Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  Simon. How strange to see him standing at attention, those blue eyes open but not seeing. Very gently, I remove my glove and stroke the side of his jaw. The skin there is smooth, freshly shaven. My hand smells of his barber’s balm. It will be my secret.

  I pull on my glove and close my eyes, willing it all to be so. “Begin again,” I say.

  The world swings into action as if there’s been no pause. The husband feels the sting of my slap. Simon puts his fingers to his jaw as if remembering a dream. Cecily’s smug expression hasn’t changed, and I hold my breath, hoping the magic has found its purpose as she opens her mouth. Miss Bradshaw is the most . . .

  “. . . charitable, dear girl in the whole of Spence,” Cecily announces. “In fact, it is her modesty that prevented her from telling us about her royal blood. She is as good a girl as one could ever hope to meet.”

  I don’t know who looks more thunderstruck—Ann or Felicity.

  “Miss Bradshaw, I do hope I may have the pleasure of calling on you while you are in London,” Cecily says with a newfound earnestness.

  Tom pipes up. “Miss Bradshaw, you must do me the honor of attending the Christmas dance at Bethlem Hospital.”

  Has the spell extended to everyone? But no, I come to realize. The mere suggestion of fame and fortune casts a glamour all its own. It is rather alarming how quickly people will turn someone else’s fiction into fact in order to support their own fictions of themselves. But seeing Ann’s delighted face, knowing what’s in her heart, I cannot help being glad for the illusion.

  “I would be delighted,” Ann says to one and all. She could have used the opportunity to gloat. I would have. But instead, she has proved herself worthy of royal blood.

  “We should send the carriage round for Miss Doyle,” Lady Denby says.

  I stop her. “Please don’t. I should like to stay for the rest of the opera.”

  “I thought you were ill,” Grandmama says.

  “I’m fine now.” And I am. Using the magic has calmed me somewhat. I can still hear some people’s thoughts, but they are not as urgent.

  Felicity whispers, “What happened?”

  “I shall tell you later. It is a very good story.”

  By the time I climb into bed, the magic is nearly gone. I’m exhausted and shaky. My forehead is warm when I place my hand there. I can’t be sure whether it’s the magic doing this or I’m actually falling ill. I only know that I desperately need sleep.

  When they come, my dreams are not restful. They’re wild kaleidoscopes of madness. Felicity, Ann, and I running through tunnels lit by torches, running for our lives, the terror clear on our faces. The Caves of Sighs. The amulet twirling. Nell Hawkins’s face looms before me:“Do not follow the Eastern Star, Lady Hope. They mean to kill you. That is his task.”

  “Who?” I murmur, but she’s gone, and I’m dreaming of Pippa outlined against the red sky. Her eyes are wrong again, horrible blue-white with pinpricks of black in the center. Her hair is matted with wildflowers gone to seed. Deep shadows ring her eyes. She smiles, revealing sharp, pointed teeth, and I want to scream, oh, God in heaven, I want to scream. She offers something in both hands, something bloody and foul. The head of a goat torn from its body.

  Thunder rumbles through the reddening sky. “I saved your life, Gemma. Remember that....” She blows a kiss to me. And then, swift as lightning, she grabs the goat’s head and sinks her teeth into its neck.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  IT IS DETERMINED BY OUR PHYSICIAN, DR. LEWIS, that I am suffering from catarrh and nothing more, and after several sneezes, I agree with his assessment. I am forced to stay in bed. Mrs. Jones brings hot tea and broth on a silver tray. And in the afternoon, Father spends an hour telling me lovely tales of India.

  “So there we were, Gupta and I, traveling to Kashmir with a donkey who would not be moved for all the jewels of India. He saw that narrow mountain pass, bared his teeth at us, and simply lay down, refusing to go on. We pulled and pulled on the rope, and the more we pulled the harder he fought. I thought we were done for. It was Gupta’s idea that saved us in the end.”

  “What did he do?” I ask, blowing my nose.

  “He took off his hat, bowed to the donkey, and said, ‘After you.’ And the donkey moved on with us following.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You’ve made up that story.”

