The Sweet Far Thing (55 page)

Walking along the dirty Thames is a relief. The river air that seemed so foul an hour ago is sweet compared to the suffocating odor in the sewer. The wracking coughs and the tuneless songs of the mud larks float through the fog like phantoms. A sudden shout cuts the mist. Someone has found a lump of coal, and the news is greeted with excitement and a great thrashing of water as every one of the mud larks rushes to find the sweet spot. But it turns out to be nothing more than a rock. I hear the heavy plink as it’s tossed back into the Thames riverbed, that graveyard of hope.

“I need to sit,” I say.

We wander down by the wharves and rest for a moment, looking out at the boats bobbing on the river.

“Are you all right?” I ask after a long silence.

He shrugs. “You heard what he said. And think less of me for it.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “Amar said…” I stop, thinking of my recent encounter with Kartik’s brother in the Winterlands. But I’m not ready to disclose that just yet. “In your dream, he said you’d be the death of me. Is that why you’ve kept your distance?”

He doesn’t answer straightaway. “Yes, that is part of it.”

“What is the other part?”

Kartik’s face clouds. “I…it’s nothing.”

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“Is that why you didn’t want to become part of the alliance?” I ask.

He nods. “If I don’t enter the realms, the dream can’t come true. I can’t hurt you.”

“You said ignorance wasn’t destiny,” I remind him. “If you don’t go into the realms, you’ll only not have been in the realms. Besides, there are hundreds of other ways to do me in here, if you wish. You could pitch me in the Thames. Shoot me in a duel.”

“Hang you with the entrails of a large animal,” he says, joining in, a smile forming.

“Abandon me to Mrs. Nightwing forever so that I might be pecked to death.”

“Ah, that’s cruel, even for me.” Kartik shakes his head, laughing.

“You find my imminent death so amusing?” I tease.

“No. It isn’t that. You bested Fowlson,” he says, grinning madly now. “It was…extraordinary.”

“I thought you found my power frightening.”

“I did. I do. A bit,” he admits. “But, Gemma, you could change the world.”

“That should take far more than my power,” I say.

“True. But change needn’t happen all at once. It can be small gestures. Moments. Do you understand?”

He’s looking at me differently now, though I cannot say how. I only know I need to look away.

The ships’ masts press against the fog, letting us know they’re here. In the distance there’s a foghorn.

Some vessel is slipping out farther toward the sea.

“Such a mournful sound. So lonely,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest. “Do you ever feel that way?”

“Lonely?”

I search for the words. “Restless. As if you haven’t really met yourself yet. As if you’d passed yourself once in the fog, and your heart leapt—“Ah! There I am! I’ve been missing that piece!” But it happens too fast, and then that part of you disappears into the fog again. And you spend the rest of your days looking for it.”

He nods, and I think he’s appeasing me. I feel stupid for having said it. It’s sentimental and true, and I’ve revealed a part of myself I shouldn’t have.

“Do you know what I think?” Kartik says at last.

“What?”

“Sometimes, I think you can glimpse it in another.”

And with that, he leans forward as I do. We meet in a kiss that is not borrowed but shared. His hand cups the back of my neck. My hands find his face. I pull him closer. The kiss deepens. The hand at my

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neck slides down my back, drawing me into his chest.

Noises come from the docks. We fly apart, but I want more. Kartik grins. His lips look slightly swollen from our kissing, and I wonder if mine do as well.

“I shall be arrested,” he says, nodding toward my trousers and noting my boyish appearance.

Big Ben’s commanding chime reminds us that the hour is late.

“We’d best go,” Kartik says. “That enchantment won’t last forever, and I shouldn’t like to be standing here when Fowlson and his men are free.”

“Indeed.”

We pass by the pools, where the mud larks sift. And for only a few seconds, I let the magic loose again.

“Oi! By all the saints!” a boy cries from the river.

“Gone off the dock?” an old woman calls. The mud larks break into cackles.

“’S not a rock!” he shouts. He races out of the fog, cradling something in his palm. Curiosity gets the better of the others. They crowd about trying to see. In his palm is a smattering of rubies. “We’re rich, mates! It’s a hot bath and a full belly for every one of us!”

Kartik eyes me suspiciously. “That was a strange stroke of good fortune.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I don’t suppose that was your doing.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I say.

And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time.

Freya takes us toward Spence. The new moon offers us little help, but the horse knows the way and there’s not much for us to do but ride and rest after the adventure of our evening.

“Gemma,” Kartik says after a long while, “I have upheld my end of the bargain. Now you must tell me what you know of Amar.”

“He spoke to me. He said I should give you a message.”

“What was it?”

“He said to tell you to remember your heart in all things, that it is where your honor and your destiny will be found. Does it mean anything to you?”

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“It is something he would say from time to time—that the eye could be misled, but that the heart was true.”

“Some part of your brother remains, then.”

“It would have been better if it hadn’t.”

We settle into quiet again. The road smooths. I’m so tired my head nods against Kartik’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I say, yawning.

“It’s all right,” he answers softly, and my head eases against his back again. My eyes are heavy. I could sleep for days. We pass the graveyard on our left. Crows perch on the headstones, and just before my eyes shut, I think I see a faint glimmer. The crows disappear into it, and everything on the hill goes dark and still as death.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

THE MORNING BREAKS WITH A FUROR. LOUD SHOUTINGcomes from the lawn. There is trouble, and trouble draws us in as a carnival barker would. When I open my window and stick my head out, I count at least a dozen others poking from other windows, including Felicity’s. It is so early that Miss McCleethy is still in her dressing gown, a cap upon her head. Mrs. Nightwing wears her customary dark dress with that preposterous bustle at the back. I’ve no doubt she sleeps in it. For all I know, she was born in full corsetry.

