The Sweet Far Thing (5 page)

Ann chews her bottom lip and watches me.

“Ready?” Felicity asks.

I take a shaky breath and let it out. “Yes. Let’s begin.”

We clasp hands, and I do my best to clear my mind, to think of nothing but the realms. I see the green of the garden, the Caves of Sighs rising high over the singing river. That enchanted world begins to take shape behind my eyes.

“Do you see it yet?” Ann interrupts.

The view of the garden fades like a wisp of smoke. “Ann!”

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“You mustn’t unsettle her nerves!” Felicity scolds. She squeezes my hands. “Just remember, Gemma, the whole of our futures rests with you.”

Yes, thank you. I’m ever so calmed by that.
“I shall need absolute quiet, if you please.”

Dutifully, they bow their heads and shut their mouths, and, already, it is like a stroke of magic.

Come now, Gemma. You mustn’t think you can’t. Imagine the door. It will come. Make it come.

Will it to be.

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The door doesn’t appear. I see nothing, feel nothing. Panic takes hold, whispering now-familiar questions through my soul: What if the gift was only borrowed? What if I’ve lost it forever? What if it’s all been a mistake and I’m only ordinary after all?

I open my eyes, try to steady my breathing. “I need a moment.”

“We shouldn’t have waited so long to try,” Felicity grouses. “We should have gone in straightaway, in January. Why did we wait?”

“I wasn’t ready to return then,” I say.

“You were waiting for him to come back,” Felicity says. “Well, he’s not coming.”

“I wasn’t waiting for Kartik,” I snap, stung through and through. She’s partly right, of course. But only partly. An image of Miss Moore drifts into my head. I see her determined jaw, the pocket watch in her hand, the way she looked when she was our beloved teacher, before we knew her to be Circe. Before I killed her. “I…I wasn’t ready yet. That’s all.”

Felicity fixes me with a cool stare. “You did nothing to be sorry for. She deserved to die.”

“Let’s try again,” Ann says. She offers her hands, and I see the bumpy welts of this evening’s little cuts.

“Right. Third time’s the charm,” I joke, though I’m anything but lighthearted.

I close my eyes and slow my breathing, trying again to clear my mind of everything but the realms and a way in. Heat pools in my stomach, teasing. It is like repeatedly striking a dull match that will not burn.

Come on, come on.
For a moment, it flares to life, the familiar fire catching on the tinder of my desires. I see the softly swaying olive trees in the garden. The sweet river. And I see the door of light. Ha! Oh, yes!

I have missed this! Now I need only to make it stay….

The image fades, and in its place, I see Circe’s ghostly face beneath the cold water of the well. Her eyes snap open. “Gemma…”

With a gasp, I break off, and the power is gone. I can feel the realms receding like a tide I’m helpless to pull to the shore. No matter how much I try to get it back, I can’t.

Ann lets go first. She’s accustomed to disappointment and quicker to recognize defeat. “I’m going to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The weight of their unhappiness makes it hard to breathe. “I don’t know what has happened.”

Felicity shakes her head. “I don’t understand how this could be. You bound the magic to yourself. We should be able to get it without any trouble at all.”

We should, but we can’t. I can’t. And with each failed attempt, my confidence wanes. What if I should never get back?

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Long after my friends have gone to sleep, I sit in my bed, hugging my knees to my chest with my eyes closed tight. I beg the door of light to appear with a single repeated word.
Please, please, please…
I beg until my voice is raspy with tears and desperation, till the early dawn casts its unforgiving light on me, till I am left with only what I cannot bring myself to say—that I have lost my magic, and that I am nothing without it.

CHAPTER FIVE

THEOLDHAMSANITARIUM, AN HOUR’S TRAIN RIDE FROMLondon, is a large white estate surrounded by a vast, pleasing lawn. Several chairs have been set out so that the residents may take some sun as often as they like.

As promised, Tom and I have come to visit Father. I’ve not wanted to see him in this place. I prefer to think of him always in his study by a robust fire, his pipe in one hand, a twinkle in his eye and a fantastic tale at the ready to entertain all. But I suppose even the Oldham Sanitarium is a far better memory than the one I have of my father in an East London opium den, so lost on the drug that he’d bartered even his wedding ring for more.

No, I shan’t think about that. Not today.

“Remember, Gemma, you’re to be cheerful and light,” Tom—my older, yet sadly not wiser, brother—advises as we stroll down the great expanse of lawn past neatly trimmed hedges with nary a stray branch or errant weed to disturb their careful symmetry. I smile brightly at a passing nurse. “I think I shall remember how to behave without your good counsel, Thomas,” I say through clenched teeth.

“I do wonder.”

Honestly, what use are brothers except to torment and irritate at equal turns?

“Really, Thomas, you should take more care at breakfast. You’ve an egg stain big as life on your shirt.”

Tom paws at himself, panicked. “I don’t see it!”

“Right”—I tap the side of his head—“here.”

“What?”

“April Fools’.”

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His mouth twists into a smirk. “But it’s not yet April.”

“Yes,” I say, marching ahead at a good clip. “And yet you are still a fool.”

A nurse in a starched white pinafore points us toward a small sitting area near a gazebo. A man sits stretched out on a reclining caned-back chair, a plaid blanket across his legs. I don’t recognize Father at first. He is so very thin.