  Father puts his hand to his chest dramatically. “You doubt the word of your father? To the stocks with you, ungrateful child!”

  This makes me laugh—and sneeze. Father pours me more tea.

  “Drink up, darling. Don’t want you missing Tom’s dance with the lunatics this evening.”

  “I’ve heard Mr. Snow is fond of getting too familiar with his partners,” I say.

  “Lunatic or not, I’d have his hide if he dared,” Father says, puffing out his chest and blustering like some retired naval officer. “Unless he’s larger than I am. Then I’d need you to protect me, my dear.”

  I laugh again. He’s in a happy temper today, though he’s looking thin, and his hands still tremble at times.

  “Your mother would have loved the idea of a dance at Bedlam, I can tell you. She did so love the unusual.”

  Silence descends. Father fiddles with the wedding band he still wears, turning it round and round. I’m torn between speaking honestly and keeping him here. Honesty wins. “I miss her,” I say.

  “As do I, pet.” It is quiet again for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say to close the gap between us. “I know she’d be happy to see you at Spence.”

  “She would?”

  “Oh, yes. It was her idea. She said that should anything happen to her, I was to send you there. Strange thing for her to say, now that I think of it. Almost as if she knew . . .” He stops, looks out the window.

  This is the first I’ve heard of my mother’s wanting me to attend Spence, the school that very nearly destroyed her and the school that introduced her to her friend-turned-enemy, Sarah Rees-Toome. Circe. Before I can ask Father more about it, he’s up and making his goodbyes. The liveliness has been invaded by cold truth, and he cannot stay and make friends with it.

  “I’m off then, my angel.”

  “Can’t you stay a bit longer?” I whine, though I know he hates it when I do.

  “Mustn’t keep the old boys at the club waiting.”

  Why does it always seem that I have only the shadow of my father? I’m like a child constantly grabbing at his coattails and missing.

  “Right,” I say. I give him a smile, pretend to be his bright, shiny thing of a girl. Don’t break his heart, Gemma.

  “I’ll see you for supper, pet.”

  He kisses my forehead and then he is gone. The room does not seem to miss him. He has not even made a dent on the bed where he was sitting.

  Mrs. Jones bustles in with more tea and the afternoon’s post. “Letter for you, miss.”

  I can’t think of a soul who would send me a Christmas card, so I am surprised until I spy that it has come from Wales. Mrs. Jones spends an eternity tidying the room and opening drapes. The letter sits on my lap, taunting me.

  “Will there be anything else, miss?” our housekeeper asks with no enthusiasm.

  “No, thank you,” I say with a smile. It is not returned.

  At last, Mrs. Jones leaves, and I tear open the letter. It is from St. Victoria’s headmistress, a Mrs. Morrissey.

  Dear Miss Doyle,

  Thank you for your inquiry. It is so very comforting to hear that our Nell has found a friend in one so kind. St. Victoria’s did indeed employ a teacher by the name of Claire McCleethy. Miss McCleethy was with us from the fall of 1894 through the spring of 1895. She was a most excellent teacher of the arts and poetry and was very popular with certain of our girls, Nell Hawkins among them. Unfortunately, I seem to have no photograph of Miss McCleethy for Miss Hawkins to keep, as requested, nor do I have an address for her. When she left St. Victoria’s, she was to take a post at a school near London wh
ere her sister is headmistress. I do hope this letter is of help to you and that you have the merriest of

  Christmases.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs. Beatrice Morrissey

  So she was there! I knew it!

  . . . she was to take a post at a school near London where her sister is headmistress . . .

  A school near London. Spence? Does that mean Mrs. Nightwing is Miss McCleethy’s sister?

  I hear raised voices from below.

  In a moment, Felicity barrels through my door with a sheepish Ann and furious Mrs. Jones just behind her.

  “Hello, Gemma, darling. How are you feeling? Ann and I thought we’d come for a visit.”

  “The doctor said you should rest, miss.” Mrs. Jones snips the ends of her words like an angry gardener.

  “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Jones, thank you. I believe a visit will do me good.”

  Felicity smiles in triumph.

