by Libba Bray
“The ones wot took the Temple magic and lef ’ you ’ere?” Bessie snorts.
“But you see they came back.” Beaming, Pippa puts her arm around Felicity.
Bessie doesn’t like it one bit. “I wouldn’t be too ’appy. They’re not ’ere to stay.”
Pippa wags a finger as a schoolmarm would. “Bessie, remember our motto: Grace, strength, beauty. A lady must be gracious when welcoming guests.”
“Yes, Miss Pippa,” Bessie says contritely.
“But, Pip…where have you been? I want to know everything!” Felicity says, embracing Pippa again.
I know I should embrace her as Fee and Ann have done, but I can see only those disturbing eyes and sharp teeth, and I am afraid.
“I shall tell you everything. But come inside. It’s far too chilly out here.” Pippa takes hold of Ann’s and Felicity’s hands, pulling them toward the castle. Grumbling, Bessie Timmons follows. The remaining girls fall into line, and I bring up the rear.
Pippa throws back the iron latch on the castle’s warped wooden door. The weeds snake through the planks, plastering themselves to the front.
“Here we are,” Pippa says, pushing open the door. “Home.”
It seems as if it might have been a beautiful stronghold in its day, but now it is nothing more than ancient bricks with vines for mortar. The walls are slick with moss. It smells of damp and decay. Brittle daisies, dead on their stalks, peek up between broken flagstones. The only thing that seems to grow is belladonna. The poisonous purple flowers hang above our heads like little bells.
“This is where you’ve been…” I stop myself from saying living. “Where you’ve been all this time?”
“It’s all that’s left for me. A moldering castle for the Lady of Shalott.” Pippa laughs, but it is hollow. She rubs her palms across the elaborate carvings etched into a hearth. The carvings are like saints’ faces gone black with time. “But you can tell it was once magical and beautiful.”
“What happened to it?” Ann asks.
Pippa glares at me. “It was forgotten.”
Felicity pulls aside a threadbare tapestry, revealing a winding staircase. “Where does this lead?”
“To the tower,” Pippa says, smiling wistfully. “It is my favorite place, for I can see for miles. I could even see you coming down the path. You looked so merry.” Her smile falters but she quickly puts a new one in its place. “Shall I show you?”
We follow Pippa up and around the antiquated staircase. Cobwebs cling to rotting wooden rafters far above us. The silvery strands glint with moisture. Some unfortunate creature has met its end there. In the center of a web, its carcass lies trapped and rotting as a spider inches toward it.
I steady myself against the wall. The vines slither around my fingers. Startled, I leap back, slipping on the crumbling stone. Pippa reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me to safety. “Hold still a moment,” she says.
As we watch, amazed, the vines crisscross the stone like a conquering army. The walls groan with the strain, and I fear that the whole castle will fall down around us. Seconds later, it stops, but fresh tendrils have sprung up everywhere.
“What was that?” Felicity whispers.
“The land’s swallowing it bit by bit every day,” Pippa says sadly. “Soon, we’ll need to find new lodgings, I suppose.” She releases my hand. “Are you all right, Gemma?”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
“That’s twice I’ve saved your life,” she reminds me. “Do you remember the first time? The water nymphs nearly took you under, but I pulled you back,” she says, and I feel the ledger book open between us.
Pip is right about the tower: it’s magnificent. From the top, we can see beyond the way we’ve come—the Caves of Sighs, the olive trees that line the gardens, the blue sky and the orange sunset. We can also see beyond the Borderlands, where dark wintry clouds sit on their haunches on the horizon and an enormous wall stretches the length of the land.
“That is the way into the Winterlands,” Pippa says, answering an unspoken question.
Lightning throbs against the roiling mass of black-and-gray clouds. For a moment, a plume of red snakes through the dark.
“We’ve seen that twice now. Do you know what it is?” I ask.
Pippa shakes her head. “Sometimes it happens. We should go downstairs. Wendy will be frightened, poor lamb.”
“Who is Wendy?” Ann asks.
