Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

I’ve perplexed Mr. Day. The caterpillar eyebrows collide at the bridge of his nose. “Dear, dear . . . I can’t say as I’ve heard . . . What was that title again?”

  “It isn’t a title,” Felicity says in such an impatient way I can practically hear the unspoken you doddering old fool that follows.

  “It is a subject,” Ann says kindly, salvaging us. “The Order. They were a group of women who ruled the realms with magic—”

  “Not real women, of course!” I break in. “It is but a story, after all.”

  “It’s fiction you’re after, then?” Mr. Day says, scratching at the bald spots between unruly white tufts of hair.

  This is proving impossible. “Myths,” I say after a moment’s thought.

  Mr. Day’s face brightens. “Ah! I’ve some lovely books of myths. Right this way, if you please.”

  He leads us to a case in the back. "Greek, Roman, Celtic, the Norse—oh, I do love the Norse. Here they are.”

  Felicity gives me a forlorn look. This is not what we’re after, but what can we do but say thank you and at least pretend to look before leaving? The bell over the door signals the arrival of another customer and Mr. Day leaves us. His cheery voice asks if he can be of assistance. The customer, a woman, answers. I know that strange brogue. It belongs to Miss McCleethy.

  Peering around the case, I see her at the front.

  “Look there,” I whisper urgently.

  “Where?” Stupidly, Ann steps out from behind the cover of the bookcase. A strong yank and she’s back beside me.

  “Look through here,” I say, pulling two books from their places on the shelf, giving us a peephole to the other side.

  “It’s Miss McCleethy!” Ann says.

  “What is she doing here?” Felicity whispers.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper back. "I can’t hear.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s only just arrived,” Mr. Day says, in answer to some unheard question on Miss McCleethy’s part.

  “What’s only just arrived?” Ann asks. Felicity and I shush her with our hands over her mouth.

  “I won’t be a moment. Have a look about, if you wish.” Mr. Day disappears behind a velvet curtain. Daylight streams through the sooty windows, bathing Miss McCleethy in a haze of dust. She removes her right-hand glove in order to better thumb through the pages of some novels stacked upon a table. The snake ring catches the light, blinding me with its brilliance. Miss McCleethy leaves the table and moves ever closer to our hiding spot.

  Panicked, we crouch low on the floor as books above our heads are slid from their perches. If she should look on the lower shelves . . .

  “Here we are,” Mr. Day declares, pushing through the velvet curtain again. The mysterious book is wrapped, tied with ribbon, and given to Miss McCleethy. In a moment, the tinkle of the bell announces her departure. We peek through the hole we’ve made to ensure that she is gone and then we are scurrying to Mr. Day.

  “Mr. Day, I believe that was my mother’s dear friend who was just here. Would you be so kind as to tell me what book she purchased? I do so admire her taste in such matters,” I say as sweetly as possible.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Felicity’s mouth hanging open in surprise and admiration. She is not the only one who can lie.

  “Yes, it was Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt’s A History of Secret Societies. I haven’t read it myself.”

  “Have you another copy?” I ask.

  “Certainly.” Mr. Day limps to the back of the shop and returns carrying the book. “Ah, here we are. Isn’t it curious? I’ve had no interest in this book, yet today I’ve sold two. Pity about the author.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Felicity asks.

  “They say she died shortly after publication.” He leans in, whispers. “They say she was involved in the occult. Wicked things. Now, we’ll give it a nice ribbon and . . .”

  “No thank you, Mr. Day,” I say, reaching for it before he can wrap it. "We’re in a dreadful rush, I’m afraid.”

  “Very well, that will be four shillings, if you please.”

  “Felicity?” I prompt.

  “Me?” Felicity whispers. "Why should I pay it?”

  “Because you’ve got it,” I say, maintaining a terse smile.

  “Don’t look at me,” Ann demurs. "I’ve nothing.”

  “It will be four shillings,” Mr. Day states firmly.

  In the end, we’re forced to pool our money to purchase Miss Wyatt’s sinister-sounding book.

  “Let me look first. After all, I paid three shillings to your one,” Felicity whines as we rush out into the London day.

