, this land.

We reach the edge of the forest and are astonished at what we see. Growing from the hill itself is a magnificent ruin of a castle, all white stone and arched windows. 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.

“Let’s have a look!” Felicity leaps out, but I pull her back to the cover of the trees.

“Fee! We’ve no idea where we are or who lives there!”

“Exactly!” she says, as if I have somehow missed the entire point of our excursion.

“Might I remind you of the Poppy Warriors,” I say, invoking the name of those gruesome knights and their grand cathedral.

Ann shivers, no doubt remembering how they tried to kill us. "Gemma’s right. Let’s go back.”

Something rustles in the trees to our right. We crouch low, keeping ourselves hidden as best we can. A rabbit dashes across the frosty earth. A strange man chases after it. He is big, with a rounded belly and a bald head. His skin is so white it’s as if he were made of chalk, and his eyes burn red.

“Come here, bunny,” he calls, cackling.

As we watch from our hiding place, he does a most curious thing. His curves forward, putting his palms on the ground, his fingers turned out, his elbows bent. His spine arches as if it has no bones at all. He scuttles about like a spider, all quick arms and legs. It is a spellbinding sight.

“Aha!” the creature cries, pouncing. He traps the unlucky rabbit with a slap of his hand and pulls it up by its ears to examine it. The bunny kicks and twists wildly. The creature lowers it to his mouth and licks the animal’s frantic feet.

“Stop!” Ann cries. She claps a hand over her mouth but not before the odd, chalky creature hears. Slowly, his head turns completely around on his body till he stares backward. With a terrible screech, he drops the rabbit and races toward us on those spidery limbs. We stand, ready to run or fight him off, whichever needs be. But when he reaches the line of trees, he stops, sniffing the air.

“You’ve got magic,” he says in awe. He stands tall. We can hear his spine cracking as he does.

“Wh-what if we have?” Felicity tries to be brave, but her voice trembles.

“Magic! Why, mistress, for a touch of it, a drop, I would be your slave.” He pulls back blackened lips to reveal yellow nubs of teeth. His eyelids, too, are ringed in black. It is rather like seeing a person’s skull. “Will you gift me, mistress mine?”

Felicity backs away. Ann and I follow suit.

“I beg you!” the creature says. He lowers his hands to the ground again and moves forward slowly. I feel as though we are being stalked by a large white insect. Every hair on my neck stands on end.

“We shall see,” I say to borrow time. “But first, you must tell us where we are. What is this place?”

The creature smiles. The smile holds no warmth. “Why, these are the Borderlands, mortal girl.”

The Borderlands. The lands that lead directly into the Winterlands. It is no wonder that it feels strange here. We are very close to the malevolent creatures themselves. For all I know, this strange spidery man is among their number.

“Who lives in that castle?” Felicity demands.

“Why, a princess, of course.” He laughs. It is more a cracked wheeze that becomes a hacking cough. “Help me. Please,” he begs.
"I must sit.”

He holds out his arms to me, and I recoil. His skin is as cracked as parched earth and covered in hard, raised welts that both fascinate and repel me. What could have caused such wounds? He sees me looking at them and gives me a demonic smile.

“Do you like pain, mistress?”

“I . . .”

Quick as a whip, he reaches out and grabs hold of my wrist, squeezing till I gasp.