Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  I don’t wish to try absinthe. Well, perhaps a little bit—if I could be certain how it would affect me. I’m afraid to stay, but I don’t want to leave the room now or let Felicity share this experience with Simon alone.

  “I’d like to try it too,” I croak.

  “An adventurous spirit,” Simon says, smiling at me. “That’s what I love.”

  Reaching in again, Simon brings out a flat, slotted spoon. He pours himself half a glass of water from a decanter. He sets the glass on the table and places the strange spoon over the glass’s opening. With graceful fingers, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a cube of sugar, which he perches atop the spoon.

  “What is that for?” I ask.

  “To take away the bitterness of the wormwood.”

  Thick as tree sap, green as summer grass, the absinthe flows over the sugar, dissolving it on its relentless way. Inside the glass, a beautiful alchemy is taking place. The green swirls into a milky white. It is extraordinary.

  “How does it do that?” I ask.

  Simon takes a coin from his pocket, palms it, and shows me his empty hand. The coin has disappeared. "Magic.”

  “Let’s see if it is,” Felicity says, reaching for the glass. Simon holds it away, hands it to me.

  “Ladies first,” he says.

  Felicity looks as if she could spit in his eye. It is a cruel thing to do, to goad her so, but I must be cruel myself because I can’t help being satisfied that I’m the one chosen first. My hand shakes as I take the glass. I half expect this strange drink to turn me into a frog. Even the smell is intoxicating, like licorice spiced with nutmeg. I swallow, feel it burn my throat. The moment I finish, Felicity grabs it from me and drinks her share. She offers it to Ann, who takes the tiniest of sips. At last it goes to Simon, who takes his turn and passes it to me again. The glass makes its rounds thrice more, till it has been drained.

  Simon uses his handkerchief to wipe the last of the absinthe from the glass and places everything behind the book to be retrieved at a later date. He moves closer to me. Felicity comes between us, taking hold of my wrist.

  “Thank you, Simon. And now I suppose we’d best make that visit to the cloakroom to add truth to our story,” she says, a satisfied gleam in her eye.

  Simon isn’t happy, that much I can see. But he bows and lets us get on our way.

  “I don’t feel much different,” Ann says as we stand in the cloakroom, fanning ourselves, letting the maids search for imaginary tears in our gowns.

  “That is because you didn’t take more than a sip,” Felicity whispers. "I feel quite fine.”

  There’s a sweet warmth in my head, a lightness that makes it seem as if all is well and no harm can come to me. I smile at Felicity, no longer upset, just enjoying our indiscretion together. Why is it that some secrets can drown you while some pull you close to others in a way you never want to lose?

  “You look beautiful,” Felicity says. Her pupils are large as moons.

  “So do you,” I say. I can’t stop smiling.

  “What about me?” Ann asks.

  “Yes,” I say, feeling lighter by the second. “Tom will not be able to resist you. You are a princess, Ann.” This makes the maid tending my dress raise her eyes to me for a moment but then she is back to it.

  When we enter the ballroom again, it seems transformed, the colors deeper, the lights hazier. The green fairy melts to liquid fire that races through my veins like gossip, like the wings of a thousand angels, like a whisper of the most delicious secret I have ever held. Around me the room has slowed into a beautiful blur of color, sound, and motion; the whisk-whisk of the ladies’ stiff skirts melting into the greens and blues, silvers and burgundies of their bejeweled bodies. They bend and sway into the gentlemen like mirror images that kiss and fly apart, kiss and fly apart.

  My eyes feel wet and beautiful. My mouth is swollen as summer fruit, and all I can do is smile as if I know all there is to know but I cannot hold on to any of it. Simon finds me. I hear myself accepting a dance with him. We join the swirling throng. I am floating. Simon Middleton is the most beguiling man I have ever known. I want to tell him this, but no words will come. Through my blurry eyes, the ballroom has transformed into a sacred spiral dance of Whirling Dervishes, their white cassocks flying out like the first snow of winter, tall purple hats defying gravity atop their delicately spinning heads. But I know I cannot be seeing this.

