Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  “You’re too bold by half,” I say.

  “And you’re lying about not wanting to humiliate Tom. You’re saving yourself.”

  The hard truth of this stings me, and I hate him a little for saying it.

  “There’s nothing we can do but wait until your brother returns,” Kartik says.

  “Do you mean leave my father in that place?”

  “There is no other choice.”

  “He’s all I have,” I plead. “Take me to him.”

  Kartik shakes his head. “It is out of the question. Bluegate Fields is not the sort of place for ladies.”

  “I am going whether you take me or not.”

  I walk swiftly toward the door. Kartik takes hold of my arm.

  “Do you know what could happen to you there?”

  “I shall have to risk it.” Kartik and I stand, opposing each other. "I cannot leave him there, Kartik.”

  “Very well,” he says, relenting. He gives my figure a bold appraisal. "You will need to borrow your brother’s clothes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you must go, you shall have to go dressed as a man.”

  I race up the stairs, hoping I do not wake Grandmama or the servants. Tom’s clothes are a mystery to me. With difficulty, I manage to undress, taking off the many layers and my corset. I sigh with relief when free of it. I pull Tom’s trousers over my woolen stockings and select a shirt and coat. They are a bit snug. I am tall but not slender as he is. Still, they will have to do. Securing my hair beneath his hat is a task, though. It threatens to spring from my head. And to wear Tom’s shoes requires that I stuff the ends with handkerchiefs, as his feet are a full inch and a half larger than my own. It makes me walk like a drunk.

  “How do I look?” I ask, coming down the stairs.

  Kartik scoffs. "Like someone who shall be set upon by every hooligan in East London. This is a terrible idea. We’ll wait until your brother returns.”

  “I will not leave my father to die in an opium den,” I say. "Pull the carriage round.”

  A light snow’s begun to fall. It coats Ginger’s mane in a thin gray powder as we pull slowly into the East London slums. The night is still and cold. Every breath is painful. Narrow, filthy alleys wind between ramshackle buildings that stand stooped as beggars. Crippled chimneys jut up from the sodden roofs, crooked metal arms asking the sky for alms, for hope, for some reassurance that this life is not all they can ever know.

  “Pull your hat low over your face,” Kartik warns. Even on this night and in the cold, the streets are crowded with people, drunk, loud, swearing. A trio of men in the open doorway of a gin house takes in my fine clothes, Kartik beside me.

  “Don’t look at them,” Kartik says. "Don’t engage with anyone.”

  A group of street urchins clusters about us, begging. This one’s got a sick baby sister at home; another offers to shine my boots for a shilling. Still another, a boy of no more than eleven or so, knows of a place where we can go and he will “be kind” to me for as long as I like. He does not smile or betray any feeling as he says this. He is as matter-of-fact as the boy offering to clean my boots.

  Kartik pulls six coins from his pocket. They glisten in the black wool of his gloved palm. The boys’ eyes grow wide in the dark.

  “Three shillings for whoever watches this carriage and horse,” he says.

  Three boys are on him at once, promising all sorts of harm to whoever would bother such a fine gentleman’s carriage.

  “And three for the one who can escort us to Chin-Chin’s without incident,” he says.

  They’re quiet. A filthy boy in tattered clothes and shoes worn down to holes grabs the last of the coins. “Oi know Chin’s,” he says. The other boys look at him with envy and scorn.

  “This way, gents,” he says, taking us down a maze of alleys damp with the wind blowing off the nearby docks. Fat rats scuttle across cobblestones, poking at heaven knows what by the curb. Despite the raw wind and late hour, people are out. It is still Christmas Eve, and they crowd the gin houses and streets, some of them falling down with drunkenness.

  “Roight ’ere,” the boy says as we reach a hovel inside a tiny court. The boy pushes through the decrepit door and escorts us up steep, dark stairs that reek of urine and the damp. I trip over something and realize it’s a body.

  “That’s jus’ ol’ Jim,” the boy says, unbothered. " ’E’s always ’ere.”

  On the second floor, we reach another door.

