The Sweet Far Thing (14 page)

“Gemma! Come back!” the girls yell, but it’s their hard luck. I turn to offer them a cheery wave, watching as they grow smaller with distance.

When I face front again, there’s someone in the road. I don’t know where he’s come from, but I’m headed straight for him.

“Look out!” I shout.

He ducks out of the way. I lose concentration. The beast is no longer within my control. It weaves frantically from side to side before pitching me to the grass.

“Let me help you.” He offers his hand and I take it, standing on shaky legs. “Are you hurt?”

I’m scraped and bruised. I’ve a tear in my bloomers, and under it, where my stocking shows, is a stain of grass and blood.

“You might have been more careful, sir,” I scold.

“You might have been looking out, Miss Doyle,” he answers in a voice I know, though it has grown huskier.

My head snaps up, and I take in the sight of him: the long, dark curls peeking out from beneath a fisherman’s cap. The rucksack on his back. He wears a pair of dusty trousers, suspenders, and a simple shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. That is all familiar. But he’s not the boy I left at Christmas. He has grown into a man these past months. His shoulders are broader, the planes of his face sharper. And there is something else changed about him that I cannot name. We stand facing each other, my hands tight on the handlebars, a thing of iron between us.

I choose my words as carefully as knives. “How good it is to see you again.”

He offers me a small smile. “You’ve taken up bicycling, I see.”

“Yes, much has happened these months,” I snap.

Kartik’s smile fades, and I am sorry for my uncivil tongue.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not,” I say with a harsh slap of a laugh.

“I don’t blame you for it.”

I swallow hard. “I wondered if the Rakshana had…if you were…”

“Dead?”

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I nod.

“It would seem not.” He lifts his head and I note the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Are you well? Have you eaten?” I ask.

“Please don’t worry on my account.” He leans in and for one giddy moment I think he means to kiss me.

“And the realms? What news of them? Have you returned the magic and formed the alliance? Are the realms secure?”

He only wants to know about the realms. My stomach’s as heavy as if I’d swallowed lead. “I have it well in hand.”

“And…have you seen my brother in your realms? Have you seen Amar?” he asks a bit desperately.

“No, I haven’t,” I say, softening. “So…you were not able to come sooner?”

He looks away. “I chose not to come.”

“I—I don’t understand,” I say when I find words again.

His shoves his hands into his pockets. “I think it would be best if we parted ways. You have your path, and I have mine. It would seem that our fates are no longer intertwined.”

I blink to keep the tears at bay.
Don’t cry, for heaven’s sake, Gemma.
“B-but you said you wished to be part of the alliance. To join hands with me—with us—”

“I’ve had a change of heart.” He is so cold I wonder that he has a heart to change. What has happened?

“Gem-ma!” Felicity calls from beyond the hill. “It’s Elizabeth’s turn!”

“They’re waiting for you. Here, I shall help you with that,” he says, reaching for the bicycle.

I pull it away. “Thank you, but I don’t require your help. It isn’t your fate.”

Pushing the bicycle ahead of me, I run quickly to the road so that he cannot see how deeply he has wounded me.

I excuse myself from the bicycling under the pretense of tending to my knee. Mademoiselle LeFarge offers to help me, but I promise her I shall repair straight to Brigid and bandages. Instead, I slip through the woods toward the boathouse, where I can take refuge and nurse my deeper wounds in private. The small lake reflects the slow migration of pilgrim clouds.

“Carolina! Carolina!”

An old Gypsy woman, Mother Elena, searches the woods. She wears her silvery hair wrapped in a bright blue kerchief. Several necklaces hang to her chest. Every spring, when the Gypsies come around,
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Mother Elena is with them. It was her daughter, Carolina, whom my mother and Sarah led to the East Wing to sacrifice to the Winterlands. The loss of her beloved daughter was more than Mother Elena could bear; her mind frayed and now she is more a haunt than a woman. I’ve not seen her since the Gypsies returned this time. She hasn’t ventured far from their camp, and I’m surprised to see how frail she is.

“Have you seen my little girl, my Carolina?” she asks.

“No,” I say weakly.

“Carolina, love, do not play with me so,” Mother Elena says, looking behind a large tree as if she were merely involved in a game of hide-and-seek. “Will you help me find her?”

“Yes,” I say, though it makes my heart ache to join her folly.

“She’s mischievous,” Mother Elena says. “And a good hider. Carolina!”

“Carolina!” I call halfheartedly. I peek behind bushes and peer into the trees, pretending to look for a girl killed long ago.

“Keep looking,” Mother Elena instructs.

“Yes,” I lie, shame reddening my neck, “I’ll do that.”

The moment Mother Elena is out of sight, I steal into the boathouse, exhaling in relief. I shall wait here until the old woman goes back to the camp. Dust motes shimmer in the cracks of weak sunlight. I can hear the hammering of the workers and the hopeful call of a mother searching for the daughter who will not be found. I know what happened to little Carolina. I know that the child was murdered, nearly sacrificed to the Winterlands creatures twenty-five years ago. I know the horrible truth of that night, and I wish I didn’t.

An oar propped haphazardly against a wall slides toward me. I feel the smooth weight of the wood in my hands as my body is seized by a sensation I have not had in months—that of a vision taking hold.

Every muscle contracts. I squeeze the oar tightly as my eyelids flutter and the sound of my blood grows as loud as war drums in my ears. And then I am under, whooshing through light as if I alone am awake inside a dream. Images rush past and blend into one another as in a turning kaleidoscope. I see the lady in lavender writing furiously by lantern light, her hair plastered to her face with sweat. Sounds—a mournful cry. Shouts. Birds.

