by Libba Bray
“Don’t you think I know she has it?” Miss McCleethy answers, steel in her voice. “We’ll get it from her. Patience.”
“She’s dangerous, Sahirah. Reckless. She’ll bring us to ruin,” Folwson insists.
Miss McCleethy’s shadow presses close to Fowlson’s. “She’s only a girl.”
“You underestimate ’er,” he answers, but his voice has softened.
Their shadows move closer. “Once we build the tower of the East Wing, the secret door will be illuminated for us. And then we’ll have possession of the realms and the magic once more.”
“And then?” Fowlson asks.
“Then…”
Fowlson’s shadow head dips toward Miss McCleethy. Their faces meet and blend into one shadow on the wall. My stomach tightens with hate for them both.
“You’re a bit mad, Sahirah,” Fowlson says.
“You used to like that quality in me,” Miss McCleethy purrs.
“Din’t say I don’t still.”
Their voices fade to sighs and murmurs I feel in my belly, and I blush.
“I need this, Sahirah,” Fowlson says softly. “If I’m the only one o’ ’em allowed in wif you and the Order, I’ll be able to name my price. They’ll cawl me a great man for it. I don’ wanna be their strong arm forever. I want to sit a’ the table proper wif power o’ my own.”
“And you shall. I promise. Leave it to me,” Miss McCleethy answers.
“Brother Kartik is a problem. ’E tried to cawl a meetin’. What if m’lord knew I’d let Kartik go ’stead of killin’ ’im like they asked me to do?”
“Your employer will never know. But I need Kartik just now.”
I hold my breath. What if they mean to harm him? I’ve got to get to him, to warn—
“He and I have our agreement,” Miss McCleethy continues. “He can’t forget it was I who bargained for his life with you, I who sheltered him in London for those months until he was well. Now he is in my debt, and he will answer to me.”
“’E was s’posed to spy on the girl, tell us ever’ fin’ ’e ’eard and saw, not sneak behind our backs.”
“I’ll speak to him,” Miss McCleethy vows.
The weight of their words has me sinking slowly down the wall. Miss McCleethy at the Egyptian Hall. The figure in the shadows. It was Kartik. She sent him to spy—on me. Bile, hot and acidic, claws up my throat.
“It’ll take more ’n words. Let me take the strap to ’im again. That’s ’ow you get fings done, Sahirah.”
“That’s how you get things done,” Miss McCleethy says. “I shall stick with my methods.”
“You’re sure she don’t suspect nuffin’?”
Miss McCleethy’s voice is as sure as always. “Not a thing.”
There’s the scraping of boots on the floor. I sit numbly in the dark as Miss McCleethy shows Fowlson to the door and treads the stairs to her bed. I sit awhile longer, unable to move. And when I feel my legs again, I march straight to the boathouse, where I know I will find him.
I’m not disappointed; he’s there, reading Homer by lantern light.
“Gemma!” he calls, but his smile fades when he sees my expression. “What is wrong?”
“You lied to me—and don’t try to deny it! I know!” I say. “You’re working for them!”
He doesn’t try to feign innocence or offer an excuse to save himself, as I knew he wouldn’t.
“How did you find out?” he asks.
“That is hardly the point, is it?” I snarl. “That’s the other part you didn’t want to tell me when we were sitting on the wharf? Just before you…”
Kissed me.
“Yes,” he says.
“And so, you were spying for them and kissing me?”
“I didn’t want to work for them,” he argues. “I wanted to kiss you.”
“Should I swoon now?”
“I didn’t tell Miss McCleethy anything. That’s why I kept pushing you away—so I’d have nothing to confess. I know you’re very angry with me, Gemma. I understand but—”
“Do you?” The magic sparks in my belly. I could make this all go away, but it wouldn’t. Not really. Not for good. I’d still know. I use every bit of my concentration to push the magic down, and it coils inside me, a sleeping snake. “Just tell me why.”
