by Libba Bray
“Am I in danger?” I whisper through clenched teeth.
“Not any more than I am. Just go about your business and don’t look at anyone and you will be fine.”
Why do I feel that this response makes Kartik very much like governesses who tell their charges grisly fairy tales before bed and then expect them to sleep peacefully through the night?
He leads me to a table in the back under a low, beamed ceiling. The whole place has a feeling of being underground, like a rabbit warren.
“Where are you going?” I ask frantically the moment Kartik starts to walk away.
“Shhhh!” he says, finger to his lips. "I shall surprise you.”
Yes, that is what I’m afraid of. I fold my hands on the rough wooden table and try to disappear. In a moment, Kartik returns with a plate of food, which he puts before me with a smile. Dosa! I haven’t had the spicy, thin cakes since I left Bombay and Sarita’s kitchen. One bite has me longing for her kindness and the country I couldn’t wait to leave, a country I wonder if I will ever see again.
“This is delicious,” I say, taking another bite. “How do you know of this place?”
“Amar told me of it. The man who owns it is from Calcutta. You see that curtain there?” He points to a tapestry hanging on the wall. “There is a door behind it. It’s a hidden room. If you should ever need me . . .”
I realize he is sharing a secret. It’s a good feeling to be trusted.
“Thank you,” I say. "Do you miss India?”
He shrugs. “My family is the Rakshana. They discouraged loyalty to any other country or customs.”
“But don’t you remember how beautiful the ghats looked at dusk, or the flower offerings floating on the water?”
“You sound like Amar,” he says, biting into one of the steaming cakes.
“What do you mean?”
“He longed for India sometimes. He would joke with me. ‘Little brother,’ he would say,‘I’m going to retire to Benares with a fat wife and twelve children to bother me. And when I die, you can throw my ashes into the Ganges so I will never come back.’ ”
This is the most Kartik has ever said about his brother. I know we’ve pressing business to discuss, but I want to know more about him. "And did he . . . marry?”
“No. Rakshana are forbidden to marry. It is a distraction from our purpose.”
“Oh. I see.”
Kartik takes another dosa and slices it into neat, even pieces. “Once you’ve sworn an oath to the Rakshana, you are committed for life. There is no leaving. Amar knew this. He honored his duty.”
“Was he very high in the ranks?”
A cloud passes over Kartik’s still face. “No. But he might have been, if . . .”
If he had lived. If he hadn’t died trying to protect my mother, trying to protect me.
Kartik pushes away his plate. He is all business again. “What was it you needed to tell me?”
“I think Miss McCleethy is Circe,” I say. I tell him about the anagram and following her to Bedlam, about my mother’s newspaper clippings and the strange visit with Nell. “Miss Hawkins said that Circe tried to enter the realms through her but they couldn’t do it. Nell could only see it in her mind. And when she couldn’t . . .”
“When she couldn’t?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen glimpses of it in my visions,” I say. Kartik gives me a warning look, as I knew he would. “I know what you are about to say, but I keep seeing these three girls in white who were friends of Miss Hawkins’s. It is the same vision, but a little clearer each time. The girls, the sea, and a woman in a green cloak. Circe. And then . . . I don’t know. Something terrible happens. But I can never see that part.”
Kartik drums his thumb softly against the table. “Did she tell you where to find the Temple?”
“No,” I say. "She keeps repeating something about seeing the true path.”
“I know you are fond of Miss Hawkins, but you must remember that her mind is not reliable.”
“A bit like the magic and the realms just now,” I say, playing with my gloves. “I don’t know where to begin. It feels impossible. I’m to find something that doesn’t seem to exist, and the closest I’ve gotten is a lunatic at Bedlam who keeps nattering on about ‘stick to the path; follow the path.’ I would be overjoyed to stick to a bloody path if I knew where it was.”
Kartik’s mouth hangs open. Too late I realize I’ve cursed.
“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry,” I say, horrified.
“You bloody well should be,” Kartik says. He breaks out with a boom of a laugh. I shush him, and soon we’re both grinning like hyenas. An old man at another table shakes his head at us, certain we must be mad.