Mr. Miller has Mother Elena’s arm in one hand; in the other is her bloody pail.

“We found the vandal, and jus’ like I said, it’s one of them!” he shouts.

“Here now, Mr. Miller. Unhand her at once,” Mrs. Nightwing commands.

“You won’t be so quick to say that, m’um, when you hear what she done. She’s the one wot painted the hex marks. And who knows what else besides.”

Mother Elena’s face is gaunt. Her dress has grown bigger on her. “I try to protect us!”

The Gypsies stream over the lawn from the camp, drawn by the clamor. Kartik hurries behind, pulling up his suspenders, his shirt half undone, and warmth pools in my stomach.

One of the Gypsy women steps forward. “She is not well.”

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Mr. Miller doesn’t let go of Mother Elena’s arm. “No one’s goin’ anywhere till them Gyps tell me where to find Tambley and Johnny.”

“We did not take them.” Ithal marches down the lawn, pushing up his sleeves as if he would fight. He takes hold of Mother Elena’s other arm.

Mr. Miller tugs hard on the old woman, making her stumble. “What sort of people travel round all the time?” he shouts. “People what can’t be trusted, that’s who! No better than jungle savages! I’ll ask you again: Where’s my men?”

“That is quite enough!” Mrs. Nightwing bellows at full headmistress volume, and the field goes silent.

“Mr. Miller, Mother Elena is not well, and it would be best to allow her people to care for her. When she is well enough to travel, I will expect to see no more of her.” She faces Ithal. “The Gypsies will no longer be welcome on our land. As for you, Mr. Miller, you’ve work to tend to, haven’t you?”

“I’ll ’ave my men ’fore you leave,” Mr. Miller grumbles to Ithal. “Or I’ll ’ave one of yours for it.”

Later in the day, Mrs. Nightwing relents and has us help Brigid prepare a basket of food and medicine for Mother Elena as an act of charity.

“Mother Elena has been here as long as I have,” our headmistress says, packing a jar of plum preserves neatly into the basket. “I remember when Ithal was a boy. I hate to think of them gone.”

Brigid pats Nightwing’s shoulder and she stiffens under the sympathy. “Still, it won’t do to forgive the vandalism.”

“Poor old madwoman,” Brigid says. “She looks worn as my handkerchief.”

Regret shows itself briefly on our headmistress’s face. She tucks in an extra tin of lozenges. “There now.

Will someone volunteer to take this to—”

“I will!” I blurt out, and loop my arm through the basket before anyone else can take it.

The sky threatens rain. Clouds gather in angry clumps, ready to unleash their fury. I hurry through the woods to the Gypsy camp, holding tightly to the basket. The Gypsy women are not happy to see me.

They fold their arms and eye me suspiciously.

“I’ve come with food and medicine for Mother Elena,” I explain.

“We do not want your food,” an older woman with gold coins woven into her long braid says. “It is
marime
—unclean.”

“I only want to help,” I say.

Kartik speaks to the women in Romani. The conversation is heated—I hear the word
gadje
used bitterly—and occasionally, they glance back at me, scowls on their faces. But at last, the woman with the long braid agrees to let me see Mother Elena, and I scurry off to Mother Elena’s wagon and pull the bell attached to a nail.

“Come,” she calls in a weak voice.

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The wagon smells of garlic. Several heads of it sit on a table by a mortar and pestle. The wagon’s sides are lined with shelves housing various tinctures and herbs in glass jars. Small metal charms live there as well, and I’m surprised to see a small statue of Kali tucked between two bottles, though I have heard that the Gypsies came from India long, long ago. I run my fingers over the figure—the four arms, the long tongue, the demon’s head in one hand, and the bloody sword in another.

“What do you look at?” Mother Elena calls. I see her face through a large bottle, her features distorted by the glass.

“You have a talisman of Kali,” I answer.

“The Terrible Mother.”

“The goddess of destruction.”

“The destruction of ignorance,” Mother Elena says, correcting me. “She is the one to help us walk through the fire of knowledge, to know our darkness that we should not fear it but should be freed, for there is both chaos and order within us. Come where I can see you.”

She sits in her bed, shuffling a deck of worn tarot cards absently. Her breathing is heavy. “Why have you come?”

“I’ve brought food and medicine from Mrs. Nightwing. But they tell me you will not eat it.”

“I am an old woman. I will do as I please.” She nods for me to open the basket. I present the cheese.

She sniffs and makes a terrible face. I put it away at once and take out the bread, which she nods to. She tears off small bits with her craggy hands.

“I try to warn them,” she says suddenly.

“What is it you tried to warn them about?”

Her hand wanders to her hair, which wants a good brushing. “Carolina died in the fire.”

“I know,” I say, swallowing against the raw tickle at the back of my throat. “It was a long time ago.”

“No. What’s past is never past. It is not finished,” she mumbles. She chokes on the bread and I pour her a glass of water and help her take small sips until the spasm subsides. “What opens one way can be opened the other,” she whispers as she rubs the talisman that hangs from her neck.

“What do you mean?”

The dogs bark. I hear Kartik soothing them, and one of the Gypsy women chiding him for petting them.

“One of them brings the dead to us.”

A chill works its way up my spine. “One of them brings the dead?” I repeat. “Who?”

Mother Elena doesn’t answer. She turns over a tarot card. It has a picture of a tall tower struck by lightning. Flames leap from the windows, and two hapless people fall to the rocks below.