  With effort, I close my eyes to clear the scene, and when I open them again, there are the ladies and gentlemen, hands joined tentatively in the waltz. Over their downy white shoulders, the ladies communicate to each other with subtle nods and silent looks—“The Thetford girl and Roberts boy, a most suitable match, don’t you agree?”—fates sealed, futures decided in three-quarter time under the glittering illusion maker of the chandelier throwing off diamond-hard prisms of light that bathe everything in a reflection of cold beauty.

  The dance over, Simon guides me from the floor. Dizzy, I stumble slightly. My hand reaches for purchase in something solid and finds the broad expanse of Simon’s chest. My fingers curl around the white petals of the rose on his lapel.

  “Steady there. I say, Miss Doyle, are you quite all right?”

  I smile. Oh, yes, quite. I cannot speak or feel my body, but I am so absolutely lovely—please leave me here. I smile. Petals fall away, twirling softly to the floor in their own spiral dance. The palm of my glove is stained with the sticky residue of the rose. I cannot seem to figure out how it got there or what to do about it. This strikes me as unbearably humorous, and I find I am laughing.

  “Steady there . . . ,” Simon says, applying a bit of pressure at my wrist. The pain brings me back to my senses slightly. He walks me past the large potted ferns near the doorway and behind an ornate folding screen. In its creases, I can see fractions of the ballroom whirling past. We are hidden but could be discovered here. I should be alarmed, but I am not. I don’t care.

  “Gemma,” Simon says. His lips graze me just below my earlobe. They trace a moist arc down the hollow of my neck. My head is warm and heavy. Everything in me feels swollen and ripe. The room is still doing its swirling dance of lights, but the sounds of the party are muffled and far away. It’s Simon’s voice that floats inside me.

  “Gemma, Gemma, you are an elixir.”

  He presses against me. I don’t know if it’s the absinthe or something deeper, something I can’t describe, but I am sinking inside myself with no wish to stop.

  “Come with me,” he whispers. It echoes in my head. He’s got my arm, leading me as if we were ready to dance. Instead, he walks me out of the ballroom and upstairs, away from the party. He brings me into a small attic room, the maid’s room, I think. It is mostly dark, lit only by a candle. It’s as if I have no will of my own. I sink onto the bed, marveling at how my hands look in the candlelight, as if they are not my own somehow. Simon sees me staring at my hands. He begins to unbutton my glove. At the opening, he kisses the tiny blue veins pulsing there.

  I want to tell him to stop. The haze of the absinthe clears a bit. I am alone with Simon. He is kissing my bare wrist. We shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t.

  “I . . . I want to go back.”

  “Shhh, Gemma.” He removes my glove. My naked skin feels so strange. “My mother likes you. We’d make a fine match, don’t you think?”

  Think? I can’t think. He begins to remove the other glove. My body arches, goes tight. Oh, God, it’s happening. It’s happening. Over the rounded bow of Simon’s back, I see the room shimmering, feel my body tensing with the vision I can’t keep out. The last thing I hear is Simon’s concerned voice saying “Gemma, Gemma!” and then I’m falling, falling into that black hole.

  The three girls in white. They float just beyond Simon. “We’ve found it. We’ve found the Temple. Look and see. . . .”

  I’m following them quickly through the realms, to the top of a hill. I can hear cries. Fast, we’re going fast. The hill falls away, and there is the
most magnificent cathedral I’ve ever seen. It shimmers like a mirage. The Temple.

  “Hurry . . . ,” the girls whisper. "Before they find it.”

  Behind them, dark clouds gather. Wind blows their hair about their pale, shadowed faces. Something’s coming. Something’s coming up behind them. It rises up and over them like a dark phoenix. A great black winged creature. The girls don’t look, they don’t see. But I do. It opens its wings till they fill the sky, revealing the thing inside, a churning horror of faces crying out.

  And then I’m screaming.

  “Gemma! Gemma!” It’s Simon’s voice I hear calling me back. His hand is over my mouth to stop my screams. “I am sorry. I meant no harm.”

