The Sweet Far Thing (17 page)

The magic urges me toward the East Wing. I put my hand to the half-built turret and feel energy flowing through me, as if the land and I are one. The earth is suddenly illuminated. A series of lines appear in the ground like pathways on a map. One line leads far over the hills toward the workers’ camp. Another meanders through the woods to the chapel. A third snakes off into the vicinity of the old caves, where we first ventured into the realms. But it shines most brightly where I stand. Time has slowed. Light bleeds around the edges of the secret door. I feel its pull. I place my other hand against it, and my body is seized by a rush of energy.

Images whip through my mind too quickly for me to grab hold; only threads remain: Eugenia’s amulet tossed to my mother’s hands, black sands flying past craggy mountains, a tree of stark beauty.

I’m released suddenly, and I fall to the ground. The night is still again, save for the fluttery beating of my heart.

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Dawn raises its alarm of pink. Already it creeps over the treetops, bringing a new morning, and a new me.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

NOW THAT SPRING SEEMS TO BE MORE THAN A FICKLEsuitor’s promise, and the days are warming into a happy assurance that winter is on the run at last, Britain celebrates with a bounty of fairs.

The morning after I’ve been to see Pippa, Nightwing and LeFarge herd us onto a train, and we chatter animatedly in the belly of the great steel dragon as it storms through the lush countryside, belching a long plume of thick black smoke that leaves cinders on our skirts and gloves. It takes some time for me to woo Felicity from her ill temper about last night, but I promise her we shall go into the realms tonight without fail, and all is forgiven. And once Felicity forgives me, Ann soon follows.

We disembark in a small town, and picnic baskets in tow, we amble along in the happy company of villagers, farmers, servants on holiday, excitable children, and men in search of work, coming at last to a large green, where the fair has been established.

The outdoor marketplace spreads over nearly a half mile. Each stall offers some new temptation—crusty loaves of bread, milk with the cream hard on top, delicate bonnets and shoes. We take it all in with longing, granting ourselves a taste of sharp cheddar or a peek into the looking glass when trying on a new scarf. Everyone has come in her Sunday best in the hopes of an afternoon’s worth of dancing and merriment. Even Nightwing allows herself to observe the jolly spectacle of a cockfight.

In one corner, several men form a line to hire out as blacksmiths or sheepshearers. There is even a ship’s captain who enlists young men as sailors, promising food and drink and the excitement of the sea. These bargains are struck with a signature, a handshake, and a penny given out as a token of the contract.

Others are here with the purpose of selecting livestock. They mill about the sheep and horse stalls, listening to the assurances of the traders.

“You won’t find better, gentlemen. That I can promise!” a man in a leather apron and tall boots bellows to the two farmers inspecting his prized sheep. The farmers run their hands across the animal’s flanks. It
baa
s loudly in what I believe to be utter mortification.

“I shouldn’t like that either,” I say under my breath. “Terribly rude.”

All in all, it’s a noisy, happy affair, what with the animals and the people, the farmers’ wives calling out:

“The best cheese in England! Blackberry jam—sweet as a mother’s kiss! A plump goose, perfect for your Easter supper!”

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In the afternoon, we take our tea down by the riverbank, where people have gathered to watch the boat races. Brigid has packed us a lovely luncheon of boiled eggs, brown bread and butter, raspberry jam, and currant tarts. Ann and I spread thick crusts of bread with generous slabs of butter and jam whilst Felicity grabs for the tarts.

“I’ve had a letter from Mother,” Fee says, biting happily into the fruit.

“That doesn’t usually put you in such a fine humor,” I say.

“She doesn’t often present me with such a grand opportunity,” she answers, cryptically.

“Very well,” I say. “Out with it.”

“We are to see Lily Trimble in
Macbeth
at the Drury Lane Theatre.”

“Lily Trimble!” Ann exclaims through a mouthful of bread. She swallows it in a lump, wincing. “You’re awfully lucky.”

Felicity licks her fingers clean. “I would take you, Ann, but Mother would never allow it.”

“I understand,” Ann says dully.

Mrs. Worthington has not forgotten Ann’s fraud at Christmas while Ann was a guest in their home. It’s no matter that we all had a hand in passing her off as a duke’s daughter. In Mrs. Worthington’s mind, Felicity and I are blameless, the victims of Ann’s devious scheme. It is amazing what mothers will believe despite all evidence to the contrary—anything to save themselves.

“You couldn’t go as yourself, Ann,” I say. “But you could go as someone else.”

She gives me an odd look.

“The magic,” I whisper. “Don’t you see? This will be our first chance to change our fortunes.”

“Right under Mother’s nose.” Felicity grins. That temptation alone is enough to pull her in.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Ann says.

“Shall we let that stop us from trying?” I protest.

Felicity puts out her hand. “I’m for it.”

Ann adds hers, and I put mine on top. “To the future.”

Excitement ripples through the crowd of fairgoers. The rowers are within sight. People crowd the banks to cheer them on. We scramble down beneath a bluff, where we can be closer to the river but hidden from Nightwing’s view. Three boats battle for the lead with a trail of lesser rowers following in their wake. The men have rolled up their shirtsleeves to their elbows, and as they pull past us, we can see their brawny arms at work. Hands tight on the oars, they move as one, forward and back, forward and back, like a great engine of muscle and flesh. The movement is hypnotic and we are under its spell.

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“Oh, they’re quite strong, aren’t they?” Ann says dreamily.

“Yes,” I say. “Quite.”

“Which would you marry?” Ann asks.

Kartik’s face flashes in my mind, unbidden, and I shake my head to remove the thought before I feel melancholy. “I should have the one in the front,” I say, nodding toward a handsome man with fair hair and a broad chest.

