Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  “What if we are found out?” Ann frets.

  “We won’t be,” Felicity says. "I shall tell the ladies at the club that before the death of your parents, you received musical training from a world-famous Russian opera singer. They will be thrilled to hear you sing. Knowing how they are, they’ll all fight to have you sing at their dances and dinners. You’ll be the prize exhibit, and the whole time, they’ll have no idea you’re poor as a church mouse.”

  There is something feral in Felicity’s grin.

  “I shall probably disappoint them,” Ann mumbles.

  “You must stop that this instant,” Felicity chides. “I’m not doing all this work on your behalf so that you can go and undo it.”

  “Yes, Felicity,” Ann says.

  Umbrellas opened against the rain, we step outside, where we can have a moment alone. None of us wants to say what we’re really feeling, that it shall be torture to wait to enter the realms. Having tasted the magic, I cannot wait to try it again.

  “Dazzle them,” I say to Ann. We embrace lightly, and then the driver is calling over the cascade of rain.

  “Two days,” Felicity says.

  I nod. “Two days.”

  They skitter off for the carriage, kicking up mud as they do.

  Mademoiselle LeFarge is seated in the great hall when I enter. She’s got on her very best wool suit and is reading Pride and Prejudice .

  “You look lovely,” I say. "Er, très jolie !”

  “Merci beaucoup,” she says, smiling. “The inspector is calling for me shortly.”

  “I see you are reading Miss Austen,” I say, grateful that she has not upbraided me for my terrible French.

  “Oh, yes. I do enjoy her books. They’re so romantic. It’s very clever of her to end always on a happy note—with a betrothal or wedding.”

  A maid knocks. "Mr. Kent to see you, miss.”

  “Ah, thank you.” Mademoiselle LeFarge puts away her book. “Well, Miss Doyle, I shall see you in the new year, then. Have a happy Christmas.”

  “Happy Christmas to you, Mademoiselle LeFarge.”

  “Oh, and do work on your French over the holiday, Mademoiselle Doyle. It is a season of miracles. Perhaps we shall both be granted one.”

  Within hours, Spence is nearly deserted. Only a handful of us remain. All day long, girls have been leaving. From my window, I’ve watched them step out into the cold wind for the carriage ride to the train station. I’ve watched their goodbyes, their promises to see each other at this ball or that opera. It’s a wonder they carry on so with tears and “I’ll miss you’s” since it seems as if they will scarcely be apart.

  I’ve the run of the place, and so I spend some time exploring, climbing steep stairs into thin turrets whose windows give me a bird’s-eye view of the land surrounding Spence. I flit past locked doors and dark, paneled rooms that seem more like museum exhibits than living, breathing places. I wander until it is dark and past the time when I should be in bed, not that I think anyone shall be searching for me.

  When I reach my own floor, I am stopped cold. One of the enormous doors to the burned remains of the East Wing has been left ajar. A key juts from the lock. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve never seen these doors unlocked, and I wonder why they should be opened now, when the school is empty.

  Nearly empty.

  I creep closer, trying not to make a sound. There are voices coming from inside. It takes me a moment, but I recognize them: Mrs. Nightwing and Miss McCleethy. I cannot hear them clearly. The wind pushes through like a bellows, sending puffs of words out to me: “Must begin.” “London.” “They’ll help us.” “I’ve secured it.”

  I am too afraid to peer in, so I put my ear to the crack, just as Mrs. Nightwing says, “I shall take care of it. It is my charge, after all.”

  With that, Miss McCleethy steps through the door, catching me.

  “Eavesdropping, Miss Doyle?” she asks, her eyes flashing.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Mrs. Nightwing demands.

  “Miss Doyle! What on earth!”

  “I—I am sorry, Mrs. Nightwing. I heard voices.”

  “What did you hear?” Mrs. Nightwing asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “You expect us to believe you?” Miss McCleethy presses.

  “It’s true,” I lie. “The school is so empty and I was having trouble sleeping.”

