by Libba Bray
“She is indeed,” he answers, and I do not need the power of the realms to feel the warmth in his answer.
I’m filled with a sudden regret for having refused him. He is handsome and merry. He thought me beautiful. What if I do not find anyone like him ever again?
What if I could have him again?
“Miss Fairchild is an American. I suppose she’ll want to go home as soon as the season is over,” I say, leaning in just a bit closer to Simon.
“Perhaps so, though she claims to find England agreeable.” Simon’s hand presses a bit more firmly at the base of my spine. “And what are your plans, Miss Doyle? Have you set your sights on anyone special?”
I think of Kartik and turn that thought out of my mind before it can taint my mood. “None.”
Simon’s thumb moves ever so slightly against my dress. My back tingles where it touches. “That is welcome news,” he purrs.
The dance ends, and I excuse myself for the ladies’ dressing room so that I might allow the flush on my cheeks to cool. Ladies’ maids stand at the ready, but I’ve no need. Where my hair has gone limp, I put it to rights with a wave of my hand. I decide I don’t care for the gloves I’ve donned, so, away from prying eyes, I give myself a different pair. I smile at my handiwork.
“Good evening, Miss Doyle.” I turn to see Lucy Fairchild beside me.
“Miss Fairchild,” I say.
She smiles at me with great warmth. “It’s a splendid ball, isn’t it? How happy you must be for your friend Miss Worthington.”
“Yes,” I say, smiling back. “I am.”
“I watched you dance. You are very graceful,” she says, and I blush, thinking of Simon’s hand at my back, the way I leaned into him.
“Thank you,” I say. “Though my grace is very much in question, and I’m sure Si—Mr. Middleton much prefers dancing with you.”
We smile uncomfortably at one another in the mirror. She pinches her cheeks for color though there’s no need. She’s lovely.
“Well…,” I say, rising to go.
“Yes. Do enjoy the ball,” Lucy Fairchild says with sincerity.
“And you as well.”
A gong sounds and the guests are called to the ballroom. Lord Markham staggers to the center of the floor. He’s had a bit to drink, and the red of his nose shows it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our esteemed guests,” Lord Markham says, slurring his words a bit, “my dear wife has arranged a most stirring entertainment for this evening. The Whirling Dervishes of Konya have come to us as refugees from the Ottoman Empire, which has of late been the site of an unspeakable massacre of the Armenian people by the Sultan’s army. Such atrocities cannot stand! We must—”
Throats are cleared. Women fan themselves. Lady Markham looks at her husband beseechingly, that he might talk no more of politics, and he nods, cowed.
“I present to you the Dervishes of Konya.”
Eight men in very tall hats take the floor. The gleaming of the crystal chandeliers makes the white of their long, priestly robes shine. The music is hypnotic. The dancers bow to one another and slowly they begin their revolutions. The music swells, the tempo rises, and the dancers’ long skirts float out like bells.
The music speeds along with a passion that stirs my blood. The dervishes turn in ecstasy, their palms raised toward heaven as if they could hold God briefly on their fingers but only if they do not stop turning.
The guests watch in awe, caught up in the frenzy of the Dervishes’ spinning. To my right, I see Mr. Fowlson dressed in servant garb, a tray in his hand. He’s not watching the dancers; he’s watching my brother. Seconds later, he exits the room. I’ll not let him go tonight. I intend to shadow his every move. He’ll let my brother be or feel my wrath.
He walks upstairs and knocks on the door to the gentlemen’s parlor. I dart behind an enormous potted fern to spy. A moment later, Lord Denby appears.
“Yes, Fowlson?”
“’E’s watchin’ the dance, sir,” Fowlson reports. “I’m keepin’ my eye on ’im, jus’ like you asked.”
Lord Denby pats Fowlson’s shoulder. “Good man.”
“I wondered, sir, if I might ’ave a word.”
Lord Denby loses his smile. “It’s not really the time or the place, old chap.”
“Yes, sir, forgive me, but it never seems to be, and I was wondrin’ when I migh’ advance in the Rakshana like we talked about. I ’ave some thoughts….”
