The Sweet Far Thing (94 page)

She takes my hand and leads me to the valley where our battle was recently fought. Amidst the patches of icy snow, unexpected plants grow. Their roots burrow deep under the ice; they grow despite it.

“Tell me what you see,” she says.

“Lovely shoots sticking up. Like early spring,” I say. “Did you plant these?”

She shakes her head. “I done only this one,” she says, fingering a tall plant with thick, flat, red leaves. “I put my hands in the soil, and it was like I could feel the magic there, waitin’. I put m’mind to it, and up it grew. And then, it’s like it took hold, and the rest come up all on their own. It’s a start, innit?”

“Yes,” I say. The valley stretches out long and far, a mixture of color and ice. The injured land struggles to be reborn. It is a very good start.

A man approaches me timidly, his hat in his hand. His terror shows in his shaking limbs and searching eyes. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but I was told you be the one to help me cross on to the next world.”

“Who told you this?”

His eyes widen. “A fearsome creature with a head full o’ snakes!”

“You mustn’t fear her,” I say, taking the man’s hand and leading him toward the river. “She’s as tame as a pussycat. She’d probably lick your hand given the chance.”

“Didn’t seem harmless,” he whispers, shuddering.

“Yes, well, things are not always as they appear, sir, and we must learn to judge for ourselves.”

The ones who need my help come out here and there: This one wants to tell his wife he loved her, as he never could in life; that one is sorry for a falling out she had with her sister, a grudge she held till the end; still another, a girl of perhaps eighteen, is frightened—she cannot walk away from the past so easily.

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She holds tightly to my arm. “Is it true what I hear, that I do not have to cross? That there is a place where I might live on?” Her eyes are wide with a desperate hope fanned by fear.

“It is true,” I answer. “But it is not without cost. Nothing is.”

“But what will become of me when I cross over the river?”

“I cannot say. No one can.”

“Oh, will you tell me which path to take, please?”

“I cannot make that choice for you. It is yours alone to make.”

Her eyes well with tears. “It is so very hard.”

“Yes, it is,” I say, and hold her hand because that is all the magic I can muster.

In the end, she makes the choice to go—if I will accompany her across the river on the barge steered by Gorgon. It is my first journey of this sort, and my heartbeat quickens. I want to know what lies beyond what I have already seen. The closer we get to the shore, the brighter it grows, until I have to turn my head away. I hear only the knowing sigh of the girl. I feel the barge lighten and I know she has gone.

My heart is heavy as we turn back. The gentle laps of the river’s current are but the whispered names of what has been lost: my mother, Amar, Carolina, Mother Elena, Miss Moore, Miss McCleethy, and some part of myself that I shan’t get back.

Kartik. I blink hard against the tears that threaten. “Why must things come to an end?” I say softly.

“Our days are all numbered in the book of days, Most High,” Gorgon murmurs as the garden comes once more into view. “That is what gives them sweetness and purpose.”

When I return to the garden, a gentle breeze blows through the olive grove. It smells of myrrh. Mother Elena approaches, her medallion shining against her white blouse.

“I would see my Carolina now,” she says.

“She’s been waiting for you across the river,” I say.

Mother Elena smiles at me. “You have done well.” She places a hand to my cheek and says something in Romani that I do not understand.

“Is that a blessing?”

“It is only a saying: To those who will see, the world waits.”

The barge drifts, ready to carry Mother Elena across the river. She sings some sort of lullaby. The light grows, bathing her in its glow till I can no longer tell where the light ends and she begins. And then she is gone.

To those who will see, the world waits.
It feels like much more than a saying. And perhaps it is.

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Perhaps it is a hope.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

IWAIT FOR SOME TIME TO SPEAK PRIVATELY WITH MRS. Nightwing. At five minutes after three o’clock, the door to her room opens, admitting me entrance to the inner sanctum. I’m reminded of the first day I arrived at Spence, in my black mourning dress, lost and grief-stricken, without a friend in the world. How much has happened since then.

Mrs. Nightwing folds her hands on her desk and gazes at me over the tops of her spectacles. “You wished to speak to me, Miss Doyle?” Good old Nightwing, as constant as England.

“Yes,” I start.

“Well, I do hope you shall be quick about it. I’ve two teachers to replace, now that Mademoiselle LeFarge is to be married and Miss McCleethy…now that Sahirah…” She trails off, blinking. Her eyes redden.

“I am sorry,” I say.

She closes her eyes for the briefest moment, her lips trembling ever so slightly. And then, like a dark cloud that only threatens rain, it passes. “What was it you wanted, Miss Doyle?”

“I shall be most grateful for your help in the matter of the realms,” I say, straightening.

Nightwing’s cheeks redden with a true blush. “I don’t see what assistance I could possibly offer.”

“I shall need help maintaining the door and keeping watch, especially while I am away.”

She nods. “Yes. Certainly.”

I clear my throat. “And there is one more thing you may do. It is about Spence. And the girls.” She cocks an eyebrow, and I feel it like a gunshot. “You could truly educate them. You could teach them to think for themselves.”

Mrs. Nightwing does not move save for her eyes, which she narrows to suspicious slits. “You are in jest, I trust?”

“On the contrary, I have never been more in earnest.”

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“Their mothers shall be overjoyed to hear it,” she mutters. “No doubt they’ll race to our doors in droves.”

I bang my fist on the desk, rattling Mrs. Nightwing’s teacup and Mrs. Nightwing in that order. “Why should we girls not have the same privileges as men? Why do we police ourselves so stringently—whittling each other down with cutting remarks or holding ourselves back from greatness with a harness woven of fear and shame and longing? If we do not deem ourselves worthy first, how shall we ever ask for more?

