The Sweet Far Thing (75 page)

I run desperately after him, spilling one woman’s punch on her dress. “Sorry,” I mumble. I see him.

Chain mail. Tunic. A mask of black feathers. He takes the arm of a lady and leads her away from the ballroom and into the great room, where I lose them both. They are not among the fairies, imps, and birds of prey assembled here.

The column pulses with life. One of the beasties trapped there breaks free and lights upon Cecily’s shoulder. I see her eyes flutter as the thing licks her neck.

“Get away!” I shout, charging her.

“You’re the most appalling girl!” Cecily huffs.

Up on the ceiling, the shiny winged creature puts a finger to her lips. I blink twice, but she is still there.

“It’s not real! None of it! She’s done this to me!” I hear my laugh—a great big witch’s cackle—and it terrifies me. I reach for the dagger and remember that it is gone.

“She took it,” I say.

“Shhh,” the fairy says, and warmth floods through me. I feel as though I have drunk honeyed wine. My head is heavy. The guests’ words are long velvet strings of sound too plush to hear. I am attuned only to the scratchy whispers of the tiny creatures. Their voices are as sharp as flint against stone, each word a spark.

“Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice…”

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“Leave me alone!” I shout, and the revelers stare at this girl who has lost her mind.

“’Eard you’re ’avin’ a bit o’ trouble tonight, miss,” Fowlson says. My brother, Lord Denby, Grandmama, McCleethy and Nightwing, Brigid—they are all with him, worry in their faces. Or hatred. It is so hard to tell just now.

“I’m fine,” I protest.

Wasn’t I warned?
She is a deceiver. Wilhelmina feared her—and she didn’t fear much. Beware the
birth of May.

Brigid puts a hand to my forehead. “Poor dear, burning up.”

“Where’s Father?” I say, wild.

“Not to worry, my dear.” Lord Denby’s mouth moves beneath his fox mask. “My carriage has been brought round. Your brother and I shall see him safely to London, where Dr. Hamilton will see to him at once.”

“Straight to bed.” Mrs. Nightwing tuts. There’s real worry in her eyes, and I wish I could tell her everything.

Fowlson takes hold of one side of me while Brigid takes the other, leading me toward the stairs. Lord Denby puts his arm around my brother like the father Tom has always wanted.

Run, Tom,
I think, but the words die inside my head.

I drag my feet, so Fowlson carries me. Down below, I see the Poppy Warrior leading his lady fair out toward the woods. Brigid undresses me, puts me under the covers like a child. I’m given a glass of something that warms my insides and makes me drowsy. I cannot make words.

I stumble to the open window. The air is warm and fragrant with spring, and I breathe it in deeply as if it alone has the power to help me. I see more of those dark birds.

Something white flashes in the trees, and I think I see Pippa on the lawn, moving toward Spence as she did in life. She’s as pale as a sliver of moon, as elusive as truth. No, she’s not there.
Please help me,
I pray, even though I don’t believe in a white-bearded God who delivers justice to the unrighteous and mercy to the deserving. I have seen the wicked go unpunished, the suffering given more suffering to bear.

And if such a God does exist, I do not believe that I shall merit his attention. But for just this one moment, as I see my dead friend floating across Spence’s lawn like a fallen star, I wish I could believe in such comforts, for I am frightened.

My head burns. I burrow into my covers and close my eyes tightly, listening to my heart beating a warning in my blood. I fight back the only way I can. I tell myself it’s not real.

You’re not real, Pippa Cross. I do not see you; therefore, you are not here.
Yes. Good. Very good.

If that is illusion, it will do for tonight.

Eyes still closed, I singsong, “I don’t see you….” This makes me giggle, and the giggle terrifies me anew.

Stop, Gemma, before you go mad
.

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Or am I already there?

Sleep’s curtain is raised, and a pageant of dreams parades upon the stage. Wilhelmina Wyatt running her hands over the slate. My father laughing and happy and my father on the floor, his eyes accusing me.

Philon’s people readying their weapons. The Temple burning. Kartik’s kiss. Pippa’s blue-white eyes. An army thundering over the black sand and bone of the Winterlands. I climb the stairs and stand before the portrait of Eugenia Spence. The vines of the Winterlands circle more tightly around the throats and bodies of those lost souls readied for sacrifice. Their faces are gray. And I see Circe marching through them toward the Tree of All Souls.

I wake to a sound. Something is in the room with me. The nymph glows in the corner. She has caught a mouse, which she gently swings from hand to hand, catching it each time.

“Troubled?” Her laughter is like the splintering of bones. “Everything is set in motion. You cannot stop it.

The day of sacrifice comes.”

“Hush!”

Her whisper wraps around me in a spiral. She dangles the mouse by its tail. Its tiny claws splay out in fear. It tries to climb up itself. “So long, we’ve waited so long, so long. Now she will be free, and so will we all. For that was the bargain made long ago. One soul in exchange for the other.”

I cover my ears. “Stop!”

“As you wish,” she says. She opens her mouth and bites down hard on the mouse’s neck.

I wake with a start, my forehead damp. My nightgown clings to me as if I’ve broken a fever. I let my eyes adjust to the deep dark, and when my room takes shape, I know I’m really awake this time. The rain is splattering against my window, and my body aches. I’m as weak as a new kitten. I don’t hear Ann’s snoring.

“Ann?” I call. She’s not in her bed, and I know in my heart that she has gone into the realms with Felicity.

