The Sweet Far Thing (64 page)

But the others at Spence are alive with the excitement the masked ball brings. The girls cannot resist flitting about in their costumes for a trial. They prance before the mirrors that are already too crowded, jockeying for their moment to see themselves as princesses and fairies with ornate masks festooned with feathers and beads. All that can be seen are their eyes and mouths. Some of the younger girls growl at each other, their hands bent into claws. They swipe and jab like wild tigers.

Mrs. Nightwing enters, clapping her hands. “Ladies, let our rehearsal commence.”

The other teachers corral the younger girls, separating the tigers from the fairies. They have them sit on the floor whilst Mrs. Nightwing oversees our performances with the charm and largesse of a prison warden: “Miss Eaton, are you playing the piano or murdering it?” “Ladies, your curtsies must be as snowflakes falling to earth. Softly, softly! Miss Fensmore, that is not a snowflake but an avalanche.”

“Miss Whitford, sing out, if you please. The floor may hear your song quite well, but it is only the floor and cannot applaud it.”

When Mrs. Nightwing calls me to recite my poem, my stomach churns. I do not relish standing before them all, being the center of attention. I shall never remember the words. The girls look at me with expectation, with boredom, with pity. Mrs. Nightwing clears her throat, and it is like a gun firing the start of a race. I am off and running.

“‘Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World—’”

Mrs. Nightwing interrupts me. “Gracious, Miss Doyle! Is this the derby or the recitation of a poem?”

Tittering trickles through the girls. Some of the little tigers giggle behind their hands.

I start again, trying my best to temper my voice and rhythm, though my heart thumps with such force I can draw only the shallowest of breaths. “‘
Turn if you may from battles never done,
/ I call, as they go by me one by one. /
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,
/ For him who hears love sing and never cease.’”

The word
love
has the younger girls giggling again, and I have to wait while Miss McCleethy upbraids them for their rudeness and threatens not to allow them cake if they do not behave. Mrs. Nightwing nods for me to continue.

“‘Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! / You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled /

Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring / The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing….” I swallow
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once, twice. They look at me with such expectation, and I feel that no matter what I do, I shall disappoint. “Um…‘Beauty grown, beauty grown sad…’” My eyes are itchy with tears I want to shed for no reason that I can name.

“Miss Doyle?” Mrs. Nightwing calls. “Do you intend to add a dramatic pause? Or have you gone into a catatonic state?”

“N-no. I only forgot my place,” I murmur.
Don’t cry, Gemma. For heaven’s sake, not here.
“‘Beauty grown sad with its eternity / Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea. / Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, / For God has bid them share an equal fate; / And when at last, defeated in His wars, / They have gone down under the same white stars, / We shall no longer hear the little cry / Of our sad hearts, that may not live or die.’”

There is halfhearted applause as I leave my spot. Head raised, Mrs. Nightwing glares at me through the bottom of her spectacles. “That wants work, Miss Doyle. I had rather hoped for more.”

Everyone seems to hope for more from me. I am a thoroughly disappointing girl all around. I shall wear a scarlet
D
upon my bosom for all to see so that they will know not to raise their expectations.

“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” I say, and the tears threaten again, for underneath it all, I should like to please her, if it’s possible.

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Nightwing says, softening. “Do practice, will you? Miss Temple, Miss Hawthorne, and Miss Poole, I believe we are ready for your ballet.”

“You shall be proud of us, indeed, Mrs. Nightwing,” Cecily trills. “For we have rehearsed ever so much.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” our headmistress replies.

Blasted Cecily. Always so very superior. Does she ever have bloodstained dreams? Does her sort ever worry about anything at all? Living in her precious cocoon where no trouble may intrude.

Cecily floats across the floor with absolute grace. Her arms arch over her head as if they would shield her from all harm. I cannot help it: I hate her smugness and sureness. I wish I could have what she does, and now I hate myself for that.

Before I can stop it, the magic roars through me. And before I can call it back Cecily slips out of her graceful pirouette. She falls hard, her ankle twisting painfully underneath her as she hits the floor with a loud bang.

Everyone gasps. Cecily’s hands fly to her bleeding mouth and her swelling ankle as if she cannot decide which hurts more. She bursts into tears.

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Nightwing exclaims. Every girl scurries to her side save for me. I stand watching, the magic still weighting my limbs. A tea towel is offered for Cecily’s lip. She sobs while Mrs. Nightwing offers cold comfort by telling her she shouldn’t make such a fuss.

My skin still itches with the magic. I rub my arms as if I could make it go away. I’m overcome with the shouts, the gasps, the confusion, and below that—far below—I hear the raw scratchings of wings.

Something glows in the corner, near the draperies. I move closer. It’s the nymph I saw the other night,
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the one who broke free of the column. She hides inside a fold in the velvet.

“How…how did you get here?” I ask.

“Am I here? Do you see me? Or is it only your mind that says I am here?”

She flits above my head. I make a grab for her but come away with only air.

“Funny. What you did to that mortal.” She giggles. “I like it.”

“It wasn’t amusing,” I say. “It was awful.”

“You made her fall with your magic. You’re very powerful.”

“I didn’t mean to make her fall!”

“Miss Doyle? To whom are you speaking?” Mademoiselle LeFarge asks. I’ve drawn attention away from Cecily. They’re watching me now.