“I have seen what a handful of girls can do, Mrs. Nightwing. They can hold back an army if necessary, so please don’t tell me it isn’t possible. A new century dawns. Surely we could dispense with a few samplers in favor of more books and grander ideas.”

Mrs. Nightwing is so very still I fear I may have stopped her heart with my outburst. Her normally commanding voice is but a squeak. “I shall lose all my girls to Miss Pennington’s.”

I sigh. “No, you shan’t. Only ninnies go to Penny’s.”

“Most ungracious, Miss Doyle.” Mrs. Nightwing tuts. She places the teacup exactly so on its saucer.

“And you? You will forgo your season for a university in America. Are you truly prepared to turn your back on all of that privilege and power?”

I think of those ladies in their stiff gowns and forced smiles, drowning their hunger with weak tea, trying hard to make themselves fit into such a narrow world, desperately afraid the blinders will slip and show them what they’ve chosen to close out.

“Privilege is not always power, is it?” I say.

Mrs. Nightwing nods slowly. “I will offer you every assistance in the realms. You may rely on it. As for the other matter, that shall require more thought than I care to give it at the moment. The sun still reigns in the sky, and I’ve a school full of girls awaiting my instruction and care. I have my duties, too. Is there another matter to discuss, or is that all for today?”

“That is all. Thank you kindly, Mrs. Nightwing.”

“Lillian,” she says so softly I nearly miss it.

“Thank you…Lillian,” I say, tasting her name on my tongue like an exotic new curry.

“You’re welcome. Gemma.” She shuffles some papers on her desk and pins them beneath a silver box, only to remove it and shuffle them again. “Are you still here?”

“Right,” I say, rising quickly. In my haste for the door, I nearly topple the chair.

“What was it you said about Miss Pennington’s?” she asks.

“Only ninnies go to Penny’s?”

She nods. “Yes, that was the phrase. Well. Good day to you, then.”

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“Good day.”

She does not look up or see me out. I am no more than a few steps from Mrs. Nightwing’s room when I hear her repeat to herself, “Only ninnies go to Penny’s.” It is followed by the strangest sound, one that starts low and moves high. A laugh. No, not a laugh—a giggle. It is a giggle full of high spirits and merry mischief, proof that we never lose our girlish selves, no matter what sort of women we become.

The next morning dawns pink and hopeful and sweetens into a glorious late-spring day. The rolling green fields behind Spence are alive with bursts of hyacinth and bright yellow flowers. The air is perfumed with lilac and rose. The smell is heavenly. It tickles my nose and lightens my head. Clouds roll lazily upon the blue horizon. I do not believe I have ever seen such a lovely sight, not even in the realms. Mademoiselle LeFarge shall have a splendid wedding day.

It is a good half hour before the wedding, and Felicity and I spend it in the gardens, gathering wildflowers for the last time together. She tells me of the new suit of trousers she vows to have fashioned in Paris.

“Think of it, Gemma—never to wear a petticoat and corset ever again. That is freedom,” she says, shaking a daisy by its stalk to emphasize her point.

I pull a rose from its leafy nest and tuck it gently into my sack. “You’ll be the talk of the town; that’s certain.”

She shrugs. “Let them talk. It’s my life to live, not theirs. I’ve my inheritance now. And perhaps, in time and with my influence, ladies in trousers shall be all the rage.”

I am not brave enough to give up my skirts just yet, but somehow I know that Felicity shall wear her trousers with aplomb. With a wicked grin, she reaches into her sack and tosses a handful of mixed blossoms at me. Not to be outdone, I toss several at her. She retaliates, and soon, it’s war.

“Will you behave?” I say, but I’m laughing. A true laugh.

“Only if you will.” Felicity giggles, getting in one more handful.

“Truce!” I screech.

“Truce.”

We’re coated in flowers but our sacks are nearly depleted. We try to salvage what we can. The blossoms are rumpled but they smell divine. I pull a trampled rose from the ground and hold it to my mouth. “Live,” I whisper, and it blooms a majestic pink in my hand.

Felicity smirks. “You do know that won’t last, Gemma. Flowers die. It’s what they do.”

I nod. “But not just yet.”

On the hill, the chapel bells peal, calling us to our duties. Felicity brushes the dirt smudges from her skirt
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with a quick whisk of both hands.

“Bloody weddings,” she mumbles.

“Oh, do be happy. How do I look?”

She gives me barely an appraisal. “Like Mrs. Nightwing. That is what comes of befriending her.”

“Charming,” I sigh.

Felicity removes a petal from my hair. She cocks her head, examining me. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “You look just like Gemma Doyle.”

I decide that it is a compliment. “Thank you.”

“Shall we?” she asks, offering her arm.

I link mine through hers, and it feels good and sure. “Let’s.”

It is a lovely, small wedding. Mademoiselle LeFarge is resplendent in a suit of blue crepe the very color of sapphires. We girls had rather hoped for a gown befitting a queen—all lace and bows and a train as long as the Thames—but Mademoiselle LeFarge insisted that a woman of her age and means shouldn’t put on airs. In the end, she is proved right. The suit is perfect, and the inspector beams at her as if she were the only woman in the world. They say their vows, and Reverend Waite exhorts us to stand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Stanton Hornsby Kent.”

“I don’t see why she has to give up her name,” Felicity grumbles, but the organ’s sudden off-key warbling of the recessional drowns her out.

We follow the happy couple out the chapel doors to the waiting carriage Mrs. Nightwing has provided.

Brigid blows hard into her handkerchief. “I awlways cry at weddings,” she says with a sniffle. “Wasn’t it luvly?” And we have to agree it was.