For the first time, Pip gives a true smile. Her eyes shift to violet, and I am reminded of the way she was, alive and beautiful, happy about new gloves or some romantic tale. “How terrible of me, for I’ve not introduced you properly to my new friends!”
Pippa leads us down and into a tapestry-lined room, which is as dismal as a tomb. There are no candles, no lamps, no fire in the enormous hearth. The factory girls have made themselves at home, however. Bessie stretches out on a divan, among the weeds that wrap around it. Her friend Mae sits on the floor, braiding the hair of another girl, whose name appears to be Mercy, for Mae keeps saying, “Mercy, sit still.” Another girl, younger than the rest, sits in a corner, staring at nothing. I cannot keep from glancing at their wounds, their ghostly pale faces.
“What are you lookin’ at, then?” Bessie snarls, catching me.
My cheeks burn red, and I’m glad for the cover of dusk. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the last time I saw you all—”
“We thought you’d followed the girls in white to the Winterlands and were lost forever,” Felicity interrupts.
“They were in the company of those ghouls,” Pippa says, settling into a dilapidated throne.
“What happened?” Ann asks, breathless.
“That is the story I wished to tell you. By chance, I was on the same path, completely brokenhearted and filled with despair.”
“Oh, Pip,” Felicity says.
“There, there.” Pip smiles. “It has a happy ending. You know how I love happy endings.”
I swallow hard. I was the one who turned Pip away, who broke her heart so. I wish I could take it back.
“When I saw these poor lambs, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I knew I had to do something or they would be lost. So I followed close behind. The moment they stopped to rest, and the girls in white went in search of berries, I took my chance. I told them what those hideous creatures were truly about. That they meant to lead them straight to those soul stealers, the trackers.” She smiles at them as if they were her dear children. “I rescued them. I saved you, didn’t I, my darlings?”
The girls join in a chorus of agreement. They gaze at Pippa in absolute adoration, as we all have from time to time.
“She’s a saint. Saved us, she did,” Mae says, wide-eyed. “‘You mustn’t follow them,’ she said. ‘They mean you ’arm. Come with me instead.’”
“She saved us sure as we’re standing ’ere,” Bessie says, concurring. “Didn’t she, Wendy?”
A girl of about twelve nods. She sucks on the ends of her pigtails, making them into wet points. “The others weren’t so lucky as us. They went on.”
“And have you seen any of the Winterlands creatures since then?” I ask.
“Not for ages now,” Mae says. “But Wendy has.”
“You’ve seen them?” I ask.
Bessie gives a small snort of derision. “Wendy don’t see nuffin’. Fire blinded ’er.”
“But I hear things, sometimes,” Wendy says, pulling the remnants of a ruined shawl about her. “Sounds like horses. And sometimes I ’ear somefin’ makes my skin crawl.”
“What is it?” I ask. “What do you hear?”
“A scream,” she answers. “Faraway-like. And I ’ope it don’t ever get no closer.”
“Gotcha!” Bessie shouts, wrapping her meaty paws about Wendy’s neck. Wendy screams, making us all jump.
Pippa is quite put out by the display. “Bessie, that is enough.”
Bessie pulls away her hands. “You used to laugh at my tricks.”
Pippa’s eyes go blue-whi
te. “Tonight, I don’t find it amusing. It isn’t ladylike.” She turns to us, all smiles. “I’m teaching these girls to be ladies, just as if they were at Spence!” She claps as if she were Mrs. Nightwing herself. “Come now. A small demonstration for our guests.”
The girls rise obediently, eager to please their mistress. Under Pip’s direction, they show off their curtsies one by one. This is followed by a particularly amusing elocution lesson in which Pip works with Mae Sutter to change her thick East London accent. Mae struggles to put hs into her words where there are none, and Bessie teases her mercilessly.
“You ain’t no lady, Mae. You ain’t never gonna be a fine lady like Miss Pip.”
“’Oo asked you?” Mae barks, and everyone laughs.
“Who asked you,” Pippa corrects.
“’At’s what I said,” Mae asserts. “’Oo asked ’er?”