  “We’ll read it together,” I say, pulling on my end.

  “There she is!” Ann gasps. Miss McCleethy is just ahead of us. "What should we do?”

  “I say we follow her,” Felicity says. Instantly, she sets off.

  “Wait a moment,” I say, catching up, keeping one eye on Miss McCleethy as she nears the corner. "I don’t know if that’s wise.”

  Ann takes Felicity’s side, of course. “You wanted to know. This is the way to find out.”

  There is no fighting the both of them. Miss McCleethy stops, turns. With a collective gasp, we congregate in front of a knife sharpener. In a moment, she continues on her way.

  “Well?” Felicity asks. It is less a question than a dare.

  The knife sharpener’s cries—“Knives! Made well sharp!”— rise above the street noise. Miss McCleethy is nearly gone from sight.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WE FOLLOW MISS MCCLEETHY FOR SOME TIME, PAST shopkeepers in shirtsleeves rushing parcels out to waiting carriages and a woman in severe black who implores us to remember the unfortunate during this Christmas season. We pay them no mind; only our quarry matters.

  At Charing Cross, Miss McCleethy surprises us, entering the Underground station.

  “What do we do now?” Felicity says.

  I take a deep breath. "I suppose we travel by Underground.”

  “I’ve never been on the Underground before,” Ann says uncertainly.

  “Nor have I,”Felicity says.

  “No time like the present,” I say, though the thought of it makes my breath hang to the bony rungs of my ribs. The Metropolitan District Railway. Right. It’s just a train underground, Gemma. This is an adventure, and I’m an adventurous girl. Simon said so.

  “Here, don’t be frightened, Ann. Give me your hand,” I say.

  “I’m not frightened,” she states, pushing past me, taking the stairs that lead down into the tunnels that run beneath London’s busy streets as if it were no trouble at all. There is nothing to do but follow. I take a solid, deep breath and charge ahead. Halfway down, I turn to see Felicity standing at the top of the steps looking doubtful. She stares at me as if I am Eurydice being pulled back into the Underworld.

  “Gemma—wait!” she cries, rushing to join me.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a room opens. We’re standing on a gaslit platform. The great curved wooden ceiling of the tunnel soars above us. Down the platform, Miss McCleethy waits. We stay out of sight until the train shooshes into the station. Miss McCleethy enters, and we walk quickly to the car adjacent to hers. It is difficult to know what is more exciting: the possibility of being discovered by Miss McCleethy or our first journey on the Underground. We take turns sticking our heads out into the aisle in a very unladylike fashion so that we might spy on Miss McCleethy in the next compartment. For her part, Miss McCleethy is contentedly reading Miss Wyatt’s book about secret societies. I am desperate to know what she has discovered but don’t dare look at our copy lest we lose sight of our teacher.

  The conductor announces our departure. With a sharp pull, the train lurches into the tunnel. Felicity grips my hand. It is a strange sensation to find ourselves moving through this darkened passageway, the low glimmer of the gaslights trailing across our astonished faces like falling stars.

  A conductor stands near, ready to call each stop f
rom its platform. Miss McCleethy does not look up from her book. When the conductor announces Westminster Bridge, however, she closes her book and gets off the train with the three of us trailing at a safe distance. We come out onto the streets, blinking in the sudden light.

  “She’s taking that horse tram!” Felicity says.

  “We’re done for, then,” I say. “We can’t very well follow her onto it. She’ll see us.”

  Ann grabs my hand. “We can do it. Look, there’s a crowd. We’ll fall in. If she should see us, we’ll simply say we are sightseeing.”

  It’s a very daring plan. Miss McCleethy moves to the back of the crowded tram. We stand near the front, keeping as many people between us as possible. At Westminster Bridge Road, Miss McCleethy alights, and we nearly trample one another trying to follow her. I know where we are. I’ve been here recently. We’re in Lambeth, very near Bethlem Royal Hospital. Indeed, Miss McCleethy walks briskly in that direction. Within minutes, we are watching her as she strides through the iron gates and up the curved walk to the entrance’s grand portico. We hide ourselves in some hedges along the walk, crouching low.

  “What does she want at Bedlam?” Felicity says ominously.