  Miss McCleethy and Mrs. Nightwing exchange glances.

  “Get on to bed, then, Miss Doyle,” Mrs. Nightwing says. “In the future, you should make your presence known at once.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” I say, nearly running to my room at the end of the hall.

  What were they speaking of? Must begin what?

  With effort, I remove my boots, dress, corset, and stockings, till I am down to my chemise. There are exactly fourteen pins in my hair. I count them as my trembling fingers remove each one. My coppery curls roll down my back in a sigh of relief.

  It’s no good. I’m far too jittery to think of sleep. I am in need of a distraction, something to ease my mind. Beneath her bed, Ann keeps a stack of magazines, the sort that offer advice and show the latest fashions. On the cover is an illustration of a beautiful woman. Her hair is adorned with feathers. Her skin is creamy perfection and her gaze manages to be both kind and pensive, as if she’s staring off into the sunset while also thinking of bandaging the skinned knees of crying children. I do not know how to accomplish such a look. I find myself with a new fear: that I shall never, ever be this lovely.

  I sit at the dressing table, staring at myself in the mirror, turning my face this way and that. My profile is decent. I’ve a straight nose and a good jaw. Turning to the mirror again, I take in the freckles and pale brows. Hopeless. It isn’t as if there’s something horrific about me; it’s just that there’s nothing that stands out. No mystery. I am not the sort one would picture on the cover of penny magazines, gazing adoringly into the distance. I am not the sort who is pined for by admirers, the girl immortalized in song. And I cannot say that it doesn’t sting to know this.

  When I attend dinners and balls—if I attend any, that is— what will others see in me? Will they even notice? Or will sighing brothers and dear old uncles and distant cousins of other cousins be forced to dance with me out of some sense of politeness because their wives, mothers, and hostesses have forced them into it?

  Could I ever be a goddess? I brush my hair and arrange it across my shoulders as I’ve seen in daring posters for operas in which consumptive women die for love while looking achingly beautiful. If I squint and part my lips just so, I could be mistaken for alluring, perhaps. My reflection wants something. Gingerly, I push down the shoulder straps of my chemise, baring flesh. I shake my hair slightly so that it goes a bit wild, as if I were a wood nymph, something untamed.

  “Excuse me,” I say to my reflection, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I am . . .” Pale. That’s what I am. I pinch roses in my cheeks and start over, adopting a low snarl of a voice. “Who is it that roams my woods so freely? Speak your name. Speak!”

  Behind me, there is the clearing of a throat, followed by a whisper. "It is I, Kartik.”

  A tiny yelp escapes from my throat. I jump up from my dressing table and immediately trip on the edge of it, falling on the rug and bringing the chair down with me. Kartik steps from behind my dressing screen, his palms up in front of his chest.

  “Please. Don’t scream.”

  “How dare you!” I gasp, running for my cupboard and the robe that hangs there. Oh, God, where is it?

  Kartik stares at the floor. “I . . . It wasn’t my intention, I assure you. I was there, but I dozed off, and then . . . Are you . . . presentable?”

  I’ve found the robe but my fingers cannot possibly work in such a state. The robe is buttoned all wrong. It hangs at an odd angle. I cross my arms to minimize the damage. “Perhaps you do not know, but it is unforgivable to hide in a lady’s room. And not to announce yourself whilst she is d
ressing . . .” I fume. "Unforgivable.”

  “I am sorry,” he says, looking sheepish.

  “Unforgivable,” I repeat.

  “Should I go and come back?”

  “As you are already here, you may as well stay.” Truthfully, I am glad to have company after my unfortunate encounter earlier. “What is it that is so urgent it requires you to scale a wall and hide behind my dressing screen?”

  “Did you enter the realms?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yes. But nothing seemed amiss. It was as beautiful as before.” I stop, thinking of Pippa. Beautiful Pippa, whom Kartik once gazed upon with such awe. I think of her warning about the Rakshana.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. We have asked someone there to help us. A guide, of sorts.”

