The Sweet Far Thing (52 page)

“Some o’ the girls picked on ’er. They pulled on ’er braids to see if she would talk.”

“Did she have friends at all?”

Brigid frowns. “That awful Sarah Rees-Too me would sometimes sit with ’er. I’d ’ear ’er askin’ Mina if she really could see into the dark, and wot it was like in that place, and Mrs. Spence took Sarah to task for that and forbade them from playin’ together.”

“Did Miss Wyatt have haunts that were special to her—hiding places, perhaps?” Felicity presses.

Brigid thinks for a moment. “She liked to sit out on the lawn and draw the gargoyles. I’d see ’er wif her book, lookin’ up at ’em and smilin’, like they were ’avin’ a tea party of their own.”

I recall my strange hallucination as I left for London at Easter. The gargoyle with the crow in its mouth. It gives me a shiver to think of Wilhelmina smiling at those hideous stone watchers. Guardians of the Night, indeed.

Brigid slows her dusting. “I do recall Missus Spence frettin’ over Mina later on. The girl had taken to drawin’ dreadful things, and Missus Spence said she were afraid Mina were under a bad influence.

That’s what she said. And then the fire happened shortly after, and those two girls and Missus Spence gone wif it, God rest ’em.” With a sigh, she returns the candlestick and takes the other.

“But what happened to Wilhelmina? Why did she leave?”

Brigid licks her thumb and works at a smudge on the silver. “After the fire, she were actin’

peculiar—’cause of the grief, if you ask me, but no one did.”

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Felicity quickly intervenes. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Brigid,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “What happened next?”

“Well,” Brigid continues, “Mina started scarin’ the other girls with ’er odd behavior. Writin’ and drawin’

those wicked things in ’er book. Missus Nightwing told ’er, relation or no relation to the missus, if she didn’ stop, she’d turn ’er out. But before she could, Mina left in the middle of the night, takin’ somefin’

valuable wif ’er.”

“What was it?” Felicity jumps in.

“I don’ ’ear ever’ fin’, Miss Pesterpants,” Brigid chides.

I mouth
Miss Pesterpants
to Felicity, who looks as if she could cheerfully strangle me.

“Wotever it was,” Brigid continues, “Missus Nightwing were very cross about it. I’ve never seen ’er so angry.” Brigid puts the candlestick back just so. “There. That’s better. I’ll ’ave to ’ave a word with that Emily. And you best get to prayers, before Missus Nightwing turns
you
out and me righ’ after.”

“What do you think it all means?” Felicity asks as we fall in with the other girls. They gather their prayer books and straighten their skirts. They crowd around too-small mirrors, pretending to tidy their hair when really they’re only gazing at themselves, looking for hopeful signs of budding beauty.

“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “Is Wilhelmina trustworthy or not?”

“She does appear in your visions, so it means something,” Felicity says.

“Yes, but so did the girls in white, and they were fiends who would have led me astray,” I remind her.

The very girls who meant to lure Bessie and her friends into the Winterlands for who knows what purpose also came to me in my visions, giving me a measure of truth and lies. In the end, they led us straight into the clutches of the gruesome Poppy Warriors.

“So what is Miss Wyatt?” Felicity asks. “The lady or the tiger?”

I shake my head. “I honestly can’t say. But she took the dagger—that’s for certain—and that’s what we need to find.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

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OUR TRIP TO THE REALMS ISN’T AS MERRY WITHOUTANN. Even the magic can’t lighten the mood. The factory girls take her departure particularly hard. “Our lot got no chance,” Mae grumbles to Bessie.

“You must make your own chances,” Felicity retorts.

Bessie gives her a hard look. “Wot would you know of it?”

“Let’s not fight. I want to dance and play with magic. Gemma?” Pippa gives me a knowing look.

With a sigh, I tread the familiar path to the chapel and Pip follows. This time when we join together in the magic, the draw on me is hard. It’s as if I fall into her deeply. I’m part of her sadness, her envy, her bitterness—things I’d rather not see. When I break away, I’m tired. The magic itches beneath my skin like insects crawling.

But Pip sparkles once again. She nestles into my side and wraps her arms about my waist like a little girl.

“It’s wonderful to feel special, even for just a few hours, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say.

“If I were you, I should never give up this power but keep it always.”

“Sometimes I wish I could.”

Pippa bites her lip, and I know she’s worried.

“What is it?” I ask.

She picks berries from a bowl and moves them between her fingers. “Gemma, I don’t think you should give quite as much magic to Bessie and the others this time.”

“Why not?”

“They’re factory workers,” she says on a sigh. “They’re not accustomed to having such power. Bessie’s gotten quite full of herself.”

“I hardly think that’s—”

“She wanted to go into the Winterlands again. Without you,” Pip admits.

“She did?”

Pip takes my arm. We step carefully over the groaning vines slithering across the floor. “It’s better if I have more, don’t you think? That way they have someone to look up to, someone to guide them.

They’re such children, really. And I can keep them safe for you.”

That’s a laugh coming from Pip, but the news about Bessie sounds an alarm inside me. “Yes, all right. I’ll give them less,” I agree.

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Pip kisses my forehead. She drops the berries she’s been playing with into her mouth, one, two, three.