“Oh, he is lovely. Do you suppose he has a brother for me?” Ann says.

“Yes,” I say. “And you shall honeymoon in Umbria.”

Ann laughs. “He’s rich, naturally.”

“Naturally,” I echo. Already the game has me in a lighter mood.
Take that, Kartik.

“Which do you fancy, Felicity?” Ann asks.

Felicity barely considers them. “None.”

“You’ve not even looked,” Ann complains.

“As you wish.” Felicity hops onto a rock. She crosses her arms and scrutinizes the men. “Hmmm, that one is balding. The fellows in the back are barely in whiskers. This one nearest us…dear me, are those ears or wings?”

My laugh is a harsh bark. Ann covers her mouth as she giggles.

“But the pièce de résistance is the one on the right,” she says, pointing to a man with a round, doughy face and a large red nose. “He has a face to make a girl contemplate drowning.”

“He’s not as bad as all that,” I say, giggling. It’s a lie. For all the times men weigh us according to our beauty, we are none the better about it.

Felicity’s eyes take on a sinister gleam. “Why, Gemma, how could I possibly stand between you and true love? He shall be your intended, I think.”

“I think not!”

“Oh, yes, he shall,” Felicity taunts in a singsong. “Think of all the grisly children you shall have—all with big, fat, red noses, just like his!”

“I can’t bear your envy, Fee. You should have him. Please. I insist.”

“Oh, no. No, I am not worthy of such loveliness. He must be yours.”

“I’d die first.”

“It would be the less painful course.” Felicity jumps to her feet and waves her handkerchief. “Good
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afternoon!” she calls, bold as you please.

“Fee!” I squeal in embarrassment. But it is too late. We have their full attention now, and there is nowhere to run. The race forgotten, their boat floats on the river as they call out and wave to us young ladies under the bluff.

“You, sir,” she says, pointing to the unfortunate fellow. “My dear friend here is far too modest to make a confession of her admiration for you. Therefore, I’ve no choice but to make a case on her behalf.”

“Felicity!” I choke out. I dart behind the rock.

The poor fellow stands in the boat and I see, sadly, that he is as wide as his face—less a man, more a barrel in trousers. “I should like to make the lady’s acquaintance, if she would be so kind as to show herself.”

“Do you hear that, Gemma? The gentleman wishes to make your acquaintance.” Felicity tugs on my arm in an attempt to get me to my feet.

“No!” I whisper, pulling back. This foolishness has gone far enough.

“I’m afraid she’s rather shy, sir. Perhaps if you were to woo her.”

He recites a sonnet that compares me to a summer day. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he intones. On that score, he is sadly misguided. “Tell me your name, fair lady!”

It is out of my mouth before I can stop myself: “Miss Felicity Worthington of Mayfair.”

“Admiral Worthington’s daughter?”

“The same!” I shout.

Now it is Felicity who pulls on my arm, begging me to stop. In their zeal to speak to us, two other fellows leap up, upsetting the boat’s delicate balance. With a shout, they topple into the cold river, to the amusement of everyone.

Laughing like lunatics, we race away down the side of the bluff and take cover behind tall hedges. Our laughter is contagious: Each time the giggles subside, one of us begins anew, and it starts all over again.

At last we lie on the grass, feeling the late-March breeze sweep over us as it carries along the merry shouts of the party in the distance.

“That was horrid of us, wasn’t it?” Ann says, still giggling.

“But merry,” I answer. Overhead the clouds are full and promising.

A note of worry creeps into Ann’s voice. “Do you think God shall punish us for such wickedness?”

Felicity makes a diamond of her thumbs and forefingers. She holds them up to the sun as if she can catch it. “If God has nothing better to do than punish schoolgirls for a bit of tomfoolery, then I’ve no use for God.”

“Felicity…” Ann starts to scold but stops. “And do you really think we can change the course of our

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lives with magic, Gemma?”

“We’re going to try. Already I feel more alive. Awake. Don’t you?”

Ann smiles. “When it’s inside me, it’s as if I can do anything.”

“Anything,” Felicity murmurs. She props herself up on her side, a beautiful S of a girl. “And what about Pip? What might we do for her?”

I think of Pippa in the water, thrashing about, unable to cross. “I don’t know. I don’t know if the magic can change
her
course. They say—”

“
They
say,” Felicity snorts in derision. “
We
say. You hold all the magic now, Gemma. Surely we can make changes in the realms, as well. For Pippa, too.”

I hear Gorgon’s words in my head:
She need not fall.
A ladybug struggles on her back. I right her with a finger, and she toddles through the grass before getting stuck again.

“There’s so little I know about the realms and the magic and the Order—only what people tell me. It is time we found out for ourselves what is possible and what is not,” I say.

Felicity nods. “Well done.”

We lie back in the grass and let the sun warm our winter-weary faces, which is a form of magic in itself.

“I wish it could be like this always,” Ann says, sighing.

“Perhaps it can,” I say.

We lie close together, holding hands, and watch the clouds, those happy ladies in their billowing skirts, as they dance and curtsy and become something else entirely.

In the afternoon, the business in the marketplace has begun to dwindle, and several of the exhibitors have packed their goods. It’s time for dancing and entertainment. Jugglers thrill children with gravity-defying acts. Men flirt with servant girls enjoying that rare day off from their labors. A troupe of mummers presents a pageant about Saint George. With their cork-reddened faces and tunics, they’re a merry, boisterous sight. As it’s near Easter, a morality play is staged at the far end of the green, near the hiring stalls. Nightwing takes us to see it, and we stand among the crowd, watching as a pilgrim makes his progress through his soul’s darkest hours and on into morning.