Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  “What are the realms like?” he asks.

  “Some of it is beautiful. So beautiful you don’t ever want to leave it. In the garden, you can turn stones to butterflies or have a gown of silver thread that sings or . . . or whatever you wish.”

  Kartik smiles at this. "Go on.”

  “There is a ship, like a Viking vessel, with a gorgon’s head attached. She took us through a wall of golden water that left sparkles of gold all over our skin.”

  “Like the gold in your hair?”

  “Much finer,” I say, blushing, for it’s most unlike Kartik to notice anything about me.

  “There are some parts that are not as nice. Strange creatures— horrid things. I suppose that’s why I must bind the magic, so that they cannot wield it.”

  Kartik’s smile disappears. "Yes. I suppose so. Miss Doyle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think—that is, what if you were to stay there, in the realms, once you’d found the Temple?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kartik rubs his fingers where the juice of the orange has turned them a chalky white. “It sounds like a very fine place to hide.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say.”

  “I meant live. A fine place to live, don’t you think?” Sometimes I don’t understand Kartik at all.

  A lantern throws its light over the straw and dirt at our feet. The lovely kitchen maid appears out of nowhere, a look of astonishment on her face. "Beggin’ your pardon, miss. I forgot to bring Mr. Kartik his coffee.”

  “I was just leaving,”I say to her, practically leaping to my feet. I assume this is the aforementioned Emily. “Thank you for that, um, most, most informative, ah, instruction in . . . in . . .”

  “Carriage safety?” Kartik offers.

  “Yes. One cannot be too careful about such things. Good night to you,” I say.

  “Good night,” he answers. Emily does not make any effort to leave. And as I stride past the horses, I hear her laughing gently—girlishly—at something Kartik has said.

  Ginger snorts at me.

  “It is impolite to stare,” I say to her, before running up to my room to sulk in private.

  Simon’s box sits on a table beside my bed. I pull open the false bottom and see the wicked brown bottle lying there.

  “You shan’t be needed again,” I say. The box slides easily into a corner of my cupboard, where it is lost among petticoats and dress hems. From my window, I can see the lanterns of the mews and our carriage house. I see Emily returning from the stable, her lantern in hand. The light catches her face as she looks back to smile at Kartik, who waves to her. He glances up and I duck out of sight, quickly extinguishing my lamp. The room is swallowed in shadow.

  Why should it bother me so that Kartik fancies Emily? What are we to each other but a duty? That, I suppose, is what bothers me. Oh, I should forget this business with Kartik. It is foolish.

  Tomorrow is a new day, December 17. I shall dine with Simon Middleton. I will do my best to charm his mother and not make a nuisance of myself. After that, I’ll go about finding the Temple, but for one evening, one glorious, carefree evening, I intend to wear a fine gown and enjoy the handsome company of Simon Middleton.

  “How do you do, Mr. Middleton?” I say to the air. "No,” I answer, lowering my voice, “How do you do, Miss Doyle?” “Why, I’m absolutely splendid, Mr.—”

  The pain has me in its grip. I can’t breathe. God! I can’t breathe! No, no, no, please leave me alone, please! It’s no use. I’m pulled out like the tide, slipping into a vision. I don’t want to open my eyes. I know they’re there. I can feel them. I can hear them.

  “Come with us . . . ,” they whisper.

  I open one eye, then the other. There they are, those three ghostly girls. They seem so lost, so sad, with their pallid skin, the dark shadows carved into their cheeks.

  “We’ve something to show you. . . .”

  One of them puts her hand on my shoulder. I stiffen and feel myself falling into the vision. I don’t know where we are. A castle of some sort, a great ruined fortress of stone. Deep green moss grows up the side of it. Bright laughter floats out, and through the tall, arched windows, I can see flashes of white. They’re girls playing. Not just any girls—the girls in white. But how lovely they look, so fresh and alive and merry!

  “Catch me if you can!” one shouts, and my heart aches, for that was the game my mother played with me as a child. The other two girls jump out from behind a wall, startling her. They laugh at this. “Eleanor!” all three call out. “Where are you? It’s time! We shall have the power—she’s promised.”