“I am sorry,” I say. "It’s just that I am so vexed.”
Kartik points to my damaged amulet. “I can see that. What happened here?”
“Oh,” I say, removing it. “That wasn’t me. That was Miss Hawkins. The first time I visited her, she pulled it from my neck. I thought she meant to do me in. But she held it in front of her like this,” I say, demonstrating.
Kartik frowns. “Like a weapon?” He takes the amulet from me and swipes at the air with it, as if it were a dagger. In the amber light of the tavern’s lanterns, the metal glows golden warm.
“No. She cradled it like this.” I take it back and move it in my hands as Nell had done. "She kept peering at the back of it as if she were looking for something.”
Kartik sits up. "Do that again.”
I move it back and forth once more. “What? What are you thinking?”
Kartik slumps down into the chair. “I don’t know. It’s just that what you’re doing rather reminds me of a compass.”
A compass! I pull the lantern close and hold the amulet beside its flickering light.
“Do you see anything?” Kartik asks, moving his chair so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of him, smell the air—a mix of chimney soot and spice—in his hair. It is a good smell, an anchoring smell.
“Nothing,” I say. There are no markings that I can see. No directions.
Kartik leans back. "Well, it was a good thought.”
“Hold on,” I say, still looking at the amulet. “What if we can only see it in the realms?”
“Will you try it?”
“As soon as I can,” I say.
“Good show, Miss Doyle,” Kartik says, smiling broadly. "Let’s get you home before I’m out of a job.”
We leave the tavern and travel the two twisting streets back to where we’ve left our carriage. But when we come to that street, the little boy is no longer there. Instead, there are three men in the same cut of black suit. Two carry sticks that look as if they could do us harm. The third sits in the carriage, an open newspaper in front of his face. The street, which only a half hour ago was teeming with people, is deserted.
Kartik puts a hand out to slow my approach. The men see him and whistle. The man in the carriage folds his paper neatly. It’s the man with the scar, the one who’s been trailing me since I arrived in London.
“The Eastern Star is hard to find,” the man with the scar says. “Very hard to find.” I spy the sword-and-skull pin on his lapel. The others don’t have one.
“ ’Ello, mate,” one of the burly men says, coming closer. He pats the stick against his palm with a thwack. "Remember me?”
Kartik rubs absently at his head, and I wonder what on earth they’re talking about.
“Mr. Fowlson ’ere requires your presence at a business mee’in’ of sorts by the lady’s carriage.” He pulls Kartik hard. The other man escorts me.
“Fowlson,” I say. "So you have a name.”
The man scowls at the big hooligan for this.
“There’s no need for pretense. I know you are Rakshana. And I’ll thank you to stop following me about.”
The man speaks in a low, controlled voice, as if he might be gently admonishing a wayward child. “And I know you are an impertinent girl with no regard for the seriousne
ss of the business before you, else you should be in the realms searching for the Temple rather than dallying about London’s seamier streets. Surely the Temple is not here. Or is it? Tell me, just where did this one take you?”
He doesn’t know about Kartik’s hiding place. Beside me, I feel Kartik holding his breath.
“Sightseeing,” I say, standing a stone’s throw from a slaughterhouse. "I wished to see these slums for myself.”
The big man with the club scoffs at me.
“I assure you, sir. I am in earnest about my duty,” I say to Fowlson.
“Are we, now, lass? The task is simple: Find the Temple and bind the magic.”
“If it is so simple a matter, why don’t you do it?” I answer hotly. "But no, you can’t. So you will have to rely on me, an ‘impertinent girl,’ won’t you?”
Fowlson looks as if he would like to hit me very hard. “For the present, it would seem so.” He gives Kartik a cold smile. “Do not forget your task, novitiate.”
He tucks his newspaper under his arm and motions to his men. The three of them back away slowly, vanishing at last around a corner. Kartik springs into action, practically pushing me into the carriage.
“What did he mean, do not forget your task?” I ask.