  A chill passes through me. "Nell Hawkins is there.”

  “You don’t suppose Miss McCleethy would harm her, do you?” Ann asks in that inappropriately excited way that suggests she doesn’t find the idea entirely distasteful if it makes the afternoon into a good story.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But it certainly makes me think they are known to each other, most likely from Saint Victoria’s.”

  We stand outside in the cold for some time, but Miss McCleethy does not return, and we are in danger of missing our rendezvous with Franny. Reluctantly, we leave, and I have more questions than ever. What did Miss McCleethy want at Bedlam? What is she after? I feel certain that Miss McCleethy and Nell Hawkins are connected. What I don’t know is how and why.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  FELICITY INVITES US TO HER HOME FOR A VERY LATE tea. Our appetites stoked by adventure, we each devour several dainty sandwiches without apology.

  “Well, what do you make of that? Miss McCleethy at Bedlam?” Felicity asks between bites.

  “Perhaps Miss McCleethy has a lunatic relative?” Ann offers. "One who is a deep embarrassment to the family.”

  “Or perhaps she was there to see Nell Hawkins,” I say.

  “We have no answers to that at present. Let’s see what Miss Wyatt has to say that is of such interest to Miss McCleethy,” Felicity says, commandeering the book, as I knew she would. “Knights Templar, Fraternal Masons, Hellfire Club, the Hassassins . . . the table of contents alone is a read. Ah, here it is. Page two hundred and fifty-five. The Order.” She flips to the page and reads aloud.

  “Each generation, young girls would be scrupulously trained to take their places within the Order’s most privileged ranks. During the time of their sixteenth year, they would be watched closely to see who among them was chosen by the realms to have true power and whose power was but a flickering flame, burned down to ash. Those who were not chosen would be turned away, perhaps to a life of home and hearth, nevermore to think on their time with these powerful conjurers. Still others went on to a life of service, called upon by the Order in some fashion or another when the time arose.

  “There are those who say the Order never existed save as a story like the tales of fairies, goblins, and witches, princesses, and the immortal gods of Mount Olympus that mark literature so prized by impressionable girls who wish to believe in such fancies. Others say these women were Celtic pagans who vanished into the mists of time as did Merlin, Arthur, and his knights. Still others whisper a darker tale: that one of the Order’s own betrayed them with a human sacrifice. . . .”

  Felicity’s eyes take in the page. She’s reading to herself.

  “You must read aloud!” I protest.

  “It’s only what we already know,” she says.

  “Here, I shall read,” I say, taking the book.

  “The lunatics, the addicts, the drunks, the poor, or the starving, these poor unfortunate souls required the protection of the Order, for their minds were too troubled and weak to resist the voices of the dark spirits who could speak to them at any time. . . .”

  The drunk. The addict. I think of my father. But no, I’ve saved him. He is safe.

  “If spirits are able to enter the minds of the insane, how can we be sure of Nell Hawkins?” Ann asks. "What if they are already using her for ill purposes?”

  Felicity agrees. "It is a troubling thought.”

  There was Mr. Carey today, giving me his chilling warning, but Nell wasn’t frightening. She was frightened. I shake my head. “I believe Nell is fighting very hard to keep any spirits from using her. It is why she is so difficult to reach, I’m sure.”

  “How long can she succeed?” Ann asks. I’ve no answer for this.

  “Let me have another go,” Felicity says, taking the book from me.

  “It is a fact,” she reads aloud, “though some dispute this wisdom as folly, that the Order still exists today, their members gone into hiding. They recognize one another by a variety of symbols known only to their members. Among these are the crescent eye, the double lotus blossom, the rose, two snakes intertwined . . .”

  “Just like Miss McCleethy’s ring! Miss Moore said it was a symbol,” I say. “And I’ve seen a ring such as that in my vision of the three girls.”

  Ann’s eyes widen. "You have?”

  “But that is not all,” Felicity continues loudly. She does not enjoy being interrupted for any reason. “The priestesses of the Order also made use of the anagram. This device was particularly e fective in concealing their identities from those who hunted them. Thus, Jane Snow could become Jean Wons, and no one, save her sisters, would be the wiser.”

