Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  “You awl righ’?” Mrs. Porter asks. I cannot answer. Must get outside. Air. I need air.

  Mrs. Porter comes after me. " ’D’you ask ’er ’bout me rent?”

  I stumble out into the night air. I’m shaking all over, but it isn’t from the cold. It’s the magic taking hold of my body, wearing me down.

  “Miss Moore!” I scream into the darkness. My voice isn’t much more than a raw cry. “Miss Moore!”

  They’re at the bend in the street, waiting for me, those awful girls in white. Their shadows grow taller, long dark fingers creeping across the wet cobblestones, closing the distance between us. The familiar voice skulks out.

  “Our mistress is in. We have the seer. She shall show us the Temple.”

  “No . . . ,” I say.

  “It’s almost ours. You’ve lost.”

  I try to swipe at them, but my arms barely move. I fall to the wet street. Their shadows reach across my hands, bathing me in gloom.

  “Time to die . . .”

  The constable’s shrill whistle rings in my ears. The shade recedes.

  “Easy there, miss. We’ll get you home.”

  The constable carries me down the street. I hear the percussive clicking of his shoes on cobblestones. Hear the whistle blowing, the voices. I hear myself mumbling over and over like a mantra, “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me . . .”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  SOMEONE DRAWS THE CURTAINS. THE ROOM GROWS dusty dark. I cannot speak. Tom and Grandmama are at my bedside. I hear another voice. A doctor.

  “Fever . . . ,” he says.

  It’s not a fever. It’s the magic. I try to tell them that, to say something, but I cannot.

  “You must rest,” Tom says, holding my hand.

  In the corner of the room, I see the three girls waiting, those silent, smiling apparitions. The dark hollows under their eyes remind me of the skeletal face of that thing on the cliffs.

  “No,” I say, but it comes out as no more than a whisper.

  “Shhh, sleep,” Grandmama says.

  “Yes, sleep,” the girls in white whisper sweetly. "Sleep on.”

  “Something to help with that...” The doctor’s voice is tinny. He brings out a brown bottle. Tom hesitates. Yes, good Tom. But the doctor insists, and Tom puts the bottle to my lips. No! I mustn’t drink. Mustn’t go under. But I’ve no fight left. I roll my head, but Tom’s hand is strong.

  “Please, Gemma.”

  The girls sit, hands in their laps. “Yes. So sweet. Drink and sleep. Our mistress is in now. So go to sleep.”

  “Sleep now,” Tom’s voice advises from far away.

  “We’ll see you in your dreams,” the girls say as I fall under the drug’s spell.

  I see the Caves of Sighs, but not as they were. This place is no ruin, but a magnificent temple. I’m walking through the narrow tunnels. As I brush my fingers over the bumpy walls, the faded drawings come alive in reds and blues, greens and pinks and oranges. Here are paintings of all the realms. The Forest of Lights. The water nymphs in their murky depths. The gorgon ship. The garden. The Runes of the Oracle as they once stood. The golden horizon across the river, where our spirits must journey. The women of the Order in their cloaks, hands joined.

  “I’ve found it,” I murmur, tongue thick with opiate.

  “Shhh,” someone says. "Sleep now.”

  Sleep now. Sleep now.

  The words drift down a tunnel into my body, where they become rose petals blowing across my bare feet on the dusty ground. I prick my finger on a thorn stuck through a crack in the wall. Drops of blood spiral down into the dust at my feet. Fat green vines push through the cracks. They crisscross rapidly around the pillars in designs as intricate as the Hajin’s mendhi. Deep pink roses bud, bloom, and open, wrapping themselves around the pillars like lovers’ fingers intertwined. It is so beautiful, so beautiful.

  Someone comes. Asha, the Untouchable. For who better to guard the Temple than those no one suspects of having any power at all?

  She greets me, pressing her palms together and touching them to her forehead as she bows. I do the same. “What do you offer?”

  Offer hope to the Untouchables, for they need hope. Lady Hope. I am the hope. I am the hope.

  The sky cracks open. Asha’s face is filled with worry.

  “What is it?”

  “She senses you. If you stay, she will find the Temple. You must leave this dream. Break the vision, Most High. Do it now!”

  “Yes, I’ll go,” I say. I try to get myself from the vision, but the drug is taking hold. I cannot make myself leave.

  “Go! Run into the realms,” she says. "Cloud your mind to the Temple. She will see what you see.”

  I’m heavy with the drug. So heavy. I cannot make my thoughts obey. I stumble out of the cave. Behind me the paintings lose their color, the roses pull back into buds, and the vines slip back into the cracks. When I come out of the cave, the sky has grown dark. The incense pots send their colorful plumes up to the clouds like a warning. The smoke parts. Miss Moore stands before me with poor Nell Hawkins, her sacrifice.