  Kartik shakes his head. “That is not wise! I told you, nothing and no one that comes from within the realms can be trusted just now.”

  “This is someone we can trust.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s Pippa,” I say quietly.

  Kartik’s eyes widen. "Miss Cross? But I thought . . .”

  “Yes, so did I. But I saw her last night. She doesn’t know about the Temple, but she’s going to help us find it.”

  Kartik stares at me. “But if she doesn’t cross over, she’ll become corrupted.”

  “She says that isn’t the case.”

  “You cannot trust her. She could already be corrupted.”

  “There’s nothing strange about her at all,” I protest. “She’s just as . . .” She’s just as beautiful as before, I was about to say.

  “She’s just as what?”

  “She is the same Pippa,” I answer quietly. “And she knows more about the realms than we do at this point. She can help us. It’s more than you’ve given me to go on.”

  If I’ve injured Kartik’s pride, he doesn’t let on. He paces, passing so near that I can smell him, a mixture of smoke, cinnamon, the wind, the forbidden. I clutch my robe tightly about me.

  “All right,” he says, rubbing his chin. "Proceed carefully. But I don’t like this. The Rakshana expressly warned—”

  “The Rakshana have not been there, so how can they possibly know what is to be trusted?” Pippa’s warning seems suddenly very good to me. “I know nothing about your brotherhood. Why should I trust them? Why should I trust you? Honestly, you sneak into my room and hide behind my dressing screen. You follow me about. You’re constantly barking orders at me: Close your mind! No, dreadfully sorry—open your mind! Help us find the Temple! Bind the magic!”

  “I’ve told you what I know,” he says.

  “You don’t know very much, do you?” I snap.

  “I know my brother was Rakshana. I know that he died trying to protect your mother, and that she died trying to protect you.”

  There it is. The ugly sorrow that joins us. I feel as if the breath has been knocked from me.

  “Don’t,” I warn.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I think I shall give the orders for a while. You want me to find the Temple. I want something from you.”

  “Are you blackmailing me?” he asks.

  “You can call it what you like. But I won’t tell you anything further until you answer my questions.”

  I sit on Ann’s bed. He sits on mine, opposite me. Here we are, a couple of dogs ready to bite if provoked.

  “Ask,” he says.

  “I’ll ask when I’m ready,” I say.

  “Very well, don’t ask.” He stands to leave.

  “Tell me about the Rakshana!” I blurt out.

  Kartik sighs and looks up to the ceiling. “The Brotherhood of the Rakshana has existed for as long as the Order. They rose in the East but were joined by others along the way. Charlemagne was Rakshana, as were many of the Knights Templar. They were the guardians of the realms and its borders, sworn to protect the Order. Their emblem is the sword and the skull.” He says this in a rush, like a history lesson recited for the benefit of a teacher.

  “That was serviceable,” I say, irritated.

  He holds up a finger. "But informative.”

  I ignore his jibe.

  “How did you come to be part of the Rakshana?”

  He shrugs. "I have always been with them.”

  “Not always, surely. You must have had a mother and a father.”

  “Yes. But I never really knew them. I left them when I was six.”

  “Oh,” I say, shocked. I’d never thought of Kartik as a little boy leaving his mother’s arms. "I am sorry.”

  He won’t meet my eyes. “There is nothing to be sorry for. It was understood that I would be trained for the Rakshana, like my brother, Amar, before me. It was a great honor for my family. I was taken into the fold and schooled in mathematics, languages, weapons, fighting. And cricket.” He smiles. “I’m quite good at cricket.”

  “What else?”

  “I was taught how to survive in the woods. How to track things. Thievery.”

  I raise my eyebrows at this.

  “Whatever it takes to survive. One never knows when picking a man’s pocket will buy a day’s food or create a distraction at just the right moment.”

  I think of my own mother, gone for good now, and how deeply I feel her loss. "Didn’t you miss your family terribly?”

  His voice, when it comes, is very quiet. “In the beginning, I looked for my mother on every street, in every market, always hoping I would see her. But I had Amar, at least.”