  “As you wish, miss. A short visit,” she emphasizes, closing the door forcefully.

  “Now you’ve done it. You’ve made Jonesy mad,” I tease.

  “How terrifying,” Felicity says, rolling her eyes.

  Ann examines the dress hanging just inside my cupboard. “You will be well enough to attend the hospital dance this evening, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say. "I shall be there. Don’t worry, Tom will be there. He’s not taken my chill.”

  “I am glad to hear he’s in good health,” she says, as if she hasn’t been waiting to hear that all along.

  Felicity examines me. “You’ve a naughty look on your face.”

  “I have interesting news.” I hand them the letter.

  Felicity and Ann sit on my bed, reading silently, their eyes going wide.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” Ann asks. "Miss McCleethy is really Circe.”

  “We’ve got her,” I say.

  “When she left Saint Victoria’s, she was to take a post at a school near London where her sister is headmistress...,” Felicity reads aloud.

  “If that is true,” I say, “Mrs. Nightwing is also suspect. We can no longer trust her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  AFTER A HALF HOUR SPENT PACING, IT IS DECIDED that we shall dispatch a note to the one person who may be of help to us, Miss Moore. I wait impatiently for the messenger’s return, and just before I am to leave for the dance at Bethlem, her reply arrives.

  Dear Gemma,

  I too am troubled by these coincidences. Perhaps there is an explanation for it all, but for the present, I advise you to be on your guard. If she should show herself at Bethlem Royal, do what you must to keep her from your Nell Hawkins.

  Your friend,

  Hester Asa Moore

  Father has not come home for supper as he promised. There is no word. And he has Kartik and the carriage, so Tom and I are forced to hire a cab to take us to Bethlem. The hospital has been decorated nicely with holly and ivy, and the patients are dressed in their best, full of merriment and mischief.

  I’ve brought flowers for Nell. One of the nurses takes me to the women’s ward so that I might give them to her.

  “What a beautiful corsage,” the nurse says.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “Lucky day for our Miss Hawkins. That’s twice she’s gotten flowers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She had a visitor today who brought her some nice roses.”

  A patient waltzes past with an imaginary partner.

  “A visitor? What was her name?” I ask.

  The nurse purses her lips in thought. “I can’t remember, I’m afraid. It’s been such a day! Mr. Snow’s been in a very agitated state of mind. Dr. Smith told him if he didn’t settle himself, he’d lose his privileges for the dance. Here we are,” she says as we arrive at a small sitting room.

  Nell is as disheveled as I’ve ever seen her. Her thin hair, splintered and broken, falls about her shoulders like a ruin. She’s sitting alone, holding Cassandra’s cage on her lap. The bird squawks to Nell, who murmurs sweet words in return. On the table beside her is a vase of bright red roses.

  “Miss Hawkins,” the nurse says. “Here’s Miss Doyle to see you, and she’s brought you a lovely corsage besides. Won’t you say good evening?”

  “Good evening! Good evening!” Cassandra chirps.

  “I’ll leave you to your visit, then,” the nurse says. “You’ll be needing to dress soon, Miss Hawkins.”

  “Nell,” I say, when we are alone. "You had a visitor today. Was it Miss McCleethy?”

  Nell flinches at the name, holding the cage so close that Cassandra hops about, flustered. “She led us to the rocks. She promised us the power, and then she betrayed us. It came up from the sea. Jack and Jill went up the hill . . .”

  “She was your teacher at Saint Victoria’s, wasn’t she? What did she do to you? What happened?”

  Nell reaches her tiny fingers through the bars of the cage, trying to touch Cassandra, who squawks and hops about, avoiding her grasp.

  “Nell!” I grab her hands.

  “Oh, Lady Hope,” she says in a fierce whisper, her eyes filling with tears. "She has found me. She has found me and my mind is so troubled. I fear I cannot keep them out. They won’t forgive me.”

  “Who won’t forgive you?” I ask.

  “Them!” she nearly shouts. “The ones you talk to. They are not my friends, not my friends, not friends.”

  “Shhh, it’s all right, Nell,” I murmur. I can hear distant violins tuning. The chamber orchestra has arrived. The dance is almost under way.