  “ ’Ere you go. Chin-Chin’s. Give us a gin for the trouble, eh, guv?” the boy says, sticking out his hand in the hopes of more money.

  I press another two shillings into his palm.

  “Merry Christmas, guv.” He disappears and I knock on the grime-thickened door. It creaks open to reveal an ancient Chinaman. The shadows under his hollow eyes make him seem more an apparition than a flesh-and-blood man, but then he smiles, showing a handful of teeth mottled brown as rotted fruit. He bids us follow him into the low, cramped room. Everywhere I look there are bodies. They lie about, eyes fluttering; some jabber on in long strings of sentences that mean nothing. They’re broken by long pauses and the occasional weak laugh that chills the soul with its emptiness. A sailor, his skin the color of India ink, nods and sleeps in a corner. Beside him is a man who looks as if he might never wake.

  The opium fumes make my eyes water and my throat burn. At this rate, it will be a wonder if we can escape the room without succumbing to the drug ourselves. I put my handkerchief to my mouth to keep from gagging.

  “Mind the floor,” Kartik says. Several well-to-do gentlemen are clumped together around an opium bowl in a stupor, mouths open. Above them, a rope stretches across the room, dingy rags hanging from it forming a rotted curtain that smells of sour milk.

  “Which ship are you on, my boy?” comes a voice from the darkness. A face moves into the glow from a candle. The man is Indian.

  “I am not a deckhand. Or a boy,” Kartik answers.

  The Indian sailor laughs at this. There’s an ugly scar snaking from the corner of his eye across his cheek. I shudder to think how he might have gotten it or what happened to the other man. He fingers his dagger at his side.

  “You trained dog to English?” He points at me with the dagger. He makes a barking sound that tumbles into more laughter and then a terrible coughing fit that leaves blood on his hand.

  “The English.” He spits. “They give us this life. We are their dogs, you and I. Dogs. What they promise you cannot trust. But Chin-Chin’s opium makes the whole world sweet. Smoke, my friend, and you forget what they do. Forget that you are a dog. That you will always be a dog.”

  He points the tip of his dagger into the sticky black ball of opium, ready to smoke his troubles away and float into an oblivion where he is no one’s inferior. Kartik and I move on through the smoky haze. The Chinaman leads us to a tiny room and bids us wait a moment while he disappears behind the rags over the door. Kartik’s jaw remains clenched.

  “What that man said... ” I stop, unsure of how to continue. “What I mean is, I hope you know that I do not feel that way.”

  Kartik’s face hardens. “I am not like those men. I am Rakshana. A higher caste.”

  “But you are also Indian. They are your countrymen, are they not?”

  Kartik shakes his head. “Fate determines your caste. You must accept it and live according to the rules.”

  “You can’t really believe that!”

  “I do believe it. That man’s misfortune is that he cannot accept his caste, his fate.”

  I know that the Indians wear their caste as a mark upon their foreheads for all to see. I know that in England, we have our own unacknowledged caste system. A laborer will never hold a seat in Parliament. Neither will a woman. I don’t think I’ve ever questioned such things until this moment.

  “But what about will and desire? What if someone wants to change things?”

  Kartik keeps his eyes on the room. "You cannot chang
e your caste. You cannot go against fate.”

  “That means there is no hope of a better life. It is a trap.”

  “That is how you see it,” he says softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It can be a relief to follow the path that has been laid out for you, to know your course and play your part in it.”

  “But how can you be sure that you are following the right course? What if there is no such thing as destiny, only choice?”

  “Then I do not choose to live without destiny,” he says with a slight smile.

  He seems so sure, while I feel nothing but uncertainty. “Do you ever have doubts? About anything?”

  His smile vanishes. "Yes.”

  I’d like to know what they are, but the Chinaman returns, interrupting our debate. We follow him, pushing aside the fetid rags. He points to a fat Englishman with arms the size of an elephant’s legs.

  “We’re looking for Mr. Chin-Chin,” Kartik says.

  “Lookin’ a’ ’im,” the Englishman says. “Took ofer from th’ ’riginal proprietor t’ree years ago. Some cawls me Chin. Ofers cawls me Uncle Billy. Come fo’ a tayste o’ ’appiness?”