  “How terrible. You had no say in it.”

  “It was my fate. I accept it. The Rakshana have been very good to me. I have been trained for an elite brotherhood. What would I have done in India? Herded cows? Gone hungry? Lived in the shadow of the English, forced to smile while serving their food or grooming their horses?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. . . .”

  “You didn’t upset me,” he says. "I don’t think you understand how great an honor it is to be chosen for the brotherhood. Soon, I will be ready to advance to the last level of my training.”

  “What happens then?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, with a sweet smile. “You must swear an oath of allegiance for life. Then you are shown the eternal mysteries. No one ever speaks of it. But first, you must complete a challenge set before you, to prove your worthiness.”

  “What is your challenge?”

  His smile fades. “To find the Temple.”

  “Your fate is joined to mine.”

  “Yes,” he says softly. "So it would seem.”

  He’s looking at me in such an odd way that I am once again aware of how compromised I am in my robe. “You should go now.”

  “Yes. I should,” he says, leaping up. "May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Do you often talk to your mirror? Is that something young ladies do?”

  “No. Of course not.” I blush a shade of crimson deeper than has ever been noted on any girl’s cheeks. "I was rehearsing. For a play. I—I am to perform in a chorus.”

  “That will certainly be a most interesting exhibition,” Kartik says, shaking his head.

  “I have a rather long day of traveling tomorrow and must bid you good night,” I say rather formally. I’m eager for Kartik to leave so that I may suffer my embarrassment in private. He swings his strong legs over the window’s edge and reaches for the rope nestled in the thick ivy running up the school’s walls. “Oh, how will I contact you should I find the Temple?”

  “The Rakshana have secured employment for me in London over the holiday. Somewhere close. I’ll be in touch.”

  And with that, he is through the window and scurrying down the rope. I watch him join the night, wishing he could come back. I’ve barely secured the latch when there’s a knock on my door. It is Miss McCleethy.

  “I thought I heard voices,” she says, surveying the room.

  “I—I was reading aloud,” I say, grabbing Ann’s m
agazine from the bed.

  “I see,” she says in her strange accent. She offers me a glass.

  “You said you were having trouble sleeping, so I’ve brought you some warm milk.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking it. I loathe warm milk.

  “I feel that you and I got off on rather the wrong foot.”

  “I am sorry for what happened with the arrow, Miss McCleethy. Truly, I am. And I wasn’t eavesdropping on you earlier. I—”

  “Now, now. It is all forgotten. You share this room with Miss Bradshaw?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “She and Miss Worthington are your dearest friends?”

  “Yes.” They are my only friends, actually.

  “They are certainly fine young ladies, but not half so interesting as you, I daresay, Miss Doyle.”

  I am dumbfounded. "M-me? I’m not so very interesting.” “Come now,” she says, moving closer. "Why, Mrs. Nightwing and I were speaking of you just this very evening, and we agreed that there is something very special about you.”

  I am standing before her in a misbuttoned robe. "You are too kind, I’m sure. Actually, Miss Bradshaw has an astonishing voice, and Miss Worthington is frightfully clever.”

  “See how loyal you are, Miss Doyle? Quick to come to the defense of your friends. It is a commendable trait.”

  She means to compliment me, but I feel uncomfortable, as if I am being studied.

  “What a most unusual necklace.” Bold as you please, she traces the curve of the crescent moon with her finger. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was my mother’s,” I say.

  She gives me a penetrating look. "It must have been hard for her to part with something so precious.”

  “She is dead. It is my inheritance.”

  “Does it have some meaning?” she asks.

  “No,” I lie. "None that I am aware of.”

  Miss McCleethy stares at me till I have to look away. "What was she like, your mother?”

  I force a yawn. "Forgive me, but I believe I am tired after all.”

  Miss McCleethy seems disappointed. “You should drink the milk while it’s still warm. It will help you sleep. Rest is so very important.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I say, holding the glass.

  “Go on. Drink it.”