The Sweet Far Thing (81 page)

“No, you’re not. And so I must speak very plainly, sir. You are never to approach my family again, or there shall be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite,” he gasps.

“What about the realms?” Kartik calls out. “Do you forget that we have long been its guardians? Will you not come with us into the Winterlands?”

The men mumble to one another. No one comes forward for the ardous journey.

“Very well,” Lord Denby says. “I shall assemble some foot soldiers for the task.”

“Foot soldiers?” I ask.

Kartik folds his arms. “Men like Fowlson and me. Men who won’t be missed.”

“Yes, take Mr. Fowlson with you,” Lord Denby says as if suggesting a servant for hire. “He has a way with a knife. You’re a good chap, aren’t you, Folwson?”

Mr. Fowlson accepts the statement like a blow he will not return. His jaw clenches.

“As it is my choice, I
shall
have Mr. Fowlson. We understand one another. And he does have a way with a knife,” I say. “Untie my brother, if you please.”

Mr. Fowlson loosens Tom’s bonds. He shoulders Tom’s limp body, and we move toward the door.

“The blindfold!” a man bellows.

I throw it on the floor. “I don’t need it. If you wish to wear it, be my guest.”

“Gemma! What the devil is going on? What did you do?” Tom demands. He’s beginning to unravel, and action must be taken.

“Hold him still, will you, please?” I say to Kartik and Fowlson, who take hold of Tom’s arms.

“Here now! Unhand me at once!” he insists, but he’s a bit too groggy to struggle.

“Thomas,” I say, removing my gloves, “this will hurt you far more than it will hurt me.”

“What?” he says.

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I give him a good, clean punch to the mouth, and Tom is unconscious.

“You’re a hard one,” Fowlson says to me, propping my brother up in the carriage.

I settle my skirts over my legs properly and pull my glove neatly over my aching hand. “You’ve never taken a carriage ride with my brother when he is in such a state, Mr. Fowlson. Trust me, you will thank me for it.”

When Tom has recovered his senses—what sense he has, that is—we sit near the embankment. The streetlamps cast pools of light onto the Thames; they run like wet paint. Tom’s a mess: His collar sticks out like a broken bone, and the front of his shirt is spotted with his blood. He holds a wet handkerchief to his bruised face while stealing glances at me. Each time I meet his gaze, he looks quickly away. I could call on my magic to help me here, to blot all traces of this evening and my powers from his mind, but I decide against it. I’m tired of running. Of hiding who I am to make others happy. Let him know the truth of me, and if it’s too much, at least I shall know.

Tom moves his jaw gingerly. “Ow.”

“Is it broken?” I ask.

“Nuh, jus huhts,” he says, putting the handkerchief to his bloody bottom lip and wincing.

“Don’t you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Tal’ abou’ wha’?” He glances at me like a frightened animal.

“What just happened.”

He removes the handkerchief. “What is there to discuss? I was given ether, taken to a secret hideaway, bound, and threatened with death. Then my sister, the debutante, who is supposedly away at school learning to curtsy and embroider and order mussels in French, unleashed a force the likes of which I’ve never seen and which cannot be explained by any rational mind or laws of science. I shall commit myself come morning.” He stares out at the murky river that snakes through the heart of London. “It was real, all of it. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say.

“And you’re not going to, em…” He makes a hand motion like waving a wand, which I suppose stands for “unleash magical forces that frighten me.”

“Not at present,” I say.

He winces. “Can you make this pain in my head go away?”

“Sorry,” I lie.

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He puts the wet cloth to his cheek and sighs. “How long have you been…like this?” he asks.

“Are you sure you want to hear it—all of it? Are you ready for the truth?” I ask.

Tom considers for a moment, and when he answers, his voice is sure. “Yes.”

“It all began last year on my birthday, the day Mother died, but I suppose, in truth, it began much earlier than that….”

I tell him about my powers, the Order, the realms and the Winterlands. The only thing I don’t divulge is the truth about Mother killing little Carolina. I don’t know why. Perhaps I sense he’s not ready to know that just yet. Maybe he never will be. People can live with only so much honesty. And sometimes, people can surprise you. I talk to my brother as I never have before, trusting in him, letting the river listen to my confessions on its path toward the sea.

“It’s extraordinary,” he says at last. He stares at the ground. “So they really did want you, not me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s no matter. I rather hated their port,” he says, trying to cover the injury to his pride.

“There is a place that would have you if you would have them,” I remind him. “It may not be your first choice, but they are sound men who share your interests, and you may come to like them best over time.” Then, changing the subject, I say, “Tom, there is something I must know. Do you think that I could have brought Father’s illness on, when I tried to make him see…with the magic…”

“Gemma, he has consumption, brought on by his grief and his vices. It’s not your doing.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Don’t misunderstand me—you are quite vexing.” He touches his tender jaw. “And you hit like a man. But you didn’t cause his illness. That is his doing.”

Farther down the river, a ship’s horn makes a mournful cry. It’s plaintive and familiar, a howl in the night for what one has lost and can’t get back.

Tom clears his throat. “Gemma, there’s something I need to say to you.”

“All right,” I reply.

