Rebel Angels (9 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE CARRIAGE HAS COME TO TAKE FELICITY AND Ann to the train station. In the grand marbled foyer, we say our goodbyes while the servants direct the coachmen to their trunks. Felicity looks cool and imperious in her mauve coat and fur muff. Ann is giddy and hopeful in some of Felicity’s borrowed finery, a royal blue velvet capelet far too light for the weather that is secured by the brooch of grapes.

“Have you any magic left?” Felicity asks.

“No,” I say. "It’s gone. You?”

“The same.” Narrowing her eyes, she warns, “Don’t you dare go back without us.”

“For the hundredth time, I shan’t.” The coachman takes the last of their things.
"You’d best get on. Don’t want to miss your train.” It is difficult to talk with all the hustle and bustle. And I hate goodbyes.

Ann beams. "Fee loaned me her cape.”

“Lovely,” I say, trying to ignore the use of Felicity’s nickname. Felicity has never let me borrow anything, and I can’t help feeling a prick of jealousy that the two of them will have the holiday together.

Felicity fiddles with Ann’s clothing, smoothing out wrinkles. “I shall have Mama take us to her club tomorrow for lunch. It is one of the best women’s clubs, you know. We must tell Gemma of our master plan. She’ll have to play her part in it.”

I am already sorry for whatever is to come.

“I am taking it upon myself to reinvent Ann for the holidays. No more of this sad mouse of a girl, this scholarship student. She’ll fit in as if she’s to the manner born. No one will be the wiser.”

Ann pipes up on cue. “I am to tell her mother that I am descended from Russian royalty, and that only recently did my great-uncle, the Duke of Chesterfield, find me here at Spence and inform me of my late parents’ bequest.”

Taking in the sight of pudgy, very English-looking Ann, I ask, “Do you think that wise?”

“I got the idea from the ruby last night. I thought, what if we were to spin our very own illusion?” Felicity says. “What if we play a little game?”

“What if we are found out?” Ann frets.

“We won’t be,” Felicity says. "I shall tell the ladies at the club that before the death of your parents, you received musical training from a world-famous Russian opera singer. They will be thrilled to hear you sing. Knowing how they are, they’ll all fight to have you sing at their dances and dinners. You’ll be the prize exhibit, and the whole time, they’ll have no idea you’re poor as a church mouse.”

There is something feral in Felicity’s grin.

“I shall probably disappoint them,” Ann mumbles.

“You must stop that this instant,” Felicity chides. “I’m not doing all this work on your behalf so that you can go and undo it.”

“Yes, Felicity,” Ann says.

Umbrellas opened against the rain, we step outside, where we can have a moment alone. None of us wants to say what we’re really feeling, that it shall be torture to wait to enter the realms. Having tasted the magic, I cannot wait to try it again.

“Dazzle them,” I say to Ann. We embrace lightly, and then the driver is calling over the cascade of rain.

“Two days,” Felicity says.

I nod. “Two days.”

They skitter off for the carriage, kicking up mud as they do.

Mademoiselle LeFarge is seated in the great hall when I enter. She’s got on her very best wool suit and is reading
Pride and
Prejudice
.

“You look lovely,” I say. "Er,
très jolie
!”

“Merci beaucoup,” she says, smiling. “The inspector is calling for me shortly.”

“I see you are reading Miss Austen,” I say, grateful that she has not upbraided me for my terrible French.

“Oh, yes. I do enjoy her books. They’re so romantic. It’s very clever of her to end always on a happy note—with a betrothal or wedding.”

A maid knocks. "Mr. Kent to see you, miss.”

“Ah, thank you.” Mademoiselle LeFarge puts away her book. “Well, Miss Doyle, I shall see you in the new year, then. Have a happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas to you, Mademoiselle LeFarge.”

“Oh, and do work on your French over the holiday, Mademoiselle Doyle. It is a season of miracles. Perhaps we shall both be granted one.”

Within hours, Spence is nearly deserted. Only a handful of us remain. All day long, girls have been leaving. From my window, I’ve watched them step out into the cold wind for the carriage ride to the train station. I’ve watched their goodbyes, their promises to see each other at this ball or that opera. It’s a wonder they carry on so with tears and “I’ll miss you’s” since it seems as if they will scarcely be apart.

