The Sweet Far Thing (71 page)

The illustration in the book—it told me where to look all along. The Hidden Object. Wilhelmina Wyatt was a magician’s assistant, with a knowledge of sleight of hand. If she’d wanted to hide something…

I feel around the edges of the slate until my fingernail finds a small latch in the wood. I press it down, and the board loosens. When I slide it out of the way, there’s the leather roll I’ve seen in my visions. My fingers shake as I slip the ties loose and peel back the ends.

And there inside is a slim dagger with a jeweled hilt.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

May 1

THE SUN HAS TAKEN ITS BOW, AND DUSK DESCENDS. THEair is warm; birds give a last concert before sleep. All in all, it is the perfect night for Spence’s masked ball, but I shall not rest easy until the night passes.

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Lanterns have been set out on the lawn and far down the road to light the way. A long black line of carriages snakes toward us and around the drive. Our families arrive. Servants help Marie Antoinette and Sir Walter Raleigh, Napoleon and Queen Elizabeth from their coaches. All sorts of colorful characters drift over the lawn. With their masked faces, they lend the festivities a fantastical air. Music fills the ballroom. It floats from the open windows and into the woods. Girls streak by in layers of lace and tulle.

I’m enjoying none of it.

I’d hoped Kartik would surprise me tonight. But there has been no signal, so I take my lantern to the front lawn to wait for my own family to arrive. I see Father first. He is a raja with a jeweled turban.

Grandmama, who lives in terror of enjoying herself, has worn one of her gowns, but she has added a Harlequin mask on a stick. Tom wears a jester’s hat, which is far more appropriate than he knows.

“Ah, here is our Gemma now,” Father says, taking in the sight of my tunic and boots—and the jeweled dagger at my waist. “But soft, she is not our Gemma at all but a leader of men! A saint for the ages!”

“It’s Gemma of Arc,” Tom sneers.

“And the fool,” I counter.

“I am a jester. It is not the same at all,” he sniffs. “I do hope there is supper.”

Father has one of his coughing fits.

“Are you well enough, Papa?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” He wheezes. His face is red and sweaty. “Just haven’t quite got used to this country air.”

“Dr. Hamilton said it would do you good.” Grandmama tuts.

“The doctor was called for?”

Father pats my hand. “Now, now, pet. Nothing to worry about. All well and good. Let’s see what fine entertainment is in store tonight.”

A parlor maid holds a serving bowl offering ornate masks—birds, animals, imps, and Harlequins. They turn the smiles worn beneath them into threatening leers.

Felicity is a Valkyrie, her shining blond hair flowing over a dress of silver complete with wings. Her mother has come as Little Bo Peep; her father wears his naval uniform and a fox mask. The Markhams have come as well, much to Mrs. Nightwing’s delight and Felicity’s misery. Each time Horace, in his Lord Fauntleroy blues, draws near, she looks as if she could strangle him, which only makes him want her the more.

I wish I could go to her, to dance and turn the magic loose as we’ve done before. But a refrain beats inside me:
Beware the birth of May.
And I can’t say what this night will bring.

Mrs. Nightwing is eager to show the assembly why Spence has its reputation for grace, strength, and beauty, as our motto promises. She has come as Florence Nightingale, her hero. It would prove amusing if I didn’t distrust her so.

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“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you deeply for your attendance this evening. Since its inception, Spence has enjoyed a reputation as an institution where girls become the finest of young ladies. But for many years, our great school has borne the painful reminder of a terrible tragedy. I speak of the East Wing and the fire that claimed it along with the lives of two of our girls and of our beloved founder, Eugenia Spence. But in her honor, we have resurrected the East Wing, and your generous donations shall make it possible to see to its refurbishment. I humbly thank you.

“And now, without further ado, I should like to present a program by our shining jewels. These jewels of which I speak are not diamonds or rubies but the kind and noble girls of Spence.”

Mrs. Nightwing dabs quickly at her eyes and takes her seat. Several of the younger girls—princesses and fairies all—perform a dance, enchanting the guests with their easy innocence.

A man sidles up next to me. His mask hides his face, but I’d know that voice anywhere.

“Nice evenin’ for a party, innit?”

“What are you doing here?” I demand, my heartbeat quickening.

“I was invited, luv.” He grins like a devil.

I snarl low in his ear. “If you do anything to me or my family or my friends, if you make any move at all, I shall employ the magic against you in such a way that you’ll never threaten anyone ever again.”

Fowlson’s grin is quick and wide. “That’s the spirit, luv.” He puts his mouth dangerously close to my neck. “But don’t fret, Miss Doyle. I’m not ’ere tonight for you. Is your friend Kartik ’ere? If not, it’s no worries—I’ll find ’im, I’m sure.”

Kartik.

I turn and run from the room as the little girls curtsy politely, like the adorable dolls they are, and the guests applaud them. I’m out of breath by the time I reach Kartik in the boathouse. “Fowlson is here. I believe he’s come for you,” I gasp. “To hurt you.”

He doesn’t seem alarmed, doesn’t make a move.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes,” he says, closing his book. “
The Odyssey.
I’ve finished it, if you’d care to read it.”