I look back but there’s nothing. Only a drapery. “I…I…”

Across the room, Miss McCleethy looks from me to Cecily and back again, an expression of alarm stealing slowly over her.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Cecily sobs. There is real fear in her eyes. “I don’t know how she did it, Mrs.

Nightwing, but she did! She’s a wicked girl!”

“Wicked.” The nymph cackles in my ear.

“You be quiet!” I shout at it.

“Miss Doyle?” Mademoiselle LeFarge says. “Who…”

I do not give an answer, and I do not wait for permission. I run from the room, down the stairs, and out the door, not caring that I shall earn one hundred bad-conduct marks for it and be made to scrub the floors forevermore. I run by the startled workers trying to erase the East Wing’s past with fresh white limestone. I run till I reach the lake, where I fall into the grass. I lie curled on my side, gasping for breath, and watch the lake through long blades of grass that welcome my tears.

A shy brown mare saunters out from the cover of the trees. She puts her nose to the water but does not drink. She wanders closer and we watch each other warily, two lost things.

When she nears me, I see that it’s Freya. There’s a saddle on her strong back, and I wonder, if she was to be ridden, where is the rider?

“Hello, you,” I say. She snorts and lowers her head, restless. I stroke her nose and she allows it. “Come on,” I say, grabbing hold of her reins. “Let’s take you back home.”

The Gypsies are not usually happy to see me, but today, they blanch at my approach. The women put their hands to their mouths as if they would stop what words might leap out. One of them calls for Kartik.

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“Freya, you naughty girl! We were worried about you,” he says, putting his head to the horse’s nose.

“I found her down by the lake,” I say coolly.

Kartik strokes Freya’s nose. “Where have you been, Freya? Where’s Ithal? Did you see him, Miss Doyle?”

“No,” I say. “She was alone. Lost.” A kindred spirit.

Kartik nods gravely. He takes Freya to her post and brings her oats, which she gobbles up. “Ithal went riding last night and did not return.”

Mother Elena speaks to the others in their language. The Gypsy men shift uncomfortably. A small cry goes up among the women.

“What are they saying?” I whisper to Kartik.

“They say he might be a spirit now. Mother Elena insists they must burn everything of his so that he will not come back to haunt them.”

“And do you think he’s dead?” I ask.

Kartik shrugs. “Miller’s men said they’d get their justice. We will search for him. But if he doesn’t return, the Gypsies will burn every trace of him.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I say, and head for the lake again.

Kartik follows me. “I tied the bandana into the ivy three days ago. I waited for you.”

“I’m not coming,” I say.

“Will you punish me forever?”

I stop, face him.

“I need to talk to you,” he says. There are dark circles under his eyes. “I’m having the dreams again. I’m in a desolate place. There’s a tree, tall as ten men, frightening and majestic. I see Amar and a great army of the dead. I’m fighting them as if my very soul depended upon it.”

“Stop. I don’t want to hear any more,” I say, because I’m tired.
I’m half sick of shadows,
I think, remembering the poem Miss Moore taught us so many months ago, “The Lady of Shalott.”

“You’re there,” he says quietly.

“I am?”

He nods. “You’re right beside me. We’re fighting together.”

“I’m beside you?” I repeat.

“Yes,” he says.

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The sun catches his face in such a way that I can see the tiny golden flecks in his eyes. He’s so earnest, and for a second, I should like to lay down my arms and kiss him.

“Then you’ve nothing to worry about,” I say, turning from him. “For that is most assuredly a dream.”

To say that Mrs. Nightwing is displeased with me is to say that Marie Antoinette received a small neck scratch. Our headmistress allots me thirty conduct marks, and in penance, I am to do her bidding for a week. She begins by having me tidy up the library, which is not the torture she imagines, for any time spent in the company of books cheers my soul. That is, when my soul can be cheered.

McCleethy enters my room without knocking and settles herself in the only chair. “You didn’t come to dinner,” she says.

“I’m not well.” I pull the blanket to my chin as if that might shield me from her prying.

“Whom were you talking to in the ballroom?”

“No one,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “I was rehearsing.”

“You said you didn’t mean to make her fall.”

She waits for me to answer. I lie upon my back and stare at a spot on the ceiling where the paint peels.

“Miss Temple’s ankle is injured. She will not perform her ballet. It’s a pity. She was quite good. Miss Doyle, you might do me the courtesy of looking at me when I am speaking to you.”

I lie on my side and look straight through her as if she were made of glass.

“You can stop pretending, Gemma. I know you have the magic still. Did you cause her fall? I am not here to punish you. But I must know the truth.”

Again I am sorely tempted to tell her everything. It might be a relief. But I know McCleethy. She lures.

She entices. She says she wants the truth when what she really wants is to be proven right, to tell me where I am wrong. And I can’t trust her. I can’t trust anyone. I’ll not fail Eugenia.

I turn back to my fascination with the tear in the ceiling. I want to pick at the wound in the plaster. Rip it down to the boards and start over. Paint it another color. Make it a different ceiling entirely.

“She fell,” I say, my voice hollow.

McCleethy’s dark gaze is upon me, weighing, judging. “An accident, then?”

I swallow hard. “An accident.”

I close my eyes and feign sleep. And after what seems an impossibly long time, I hear the scrape of the chair against the floor, signaling Miss McCleethy’s departure. Her footsteps are heavy with