“Should you be eating those?” I ask.

Pippa’s eyes flash. “What does it matter now? The damage has been done.”

She drops the fourth into her mouth and wipes the juice from her lips with the back of her hand. Then she pushes the tapestry aside with a “Greetings, my darlings!” just like a queen greeting her subjects.

As promised, I give the factory girls sufficient magic to allow them the appearance of clear skin and fine dresses but not enough to create true change. They have no real power this time, only borrowed illusion.

“Don’t seem to work so good tonight,” Bessie grumbles. “Why’s that?”

I swallow the lump in my throat, but Pippa is cool as can be. “That’s the way of the realms, Bessie. It only takes in some. Isn’t that right, Gemma?”

“That is what I’ve been told,” I say, appraising Bessie to see if she will give anything away, but all I see is her disappointment.

“Maybe it’s ’cause we’re not the proper station,” Mercy says.

“Ain’t no stations here. That’s wot I like about it. And besides, it always took in Miss Ann, and she ain’t no better ’n’us,” Bessie says.

“Bessie, that’s quite enough,” Pippa clucks, and Bessie skulks off to sit at the hearth. She feeds small flowers to the fire, watching them spark and burn. “Come now, let’s not pout. I want to dance!”

I’m in no humor for a dance just now, and I can’t find it within me to pretend. Instead, I go for a walk.

The cool air is refreshing; the dusky sky feels sheltering. I push on through the billowing mist, letting my yearning pull me. I want to put my hands on the Tree of All Souls once more, to be joined to it as if we are one being.

The gate opens without a word this time. It has what it wants from me. My feet sink into the black sand.

The air, cold and gritty, presses itself against me; I put out my tongue, tasting it. I follow the roar of the river. A dinghy waits, so I step into it and head toward the heart of the Winterlands. I know not to fight the tide this time, and my little boat sails easily over the rapids, but the path is unfamiliar. It’s not the same one we traveled last time, and panic blooms in me. Where am I? How did I get so lost?

There’s a splash beside the boat, and a water nymph strokes the side of it. She gestures with her head at a cave to the right; then she swims toward it, knifing into and out of the water like a serpent.

Right. I shan’t let her get the best of me. If necessary, I’ll employ the magic. Comforted by that thought, I turn the boat and paddle after her, drifting into the hollowed-out rock. Stalactites hang over my head, great daggers of ice. The cave is bordered by two strips of rocky land that must vanish under the tide, for I see the high-water marks upon the cave’s walls. High above on each side is a ledge.

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The water nymph’s webbed hand caresses my ankle. With a gasp, I shake it loose. Her colored scales remain on my skin in a jeweled handprint.

“You’ll not take my skin without a fight,” I warn, and my words echo in the cave’s emptiness.

The nymph slinks away, dipping below the surface of the water until only her glistening black eyes and water-slicked bald head are visible, and a new wariness steals over me. On the ledge, there is movement.

The faces of ghastly, pale creatures squeeze out of the cracks in the rocks like moths’ heads. They have no eyes, but they sniff, crawling closer to the edge.

My heart’s a fist. Silently, I turn the boat around and am paddling back toward the mouth of the cave when the opening disappears. That can’t be. I hear a snort and the clip-clop of hooves, and Amar sidles into view on his magnificent white steed. He travels over the narrow land on the side of the cave until he is even with me in my boat. My breath catches. Up close he has the same full lips and proud carriage as Kartik. But his eyes are black swirls ringed in red. They hold me fast, and I can’t look away, can’t scream, can’t run.

Use the magic, the magic,
my heart pleads. But it will not catch spark. I’m too afraid.

“I know you’ve seen the priestess. What did she tell you?” Amar asks. His teeth are jagged points.

“You’ll never know,” I manage to say.

Amar’s eyes waver, and for just a moment, they are as brown as Kartik’s. “Tell my brother to remember his heart in all things. That is where his honor and his destiny will be found. Tell him.”

And then, quickly, they revert to that terrifying black abyss circled in red. “We’ll have you yet. Beware the birth of May.”

My breath comes out in quick white puffs, my fear joined with the cold.

“Let me out!” I scream.

Suddenly, the mouth of the cave is visible again, and I paddle for it with all my might, leaving Amar and those pale, blind creatures far behind. The tree is forgotten. I want only to return safely to the Borderlands.

I stagger into the blue forest, breathing hard, and am relieved to see the lights of the castle bleeding out its windows, dispelling the gloom. I’m also relieved to hear my friends’ laughter, for I should like to join it now.

There’s a small rumble of thunder, and when I look behind me at the Winterlands sky, it is drenched in red.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

IT IS A TEDIOUS SORT OF DAY ATSPENCE. WE SPEND THEwhole of our French lesson conjugating verbs. Frankly, I do not care whether it is
I have dined on snails
or
I shall dine on snails,
as I do not intend ever to allow a snail past my lips and so the entire lesson is moot. We repeat the steps of the quadrille until I could perform them in my sleep; we practice our sums so that we might manage the household books someday and be assets to our husbands. Under Miss McCleethy’s direction, we sketch one another in profile; Elizabeth protests that I’ve given her a nose as big as a house when, in truth, I’ve been far too kind. But when it comes to art, everyone is a critic, and there you have it.