  Felicity grabs a sheet of paper. “Let’s make our own anagrams. I want to know what my secret name would be.” She’s giddy. Here in private, she’s not the snob. She’s not afraid of looking foolish in her enthusiasm.

  “Very well,” I say.

  Felicity writes her name at the top of the page: Felicity Worthington. We stare at the letters, waiting for them to reveal a new and mysterious name.

  Ann scribbles away. “Felicity Worthington becomes City Worth Gin If Lento.”

  Felicity makes a face. "What sort of name is that?”

  “A ridiculous one,” I say.

  “Try again, Ann,” Felicity orders.

  Ann takes pen to paper, concentrating as if she were a surgeon with a patient. “Wont Left in City Groh?” she offers.

  “That makes no sense,” Felicity complains.

  “I’m doing my best.”

  I’m not faring much better. I’ve arranged and rearranged the letters of Gemma Doyle and come up with only one thing.

  “How is yours coming along, Gemma?” Felicity asks.

  “It isn’t worth mentioning,” I say, crumpling the paper.

  Felicity snatches it from me, unfolding the name. “Dog Mealy Em!” The girls laugh uproariously at this, and I am instantly sorry they have it.

  “Oh, that is perfect,” Felicity says with glee. "Henceforth, you shall be known by your secret Order anagram name: Dog Mealy Em.”

  How delightful. "I’m going to try again,” I say.

  “You can if you wish,” she says, grinning like a cat cornering her prey. “But I, for one, shall only address you as Dog Mealy Em.”

  Ann gives a sharp snort of laughter that makes her nose run. She dabs at it, mumbling“Dog Mealy Em” under her breath, which starts Felicity giggling again. I am irritated to be the lucky recipient of their annoying jibe. "Well then, what is your secret name, Ann?” I say, taunting her.

  Ann’s neat, tight script stretches across the white page. “Nan Washbrad.”

  “That is not at all fair!” I say. “That sounds like an actual name.”

  Ann shrugs. "Wouldn’t do to have a conspicuous name,
now, would it?” She smiles triumphantly, and in the silence I hear what she is holding back: Dog Mealy Em.

  Felicity has been tapping the point of her pen against the paper, concentrating. She growls in frustration. "I cannot make heads or tails of my name. Nothing is coming.”

  “Do you have a middle name?” Ann asks. “That might help. More letters.”

  “That won’t do any good,” Felicity says too quickly.

  “Why not?” Ann asks.

  “Because it won’t.” Felicity blushes. It’s not like Felicity to blush over anything at all.

  “Very well, then. You can be known henceforth as City Worth Gin If Lento,” I say, enjoying her predicament very much.

  “If you must know, my middle name is Mildrade.” Felicity turns back to her piece of paper as if she hasn’t been saddled with possibly the worst middle name in history.

  Ann wrinkles her nose. “Mildrade? What sort of name is that?”

  “It is an old family name.” Fee sniffs. “It can be traced all the way back to the Saxons.”

  “Oh,” Ann says.

  “Lovely,” I say, trying desperately to keep the sides of my mouth from twitching.

  Felicity buries her head in her hands. "Oh, it is awful, isn’t it? I simply loathe it.”

  There is nothing polite to say to this. "Not at all.” I can’t resist saying it aloud. "Mildrade.”

  Felicity narrows her eyes. "Dog Mealy Em.”

  This could go on all evening. “Truce?”

  She nods. "Truce.”

  Ann has begun to cut out the letters of Felicity’s name so that they are like small squares that can be moved about on the desk until they form some semblance of a reasonable name. It is tedious work, and within a minute I am staring at the letters but thinking of what I’d like to have for supper. Felicity pronounces the task impossible and throws herself on the chaise to read more from Miss Wyatt’s secret societies. Only Ann is determined to decipher the code of Felicity’s name. She concentrates fiercely, moving letters left and right.

  “Aha!” she cries at last.

  “Let me see!” Felicity throws the book aside and rushes to the desk. I join them. Ann gestures proudly to the desktop, where the uneven squares have formed a new name, which Felicity reads aloud.