“I told you,” he says, leading Ginger into the street. "My task is to help you find the Temple. That is all. What did you mean when you asked Fowlson to stop following you about?”
“He has been following me! He was at the train station the day I arrived in London. And then when I was out walking in Hyde Park with Grandmama,” I say, purposefully avoiding Simon’s name, “he rode by in a carriage. And I saw a woman in a green cloak with him, Kartik. A green cloak!”
“There are plenty of green cloaks in London, Miss Doyle,” Kartik tells me. “They do not all belong to Circe.”
“No. But one does. I am only asking if you are certain that Mr. Fowlson can be trusted?”
“He is one of the Rakshana, part of my brotherhood,” he says. "Yes. I am certain.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says this, and I’m afraid that any trust we’ve begun to have has been frayed by my questions. Kartik takes his perch behind the reins. With a snap, we are off, the horse’s blinders keeping her docile but her hooves kicking up a storm of dust on the cobblestones.
In the evening, Grandmama and I take up our needlework by the fire. Each time a carriage passes by, she sits a bit straighter. At last I realize she is listening for our own carriage, for Father’s return from his club. Father has been spending a great deal of time there, especially in the evenings. Some nights I hear him coming home just before sunrise.
Tonight it is particularly hard for Grandmama to bear. Father left in a terrible temper, accusing Mrs. Jones of losing his gloves, practically tearing the library apart looking for them before Grandmama discovered them in his coat pocket. They’d been there the entire time. He left without so much as an apology.
“I’m sure he’ll be home soon,” I say, when another carriage clip-clops past our house.
“Yes. Yes, quite right,” she says absently. “I’m sure he’s simply forgotten the time. He does so enjoy being among people, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised that she cares so much about her son. Knowing this makes it harder to dislike her.
“He loves you more than Tom, you know.”
I am so startled I prick my finger. A tiny bubble of blood pushes its way through the flesh at the tip.
“It’s true. Oh, he cares for Tom, of course. But sons are a different matter to a man, more a duty than an indulgence. You are his angel. Don’t ever break his heart, Gemma. He has weathered too much already. That would finish him.”
I’m trying not to cry, from the pinprick and the unwanted knowledge. "I shan’t,” I promise.
“Your needlework is coming along nicely, dear. Shorter stitches round the edge, though, I think,” Grandmama says as if we’ve discussed nothing else.
Mrs. Jones enters. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Doyle. This came for Miss Doyle this afternoon. Emily took it and forgot to tell me.” Though it’s clearly intended for me, she offers Grandmama the box, which is beautifully wrapped with a pink silk bow.
Grandmama reads the card. "It is from Simon Middleton.”
A gift from Simon? I am intrigued. Inside the box is a beautiful, delicate necklace of small amethyst stones that fan out along a chain. Purple, my favorite color. The card reads Gems for our Gemma.
“So beautiful,” Grandmama says, holding them up to the light. "I do believe Simon Middleton is bewitched!”
It is beautiful, possibly the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. "Would you help me with the clasp?” I ask.
I remove my mother’s amulet, and Grandmama secures the new necklace. I rush over to the mirror to see. The gems fall sweetly over my collarbones.
“You must wear it to the opera tomorrow evening,” Grandmama advises.
“Yes, I shall,” I say, watching the stones catch the light. They sparkle and shine till I hardly recognize myself.
I’ve a note from Kartik on my pillow: There’s something I need to tell you. I’ll be in the stables. I don’t like that Kartik feels he can trespass in my room any time he likes. I shall tell him that. I don’t like that he’s keeping secrets from me. I shall tell him that, too. But not now. Now I am wearing a new necklace from Simon. Beautiful Simon, who thinks of me not as someone who can help him move up in the ranks of the Rakshana, but as a girl worthy of gems.
Gingerly, I lift the note from the pillow and twirl around the room with it stretched between my fingers. The necklace weighs against my skin like a calming hand. Gems for our Gemma.