I grab hold of his arm. “We have to hide you. I could turn you into someone else or—”

“I’ll not go into hiding again,” he says. “And I’m not concerned about Mr. Fowlson.”

“You’re not?”

He places the book on a high ledge by the window. “I’ve changed my mind. I need to know if Amar…I need to know. Do you understand?”

“You’re ready to see the realms,” I say.

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“I don’t know that I’m ready,” he says, with a small scoffing laugh. “But I would go. I would see them.”

I offer him my hand. “Trust me.”

Kartik laces his fingers in mine. “Show me.”

“We must be careful,” I say. With everyone watching the performance, the lawn is empty and silent. But I wouldn’t want to draw any attention. We crouch and run low across the grass until we reach the turret of the East Wing. I put my hand out. The air crackles. The door shimmers into view. Kartik’s face shows true awe.

“That is extraordinary,” he whispers.

“That is nothing,” I say. I grip his hand and lead him through the corridor, and when we go through the door, he is a man transformed.

“Welcome to the realms,” I say.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

ISHOW HIM THE GARDEN FIRST, BECAUSE THAT IS WHERE I first came to know this world and because it is so beautiful I want to share it with him. Kartik spins around, his head leaned back.

White blossoms rain down, coating his hair and eyelashes like snow. He opens his palms to accept them.

“This is the garden,” I say almost proudly. “There is the river. Over there is the grotto where the Runes of the Oracle once stood. This is where the Order ruled, where the Rakshana once ruled with them.”

“I feel as if I’m in a dream.” Kartik strides to the river and moves his hand over the singing waters.

Eddies of silver, gold, and pink spring to the surface where he has touched it.

“Look at this,” I say. I blow on blades of grass and they become a flutter of butterfly wings. One lands on Kartik’s outstretched hand before flying away. I’ve never seen Kartik so happy, so carefree. He finds the hammock I wove weeks ago and falls into it, listening to the sweet murmuring of its threads. He rolls the sleeves of his shirt to a point above his elbows, and though it is immodest, I cannot keep myself from stealing quick glances at his exposed arms.

“Would you care to sit?” He offers the narrow strip beside him.

“No, thank you,” I manage to say. “There is so much else to see.”

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I lead him through the poppy fields below the Temple, pointing to the high cliffs that rise above us.

Etched into the sides are the sensual carvings of half-dressed women that brought a blush to my cheek the first time I saw them. From the corner of my eye, I watch Kartik, wondering if he will find them scandalous.

“They remind me of India,” he says.

“Yes, exactly so,” I say, hoping my voice does not betray me.

Kartik’s gaze dips to my neck and shyly down.

“I should show you the Caves of Sighs,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse.

I lead him through the narrow passage in the earth, up the mountain pass, among the pots that belch their colorful smoke, and to the top. The Hajin bow to us, and Kartik returns the gesture with respect.

“These are the Caves of Sighs,” I say. We pass the engraving of the two hands clasped inside a circle.

Kartik stops before it.

“I know this. It’s Rakshana.”

“It belongs also to the Order,” I say.

“Do you know what it means?” he asks, moving closer to it.

I nod, blushing. “It is the symbol for love.”

He smiles. “Yes, I remember now. The hands inside a circle. You see? The hands are protected by the circle, the symbol of eternity.”

“Eternity?”

“Because there is no telling where it begins or ends, nor does it matter.”

He traces the pattern with his fingers.

I clear my throat faintly. “They say you can see each other’s dreams if you place your hands inside the circle.”

“Is that so?” He lets his palm rest just outside it.

“Yes,” I say.

Wind blows through the caves and they sigh. The stones speak.
This is a place of dreams for those
who are willing to see. Place your hands inside the circle and dream.

I put my hands inside the circle and wait. He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t move. He will not do it.

I know him. My heart sinks with the knowledge.

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He shifts his hand inside, near my own. Our fingers and thumbs reach toward each other but do not quite touch, our hands two countries separated by the narrowest of oceans. And then his fingers nudge mine.

The stones fade away. A bright white light forces me to close my eyes. My body falls away and I am inside a dream.

My arms shine with golden bangles that catch the light. My hands and feet have been painted in ornate patterns, like a bride’s. I wear a sari the deep purple of an orchid. When I move, the folds of the fabric change color, glistening from orange to red, from indigo to silver.

A celebration is taking place. Girls in bright yellow saris dance barefoot on a blanket of lotus blossoms.

Smiling warmly, they dip their hands into large clay bowls, scooping up rose petals, which they throw high into the air. The colorful rain falls slowly, the petals settling in my hair and on my bare arms. The scent reminds me of my mother, but I am not sad. It is too joyful a day.

The girls clear a path for me. They run, tossing flowers until the way ahead is a fluttering spectacle of red and white. I follow them toward blue sky. I am at the mouth of a mighty stone temple as ancient as days.

Above me, Shiva, the god of destruction and rebirth, sits meditating, his third eye seeing all. Below me are perhaps one hundred steps. I take my first step and everything vanishes—the temple, the girls, the flowers, everything. I am alone on desert sand, the only blot of color for miles. There is nothing in any direction but sky. Hours feel like seconds; seconds are hours, for time is a dream.