The Sweet Far Thing (61 page)

“Dr. Van Ripple,” I say, “you said that Wilhelmina had been in contact with a sister, a friend, whom she no longer trusted. Are you certain you can’t recall her name?”

He shakes his head. “As I said, I was never introduced. The lady never came round, and as far as I know, she did not attend our shows. I only know that Wilhelmina feared her, and Mina did not fear much.”

A cold shiver speeds up my spine.

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Van Ripple,” I say, and he sees us out. At the door, he reaches behind Felicity’s ear and produces a perfect red rose, which he hands to her. “I understand they are Mr.

Wilde’s favorite.”

“I will not have it, then,” Felicity says rudely.

“Judge not, lest ye be judged, my dear,” Dr. Van Ripple says with a sad smile, and Fee’s cheeks burn.

“However did you do that?” I ask him, for I find the trick merry even if Fee doesn’t.

“In truth, it is the simplest act in the world. The trick works because you wish it to. You must remember, my dear lady, the most important rule of any successful illusion: First, the people must want to believe in it.”

“I cannot believe he asked five pounds for this.” Felicity clucks as we cloak ourselves in the gloom of London’s streets again.

“Well, let’s hope he spends it quickly before it disappears,” I say.

Under the narrow glow of a streetlamp, we examine the slate, turning it this way and that, but there’s nothing unusual about it that we can see.

“Perhaps words will etch themselves as we watch,” Felicity says.

It’s ridiculous, but we watch it anyway. Absolutely nothing happens.

I sigh. “We’ve bought ourselves a useless slate.”

“But it’s a clean slate,” Felicity quips, and I can’t even be troubled to give her a roll of my eyes.

On our way to the London underground, we pass the striking ladies from Beardon’s Bonnets Factory.

Their faces are long; they lean into one another, resting their protest signs against their skirts whilst passersby pay no attention to their plight or, at the worst, heckle them, calling them the most appalling names.

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“Spare a copper for our cause?” the girl with the coin cup asks, her voice weary.

“I can spare more than that,” I say. I reach into my purse and give her what real coins I have, and then I press my hand to hers and whisper, “Don’t give up,” watching the magic spark in her eyes.

“The tragedy of the Beardon’s Bonnet Factory!” she shouts, a fire catching. “Six souls murdered for profit! Will you let it stand, sir? Will you look away, m’um?”

Her sisters-in-arms raise their placards again. “Fair wages, fair treatment!” they call. “Justice!”

Their voices swell into a chorus that thunders through the dark London streets until it can no longer be ignored.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

WE’VE ONLY JUST ARRIVED BACK ATSPENCE AND PUT OURsuitcases in our rooms when Mrs. Nightwing comes brandishing an invitation. “There is to be a birthday party in honor of Miss Bradshaw’s cousin Mr. Wharton at Balmoral Spring,” Mrs. Nightwing says, rolling the estate’s name on her tongue as if it were wine gone to vinegar.

“No doubt they think we can do them some favor in society,” Felicity mutters for my ears only.

“The party is tomorrow noon, though the invitation only arrived two days ago,” Mrs. Nightwing says, and I hear her add under her breath, “Ghastly manners.

“I know you have missed Miss Bradshaw’s company,” she continues. “Would you care to attend?”

“Oh, yes, please!” Felicity exclaims.

“Very well. You must be dressed and ready to leave first thing in the morning,” she says, and we promise to do so.

In the evening, Felicity sits with the other girls, basking in the praise they heap upon her ball. “And did you adore the Dervishes?” she asks, eyes bright.

“Very nice. And for such a long program it wasn’t too tiring,” Cecily says, managing to put a slap in the

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compliment as is her skill.

“Mother will only allow me a tea,” Elizabeth says, pouting. “I’ll not be remembered at all.”

I leave them and sequester myself in my room to examine Wilhelmina Wyatt’s slate. I turn it over in my hands, scrutinize the tiny nicks as if I might read its history of words there. I put my ear to it in hopes it might whisper its secrets. I even summon a bit of magic, instructing it to reveal all, as if I, myself, were Dr.

Van Ripple. But whatever secrets Miss Wyatt’s slate may hold remain locked tightly inside.

“The key holds the truth,” I say to myself. “The key to what?”

Nothing, as far as I can see. I abandon the slate beside my bed and cross to the window, gazing at the woods beyond, toward the Gypsy camp. I wonder what Kartik is doing now, if he is still tortured by dreams of Amar, of me.

There’s a light below. I spy Kartik with his lantern, looking up at my window. My heart gives a little leap, and I have to remind it not to beat faster for a man who can’t be trusted. I close the drapes, turn down my own lamp, and crawl into bed. Then I shut my eyes tight and tell myself I am not to get back up and go to the window, no matter how much I’d like to.

I can’t say what it is that wakes me. A sound? A bad dream? I know only that I am awake with my heart beating a bit faster. I blink, adjusting to the dark. I hear a noise. It’s not inside the room; it’s above me. The roof groans over my head as if something very heavy were moving about. A long shadow crosses my wall, and I’m up.

Now I hear something else in the hall: a faint scuffling like the rustle of dead leaves. I open the door a crack, but there’s nothing there. I hear it again; it’s coming from below. I tiptoe down the corridor and around the stairs, following the sound. When I reach the great hall, I stop. From deep inside the vast room, the noise is stronger. Scratching. Whispers. Moans.