There is more laughter, especially from Ann, who seems happy not to be the girl getting taunted for once. Little by little, our awkwardness slips away, easing into a new closeness, until it feels as if we have never been apart. I’ve not seen Felicity like this in months. With Pip she’s lighter, quicker to laugh than to challenge. And I feel a small pang of envy for the intimacy of their friendship.
“What are you thinking?” Felicity asks. I start to answer, but then I realize she’s talking to Pip.
“I was thinking how different my life would have been had I done as my mother told me and married Mr. Bumble.”
“Mr. Bartleby Bumble the barrister,” Ann intones, pronouncing the Bs hard.
The factory fire girls break into a fit of giggling. This is the only encouragement Ann needs to continue.
“This is my beloved, Mrs. Bumble,” Ann says in perfect imitation of Mr. Bumble’s plummy tones. “She wears a bright bauble bought from Barrington’s Baubles.”
We’re lost to the giggles now. Ann can scarcely carry on for her own laughter. “Beware barristers bringing baubles! Better the berries than barristers!”
Felicity shrieks. “Oh, Ann!”
Ann giggles. “Bite bitter berries before becoming Bumble’s beloved!”
Pippa’s lips tremble. “Was it the better choice? I wonder.” She buries her face in her hands and cries.
“Oh, Pip, darling. Don’t cry.” Felicity runs to soothe her—Felicity, who never offers kindness to anyone.
“Wh-what have I d-done?” Pip wails. Sobbing, she runs from the room.
Bessie Timmons gives us a hard look. She’s a big girl and, I daresay, a bit of a brawler. She could give us a good pounding if she wished. “Miss Pippa’s the kindest soul what ever lived. You best not make her cry again.”
I can see from the set of her jaw that we have been warned.
Felicity goes to Pip and returns a moment later. “She wants to speak to you, Gemma.”
I drift down a corridor thick with leaves and desiccated flowers.
“Gemma.” I hear my name whispered from behind a tattered tapestry. I pull it back amidst a flurry of dust. Pippa motions for me to come in. Felicity is right on my heels, but Pip stops her.
“I must have a word with Gemma,” she says.
“But…,” Felicity starts.
“Fee,” Pippa scolds playfully.
“Oh, very well.” Felicity turns on her heel, and Pip and I are alone in the grand room. An ornate marble altar sits at one end, and I surmise that this must have been the castle’s chapel. It seems a strange place for a private conversation. The emptiness of the room and its tall, arched ceilings make our words loop and echo. Pip sits upon the altar, her heels knocking gently against the moldy engravings there. Her smile vanishes, and in its place is an expression of utter anguish.
“Gemma, I can’t bear this anymore. I want you to help me cross over.”
I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t this. “Pip, I’ve never actually helped anyone cross before—”
“Then I shall be the first.”
“I don’t know,” I say, thinking of Felicity and Ann. “Perhaps we should discuss it—”
“I’ve given it thought. Please,” she begs.
I know she should cross. And yet a part of me wants to hold on. “You’re certain you’re…ready to go?”
She nods. Only the two of us are in this room neglected by time and magic. It is as hopeless a place as one could find.
“Shall I get the others?” I ask.
“No!” she cries so sharply I fear that the chapel’s old stones will break. “They’ll try to stop me. Especially Felicity and Bessie. You can tell them goodbye for me. It was nice that we could be together one last time.”
“Yes, it was.” I swallow hard. My throat aches.
“Come back tomorrow alone. I’ll meet you just beyond the bramble wall.”
“If I help you cross now, Felicity will never forgive me,” I say.
“She need never know. It will be our secret.” Pip’s eyes fill with new tears. “Please, Gemma. I’m ready. Won’t you help me?”
She takes my hands, and though hers are as cold and white as chalk, they are still Pip’s. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll help you.”
* * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
THE TROUBLE WITH MORNING IS THAT IT COMES WELL before noon.
Oh, to luxuriate in my bed for another hour. I’ve slept no more than two, and whilst I did, a family of squirrels must have taken up residence in my mouth, for I am sure there is a coating of fur upon my tongue. My tongue tastes of squirrel, if squirrel has a taste somewhere between days-old porridge and foul cheese.