  They run toward the cliff ’s edge; the sea churns below. The girls step across rocks, outlined by the gray sky like Greek statues come to life. They’re laughing, so happy, so happy.

  “Come, don’t dawdle!” they shout merrily to the fourth girl. I can’t see her very well. But I see the woman in the dark green cloak coming fast, can see her long, wide sleeves catching the wind. The woman takes the hand of the girl who lags behind.

  “Is it time?” the others shout.

  “Yes,” the woman in the green cloak shouts back. Holding the girl’s hand fast in hers, she closes her eyes and raises both their hands toward the sea. She’s muttering something. No— she’s summoning something! Terror rises in me like nausea, making me gag. It’s coming up from the sea, and she’s calling it! The girls scream in terror. But the woman in green does not open her eyes. She does not stop.

  Why are they showing me this? I want to get away! Must get away from that thing, from their terror. I’m back in my room. The girls hover near. Their pointed boots move across the floor—scrape, scrape, scrape. I think I shall go mad from it.

  “Why?” I gasp, trying not to vomit. "Why?”

  “She lies . . . ,” they whisper. “Don’t trust her . . . don’t trust her . . . don’t trust her . . .”

  “Who?” I pant, but they are gone. The pressure leaves me. I’m struggling for breath, my eyes teary, my nose running. I can’t bear these horrible visions. And I don’t understand them. Don’t trust whom? Why shouldn’t I trust her?

  But there was something different about this vision, a detail I remember now. Something about the woman’s hand. She wore a ring of some kind, something unusual. It takes me a moment on the floor to regain my senses. And then I think I know what it was.

  The ring on the woman’s hand was in the shape of two intertwined snakes.

  I’ve seen that ring before—in the case beneath Miss McCleethy’s bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “GEMMA, DON’T PLAY WITH YOUR HAIR SO,” GRANDMAMA tuts from her perch beside me in our carriage.

  “Oh,” I say. I’ve been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I haven’t noticed I’ve been twirling a tiny tendril of hair round and round my finger. All day long, I’ve been lost, thinking of last night’s vision and what it means. A woman adorned with a snake ring. Miss McCleethy has a snake ring. But what connection could she have to that cloaked woman or to the girls? These visions make no sense. Who are these girls, and why do they need my help? What are they trying to show me?

  I must push these thoughts away for now. I’ve a party to attend, and the thought of facing the formidable Lady Denby is more frightening than any vision I could conjure.

  I count three additional carriages when we arrive at Simon’s house, which is a magnificent picture of brick and light. Across the lane, Hyde Park is a dark smudge, lost in the incandescent haze of the gaslights that cast us in foggy halos, making us seem brighter than we are, heaven’s borrowed things. Kartik takes my hand, helping me down. I step on the front of my gown, tumbling against him. He catches me round the waist, and for a second, I’m in his embrace.

  “Steady there, Miss Doyle,” he says, helping me to my feet.

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Kartik.”

  “Old Potts never would have made such a catch, I daresay,” Father teases Tom. I look back to see Kartik gazing at me
in my blue gown and velvet coat as if I were someone altogether different, a stranger to him.

  Father takes my arm and walks me to the door. Clean-shaven, in white tie and gloves, he is almost the father I remember.

  “You look very handsome, Papa,” I say.

  The twinkle is back in his eyes. "Smoke and mirrors,” he says with a wink. "Smoke and mirrors.”

  That is my fear. How long will the magic work? No, I shan’t worry about that now. It has worked, and he is my own dear father again, and in a moment, I shall have dinner with a handsome young man who finds me interesting, for some reason.

  We are greeted by a phalanx of footmen and maids in uniforms so pressed their creases could draw blood. It seems there is a servant for everything. Grandmama is beside herself with excitement. If she were to stand any straighter, her spine might snap. We’re ushered into a very large parlor. Simon stands by the fire, deep in conversation with two gentlemen. He gives me a wolfish grin. I immediately look off into the distance, as if I have just noticed the papered walls and am fascinated beyond measure, though my heart beats out a new rhythm: He likes me; he likes me; he likes me. I’ve little time to swoon. Lady Denby swoops through the room making introductions, her stiff skirts rustling with every step. She greets a gentleman warmly but is rather cool to his wife.