He sits on the floor, resting his arms on his bent knees. “Amar was all I had in this world. He was a good man, Gemma. A good brother. To think of him trapped in the Winterlands, damned for eternity…” He trails off. “And then I had that terrible vision when Fowlson”—he swallows—“tortured me. He would have killed me, and at that moment, I wouldn’t have minded. It was Miss McCleethy who stopped it. She told me that with her help, I could save Amar. That I could save you. But she needed to know what you were about. She knew you wouldn’t tell her.”
“For good reason,” I spit.
“I thought I could save you both,” he says.
“I don’t need saving! I needed to trust you!”
“I’m sorry,” he says simply. “People make mistakes, Gemma. We take the wrong action for the right reasons, and the right action for the wrong reasons. If you like, I’ll go to McCleethy tomorrow and tell her she has no more hold over me.”
“She’ll send Fowlson,” I remind him.
He shrugs. “Let him come.”
“There’s no need to go to McCleethy,” I say, pulling a loose thread till my hem unravels further. “Then she’ll know that I know. And anyway, I’ll not be telling you my secrets again. And you’re wrong. Amar wasn’t all you had in this world,” I say, blinking up at the wooden rafters of the boathouse. “You didn’t have any faith in me.”
He nods, accepting the blow, and then he is ready with his own. “I wonder if you allow yourself to have faith in anyone.”
Circe’s words return to me: You’ll come back to me when there is no one else to trust.
“I’m going. I shan’t be back.” I bolt for the door and push through it with all my strength, letting it slap against the side of the boathouse.
Kartik comes after me, and takes hold of my hand. “Gemma,” he says, “you’re not the only lost soul in this world.”
It’s tempting to keep holding fast to his hand, but I can’t. “You’re wrong about that.” I slide my fingers free of his and ball them into a fist at my stomach and run for the secret door.
I pass Neela, Creostus, and two other centaurs in the poppy fields on the way to the Temple. They’ve a bushel of poppies, and they argue with the Hajin over the price.
“Off to make bargains with the Hajin?” Neela sneers.
“What I do is none of your concern,” I snap back.
“You promised us a share,” she says, shifting into a perfect replica of me and back again.
“I’ll give it when I choose,” I say. “If I choose. For how do I know you’re not in alliance with the Winterlands creatures?”
Neela’s lips curl back in a snarl. “You accuse us?”
When I don’t answer, Creostus steps forward. “You’re just like the others.”
“Go away,” I say, but I’m the one who leaves, traveling up the mountain to the well of eternity.
I put my hands on the well and stare straight into Circe’s placid face.
“I want to know everything you can tell me about the Order, the Rakshana. Leave nothing out,” I say. “And then I want you to tell me how to be the master of this magic.”
“What has happened?” she asks.
“You were right. They’re plotting against me. All of them. I won’t let them take the power away from me.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
I perch on the edge of the well, drawing my knees to my chest. The hem of my skirt floats out on the water, reminding me of funeral flowers set upon the Ganges. “I’m ready,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“I must know something first. The last time I saw you, you were headed for the Winterlands. Tell me, did you find the Tree of All Souls?”
/> “Yes.”
“And was it as powerful as the Temple?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “Its magic is different. But extraordinary.”
“What did it show you?” she asks, and a small sigh echoes in the cave.
“Eugenia Spence. She’s alive,” I answer.
Circe is so quiet I think she has died.
“What did she want?” she asks at last.
“She wants me to find something for her. A dagger.”
There is a moment’s pause. “And have you found it?”
“I’ve answered enough of your questions. You shall answer mine,” I snap. “Teach me.”
“It will cost you more magic,” she murmurs.
“Yes, I’ll pay it. Why do you want it?” I add. “What can you possibly do with it if you can’t leave the well?”
Her voice floats up from the depths. “What do you care? This is a chess match, Gemma. Do you want to win or not?”
“I do.”
“Then listen closely….”
I sit for hours at Circe’s side, listening until I understand, until I stop fearing my strength, until something deep within me is unleashed. And when I leave the Temple, I am no longer afraid of the power that lives inside me. I worship it. I will close the borders of myself and defend them without mercy.