I toss Kartik’s note into the fire. The ends of the paper curl and blacken, and in an instant it is gone to ash.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
IF I AM ANXIOUS ABOUT THIS EVENING’S TRIP TO the opera, Grandmama is beside herself.
“I do hope those gloves will do,” she tuts as a seamstress makes last-minute adjustments to my gown, a white duchess satin, the color young ladies wear to the opera. Grandmama has had my first opera gloves sent round from Whiteley’s department store. The seamstress slips the pearl buttons through the loops at my wrist, shutting my naked arms away behind expensive kid leather. My hair has been artfully arranged away from my face with flowers in the chignon. And of course, I’ve put on Simon’s lovely necklace. When I spy myself in the mirror, I must admit that I look quite lovely, like a true and proper lady.
Even Tom rises when I enter the parlor, shocked to see my transformation. Father takes my hand and kisses it. His own hand shakes a bit. I know that he was out until dawn, and he slept all the day, and I hope that he is not taking ill. He mops his sweaty brow with a pocket square, but his voice is merry enough.
“You are a queen, my pet. Isn’t she, Thomas?”
“Not an embarrassment, to be sure,” Tom answers. For an imbecile, he’s rather elegant in his tails.
“Is that the best you can manage?” Father admonishes.
Tom sighs. “You look most presentable, Gemma. Do remember not to snore at the opera. It’s frowned upon.”
“If I have kept myself awake while you speak, Tom, I’m certain I can manage.”
“The carriage has been brought round, sir,” Davis, the butler, announces, saving us all from further conversation.
As we walk to the carriage, I catch sight of Kartik’s expression. He stares, boldly, as if I am an apparition, someone he does not know. I’m oddly satisfied by this. Yes. Let him see that I am not some “impertinent girl,” as the Rakshana henchman put it.
“The door, Mr. Kartik, if you please,” Tom says tersely. As if pulled from a dream, Kartik quickly opens the carriage door. “Really, Father,” Tom says when we are on our way. “I do wish you’d reconsider. Just yesterday, Sims made a recommendation on a driver—”
“The matter is closed. Mr. Kartik gets me where I need to go,” Father says stiffly.
&
nbsp; “Yes, that is my concern,” Tom mutters under his breath, so that only I hear.
“Now, now,” Grandmama says, patting Father’s knee. “Let’s be of good cheer, shall we? After all, it is nearly Christmas.”
As the door to the Royal Opera House opens, I’m seized by panic. What if I look ridiculous, not elegant? What if something— my hair, my dress, my bearing—is out of place? I am so very tall. I wish I were shorter. Daintier. Brunette. Unfreckled. An Austrian countess. Is it too late to run home and hide?
“Ah, there they are,” Grandmama announces. I spy Simon. He is so handsome in his white tie and black tails.
“Good evening,” I say, curtsying.
“Good evening,” he says. He gives me a small smile, and with that smile, I feel such relief and happiness that I could sit through ten operas.
We receive our programs and join the crowd. Father, Tom, and Simon are pulled into a conversation with another man, a portly, balding fellow sporting a monocle on a chain, while Grandmama, Lady Denby, and I stroll slowly, nodding and making our hellos to various society ladies. It is a necessary parade designed to show off our finery. I hear my name being called. It’s Felicity with Ann. They are well turned out in their white gowns. Felicity’s garnet earbobs shine against her white-blond hair. A pink cameo rests against the hollow of Ann’s throat.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Denby says. "It’s that wretched Worthington woman.”
The comment has Grandmama aflutter. “Mrs. Worthington? The admiral’s wife? Is there some scandal?”
“You do not know? Three years ago, she went to Paris— for her health, they said—and she sent the young Miss Worthington away to school. But I have it on good authority that she took a lover, a Frenchman, and now he’s left her and she’s back with the admiral, pretending that none of it ever happened. She is not received in the best homes, of course. But everyone attends her dinners and balls out of affection for the admiral, who is the soul of respectability. Shhh, here they come.”
Mrs. Worthington strides over, the girls in tow. I hope the flush on my cheeks does not give me away, for I don’t like Lady Denby’s snobbery.