  On a low table sits the opium bowl. Chin stirs the thick black goo. He pulls out a sticky, tarlike bead of opium and pushes it down into the wooden pipe. With horror I see that he wears my father’s wedding ring on a string around his neck.

  “Where did you get that ring?” I ask in a hoarse whisper that I hope passes as a young man’s voice.

  “Luv’ly, innit? Patron gimme it. Fair trade fo’ me opyum.”

  “Is he still here? That man?”

  “Don’ know. Ain’t runnin’ a boardin’ouse, now, is I, guv?”

  “Chin . . .” The voice, urgent but hoarse, comes from the other side of the ragged curtain. A hand pokes out. It shakes as it searches for the pipe. There’s a fine gold watch fob dangling from the thin fingers. "Chin, take it. . . . Give me more. . . .”

  Father.

  I pull aside the filthy curtain. My father lies on the soiled, torn mattress in only his trousers and shirt. His jacket and coat adorn a woman who is draped across him, snoring lightly. His fine cravat and boots are gone—stolen or bartered, I do not know which. The stench of urine is overpowering, and I have to fight to keep from being ill.

  “Father.”

  In the dim light, he struggles to see who is speaking. His eyes are bloodshot, the pupils large and glassy. "Hello,” he says, smiling dreamily.

  My throat throbs with all I’m holding back. "Father, it’s time to go home.”

  “Just one more. Right as rain. Then we’ll go. . . .”

  Chin takes the watch fob and pockets it. He passes the pipe to Father.

  “Don’t give him any more,” I plead.

  I try to take the pipe, but Father wrests it from my hand and gives me a hard shove in the bargain. Kartik helps me to my feet.

  “Chin, the light. There’s a good man. . . .”

  Chin lowers the candle to the pipe. My father draws in the smoke. His eyes flutter and a tear escapes, making a slow track down his unshaven cheek. "Leave me, pet.”

  I can’t stand another moment. With every bit of strength I’ve got, I push the woman off Father and pull him to his feet. The two of us stumble backward. Chin laughs to watch us, as if it were a night of cockfighting or some other sport. Kartik takes my father’s other arm and together we maneuver him through the throngs of opium eaters. I am so ashamed that he should see my father in this state. I want to cry but am afraid if I did I would never stop.

  We stumble on the stairs but somehow manage to make it to our carriage without further incident. The boys have been true to their word. The crowd has grown to about twenty children, who all clamber out of the seats and down from Ginger’s back. The cold night air, an assault earlier, is a balm after the wretched opium fumes. I breathe in greedy gulps as Kartik and I help Father into the carriage. Tom’s trousers catch in the door, tearing along the seam. And with that, I too rip apart. Everything I’ve held back—disappointment, loneliness, fear, and the crushing sadness of it all—comes rushing out in a torrent of tears.

  “Gemma?”

  “Don’t . . . look . . . at . . . me,” I sob, turning my face toward the cold steel of the carriage. “It is all . . . so . . . horrible . . . and it’s . . . my fault.”

  “It is not your fault.”

  “Yes, yes, it is! If I hadn’t been who I am, Mother wouldn’t have died. He never would have been like this! I ruined his happiness! And . . .” I stop.

  “And . . . ?”

  “I used the magic to try to cure him.” I’m afraid Kartik will be angry, but he doesn’t say anything. “I couldn’t bear to see him suffer so. What is the good of all this power if I can do nothing with it?”

  This brings a fresh wave of tears. To my great surprise, Kartik wipes them away with his hand. “Meraa mitra yahaan aaiye,” he murmurs.

  I understand only a little Hindi, enough to know what he has said: Come here, my friend.

  “I’ve never known a braver girl,” he says.

  He lets me lean against the carriage for a moment till my tears stop, and my body feels as it always does after a good cry—calm and clean. Across the Thames, the deep chimes of Big Ben sing two o’clock.

  Kartik helps me into the seat next to my sleeping father.

  “Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle.”