  Hurriedly, he hands me back my gloves. It takes me a moment to come back into the room, to realize that Simon was kissing my bare shoulders and that he thinks the screams are over this. I am still woozy from the drink but now I feel as if I shall be ill. I vomit into the maid’s washbasin. Simon rushes to bring me a towel.

  I am mortified, and my head aches. I am also shaking all over, both from the vision and from what has happened between us.

  “Should I send for someone?” Simon asks. He stands in the doorway, coming no closer.

  I shake my head. "No, thank you. I wish to return to the ball.”

  “Yes, at once,” Simon says, sounding afraid and relieved at the same time.

  I want to explain to him, but how can I? And so we walk down the stairs in silence. At the first floor, he leaves me. The bell is rung for supper, and I simply fall in with the other ladies.

  Supper is a long affair, and gradually, with food and time, I feel more like myself. Simon has not come to supper, and as my head clears, my embarrassment rises. I was foolish to have drunk the absinthe, to have gone with him alone. And then that horrific vision! But for an instant, I saw the Temple. I saw it. It’s within our grasp. It is not the greatest comfort on this night, but it is some comfort, and I shall hold fast to it.

  Mr. Worthington makes a toast to Christmas. Ann is introduced and asked to sing. She does, and the assembly applauds for her, none more loudly than Tom, who shouts, “Bravo!” The governess comes forth with a sleepy Polly, who clutches her doll.

  Admiral Worthington beckons to the girl. “Sit upon my knee, child. And am I your own good uncle, then?”

  Polly climbs up into his lap and gives a shy smile. Felicity looks on, a grim set to her mouth. I cannot believe she would be so childish as to be jealous of a little girl. Why does she do such things?

  “What? Is that all the payment due unto uncles these days? Let’s have a true and proper kiss for your uncle.”

  The child squirms a bit, her eyes darting from person to person. Each one gives her the same eager expression: Go on, then. Give him a kiss. Resigned, Polly leans in, eyes closed, and gives Admiral Worthington’s handsome cheek a kiss. Murmurs of approval and affection float about the room: “Ah, well done.” “There we are.” “You see, Lord Worthington, the child does love you like her own father.” “Such a good man.”

  “Papa,” Felicity says, rising. “Polly should be getting to bed now. It is late.”

  “Sir?” The governess looks to Admiral Worthington for his orders.

  “Yes, very well. Go on then, Polly dear. I’ll be up to sprinkle fairy dust on you later, darling, to make sure you have beautiful dreams.”

  Felicity stops the governess. “Oh, do let me take our Polly to bed.”

  The governess gives a slight bow of her head. “As you wish, miss.”

  I don’t like this. Why does Felicity want to be alone with Polly? She wouldn’t harm the child, would she? Making excuses, I slip from the room in order to follow them. Felicity leads Polly upstairs to the nursery. I stand just outside the door, watching. Felicity’s crouched low, her arms on Polly’s slight shoulders.

  “Now, Polly, you must promise me something. Promise me that you will lock your door before you go to bed. Promise?”

  “Yes, Cousin.”

  “And you must lock your door every night. Do not forget now, Polly. It is very important.”

  “But why, Cousin?”

  “To keep out the monsters, of course.”

  “But if I lock the door, Uncle can’t sprinkle me with fairy dust.”

  “I will sprinkle you with fairy dust, Polly. But you must keep Uncle out.”

  I don’t understand. Why would she be so insistent on keeping her own father out? What could the admiral do that could possibly . . .

  Oh, God. The full horrible understanding rises in me like a great bird, the wings of truth unfurling slowly, casting a terrible shadow.

  “You cannot go to her with anything that matters.”

  “No. No admirals.”

  “Do you suppose there is some evil in people that makes others do things?”

  I move into the shadows as Felicity leaves Polly’s room. She stands for a moment, listening for the click of the lock. She seems so small. At the stairs, I step out, surprising her.

  “Gemma! You startled me. Is your head ringing? I shall never try absinthe again, I can tell you that! Why aren’t you at the party?”

  “I heard what you said to Polly,” I say.

  Felicity’s eyes are defiant. But I’m not afraid of her this time. “Indeed? What of it?”

  “Was there no lock on your door?” I ask.