I’ve the run of the place, and so I spend some time exploring, climbing steep stairs into thin turrets whose windows give me a bird’s-eye view of the land surrounding Spence. I flit past locked doors and dark, paneled rooms that seem more like museum exhibits than living, breathing places. I wander until it is dark and past the time when I should be in bed, not that I think anyone shall be searching for me.

When I reach my own floor, I am stopped cold. One of the enormous doors to the burned remains of the East Wing has been left ajar. A key juts from the lock. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve never seen these doors unlocked, and I wonder why they should be opened now, when the school is empty.

Nearly empty.

I creep closer, trying not to make a sound. There are voices coming from inside. It takes me a moment, but I recognize them: Mrs. Nightwing and Miss McCleethy. I cannot hear them clearly. The wind pushes through like a bellows, sending puffs of words out to me: “Must begin.” “London.” “They’ll help us.” “I’ve secured it.”

I am too afraid to peer in, so I put my ear to the crack, just as Mrs. Nightwing says, “I shall take care of it. It is my charge, after all.”

With that, Miss McCleethy steps through the door, catching me.

“Eavesdropping, Miss Doyle?” she asks, her eyes flashing.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Mrs. Nightwing demands.

“Miss Doyle! What on earth!”

“I—I am sorry, Mrs. Nightwing. I heard voices.”

“What did you hear?” Mrs. Nightwing asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You expect us to believe you?” Miss McCleethy presses.

“It’s true,” I lie. “The school is so empty and I was having trouble sleeping.”

Miss McCleethy and Mrs. Nightwing exchange glances.

“Get on to bed, then, Miss Doyle,” Mrs. Nightwing says. “In the future, you should make your presence known at once.”

“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” I say, nearly running to my room at the end of the hall.

What were they speaking of? Must begin what?

With effort, I remove my boots, dress, corset, and stockings, till I am down to my chemise. There are exactly fourteen pins in my hair. I count them as my trembling fingers remove each one. My coppery curls roll down my back in a sigh of relief.

It’s no good. I’m far too jittery to think of sleep. I am in need of a distraction, something to ease my mind. Beneath her bed, Ann keeps a stack of magazines, the sort that offer advice and show the latest fashions. On the cover is an illustration of a beautiful woman. Her hair is adorned with feathers. Her skin is creamy perfection and her gaze manages to be both kind and pensive, as if she’s staring off into the sunset while also thinking of bandaging the skinned knees of crying children. I do not know how to accomplish such a look. I find myself with a new fear: that I shall never, ever be this lovely.

I sit at the dressing table, staring at myself in the mirror, turning my face this way and that. My profile is decent. I’ve a straight nose and a good jaw. Turning to the mirror again, I take in the freckles and pale brows. Hopeless. It isn’t as if there’s something horrific about me; it’s just that there’s nothing that stands out. No mystery. I am not the sort one would picture on the cover of penny magazines, gazing adoringly into the distance. I am not the sort who is pined for by admirers, the girl immortalized in song. And I cannot say that it doesn’t sting to know this.

When I attend dinners and balls—if I attend any, that is— what will others see in me? Will they even notice? Or will sighing brothers and dear old uncles and distant cousins of other cousins be forced to dance with me out of some sense of politeness because their wives, mothers, and hostesses have forced them into it?

Could I ever be a goddess? I brush my hair and arrange it across my shoulders as I’ve seen in daring posters for operas in which consumptive women die for love while looking achingly beautiful. If I squint and part my lips just so, I could be mistaken for alluring, perhaps. My reflection wants something. Gingerly, I push down the shoulder straps of my chemise, baring flesh. I shake my hair slightly so that it goes a bit wild, as if I were a wood nymph, something untamed.

“Excuse me,” I say to my reflection, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I am . . .” Pale. That’s what I am. I pinch roses in my cheeks and start over, adopting a low snarl of a voice. “Who is it that roams my woods so freely? Speak your name. Speak!”

Behind me, there is the clearing of a throat, followed by a whisper.
"It is I, Kartik.”

A tiny yelp escapes from my throat. I jump up from my dressing table and immediately trip on the edge of it, falling on the rug and bringing the chair down with me. Kartik steps from behind my dressing screen, his palms up in front of his chest.

“Please. Don’t scream.”