  “The Temple. Thank you, Gemma.”

  I open my eyes. The ceiling, sooty from the gaslight, comes into view. The curtains are drawn. I do not know what time of day it is. I hear whispering.

  “Gemma?”

  “She opened her eyes. I saw her.”

  Felicity and Ann. They rush over and sit on the bed beside me, taking my hands in theirs.

  “Gemma? It’s Ann. How are you feeling? We were so worried about you.”

  “They said you had a fever, so naturally they wouldn’t allow us to come until I insisted. You’ve been asleep for three days,” Felicity says.

  Three days. Still so tired.

  “They found you in Baker Street. What were you doing there, near Miss Moore’s rooms?”

  Miss Moore. Miss Moore is Circe. She has found the Temple. I have failed. I have lost everything. I turn my head to the wall.

  Ann prattles on. “With all the excitement, Lady Denby hasn’t had a chance yet to tell Mrs. Worthington about me.”

  “Simon has been here every day, Gemma,” Felicity says. “Every day! That must make you happy.”

  “Gemma?” Ann says, concerned.

  “I don’t care.” My voice is so small and dry.

  “What do you mean you don’t care? I thought you were mad for him. He’s mad for you, it seems. That is happy news, isn’t it?” Felicity says.

  “I’ve lost the Temple.”

  “What do you mean?” Ann asks.

  It is too much to explain. My head throbs. I want to sleep and never wake. “We were wrong about Miss McCleethy. About everything. Miss Moore is Circe.”

  I won’t look at them. I can’t.

  “I took her into the realms. She has the power now. It is over. I’m sorry.”

  “No more magic?” Ann says.

  I shake my head. It hurts to do it.

  “But what about Pippa?” Felicity says, starting to cry.

  I close my eyes. "I’m tired,” I say.

  “It can’t be,” Ann says, sniffling. "No more realms?”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I feign sleep until I hear the bed creak with their leaving. I lie there, staring at nothing. A crack of light peeks through the drawn curtains. It is day after all. Not that it matters to me one whit.

  In the evening, Tom carries me into the parlor to sit by the fire.

  “You’ve a surprise visitor,” he says.

  With me in his arms, he pushes open the parlor doors. Simon has come without his mother. Tom puts me on the settee and covers me with a blanket. I probably look a fright, but I can’t seem to care.

  “I’ll have Mrs. Jones bring tea,” Tom says, backing out of the room. Though he leaves the doors open, Simon and I are on our own.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks. I say nothing. "You gave us all quite a scare. How did you end up in such a dreadful place?”

  This Christmas tree h
as dried out. It’s losing its needles in clumps.

  “We thought perhaps someone wished a ransom. Perhaps that fellow who followed you at Victoria wasn’t a figment of your imagination after all.”

  Simon. He looks so worried. I should say something to comfort him. I clear my throat. Nothing comes. His hair is exactly the color of a dull coin.

  “I’ve something for you,” he says, coming closer. He pulls a brooch from his coat pocket. It is decorated with many pearls and looks quite old and valuable.

  “This belonged to the first Viscountess of Denby,” Simon says, holding the feather-light pearl brooch between his fingers. He clears his throat twice. "It’s over one hundred years old and has been worn by the women in my family. It would go to my sister, if I had a sister. Which I don’t, but you know that.” He clears his throat again.

  He pins it to the lace of my bed jacket. I understand vaguely that I am wearing his promise. I understand that things have changed greatly with this one small gesture.

  “Miss Doyle. Gemma. May I be so bold?” He gives me a chaste kiss, very different from the one the night of the ball.

  Tom returns with Mrs. Jones and tea. The men sit speaking jovially, while I continue to stare at the pine needles drifting to the floor, sinking into the settee, the weight of the brooch holding me down.

  “I thought we might pay a visit to Bethlem today,” Tom announces at lunch.

  “Why?” I say.

  “You’ve been in your bedclothes for days. It would do you good to get out. And I thought perhaps it might change Miss Hawkins’s status if you were to visit.”

  Nothing will change her status. A part of her is trapped in the realms forever.

  “Please?” Tom asks.

  In the end, I relent and go with Tom. We’ve another new driver, Jackson having disappeared. I cannot say that I am surprised by this.

  “Grandmama says that Ann Bradshaw is not any relation to the Duke of Chesterfield,” Tom says, once we are en route. "She also says that Miss Bradshaw fainted when told of these accusations.” When I neither confirm nor deny this, he continues. “I don’t see how it could be true. Miss Bradshaw is such a kind person. She’s not the sort who would mislead someone. The very fact that she fainted proves that her character is too good to even entertain such an idea.”