  Felicity takes a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you are implying, but I think you should stop at once,” she says. I place my palm on her hand, but she pulls away. "Stop it!” she spits out.

  “Oh, Fee, I am so sorry. . . .”

  She shakes her head, turns away from me so I cannot see her face. "You don’t know how it really is, Gemma. It’s not his fault. The blame is my own. I bring it out in him. He said so.”

  “Felicity, it most certainly is not your fault!”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I understand that he is your father.”

  She looks back at me, her face streaked with tears. "He didn’t mean it. He loves me. He said so.”

  “Fee . . .”

  “That’s something, isn’t it? It’s something.” She’s biting back the sobs, her hand against her mouth as if she can catch them, push them back down.

  “Fathers should protect their children.”

  The eyes flash. The hand points. “Aren’t you the fine expert on that? Tell me, Gemma, how does your father protect you in his laudanum stupor?”

  I’m too shocked to answer.

  “That’s the real reason he’s not here tonight, isn’t it? He’s not ill. Stop pretending everything’s fine when you know it isn’t!”

  “It isn’t the same thing at all!”

  “You’re so blind. You see what you want to see.” She glares at me. "Do you know what it is to be powerless? Helpless? No, of course not. You’re the great Gemma Doyle. You hold all the power, don’t you?”

  We stand there, staring each other down, neither saying a word. She has no right to attack me this way. I was only trying to help. At the moment, I can only think that I never want to see Felicity again.

  Without another word, I start down the stairs.

  “Yes, go on. Leave. You’re always coming and going. The rest of us are stuck here. Do you think he’d still love you if he knew who you are? He doesn’t really care—only when it suits him.”

  For a moment, I do not know whether she means Simon or my father. I walk away, leaving Felicity standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs.

  The ball is over. The floor is a mess. Gathering coats, yawning goodnights, the ballgoers step across the detritus on the floor—confetti, crumbs, and forgotten dance cards, the withered flower petals. Some of the gentlemen are red-nosed and tipsy. They shake Mrs. Worthington’s hand with too much ardor, their voices too loud. Their wives pull them along with a polite but firm “Our carriage is waiting, Mr. Johnson.” Others follow. Some leave with the flush of new love on their dreamy faces; others wear their dashed
hopes and broken hearts in downcast eyes and trembling smiles.

  Percival asks if he may call on us at home sometime. I do not see Simon. It would seem the Middletons have gone. He’s left without saying goodbye.

  I’ve made a mess of everything—Kartik, Simon, Felicity, Father. Merry Christmas. God bless us, every one.

  But I have seen the Temple in a vision.

  I only wish I had someone to tell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  TWO MISERABLE, LONELY DAYS PASS BEFORE I FIND the courage to call on Felicity, under the pretext of returning a book.

  “I shall inquire whether she is at home, miss,” Shames, the butler, says, taking my grandmother’s card, on which I have added my name in neat script. In a moment he returns my card to me—alone. "I am sorry, miss. It seems Miss Worthington has gone out after all.”

  On the walk, I turn back. Looking up, I see her face at the window. She immediately ducks behind the curtain. She is home and has chosen to snub me.

  Ann comes out to me at the carriage. “I am sorry, Gemma. I’m sure she doesn’t mean it. You know how she can be.”

  “That doesn’t excuse it,” I say. Ann seems agitated about more than this. "What is the matter?”

  “I’ve received a note from my cousin. Someone’s made inquiries about my claims to be a relation of the Duke of Chesterfield. Gemma, I’ll be found out.”

  “You won’t be found out.”

  “I will! Once the Worthingtons know who I am and that I’ve deceived them . . . oh, Gemma. I’m done for.”

  “Don’t tell Mrs. Worthington about the note.”

  “She’s already so very cross about the dress. I overheard her telling Felicity it was as good as ruined now that it’s been let out for me. I shouldn’t have let her talk me into it. And now . . . I’ll be ruined forever, Gemma.” Ann is nearly ill with her fear and worry.

  “We’ll remedy it,” I say, though I have no idea how. Up at the window, I see Felicity again. So much to remedy. “Would you give Felicity a message for me?”