“How dare you!” I gasp, running for my cupboard and the robe that hangs there. Oh, God, where is it?

Kartik stares at the floor. “I . . . It wasn’t my intention, I assure you. I was there, but I dozed off, and then . . . Are you . . . presentable?”

I’ve found the robe but my fingers cannot possibly work in such a state. The robe is buttoned all wrong. It hangs at an odd angle. I cross my arms to minimize the damage. “Perhaps you do not know, but it is unforgivable to hide in a lady’s room. And not to announce yourself whilst she is dressing . . .” I fume.
"Unforgivable.”

“I am sorry,” he says, looking sheepish.

“Unforgivable,” I repeat.

“Should I go and come back?”

“As you are already here, you may as well stay.” Truthfully, I am glad to have company after my unfortunate encounter earlier. “What is it that is so urgent it requires you to scale a wall and hide behind my dressing screen?”

“Did you enter the realms?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes. But nothing seemed amiss. It was as beautiful as before.” I stop, thinking of Pippa. Beautiful Pippa, whom Kartik once gazed upon with such awe. I think of her warning about the Rakshana.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. We have asked someone there to help us. A guide, of sorts.”

Kartik shakes his head. “That is not wise! I told you, nothing and no one that comes from within the realms can be trusted just now.”

“This is someone we can trust.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s Pippa,” I say quietly.

Kartik’s eyes widen. "Miss Cross? But I thought . . .”

“Yes, so did I. But I saw her last night. She doesn’t know about the Temple, but she’s going to help us find it.”

Kartik stares at me. “But if she doesn’t cross over, she’ll become corrupted.”

“She says that isn’t the case.”

“You cannot trust her. She could already be corrupted.”

“There’s nothing strange about her at all,” I protest. “She’s just as . . .” She’s just as beautiful as before, I was about to say.

“She’s just as what?”

“She is the same Pippa,” I answer quietly. “And she knows more about the realms than we do at this point. She can help us. It’s more than you’ve given me to go on.”

If I’ve injured Kartik’s pride, he doesn’t let on. He paces, passing so near that I can smell him, a mixture of smoke, cinnamon, the wind, the forbidden. I clutch my robe tightly about me.

“All right,” he says, rubbing his chin. "Proceed carefully. But I don’t like this. The Rakshana expressly warned—”

“The Rakshana have not been there, so how can they possibly know what is to be trusted?” Pippa’s warning seems suddenly very good to me. “I know nothing about your brotherhood. Why should I trust them? Why should I trust you? Honestly, you sneak into my room and hide behind my dressing screen. You follow me about. You’re constantly barking orders at me: Close your mind! No, dreadfully sorry—open your mind! Help us find the Temple! Bind the magic!”

“I’ve told you what I know,” he says.

“You don’t know very much, do you?” I snap.

“I know my brother was Rakshana. I know that he died trying to protect your mother, and that she died trying to protect you.”

There it is. The ugly sorrow that joins us. I feel as if the breath has been knocked from me.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t change the subject. I think I shall give the orders for a while. You want me to find the Temple. I want something from you.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he asks.

“You can call it what you like. But I won’t tell you anything further until you answer my questions.”

I sit on Ann’s bed. He sits on mine, opposite me. Here we are, a couple of dogs ready to bite if provoked.

“Ask,” he says.

“I’ll ask when I’m ready,” I say.

“Very well, don’t ask.” He stands to leave.

“Tell me about the Rakshana!” I blurt out.

Kartik sighs and looks up to the ceiling. “The Brotherhood of the Rakshana has existed for as long as the Order. They rose in the East but were joined by others along the way. Charlemagne was Rakshana, as were many of the Knights Templar. They were the guardians of the realms and its borders, sworn to protect the Order. Their emblem is the sword and the skull.” He says this in a rush, like a history lesson recited for the benefit of a teacher.

“That was serviceable,” I say, irritated.

He holds up a finger. "But informative.”

I ignore his jibe.

“How did you come to be part of the Rakshana?”

He shrugs. "I have always been with them.”

“Not always, surely. You must have had a mother and a father.”

“Yes. But I never really knew them. I left them when I was six.”

“Oh,” I say, shocked. I’d never thought of Kartik as a little boy leaving his mother’s arms.
"I am sorry.”