Lord Denby sticks his cigar into his mouth. “All in good time.”
“Just as you say, sir,” Fowlson answers, his head down.
“We need more fine soldiers like you, Mr. Fowlson,” Lord Denby crows. “Now, do keep to your duties, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Fowlson says. He turns on his heel and strides back to the ballroom, where he might keep watch over my brother.
Lord Denby is of the Rakshana. The full weight of it hits my stomach like a fist. All this time. I’ve been in his home. I’ve kissed his son. Simon. Anger, hot and unforgiving, rises in me. He will answer for this, for my brother.
I don’t bother to knock. I open the door and step into the parlor, where only the men sit, smoking their pipes and cigars. The hard glint of their eyes makes it clear that I am a trespasser here. Swallowing hard, I march through the clusters of silently outraged men and straight up to Lord Denby. He puts on a false smile.
“Why, Miss Doyle! I’m afraid this is a room for gentlemen only. If you’re lost, perhaps I could escort—”
“Lord Denby, I must speak with you,” I whisper.
“I’m afraid I’m wanted at the tables, my dear,” he answers.
You’re wanted under my boot, you miserable cur. I force a smile that is pure sugar and lower my voice. “It is rather urgent. I’m sure these kind gentlemen will wait. Or should I see if Mr. Fowlson is more receptive to my request?”
“Gentlemen,” he says, turning to the men in his circle, “do spare me a moment. You know how ladies can be when they are insistent.” The gentlemen chuckle at my expense, and it is all I can do not to inflict a painful rash on every one of them.
Lord Denby ushers me through a door into a private library. Ordinarily, I would be comforted by the sight of so many lovely books, but I’m far too angry for comfort tonight, and I suspect the books are rather like the people here—unread and purely decorative.
Lord Denby takes a seat in an overstuffed leather chair beside a chess table and blows out a stream of heavy smoke that makes me cough. “You wished to speak with me, Miss Doyle?”
“I know who you are, Lord Denby. I know you are of the Rakshana, and I know you’re courting my brother.”
He turns his attention to the chessboard, moving pieces for himself and an imaginary opponent. “What of it?”
“I want you to leave my brother alone, please.”
“My dear, I’m afraid that is quite out of my hands.”
“Who ranks higher than you? Tell me and I shall go to—”
“The Rakshana’s ranks are filled by some of the most important and influential men in the world—heads of state and captains of industry. But that isn’t what I meant. I meant that the decision rests in your hands, dear lady,” he says through a puff of smoke. His hand hovers over a piece for a split second before attacking and capturing a pawn in his way and moving swiftly across the board. “You only need to give us the magic and control of the realms, and your brother will be quite safe, I assure you. In fact, he’ll be a great man, a peer, even. He’ll be well looked after. You all shall. Why, I’m sure Lady Denby would host a ball for your debut that would put all the others to shame. The Queen herself would attend.”
“Do you think I’ve come to discuss parties? That I’m a child who can be won over with a new pony? Have you no honor, sir?” I take a deep breath. “The Rakshana was meant to protect the realms and the Order. It was a venerable profession. Now you’re fighting against us. You would bully me and try to corrupt my brother. What have you become?”
“You’re forgetting: We are not all English, and we are not all men,” I say, insinuating myself into his chess game. I move a pawn forward, taking his bishop unawares. “What of Amar and Kartik and others like them? What of my sex—or of men of Mr. Fowlson’s station? Will any of us sit at your table?”
“Some rule; others are meant to be subjects.” His knight takes my queen, putting my king in danger. “What do you say, Miss Doyle? Your whole future could be arranged to your liking. Everything you could possibly want. Your pick of beaux—my son, perhaps.”
An icy cold presses its thumbs against my ribs. “Did you arrange for Simon and me to meet? Was that all part of your plan?”
“Let us call it a happy coincidence.” Lord Denby attacks my king. “Checkmate, my dear. It’s time I returned to the tables and you to the dance.” He stamps out the last of his cigar. Its cloying smoke lingers as he strides to the door. “Do consider our offer. It is the last time it will be presented. I am sure you’ll do what is in our best interests—and yours.”
