The Sweet Far Thing (95 page)

The inspector and his new bride shan’t escape unscathed. With laughter and shouts of “Good luck!” we let sail our orange blossoms. They’re showered with sweet-smelling flowers. The carriage pulls them down the dirt road that leads away from the chapel, and we race after it, throwing our petals to the wind, watching them float on the first heady promise of summer.

The sun bathes my back in warmth. The dirt from the carriage’s wheels whirls above the road whilst some of the younger girls still try to keep pace. My hands are stained with the pungent fragrance of orange blossoms. It all reminds me that at present, I am not between worlds. I am quite firmly here, on this dirt path that winds through the flower gardens and the woods to the top of the hill and out again to the roads that carry people wherever they must travel.

And for the moment, I do not wish to be elsewhere.

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CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

IT IS NOT AN EASY VOYAGE TOAMERICA.

The winds are high. The ship—and my stomach—are buffeted by waves even my magic cannot quell. I am reminded that there are limits to my power, and some circumstances must be borne with as much grace as one can muster, even if it means spending several days in abject misery, clutching a pan like a life preserver. But the seas do calm. I am able to sip the most glorious cup of broth I have ever tasted.

And at last, seagulls flutter overhead in lazy circles, signaling that land is near. Like everyone else, I rush on deck to catch a glimpse of the future.

Oh, New York. It is a most marvelous city—deliciously sprawling and filled with an energy that I can feel even from here. The very buildings seem alive. They are not tidy and tended as in Mayfair; rather, they are mismatched odds and ends of brick and mortar and humanity all pushing against one another in some strange, glorious syncopation—a new rhythm I long to join.

Fathers hoist pinafored daughters and sailor-suited sons onto their shoulders for a better view of it all. A little girl dwarfed by an enormous hair ribbon points excitedly ahead. “Papa! Look!”

There in the city’s steam-and-smoke-smudged harbor is the most extraordinary sight of all: a great copper-clad lady with a torch in one hand and a book in the other. It is not a statesman or a god or a war hero who welcomes us to this new world. It is but an ordinary woman lighting the way—a lady offering us the liberty to pursue our dreams if we’ve the courage to begin.

When I dream, I dream of him.

For several nights now he’s come to me, waving from a distant shore as if he’s been waiting patiently for me to arrive. He doesn’t utter a word, but his smile says everything.
How are you? I’ve missed you. Yes,
all is well. Don’t worry.

Where he stands, the trees are in full bloom, brilliant with flowers of every color imaginable. Parts of the ground are still scorched and rocky. There are hard, bald patches where nothing may ever grow again. It is hard to tell. But in other spots, tiny green shoots struggle their way up. Rich black dirt smooths over the surface of things. The earth heals itself.

Kartik takes a stick and digs in the soft, new soil. He’s making something but I cannot tell what it is yet.

The clouds shift. Shafts of sunlight peek through, and now I can see what he has drawn. It is a symbol: two hands interlocked, surrounded by a perfect, unbroken circle. Love. The day is breaking free. It bathes everything in a fierce light. Kartik is fading from view.

No,
I call.
Come back.

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I’m here,
he says.

But I can’t see. It’s too bright.

You can’t hold back the light, Gemma. I’m here. Trust me.

The water washes over the riverbank, erasing the edges till there’s nothing. But I saw it. I know it’s there. And when I wake, the room is white with the morning sun. The light is so bright it hurts my eyes.

But I don’t dare close them. I won’t. Instead, I try to adjust to the dawn, letting the tears fall where they may, because it is morning; it is morning, and there is so much to see.

Published by Delacorte Press

an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

a division of Random House, Inc.

New York

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2007 by Martha E. Bray

All rights reserved.

Delacorte Press and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Visit us on the Web!www.randomhouse.com/teens

Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us atwww.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bray, Libba.

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The sweet far thing / Libba Bray.—1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: At Spence Academy, sixteen-year-old Gemma Doyle continues preparing for her London debut while struggling to determine how best to use magic to resolve a power struggle in the enchanted world of the realms, and to protect her own world and loved ones.

eISBN: 978-0-375-89060-4

[1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Boarding schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5.

England—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

PZ7.B7386Swe 2007

[Fic]—dc22

2007031302

Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v1.0

For Barry and Josh, with love

And for all who believe that peace

is not an ideal or a pipe dream but a necessity

The essence of nonviolence is love.

Out of love and the willingness to act selflessly,
strategies, tactics, and techniques

for a nonviolent struggle arise naturally.

Nonviolence is not a dogma; it is a process.

—THICHNHATHANH

Peace is not only better than war,

but infinitely more arduous.

—GEORGEBERNARDSHAW

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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.

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 nor die.

—from T
HE
R
OSE OF
B
ATTLE
, W. B. Yeats

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