The Sweet Far Thing (26 page)

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—”

“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.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He has on his best hedgehog suit.”

“Ah, I should have noticed,” I say, happy to play this game—any game—with 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?”

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“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.”

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“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—a 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.”

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?”

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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—she 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.

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“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 ATSPENCE BEFOREEaster 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—like 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.

“You’re here at last! Ladies! Ladies, our fine party can begin!”

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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—not 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—“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!”—whilst 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.