  If Lady Denby likes you, you are set for life. If she finds you wanting in any way, you are shunned.

  My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. I cannot swallow. She gives me a solid looking-over as she approaches. Simon’s beside her in an instant.

  “Mother, may I present Mr. John Doyle; his mother, Mrs. William Doyle; Mr. Thomas Doyle; and Miss Gemma Doyle. Thomas is a chum from my Eton days. He’s currently a clinical assistant under Dr. Smith at Bethlem Hospital,” Simon adds.

  His mother is smitten with Tom immediately. “Why, Dr. Smith is an old friend. Tell me, is it true you have a patient who was once a member of Parliament?” she asks, hoping for a bit of gossip.

  “Madam, if we confined the lunatics of Parliament, there’d be no Parliament left,” Father jokes, forgetting that Simon’s father is a member himself. I may die.

  Surprisingly, Lady Denby laughs at this. “Oh, Mr. Doyle! You are quite the wit.” The breath leaves my body in a small whoosh that I hope cannot be detected.

  The butler announces dinner. Lady Denby rounds up her guests like a seasoned general marshaling his troops for battle. I am doing my best to remember all Mrs. Nightwing has taught me about manners. I’m deathly afraid I’ll commit some hideous faux pas and cast my family into enduring shame.

  “Shall we?” Simon offers his arm and I loop mine through his. I’ve never taken the arm of a man who was not my blood relative. We keep a respectful distance between us, but that does nothing to stop the current coursing through me.

  After the soup, we’re given roast pork. The sight of a pig on a platter with an apple in its mouth does nothing to whet my appetite. While the others prattle on about country estates, fox hunting, and the problem of finding good help, Simon whispers, “I hear he was a very disagreeable pig. Always complaining. Never a nice word for anyone. He once bit a duckling in spite. I shouldn’t feel guilty about eating him if I were you.”

  I smile. Lady Denby’s voice breaks the moment. “Miss Doyle, there is something familiar about you.”

  “I—I was a guest of Mrs. Worthington’s at the Alexandra yesterday, to hear Miss Bradshaw sing.”

  “Miss Bradshaw sang?”Tom is delighted to hear of Ann’s social rise. "How delightful.”

  My eyes are on Lady Denby, who says, “Yes, strange business that. Mr. Middleton,” she says, addressing her husband, “have you ever met the Duke of Chesterfield?”

  “Can’t say as I have, unless he’s a hunting man.”

  Lady Denby purses her lips as if mulling something over, then says, “I hear you are attending Spence?”

  “Yes, Lady Denby,” I answer nervously.

  “How do you find it?” she inquires, taking a serving of roast potatoes. I feel like an insect under the intense focus of the microscope.

  “It is a most agreeable school,” I say, averting my eyes.

  “Of course, she had a proper English governess while in India,” Grandmama interjects, ever afraid of social impropriety. “I did fear sending her away from home, but I was assured that Spence was a fine finishing school.”

  “What do you think, Miss Doyle? Are you inclined to believe that young ladies should be taught Latin and Greek these days?” Lady Denby asks.

  It is not an innocent question. She is testing me, I am sure. I take a deep breath. “I believe it is just as important for daughters to be learned as it is for sons. Else how can we be able wives and mothers?” It is the safest answer I can muster.

  Lady Denby gives a warm smile. "I quite agree, Miss Doyle. What a sensible girl you are.”

  I breathe a small sigh of relief.

  “I can see why my boy is enchanted,” Lord Denby announces.

  A flush works its way into my cheeks, and I find I cannot look at anyone. I have to fight to keep a ridiculous grin from surfacing. I have only one giddy thought in my head: Simon Middleton, a boy of such perfection, likes me, the strange and vexing Gemma Doyle.

  Low chuckling ripples through the assembled guests. “Now you’ve done it,” a mustachioed gentleman quips. “She’ll never come back.”

  “Oh, really, Mr. Conrad,” Lady Denby chides playfully. I do not see why Felicity thinks so badly of Lady Denby. She seems rather nice to me, and I quite like her.