I want to throw his fading cigar after him. I want to cry. I press my fingers to my eyes to keep the tears at bay. I’ve been so dreadfully stupid to underestimate the Rakshana’s reach—and to trust Simon Middleton. He never cared for me. He played me like a pawn, and I took the fall willingly.
Well, I won’t be unguarded anymore.
“Miss Doyle!” Mrs. Tuttle scurries toward me with a scowl when I reach the ballroom. “Miss Doyle, you mustn’t run off like that again. It isn’t proper. It is my duty to see to it that you are right at all times—”
“Oh, do shut it,” I growl.
Before she can object, I weave my spell. “You’re thirsty, Mrs. Tuttle. Thirstier than you’ve ever been in your life. Do try the lemonade and leave me in peace.”
“I should like some lemonade now,” she says, putting a fluttering hand to her throat. “Dear me, I’m parched. I must have something to drink.”
I leave her and watch the ball from behind a pillar. I’m alone, full of magic and hate, the two twinning into a new force. Nearby, Lady Denby gossips with Lady Markham and several other important women.
“I have grown very fond of her in these few weeks, as if she were my own daughter,” Lady Denby crows.
“She will make a most suitable match for him,” another lady agrees.
Lady Denby nods. “Simon has not always shown good judgment in such matters. And we have been misled before. But Miss Fairchild is the best sort of young lady—well-bred, agreeable, without flaw, and of good standing.”
An ample matron, beaded and bejeweled within an inch of her life, hides behind her fan. “Lady Markham, have you decided on the other matter, of young Miss Worthington?”
“I have,” she sniffs. “I’ve spoken to the admiral tonight, and he is agreed: Miss Worthington shall come to stay with me, where I might shepherd her season; her mother will not have a say in the matter.”
Lady Denby pats Lady Markham’s hand. “That is as it should be. Mrs. Worthington must pay for her disgrace, and her daughter is far too bold and tempestuous a creature. You’ll take the girl under your wing and mold her into the sort of lady acceptable to all.”
“Indeed,” Lady Markham says. “I feel it is my duty, as her mother has failed in that regard.” The women cast glances toward Mrs. Worthington, who dances with a man half her age. “And let’s not forget the young Miss Worthington’s substantial inheritance. If brought to heel, she would make a valuable wife for any man.”
“Perhaps your Horace,” Lady Denby coos.
“Perhaps,” Lady Markham says.
I imagine Felicity a cosseted debutante in Lady Markham’s parlor instead of a free spirit in a Paris garret, as she desires. She’ll be pitied and powerless, the very qualities she hates most. It will never happen; I’ll see to it if I must.
“Ah, here is our Miss Fairchild now,” Lady Denby announces.
Simon delivers Miss Fairchild to his mother, and she fawns over the girl while he attends to her in a courtly fashion. I burn with a terrible longing. For as much as I claim to hate them, I envy the way in which they all seem to fit one another so perfectly, the ease of their careful little lives. Cecily was right: Some people don’t belong. And I am one of them.
Demon beasts. That’s what they are. Ann’s words come back to me: But they are the ones who rule. Not tonight, they shan’t, for the power of the realms flames within me, and I’ll not temper it. Don’t go up against me, mates. I will win. And I want to win. I want to win at something.
I close my eyes, and when I open them, Simon has broken away from his mother, Miss Fairchild, and all the acolytes. He strides toward me with a hungry look and extends his gloved hand, palm up, though it feels as tense as a fist. His jaw is determined, his voice raw as he says, simply, “Dance with me, Gemma.”
He has called me by my first name, and it sends a shock through those near enough to hear it. Mrs. Tuttle looks as if she might drop her lemonade. For a moment, I do not know what to say. I should feel remorse. Instead, a terrible satisfaction flows through, exciting me. I have won. And winning, however cheaply bought, is thrilling.