Another turn of the kaleidoscope, and I am on the streets of London. The lady motions to me to follow.

The wind blows a handbill at my feet. Another leaflet for the illusionist Dr. Van Ripple. I pick it up, and I’m in a raucous music hall. A man with black hair and a neat goatee places an egg into a box and, as quick as a blink, he makes it disappear. The pretty lady who led me here takes the box away and returns to the stage, where the illusionist places her into a trance. He takes hold of a large slate, and with a piece of chalk in both hands, the lady writes upon it as if possessed:
We are betrayed. She is a deceiver. The
Tree of All Souls lives. The key holds the truth.

The crowd gasps and applauds, but I’m pulled out of the music hall. I’m on the streets again. The lady is just ahead, running over cobblestones slick with the damp, past rows of narrow, unlit houses. She runs for her life, her eyes wild with fear.

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The rivermen shout to one another. With their long hooks they fish the cold, dead body of the lady from the river. She clutches one sheet of paper. Words scratch themselves onto the page:
You are the only
one who can save us….

The vision leaves me like a train whooshing through my body, out and away. I come back to myself inside the musty boathouse just as the oar snaps in my hands. Trembling, I slump to the floor and place the broken pieces there. I’m unaccustomed now to a vision’s force. I can’t catch my breath.

I stumble from the boathouse, sucking in a great lungful of fresh, cool air. The sun works its magic, dispelling the last remnants of my vision. My breathing slows and my head settles.

The Tree of All Souls lives. You are the only one who can save us. The key holds the truth.

I’ve no idea what it means. My head aches, and it isn’t helped by the steady syncopation of hammers drifting over the lawn.

Mother Elena startles me. She pulls her braid, listening to the hammering. “There is mischief here. I feel it. Do you feel it?”

“N-no,” I say, staggering toward the school. Mother Elena falls in behind me. I walk faster.
Please,
please go away. Leave me be.
We reach the clearing and the small hill. From here, the top of Spence rises majestically above the trees. The workmen are visible. Great panes of glass are hoisted on heavy ropes from the roof and fitted into place. Mother Elena gasps, her eyes wide with fear.

“They must not do this!”

She moves quickly toward Spence, yelling in a language I do not understand, but I can feel the alarm in her words.

“You do not know what you do!” Mother Elena screams to them, now in English.

Mr. Miller and his men have a small chuckle at the mad Gypsy woman and her fears. “Go on now and leave us to men’s work!” they shout.

But Mother Elena is not swayed. She paces on the lawn, pointing an accusing finger at them. “It is an abomination—a curse!”

A worker yells a sudden warning. A pane of glass has gotten the better of its handlers. It twists on its rope, hovering precariously until it is guided into the hands of workers below. One man grabs for it and cuts his palm along the sharp edge. He cries out as the blood flows down his arm. A handkerchief is given. The bloody hand is wrapped.

“You see?” Mother Elena calls.

There’s murder in Mr. Miller’s eyes. He threatens her with a hammer till the other men pull him back.

“You bloody Gypsies! You’re the only curse I see!”

The shouts have drawn the Gypsy men to the lawn. Ithal stands protectively in front of Mother Elena.

Kartik is there as well. Mr. Miller’s men grab hammers and irons to stand with their foreman, and I fear there shall be a terrible row.

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Someone has sent for Inspector Kent. He steps into the thin line of grass separating the Gypsies and the English workmen. “Here now, what’s all the trouble?”

“Bloody Gypsies, mate,” Mr. Miller spits.

Inspector Kent’s eyes go steely. “I’m not your mate, sir. And you’ll have a care around these ladies or I’ll have you at the Yard.” To Mother Elena, he says, “Best go back, m’um.”

The Gypsies slowly turn but not before one of the workers—the man in the red-patched shirt—spits at them, and the insult lands on Ithal’s cheek. He wipes it away but he can’t erase his rage so easily. Anger burns in Kartik’s eyes too, and when he glances at me, I feel as if I am the enemy.

Ithal speaks softly to Mother Elena in their native language. Her mouth tightens in fear as the men lead her away. “Cursed,” she mutters, trembling. “Cursed.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

DINNER IS A PERFECTLY FORGETTABLE AFFAIR OF FISH STEWthat wants salt, and badly.

I’ve not stopped thinking of Kartik, his coldness. The last time I saw him in London, he pledged his loyalty. What could have happened to change his affections? Or is that the way of men—to pursue girls only to cast them aside? He seemed so haunted, so desperate about Amar, and I wish I knew what to say to comfort him, but I’ve not seen his brother, and perhaps that is comfort enough.

And then there is my vision.
The Tree of All Souls lives.
What tree? Where? Why is it important?
You
are the only one who can save us.

“Gemma, what are you brooding about?” Felicity taunts from her perch beside me. It wouldn’t do for her to ask me discreetly.

“I—I’m not brooding.” I slurp my soup, eliciting a scowl from Cecily.

“No. Of course not. You’ve merely forgotten how to smile. Shall I remind you? It’s quite simple—see?”

Fee beams charmingly. I grant her a strained smile that I’m certain makes me look as if I’ve a bad case of wind.

I chose not to come.
Why can I not release that one small phrase from the cage of my thoughts?

“I must tell Pip that the soup is as awful as she remembers it,” Felicity whispers, giggling.