Don’t look, Gemma. Pass it by.

I peek through the keyhole. Moonlight falls across the room in windowpane blocks. I search each small box of light for movement. A slight shift catches my eye. Something is moving in the dark. I snuff the candle and wait, my knees weak with fear. I count silently—
one, two, three
—ticking off the seconds.

But there is nothing.
Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…

Whispers come again. Soft and chilling as rats’ claws on stone. I press my eye to the keyhole again and my heart bangs against my ribs.

The column. It’s moving.

The creatures molded to it slowly reveal themselves in raised fists and the faint fluttering of reanimated wings. Gasping and gurgling, they squirm and push against the thinning membrane of stone like things ready to be born. I cannot scream, though I want to. A nymph breaks free of the ooze with a snap. She shakes the vestiges of the column from her body and glides through the air. I gasp. She cocks her head, hearing.

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Quick as wind she’s at the keyhole. Her eyes are as large as a doe’s. “You can’t stop us,” she whispers.

“The land is awakened and we with it. And soon will come the day when your blood is spilled and we rule forever. The sacrifice!”

“Here now, wot are you about, miss?”

I fall back against something with a shout and turn to see Brigid staring at me, her hands on her hips, her nightcap on her head. “You should be in bed!” she says.

“I h-heard a n-noise,” I stammer, gulping down my fear.

Brigid frowns and flings open the doors. She lights the lamp nearest us. The room is hushed. Nothing is amiss. But I hear those beastly scratches. Feel them under my skin.

“Don’t you hear that?” I ask, and my voice is desperate.

Brigid frowns. “’Ear what?”

“The column. It was alive. I saw it.”

Brigid’s face shows worry. “Now, now. You’re not tryin’ to scare your old Brigid, are you?”

“I saw it,” I say again.

“I’ll get awl the lights on, then.”

Brigid scurries for the matches.

Scratching. Above my head. Like hell’s messengers. Slide my eyes up, and there she is—the nymph, flattened against the ceiling, a wicked smile on her lips.

“Up there!” I scream.

Brigid turns up the lamp and the nymph is gone. She puts a hand to her chest. “Mary, Mother of God.

You frightened the life out of me! Let’s ’ave a look at that column.”

We inch closer. I want to run. Brigid peers at it, and I half expect something to pull her in. “Well, it’s right queer, like ever’thin’ in this place, but it’s no’ alive. Jus’ ugly.”

She pats the column, and it’s solid. Or is it? For I think I see an empty space in the marble that wasn’t there before.

“Did you have the cabbage?” Brigid asks, turning down the lamps.

“What?” I say.

“Cabbage for dinner. It can give you wind somethin’ terrible and then you’ve got the most ’orrible dreams, too. No more cabbage, if you want m’advice.”

She turns down the last lamp, and the room is cast in shadows again. Brigid closes the door and locks it.

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As we travel the stairs, she speaks to me of what foods and drink make for pleasant sleep, but I’m not really listening to her. My ears are tuned to the dark below us, where I hear that soft scratching and the faintest of cackles.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

TRUE TO HER WORD, THE NEXT MORNINGMRS. Nightwing has us traveling the five miles to Balmoral Spring. As the carriage bounces over muddy roads, I find I’m eager to see Ann again, and I’m hopeful that she will accept an apology for my beastly behavior at her departure.

At last we arrive. Balmoral Spring is a nightmare of a country estate purchased by the sort who have new fortunes, old ambitions, and an appalling lack of taste in all regards. I wonder whether there is a servant left in the whole of England, for footmen stand at the ready for our carriages, and butlers and maids of all stripes line the walk and bustle about the grounds, tending to every need.

I whisper to Fee, “Do you see Ann?”

“Not yet,” she answers, searching the throngs. “What on earth is
that
?”

She nods toward an enormous marble fountain that features Mr. Wharton as Zeus and Mrs. Wharton as Hera. The rays of a bronzed sun shine behind them. Water trickles from Mr. Wharton’s mouth in a rather unfortunate stream, as if he were spitting.

“How absolutely appalling!” Felicity says, clapping in delight. “What other wonders await us?”

Mrs. Nightwing takes in the spectacle of the fountain, the lawns, the ceramic cherubim posed near groomed shrubbery, the newly constructed bandstand. “Merciful heavens,” she mutters.

Mrs. Wharton’s laugh can be heard above the din. We have come in simple summer-weight dresses, straw hats perched upon our heads, but she wears an elaborately beaded blue gown more appropriate for a ball. Diamonds drip from her neck, though it is afternoon. And her hat is a continent unto itself. One quick turn of her head and she nearly takes out a contingent of servants.

“How wonderful you could come,” she says, welcoming us. “Do try the caviar—it has come all the way from France!”

I do not recognize Ann at first. In her stiff gown, her hair pulled back severely, she does not resemble the girl who left us several weeks ago. She is one of those gray phantoms haunting the edges of every party, not quite family, not quite servant, not a guest—something in between acknowledged by none.

And when our eyes meet, she does not hold the gaze. Little Charlotte tugs hard on Ann’s dress.

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“Annie, I want to play in the rose garden,” she whines.

“You broke the roses last time, Lottie, and I was called to account for it,” Ann says quietly.