“Dance with me, Gemma,” Simon says again, more loudly and insistently. It gains the attention of the other guests. Many of the dancers have slowed, watching the scene. There is whispering. Lady Denby’s mouth has fallen open in disbelief.
Lord Denby has taken notice now. His eyes meet mine, and there’s no mistaking my intent. Corrupt my brother, will you? I’ll see you in hell first, sir.
The smile I give Simon is like a fallen angel’s. He seizes my wrist tightly, and half drags me to the dance floor. He’s making a spectacle of himself. Roughly, he pulls me into waltzing position. The music begins anew, and Simon and I twirl around the floor. There is a heat between us that does not go unnoticed by the others. With each push of his hand against the small of my back, it feels as if Simon wants to eat me alive. I have brought about this affection in him. Let everyone see how powerful I am. Let them think me a beauty, nakedly desired by an important gentleman. And let Lord and Lady Denby be disgraced in the bargain. I cannot keep the satisfied smile from my lips. I am in command and it is intoxicating. On the edge of the dance floor, Lord Denby watches, fuming. He was wrong to doubt me.
An older gentleman taps Simon on the shoulder to signal his intention to break in, but Simon pulls me closer. We dance on, gathering more and more attention, and when it is enough—when I decide it’s enough and the point has been made—I bring it to an end. Time to stop, Simon. Say good night, sweet prince.
Blinking, Simon comes back to himself, utterly perplexed to find me in his arms.
“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Middleton,” I say, stepping away.
A faint confused smile appears on his lips. “It was my pleasure.” At once, he searches for Lucy in the crowd.
Gossip spreads like contagion. I’m whispered about, glared at from behind fans as I leave the floor.
The magic crashes over me in a wave. I’m suffocating with it. It comes off me like a sickness, infecting all who come into contact with me, liberating their hidden desires. A gentleman gives me a helpful arm, and in that gesture he is seized. He turns to the older gentleman sitting near.
“What did you say to me earlier, Thompson? You’ll answer for that.”
The older man’s mouth tightens. “Fenton, have you gone mad?”
“Is it madness to say that I will not be blackmailed for my debts to you any longer? Y
ou do not own me.” He lays a hand on old Thompson, and just like that, the magic spreads.
The old man rises to his feet. “Here now, chap, I daresay if it weren’t for my charity, your standing would be a shambles and your family in the workhouse.”
Quiet, quiet, I think. Forget. To your brandy and cigars. They take up their glasses again. What has been said is forgotten, but the bitter rancor remains, and they eye each other warily.
I careen into a spinster chaperone with her charge, and I feel the pain in her heart. The aching desire she has for her married employer, a Mr. Beadle.
“He does not know,” she says in a sudden rush. “I must tell him. I must confess my fondest affections for him at once.” And it is all I can do to grab hold of her hands until the feeling is replaced by the one I put in its stead.
“Shall we have cake?” she says to her confused charge. “I have a sudden need for cake.”
A prickly sweat rises upon my brow. The magic burns in my veins.
Lord Denby sidles up to me. His face is florid; his eyes burn. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Miss Doyle.”
“Have you not heard, sir? I am a very dangerous girl.”
“You’ve no idea what we can do to you,” he says evenly, but his eyes flash.
I whisper low in his ear. “No, sir. You’ve no idea what I can do to you.”
Fear shows itself briefly in his eyes, and I know I have won this round.
“Let my brother be or face the consequences,” I warn.
“Thank heavens I’ve found you!” Felicity trills. “Good evening, Lord Denby. Would you mind awfully if I borrowed Miss Doyle?”
Lord Denby is all smiles. “Not in the slightest, my dear.”
“Where have you been? You must save me,” Felicity insists, linking her arm tightly through mine.
“From what?”
“Horace Markham,” she says with a laugh. I glance over her shoulder and see Horace looking after her. He holds fast to her fan as if it were Felicity herself. “The way he moons over me,” she says, making a face. “Hideous.”
I laugh, happy to be in Fee’s world, where everything from a lovesick suitor to the choosing of a hat is ripe for drama. “You shouldn’t be so charming,” I tease.