I walk through the willows, and I hear Amar’s horse galloping fast behind me. I don’t run. I stand and face him. He draws close; his horse’s icy breath cools my face.
“I’ll not be frightened away,” I tell him.
“The birth of May, mortal girl. That is what you should fear,” he answers, and rides away in a cloud of dust.
Crows alight in the willows. I move by them like a queen passing her subjects, and they flutter their dark wings and caw at me. Their cries swell, shaking the trees like the cries of the damned.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY
* * *
IN MAY, THE ANNUAL EXHIBITION AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY of Arts will signal the traditional start of the London season. Parliament will commence, and hordes of families will begin their assault on our fair city for parties and teas, concerts, derbies, and entertainments of all sorts. But the unofficial start of these festivities is Lady Markham’s ball in honor of Felicity’s debut. For the occasion, Lady Markham has let a magnificent hall in the West End, which has been outfitted lavishly in a style that would do justice to a sultan. It is an unspoken sport, holding these parties, and each hostess is in fierce competition with the others to host the most gilded, lavish affair of all. Lady Markham means to set the bar quite high.
Enormous palm trees line the sides of the hall’s ballroom. Tables have been set with white linens and silver that glitters like a pirate’s treasure. An orchestra plays discreetly behind a tall, red screen painted with Chinese dragons. And all sorts of entertainments are provided: A turbaned fire-breather with a face painted as blue as Krishna’s blows a fat orange plume of flame from his pursed lips, and the guests gasp in delight. Three entwined ladies of Siam in beaded gowns and slippered feet perform a slow, elaborate dance. They seem to be one body with many slithering arms. Gentlemen gather around the dancers, mesmerized by their sinewy charms.
“How vulgar,” my chaperone, Mrs. Tuttle, says. Grandmama has paid a pretty price for her services this evening, and I am finding Mrs. Tuttle to be the worst sort of chaperone one could hope for—punctual, sharp, and overly attentive.
“I rather like them,” I say. “In fact, I think I shall learn to dance just like that. Perhaps tonight.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Miss Doyle,” she says as if that settles the matter, when it settles nothing.
“I shall do as I like, Mrs. Tuttle,” I say sweetly. Discreetly, I wave my hand at her skirts and they whoosh up, exposing her petticoats and pantalets.
With a gasp, she pushes down the front of her dress, and the back rises. “Oh, dear!” She reaches behind her and the front billows again. “Gracious! It…I…Will you excuse me, please?”
Mrs. Tuttle rushes for the ladies’ dressing room, holding fast to her mischievous skirts.
“I eagerly await your return,” I murmur after her.
“Gemma!”
Felicity’s here with a chaperone, a tall reed of a lady with a beak of a nose. “Isn’t it marvelous? Have you seen the fire-breather? I’m so glad my party shall be the talk of the season. I don’t possibly see how anyone can compete with this!”
“It’s wonderful, Fee. Truly, it is.”
“At least my inheritance is secure now,” she whispers. “Father and Lady Markham have become fast friends this evening. She’s even been civil to my mother.”
She takes my arm and we promenade, her chaperone—a Frenchwoman named Madame Lumière—three paces behind us.
“Mother insisted on paying for a chaperone tonight,” Felicity whispers. “She believes it will make us look more important.”
As we walk, the men survey us as if we’re lands that might be won, either by agreement or in battle. The room buzzes with talk of the hunt and Parliament, horses and estates, but their eyes never stray too far from us. There are bargains to be struck, seeds to be planted. And I wonder, if women were not daughters and wives, mothers and young ladies, prospects or spinsters, if we were not seen through the eyes of others, would we exist at all?
“We might pass the time with cake,” Madame Lumière suggests.
I do not want to pass the time. I want to grab hold of it and leave my mark upon the world.
“Oh, poor Madame Lumière. Do have some. Miss Doyle and I shall wait here for your return,” Felicity says, giving one of her brightest smiles. Madame Lumière promises to return tout de suite. The moment she is out of our sight, we walk quickly away so that we might explore the wonders of the ball unfettered.