  When we reach home, the lamps are lit, which is an ominous sign. Tom is waiting in the parlor. There’s no way to hide what has happened.

  “Gemma, where have you been at such an hour? Why are you dressed in my clothing? And what have you done to my best trousers?”

  Kartik moves into the room, supporting Father as best he can.

  “Father!” Tom says, taking in his semi-clothed, drugged state. "What has happened?”

  My words rush out in a terrified torrent. “We found him in an opium den. He’d been there for two days. Kartik wanted you but I didn’t want to scandalize you at the club and so I—I—I . . .”

  Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Jones arrives, her night bonnet still on her head.

  “Is anything the matter, sir?” she asks.

  “Mr. Doyle has taken ill,” Tom says.

  Mrs. Jones’s eyes say she knows it’s a lie, but she immediately springs into action. "I’ll fetch tea at once, sir. Should I send for the doctor?”

  “No! Just the tea, thank you,” Tom barks. He gives Kartik a hard look. "I can manage from here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kartik says. For a moment, I don’t know whether to go to my brother or Kartik. In the end, I help Tom and Mrs. Jones get my father to bed. I change out of Tom’s clothes, scrub myself of the soot of East London, and dress in my own nightclothes. I find Tom sitting in the parlor, staring into the fire. He takes the twigs that are too small to be of any good, snaps them in half, and feeds them methodically into the angry flames.

  “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t know what else to do,” I say. I wait for him to tell me how I’ve disgraced the family and that I shall never leave this house again.

  Another twig lights. It screams in the fire and hisses down to cinder. I haven’t any idea what to say.

  “I can’t cure him,” Tom says so softly I have to strain to hear. “A medical student is a man of science. He is supposed to have the answers. I cannot even help my own father conquer his demons.”

  I lean my head against the wood of the doorframe, something solid to catch me should I slide right off this earth and keep falling. “You’ll find a way, in time.” I mean to be reassuring. I am not.

  “No. Science is broken for me. It’s broken.” His head slumps forward into his hands. There’s a strangled sound. He’s trying not to cry, but he’s helpless against it. I want to run across the rug and hold him tightly, risk his disdain to do it.

  Instead, I turn the knob quietly and leave, letting him save face and hating myself for it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THE SOUND
OF DISTANT CHURCH BELLS WAKES ME. It is Christmas morning. The house is quiet as a morgue. Father and Tom are still asleep after our long night, and Grandmama has chosen to stay in bed as well. Only the servants and I are awake.

  I dress quickly and quietly and make my way to the carriage house. Sleep still hangs about Kartik in a sweet, charming way.

  “I’ve come to apologize for last night. And to thank you for helping him,” I say.

  “Everyone needs help sometimes,” he says.

  “Except for you.”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he hands me something illwrapped in a scrap of cloth. “Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle.”

  I am astonished. "What is this?”

  “Open it.”

  Inside the cloth is a small blade the size of a man’s thumb. Atop the blade is a small, crude totem of a many-armed man with a buffalo head.

  “Megh Sambara,” Kartik explains. “The Hindus believe that he offers protection against enemies.”

  “I thought you had no loyalty to any customs other than the Rakshana’s.”

  Embarrassed, Kartik sticks his hands in his pockets, rocks on the heels of his boots. "It was Amar’s.”

  “You shouldn’t part with it, then,” I say, trying to give it back.

  Kartik jumps to avoid the blade. “Careful. It is small but sharp. And you may have need of it.”

  I hate to be reminded of my purpose here and now. “I shall keep it with me. Thank you.”

  I see there’s another small bundle beside him. I would dearly love to ask if it is for Emily, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

  “Tonight is Miss Worthington’s Christmas ball, yes?” Kartik asks, running fingers through his thick tangle of curls.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What do you do at these balls?” Kartik asks shyly.

  “Oh,” I sigh. “There is a great deal of smiling and talking of the weather and how lovely everyone looks. There is a light supper and refreshments. And the dancing, of course.”

  “I’ve never been to a ball. I don’t know how this sort of dancing is done.”

  “It isn’t so difficult to master for a man. The woman has to learn to do it in reverse without stepping on his feet.”