  Nell rocks tightly. “I must flee soon. Jack and Jill up the hill, up the hill tonight. Tonight, I shall tell you where to find the Temple.”

  With a surprising agility and fierceness, Nell grabs hold of Cassandra’s leg. The bird screeches in her grasp. But Nell’s determined, her mouth set in a strange little smile.

  “Nell! Nell! Let go of it,” I say. I tug at her fingers and she bites my hand hard. A thin, jagged crescent of blood seeps up through my glove.

  “Here now, what’s all this ruckus?” A nurse marches over, all business. If she sees the bite, Nell will not be allowed to attend tonight’s dance, and then I’ll never know the location of the Temple.

  “The bird pecked me,” I say. "It frightened me.”

  “Cassandra, you’re a bad girl, you are,” the nurse clucks as she pries the cage from Nell’s hands.

  “Bad girl, bad girl!” Cassandra squawks.

  “Tonight,” Nell says hoarsely. "You must listen. You must see. It’s our last chance.”

  My hand hurts like the devil. Worse, in the corridor, Mr. Snow waits, leering. He shouldn’t be here in the female ward, and I wonder how he’s slipped in. There’s no debating it. I shall have to cross in front of him to get to the dance. Screwing my courage to the sticking place, I square my shoulders and stride past as if I own Bethlem Royal. Mr. Snow falls into step with me.

  “You’re a right pretty one, you are.”

  I keep walking, refusing to respond. Mr. Snow jumps before me, walking backward. I look about for help, but everyone is in the ballroom.

  “Will you let me pass, sir?”

  “Give us a kiss, then. A kiss to remember you by.”

  “Mr. Snow, remember yourself, please,” I say. I try to sound firm, but my voice shakes.

  “I’ve a message for you from them,” he whispers.

  “Them?”

  “The girls in white.” His face is so close I can smell the sourness of his breath. "She’s in league with the dark ones. With the one who comes. She will lead you astray. Do not trust her,” he whispers, giving that same sick leer.

  “Are you trying to frighten me?” I say.

  Mr. Snow puts his hands against the wall on either side of my head. "No, miss. We’re trying to warn you.”

  “Mr. Snow! That will do!” At last one of the nurses appears and Mr. Snow slinks off down the hall, but before he does he calls to me, urgently.<
br />
  “Careful, miss! Such a pretty little head!”

  It isn’t until I’m safely away from him that I remove my glove and examine the injury done to my hand. It isn’t terrible. More like a deep scratch. But for the first time I’ve got my doubts about Nell Hawkins.

  For the first time, I am afraid of her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE BETHLEM DANCE IS A VERY POPULAR AFFAIR. The hospital teems with people who have all arrived by invitation and by the purchase of a ticket allowing admission. Some have come for the music and dancing or out of a sense of charity; others for the curiosity of seeing the mad of Bedlam curtsying and bowing to one another, with the hopes that some strange, scandalous thing will occur, something they might repeat at this ball or that dinner. Indeed, two ladies watch discreetly as a nurse coaxes a tattered doll from the fierce grip of a patient, soothing the old woman with assurances that her “little girl” will be best served by a good night’s rest in the“nursery.” “Poor dear,” the ladies murmur, and, “Breaks the heart,” though I can tell from the light in their eyes that they’ve gotten a taste of what they’ve come for—a peek behind the curtain at despair, horror, and hopelessness, so that they may be happy to close it again and keep its taint far from the safe borders of their well-tended lives. I wish for them a long dance with Mr. Snow.

  The dance is well under way by the time I spy Felicity and Ann inching toward me through the throng. Mrs. Worthington has come as chaperone, but she’s otherwise engaged, talking to the hospital’s physician superintendent, Dr. Percy Smith.

  “Gemma! Oh, what happened here?” Felicity says, seeing my bloodstained glove.

  “Nell Hawkins bit me.”

  “How awful,” Ann says.

  “Miss McCleethy’s been here already today. Nell’s in a very distressed state. But she knows where to find the Temple, and tonight, she’s going to reveal it.”

  “If she proves reliable,” Ann says.