  The evening passes like a happy dream. I have not felt so peaceful and content since before Mother died. Seeing Father come alive again is heaven, and I am finally glad for this strange, beautiful power. During the dinner, he is his old charming self, entertaining Lady Denby and Simon with tales of India. Grandmama’s face, usually lined with worry, is serene tonight, and Tom is actually likeable, if such a thing could be said of him. Of course, he thinks he has cured Father, and for once, I am in no mood to contradict him. It means so much to see my family enjoying themselves. I want to preserve this happy bubble of time, this feeling that I belong somewhere. That I am wanted. I want this night to go on forever.

  The talk at the table turns to Bethlem. Tom is holding court with tales of his duties there. “. . . he insisted that he was the emperor of West Sussex and as such, should be allowed an extra serving of meat. When I refused, he promised he would have me beheaded.”

  “Dear me,” Lady Denby laughs.

  “You’d best keep your wits about you, young man. Wouldn’t want to wake up with no head,” Simon’s father says. He has Simon’s kind blue eyes.

  “Or would that be an improvement in your case, my good man?” Simon taunts Tom, who pretends to be affronted.

  “Oh, ho! Touché!”

  “Now then, my son must keep his head,” Father says, looking quite serious. “I paid a dear amount for his new hat, and I shan’t get it back.” Everyone erupts in laughter.

  Grandmama speaks up. "Is it true that Bethlem holds public dances fortnightly, Lady Denby?”

  “Yes indeed. It is ever so rejuvenating for them to be amongst the public, to remember the social niceties. My husband and I have gone on several occasions. There’s another dance in a week’s time. You must come as our guests.”

  “We’d be delighted,” Grandmama says, answering for us all, as she so often does.

  My face aches from trying to wear such a pleasant expression at all times. Is it time to don my gloves again? Should I eat the last of my dessert as I’d desperately like or leave half to show my delicate appetite? I do not want to make a misstep, not tonight.

  “Oh, do tell us another tale,” Lady Denby begs Tom.

  “Yes, do,” Simon says. "Else I’ll be forced to talk of the time I looked into the eyes of an unhappy pheasant in the country and you’ll all be bored to catatonia.” Simon looks at me again. I find I like it when he looks for my reaction. I like being courted. It is ra
ther a powerful feeling.

  “Ah, let’s see . . . ,” Tom says, thinking. “There was Mr.

  Waltham, who claimed he could hear what was happening inside each house as he passed—that the very stones spoke to him. I am happy to say that he was cured and released just last month.”

  “Bravo!” Simon’s father exclaims. "Nothing science and man can’t overcome in time.”

  “Exactly,” Tom says, thrilled to find a friend in so high a place.

  “What else?” a lady in a peach silk gown asks.

  “There’s Mrs. Sommers, who seems to think this life is all a dream and that she sees spirits in her room at night.”

  “Poor dear,” Grandmama says by habit.

  These stories are stealing away my happiness. What would my dinner companions think if they knew that I see visions and visit other realms?

  Tom continues. “There is Nell Hawkins, age nineteen. Diagnosed with acute mania while away at school.”

  “You see?” the mustachioed gentleman says, wagging his finger. "The female constitution cannot stand up to the rigors of a formal education. Nothing good can come of it.”

  “Oh, Mr. Conrad,” his wife chides playfully. “Do go on, Mr. Doyle.”

  “Nell Hawkins suffers from delusions,”Tom says, preening.

  Father joins in. "Thinks she’s Joan of Arc, does she?”

  “No, that would be Mr. Jernigan in ward M1B. Miss Hawkins is unique. She suffers from the delusion that she is part of some mystical sect of sorceresses called the Order.”

  The room narrows. My heart races. From far away I hear myself ask, “The Order?”

  “Yes. She claims that she knows the secrets of a place called the realms, and that a woman named Circe wants all the power. She claims she has driven herself mad in an attempt to keep her mind clouded and away from Circe’s grasp.” Tom shakes his head. "A most difficult case.”

  “I agree with you, Mr. Conrad, too much formal education is not good for our daughters. And this is the cost. I’m so grateful that Spence stresses the essentials of a lady’s training.” Grandmama shoves a rather large bite of chocolate cream into her mouth.