I have to go after them. I stumble down the stairs and into the kitchen, heading for the lawn and the door. A sharp rap at the window makes me jump. It is too dark to see who is there, and in truth, I am afraid to look. The rapping comes again. The window has fogged. I put my hands to the pane and peer into the night. Ithal puts his face to the pane, startling me. Ithal! I run to open the kitchen door. He stands on the threshold in the pouring rain.

“Ithal! Where have you been?” He looks grim. “What is the matter?”

“It is Kartik. They have taken him. You must save him.”

“Who has taken him?”

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“There is no time. We must go now.”

I think of Ann and Felicity inside the realms. “I have to—”

He hands me a strip of soggy fabric from Kartik’s cloak. It has been branded with the Rakshana insignia. Fowlson.

“Take me,” I say, for if I can get to Kartik, he can help me with my friends.

I follow Ithal through the rain to where Freya waits. My legs are weak, and I stumble once or twice.

Ithal’s eyes are so ringed in shadow they seem hollow.

“Where have you been?” I ask again. “Mother Elena has been terribly worried.”

“The men came for me.”

“Miller’s men? You must tell Inspector Kent! He will not let it stand,” I say, helping myself onto Freya’s back.

“Later. We must go to him now.”

He swings himself onto the horse, behind me, and I feel the coldness of him at my back. With a small kick to the horse’s flanks, we are off. Rain lashes my cheeks and soaks my hair as we gallop into the woods, turning left at the lake. The horse stops suddenly, spooked. She whinnies loudly, pacing before the edge of the water, sensing something.

“Freya,
kele
!” Ithal commands.

The horse will not go on. Instead, she pats her right hoof on the ground and sniffs at the water’s edge, as if searching for something she has lost.

The Gypsy gives a sharp tug on the reins, and Freya turns away, picking up speed until she is in a full gallop that makes my heart pound in rhythm with the strike of her hooves against the road. I can feel the night’s breath on my neck. Only small flashes of lightning brighten the path ahead of us.

We turn off at the graveyard. The sky’s an angry throb of light and sound. Freya weaves between the headstones. Her hooves catch in the mud, and she pitches me dangerously close to the sharp edge of one. I scream and cling to Ithal’s shirt as he rights her, guiding the horse onto a grassy path, which she takes at a more cautious clip.

“Where are we going?” I shout.

The storm is coming down heavier than before. It blinds me and I have to tuck my head to keep the water from my eyes. Ithal answers, but I can’t hear over the pounding of the rain.

“What did you say?” I ask.

It sounds like humming or praying. No, he’s chanting. Words fly past as fast as rain on wind, filling me with an icy dread.

“A sacrifice, a sacrifice, a sacrifice…”

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The piece of cloth turns to snakes in my hand. I scream and the snakes turn to ashes. Just ahead, mounds of earth sit on either side of an open grave. Ithal steers Freya straight for it, gathering speed. I jab him with my elbows, but he doesn’t stop. With all my might, I pitch myself from the horse’s back. I land hard against the wet earth just as Freya screams and tumbles into the open grave. I do not hear her hit bottom.

I struggle to my feet, feeling my muscles pinch as I do. My legs will bear my weight, but they ache, and my shoulder and left arm are in agony. Trembling, I peer around the headstone, and the ground is as solid as can be.

I choke back a sobbing laugh, and will myself to wake again in my bed, but I don’t. “You’ll wake soon, Gemma,” I tell myself as I hobble through the dark graveyard. “Just sing something to help you through. I had a l-lass in Lincoln-sh-shire, sold mussels from a pail…”

I pass a headstone. Beloved Wife. “S-sold m-mussels f-from a-a…”

Thunder breaks. It makes my teeth chatter. “F-from a p-p-pail…”

Something blocks my path. A flash of lightning splits the sky, illuminating Ithal. Where his eyes should be, there are two deep black pits.

“Sacrifice…,” he says.

I cannot move, cannot think. My legs are frozen in fear. I try to summon the magic, but I’m exhausted and afraid, and it will not come. A voice booms inside my head:
Run. Run, Gemma.

Fast as I can, I bolt away from him, running through a labyrinth of headstones as the sky explodes in thunder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ithal vanish behind a marble angel and reappear on the other side. He is gaining ground. My nightgown is sodden. It slaps against my already weak legs, slowing my gait with its weight. I pull frantically at it, hoisting it to my knees to run faster. Ithal moves steadily behind me. By the time I reach the lake, each breath feels like a razor’s edge slicing through my lungs.

At last, I see it: Rising above the trees is the silhouette of Spence with its ornate, twisted spires. There’s something odd about it. I can’t say what. All I can do is run. Strong moonlight pushes the clouds apart.

The roof is empty. The gargoyles are gone. They are gone, and I feel the earth slipping from beneath me.

Ithal is coming faster, closing the gap between us, and I stumble on. My lungs feel as if they will explode.

Something lands behind me, as hard as stone striking the earth. Every part of me goes cold with fear. I should turn to look, but I can’t. Can’t breathe. Scratching sounds. Like claws on stone. A low growl comes from whatever is behind me.
Don’t turn, Gemma. It isn’t real if you don’t turn. Close your
eyes. Count to ten. One. Two. Three.
The moon is full. A shadow rises tall, much taller than my own on the path. And then the enormous wings unfold.

My head is as light as a balloon. A faint threatens. “Lass…in, in…L-L-Lincolnshire…mussels…a p-pail…”

A loud screech pierces the night. The gargoyle takes flight and lands before me on the path with a tremendous thud, cutting off any hope of escape. I sink to my knees at the sight of the enormous stone bird-beast towering above me. Its face is a hideous living mask, the mouth stretched into a gruesome