“Gemma!” Ann pushes me. She’s smartly turned out in her proper Spence uniform of white blouse, white skirt, and boots. How did she manage that? “You’re late!”
I lie on my back. The morning light hurts my eyes, so I close them again. “Does your mouth taste of squirrel?”
She makes a face. “Squirrel? No, of course not.”
“Woodchuck, then?”
“Will you get up?”
I rub my eyes and will my feet to the cold, unwelcoming floor. Even it is not ready to wake. I moan in protest.
“I’ve laid out your clothing for you.” And so she has, just like a clever, good little girl. My skirt and blouse are stacked neatly across the foot of my bed. “I thought you’d rather find your stockings for yourself.” She blushes as she says this. Poor Ann. How is it she can enjoy bloodthirsty tales of all manner of carnage yet nearly faint at the notion of bare shins? I step behind the dressing screen for modesty’s sake—Ann’s, that is—and dress quickly.
“Gemma, wasn’t it so marvelous to be in the realms once again, to feel the magic?”
The night comes back to me—the discovery of the door, the joy of being there again, the magic. Yet my conversation with Gorgon about the alliance and my duties there has left a shroud upon my soul. So much is expected of me and so quickly. And I cannot shake the apprehension I feel about helping Pippa. I’ve not helped a soul, let alone a friend, cross the river before. And if I fail, I dare not guess at the outcome.
“Yes, marvelous,” I say, fastening buttons.
“You don’t seem very happy about it,” Ann says.
I steady myself. At last we’ve regained entry into the realms. I can’t allow worries about Philon and the forest folk to take this happiness from me. And as for helping Pippa, it isn’t a choice, or something to discuss or debate with Felicity or Ann. It is the only honorable thing a friend can do. And now that the magic is back…
I step from behind the screen and take Ann’s hands. “Perhaps there is a new beginning for us,” I tell her. “Perhaps being a governess isn’t your destiny at all.”
Ann allows herself a miserly smile. “But, Gemma,” she says, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, “I’ve only a little magic left. It’s very weak. Have you…?”
I can feel it inside me, a giddy wakefulness that has me attuned to everything, as if I’ve had several cups of strong black tea. I close my eyes, feelin
g what Ann does. Hope with an undercurrent of envy. I see her as she would like to see herself: beautiful, admired, singing on a stage bathed in gaslight.
A subtle change comes over Ann. I cannot say what exactly; I know only that I see her differently. Her nose, which is usually red and runny, is not. Her hair is shinier, and her eyes seem somehow bluer. Ann regards herself in the mirror. She smiles at what she sees.
“It’s only the beginning,” I promise.
Outside our room, girls rush for the stairs in a stampede, and I do wonder if we are ever able to get anywhere without running like bulls. Someone bangs on our door and pushes it open without waiting for a response. It’s Martha.
“Here you are!” she trills. She tosses two frilly white nothings at Ann, who balks and throws them at me.
“What is this?” I ask, holding up a pair of what appear to be bloomers.
“For riding, of course!” Martha squeals. “Haven’t you heard?”
“No, we haven’t,” I say, hoping my irritation is evident.
“There is to be no French instruction this morning. Inspector Kent has come and brought us bicycles! There are three of them. The inspector’s waiting out front to teach us all! Bicycles! The darling!” Then she’s off running down the hall.
“Have you ever ridden before?” Ann asks.
“Never,” I say, eyeing the ridiculous bloomers and wondering which shall be more humiliating—the riding or the costume.
The other girls have gathered in front of Spence when Felicity and I arrive. We’re outfitted in the latest fashion for bicycling—long bloomers, a blouse with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and straw hats encircled with ribbon. The bloomers make me feel like a large duck. But at least I’m not as skittish as Elizabeth, who can barely walk for blushing.
She hides behind Cecily and Martha, shaking her head.
“Oh, I can’t! They’re immodest! Indecent!”
Felicity grabs her by the hand. “And absolutely necessary if you’re to ride a bicycle. I find them a great improvement upon the uniform, I can tell you that.”
Elizabeth shrieks and runs for cover again. Dear God. It is a wonder that she can even bathe herself without fainting at the immodesty of it all.