“Have you anyone lovely to dance with?” I ask, noting Felicity’s dance card.
“They’re all horrors! Old Mr. Carrington, who smells of whiskey. An American who actually asked if my family owned any land. And several more suitors, not a one of whom I would save from drowning, much less consent to marry. And there’s Horace, of course.” Felicity growls low. “He follows me about like a mournful puppy.”
“You’ve thoroughly bewitched him,” I say, laughing.
“Simon said to be charming, and so I have charmed my way through every appointment with Lady Markham and her son, but I don’t think I can bear much more of his attention.”
“You’d best prepare, for here he comes now.”
I nod toward the crowd of three hundred people, where Horace Markham pushes his way toward us, raising his hand like a man trying to secure a hansom. He’s tall and slender, aged twenty-three, according to Felicity. His face is boyish and given to frequent blushing. I can tell at a glance from the way he carries himself—slightly stooped forward, a little embarrassed—that he hasn’t the courage or, frankly, the devil it would take to keep pace with Felicity.
“Oh, dear,” I say under my breath.
“Indeed,” Felicity shoots back.
“Miss Worthington,” Horace says, out of breath. A curly lock breaks free and sticks to the sheen on his high forehead. “Here we are again, it would seem.”
“Yes, so it would.” Fee glances up at Horace through downcast eyes. A coy smile plays at her lips. It’s no wonder the poor boy is besotted.
“I believe the polka is next. Would you care to join me for it?” he asks, and it sounds like begging.
“Mr. Markham, that’s very kind, but we’ve already had so many dances that I am afraid of what people will say,” Fee says, playing proper, and it is all I can do not to laugh.
“Let them talk.” Horace straightens his waistcoat as if preparing for a duel to defend his family’s honor.
“Gracious,” I mutter.
Felicity’s sidelong glance says, You’ve no idea. Lady Denby sits at a table eating cake. She looks on with disapproval and it doesn’t escape Felicity’s notice.
“How v
ery brave you are, Mr. Markham,” Fee says, allowing Horace to squire her right past Lady Denby to the dance floor.
“I don’t suppose there is still room on your dance card for one more?”
I turn to see Simon Middleton smiling at me. With his white tie and tails and that wicked twinkle in his eyes, he is ever so handsome.
“I was to dance with a Mr. Whitford.” I demur.
Simon nods. “Ah, old man Whitford. Not only does he walk with the aid of a cane, but his memory is rather faulty. Chances are he’s forgotten you, I’m sorry to say, and if he hasn’t, we could have our dance and be back here again before he’s hobbled to your side.”
I laugh, glad for his delicious wit. “In that case, I accept.”
We glide into the swell of dancers, brushing past Tom, who is intent on charming his dance partner: “Dr. Smith and I cured the poor man of his delusions, though I daresay it was my insight into the case that started it all….”
“Was it really?” she says, drinking his story in, and it is all I can do not to give Tom the ears of a rabbit.
Mrs. Tuttle has returned from the ladies’ dressing room. She holds two glasses of lemonade. She sees me dancing with Simon, a look of pure horror on her face, for it is her duty to see that every gentleman who might court me passes muster. She holds the keys to the gate. But she has been relieved of duty whether she knows it or not. No, Mrs. Tuttle. You want to stay there. I am fine here in Simon’s arms. I need no tending. Please, enjoy your lemonade. Blinking and confused, Mrs. Tuttle turns around and drinks from both glasses of lemonade.
“I say, your chaperone is a bit wobbly. Is she a drinking woman?” Simon asks.
“Only lemonade,” I answer.
Simon gives me a flirtatious smile. “I daresay there is something changed in you.”
“Is there?”
“Mmmm. I cannot say what it is. Miss Doyle and her secrets.” He appraises my form with a sweeping glance that is far too bold and, I must confess, very thrilling. “But you are quite lovely this evening.”
“Is your Miss Fairchild here tonight?”