Tom clears his throat. “Hello, Father. You’re looking well.”

“Yes, better each day. Gemma, pet, you’ve grown more beautiful, I think.”

He only glances at me as he says this. We don’t look at each other anymore. Not really. Not since I pulled him from that opium den. Now when I look at him, I see the addict. And when he looks at me, he sees what he would rather not remember. I wish I could be his adored little girl again, sitting at his side.

“You’re too kind, Father.”
Light and cheerful, Gemma.
I give a pained smile. He is so thin.

“Fine day, is it not?” Father says.

“Indeed. A very fine day.”

“The gardens here are quite lovely,” I say.

“Yes. Quite,” Tom seconds.

Father nods absently. “Ah.”

I perch on the edge of my seat, ready to go at a moment’s notice. I offer him a box wrapped in elaborate gold foil and garnished with a big red bow. “I’ve brought you those peppermints you’re so fond of.”

“Ah,” he says, taking them without enthusiasm. “Thank you, pet. Thomas, have you given any thought to the Hippocrates Society?”

Tom scowls.

“What is the Hippocrates Society?” I ask.

“A fine gentlemen’s club of scientists and physicians, great thinkers all. They’ve expressed an interest in our Thomas.”

This seems a fine match for Tom, as he’s a clinical assistant at Bethlem Royal Hospital—Bedlam—and, despite his many faults, a gifted healer. Medicine and science are his twin passions, so I cannot understand his sneer at the Hippocrates Society.

“I have no interest in them,” Tom says firmly.

“Why not?”

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“Most of their members are between the ages of forty and death,” Tom sniffs.

“There is great wisdom in those halls, Thomas. You’d be wise to honor that.”

Tom takes one of the peppermints. “It is not the Athenaeum Club.”

“Setting your sights a bit high, aren’t you, old boy? The Athenaeum takes only its own, and we are not its own,” Father says decisively.

“I might be,” Tom contends.

Tom wants desperately to be accepted into the very finest of London society. Father thinks him foolish for it. I do hate it when they argue, and I don’t want Tom to upset Father just now.

“Papa, I hear you shall come home soon,” I say.

“Yes, so they tell me. Fit as a fiddle, your old man.” He coughs.

“How nice that will be,” Tom says without enthusiasm.

“Quite,” Father agrees.

And with that we fall into silence. A flock of geese wander across the lawn as if they, too, have lost their way. A groundskeeper shoos them toward a pond in the distance. But there is no one to help us onto a new path, and so we sit, talking of nothing that matters and avoiding all mention of anything that does. At last, a moonfaced nurse with coppery hair going to gray approaches.

“Good day to you, Mr. Doyle. It’s time for the waters, sir.”

Father smiles in relief. “Miss Finster, like a ray of sunshine on a gloomy morning, you arrive and all is well.”

Miss Finster grins as if her face will break. “A charmer, your father is.”

“Well, off you go, then,” Father says to us. “Wouldn’t want to miss your train to London.”

“True, true.” Tom’s already backing away. We’ve been here less than an hour. “We’ll see you home in two weeks’ time, Father.”

“Quite right,” Miss Finster says. “Though we’ll be sorry to see him go.”

“Yes, well,” Tom says. He pushes an errant lock from his forehead but it only falls into his eyes again.

There is no handshake or embrace. We smile and nod and leave each other as quickly as possible, relieved to be free of one another and the awkward silences. Yet I also feel ashamed at that sense of relief. I wonder if other families are the same. They seem so content to be together. They fit, like the parts of a puzzle already finished, the image clearly evident. But we are like those odd remaining pieces, the ones that can’t be joined securely with a satisfying “Ah, that’s it, then.”

Father takes Miss Finster’s arm like a proper gentleman. “Miss Finster, will you do me the honor?”

Miss Finster offers a schoolgirl laugh, though she is surely as old as Mrs. Nightwing. “Oh, Mr. Doyle.

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Go on!”

Arm in arm, they stroll toward the large white building. Father turns his head ever so slightly toward us.

“I’ll see you for Easter.”

Yes, in two weeks, we’ll be together again.

But I doubt he will really see me at all.

I take Tom to task on the carriage ride to London. “Thomas, really, why must you bait Father as you do?”

“That’s it. Defend him as you always do. The favorite.”

“I’m not his favorite. He loves us equally.” Saying it gives me a queer feeling in my stomach, though, like telling a lie.

“That’s what they say, isn’t it? Pity it isn’t true,” he says, bitterly. Suddenly, he brightens. “As it happens, he was wrong about the Athenaeum Club. I’ve been invited to dine there with Simon Middleton and Lord Denby.”

At the mention of Simon’s name, all breath leaves me. “How is Simon?” I ask.

“Handsome. Charming. Rich. In short, quite well.” Tom gives me a little smile, and I can’t help feeling he’s rather enjoying himself at my expense.

Simon Middleton, one of England’s most sought-after bachelors, is indeed all those things. He courted me quite fervently over Christmas and meant to marry me, but I refused him. And suddenly, I cannot remember why.

“It is premature to say,” Tom continues, “but I believe old Denby will put me forth for membership.

Despite your rather shoddy treatment of Simon, Gemma, I do know that his father remains a champion of mine. More so than Father.”