“I know you adore Father, but he isn’t the white knight you imagine him to be. He never was. True, he’s charming and loving in his way. But he’s selfish. He’s a limited man determined to bring about his own end—”

“But—”

Tom grabs both my hands in his and gives them a small squeeze. “Gemma, you can’t save him. Why can’t you accept that?”

I see my reflection on the surface of the Thames. My face is a watery outline, all blurred edges with nothing settled.

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“Because if I let go of that”—I swallow hard, once, twice—“then I have to accept that I am alone.”

The ship’s horn howls again as it slips out toward the sea. Tom’s reflection appears beside mine, just as uncertain.

“We’re every one of us alone in this world, Gemma.” He doesn’t say it bitterly. “But you have company, if you want it.”

“We stayin’ out ’ere all nigh’?” Fowlson calls. He and Kartik lean against the carriage like a couple of stoic andirons in need of a fire to guard.

I offer Tom my hand and help him up.

“So this magic of yours…I don’t suppose you could make me into a baron or an earl or something like that? A duchy would be nice. Nothing ostentatiously grand—well, unless you care to make it so.”

I push that one rebellious lock from his forehead. “Don’t press your luck.”

“Right.” He grins and his lip cracks open again. “Ow!”

“Thomas, I intend to live my own life as I see fit without interference from now on,” I tell him as we press toward our carriage.

“I shan’t tell you how to live it. Just don’t turn me into a newt or a braying ass or, heaven forbid, a Tory.”

“Too late. You’re already a braying ass.”

“God, you’ll be insufferable now. I’m too frightened to say anything back,” Tom says.

“You don’t know how happy that makes me, Thomas.” Fowlson goes to open the carriage door, but I get there first. “I have it, thank you.”

“Where are we going?” Tom asks, brushing past me and settling himself inside without so much as a care for the rest of us. Order has returned.

“A place where you’re wanted,” I say. “Mr. Fowlson, take us to the Hippocrates Society, if you please.”

Fowlson folds his arms across his chest. He won’t look at me. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you ask fer me?”

“I trust them slightly less than I do you. And it would seem that I believe in you slightly more.”

“They wouldn’t leave me behind,” Fowlson says quietly.

Kartik scoffs.

“Do you believe that enough to stake everything upon it?” I ask. “I will not be threatened any longer.

They have no power over me. This is your chance to be heroic, Mr. Fowlson. Don’t fail me. Don’t fail

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her,
” I say meaningfully.

“I would never,” he says, looking down. And I realize that even Mr. Fowlson has his Achilles’ heel.

When we arrive at the Hippocrates Society, Mr. Fowlson bangs hard on the doors until they swing open.

“What is it?” a white-haired gentleman demands, several of his compatriots at his heel.

“Please, sirs, it’s Mr. Doyle. We need your help.”

The gentlemen push out in a haze of cigar smoke. Nursing his bruised face, Tom wobbles from the carriage with Kartik’s and Fowlson’s help while I follow.

“Doyle, old boy. What has happened?” the white-haired gentleman exclaims.

Tom rubs his sore jaw. “Well, I…I…”

“As we returned from dinner, ruffians set upon our carriage,” I explain, wide-eyed. “My dear brother saved us from those who would have done us harm.”

“I…I did?” Tom’s head whips in my direction. I plead with my eyes:
Don’t muck this up.
“Right! I did.

Terribly sorry to be delayed.”

The men fall into shouts and questions. “You don’t say!” “Fantastic tale—how did it happen?” “Let’s have a look at that jaw!”

“It—it really was nothing,” Tom stammers.

I tighten my hold on Tom. “Don’t be so modest, Thomas. He dispensed with them single-handedly.

They didn’t stand a chance against such a brave and honorable man.” To say this, I must fight the giggle that shouts “Ha!” from my stomach.

“A splendid display of courage, old boy,” one of the gentlemen says.

Tom stands blinking in the light, rather like an old dog without the sense to come in from the rain.

“Don’t you remember, Thomas? Oh, dear. I fear that blow to your head was more severe than we thought. We should take you straight home to bed and call for Dr. Hamilton.”

“Dr. Hamilton is already here,” Dr. Hamilton says. He steps out, a brandy snifter in his hand and a cigar clenched between his teeth.

“Single-handedly?” the white-haired man asks.

Another gentleman, with thick spectacles, claps Tom on the back. “There’s a good man.”

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A younger man takes Tom’s other arm. “A warm brandy is all you need to get you back on your feet.”

“Indeed. I should like that very much, thank you,” Tom says, managing to look both sheepish and proud at the same time.

“You must tell us exactly how it happened, chap,” Dr. Hamilton says, ushering Tom into the small but cozy club.

“Well,” Tom begins, “in our haste this evening, my driver foolishly took a shortcut near the docks and was lost. Suddenly, I heard cries of ‘Help! Help! Oh, please help!’”

“You don’t say!” the gentlemen gasp.

“I counted three—a
half dozen
men of dubious character, brigands with eyes devoid of all conscience….”

I see I am not the only one gifted with imagination. But tonight, I shall allow Tom his glory, however much it vexes me. A kindly gentleman offers assurances to me that my “heroic brother” will be well looked after, and I’m quite sure that after tonight’s tale, his place in that society is assured.