  “People aren’t always what you want them to be,” I mumble.

  “Beg your pardon?” Tom says.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  Come awake, Tom. Fathers can willfully hurt their children. They can be addicts too weak to give up their vices, no matter the pain it causes. Mothers can turn you invisible with neglect. They can erase you with a denial, a refusal to see. Friends can deceive you. People lie. It is a cold, hard world. I do not blame Nell Hawkins for retreating from it into a madness of her own choosing.

  The halls of Bethlem seem almost calming to me now. Mrs. Sommers sits at the piano, plunking out a tune filled with wrong notes. A sewing circle has been set up in a corner. The women work their pieces intently, as if they are sewing their salvation with each careful stitch.

  I’m taken to Nell’s room. She’s stretched out upon her bed, her eyes open but not seeing.

  “Hello, Nell,” I say. The room is quiet. “Perhaps if you left us,” I say to Tom.

  “What? Oh, right.” Tom leaves.

  I take Nell’s hands in mine. They are so very small and cold.

  “I am sorry, Nell,” I say, the apology coming out like a sob. "I am sorry.”

  Nell’s hands suddenly grip mine. She is fighting against something with every bit of strength she has left. We are joined, and in my head, I can hear her speaking.

  “She . . . cannot . . . bind it,” comes her whisper. “There . . . is still . . . hope.”

  Her muscles relax. Her hands slip from mine.

  “Gemma?” Tom asks as I bolt from Nell’s room and head straight for the carriage. “Gemma! Gemma, where are you going?”

  It is fifteen past five o’clock when I secure a cab. With luck, I shall make it to Victoria Station before Felicity and Ann can board the five forty-five train to Spence. But luck is not on my side. The streets are congested with people and vehicles of all sorts. It is the wrong time of day for hurrying.

  Big Ben chimes the half hour. I poke my head out the side of the cab. Stretched ahead of us is a sea of horses, wagons, cabs, carriages, and omnibuses. We’re perhaps a quarter mile from the station and hopelessly stuck.

  I call out to the driver. “If you please, I should like to get out here.”

  Darting between snorting horses, I step quickly across the street to the sidewalk. The walk to Victoria is short, but I find I am weak from my days in bed. By the time I reach the station, I have to lean against the wall to keep from fainting.

  Forty minutes past five o’clock. There is no time to rest. The platform is awash in people. I shall never find them in this chaos. I spy an empty newspaper crate and stand upon it, searching the crowd, not caring about the scowls I receive from passersby who find my outrageous behavior insulting to ladies everywhere. At last I spy them. They’re standing on the platform with Franny. The Worthingtons haven’t even bothered to come see their daughter off with a kiss and a tear or two.

  “Ann! Felicity!” I shout. More black marks against my character. I hobble over to them.

  “Gemma, what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t to leave for Spence for days,” Felicity says. She’s wearing a smart traveling suit in a flattering mauve.

  “The magic isn’t hers,” I explain breathlessly. “She hasn’t been able to bind it.”

  “How do you know?” Felicity asks.

  “Nell told me. She must not have enough power on her own. She needs me to do it.”

  “What should we do?” Ann asks.

  A whistle blows. The train to Spence sits on the track in a haze of smoke. It is ready. The conductor stands on the platform calling passengers to board.

  “We’re going in after them,” I say.

  I see Jackson and Fowlson have arrived. They see us too. They’re coming straight toward us.

  “We’ve company,” I say.

  Felicity spies the men. "Them?”

  “Rakshana,” I say. "They’ll try to stop us, control it all.”

  “Then let’s give them the slip,” Felicity says, boarding the train.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “THEY’RE BOARDING THE TRAIN TOO!” ANN says, panicked.

  “Then we shall have to get off,” I say. We’re almost to the doors when the train lurches into motion. The platform disappears behind us, the well-wishers waving through first one window, then the next and the next, until they cannot be seen at all.

  “What do we do now?” Felicity says. “They’ll surely discover us.”

  “Find a compartment,” I say.

  We search left and right until we find an unoccupied cabin and pull the door shut. “We shall have to work quickly,” I say. “Take my hands.”

  What if I can’t summon the door? What if I am too weak or the magic has been compromised in some way? Please, please let us in once more.

  “Nothing’s happening,” Felicity says.

  Down the corridor, I hear the opening of a door, Fowlson’s voice saying, “Terribly sorry, not my cabin after all.”

  “I’m too weak. I need your help,” I say. “We must try again. Try harder than you’ve ever tried at anything in your life.”

  We close our eyes again. I concentrate on breathing. I can feel the soft, fleshy warmth of Ann’s hand beneath her glove. I can hear the brave thumping of Felicity’s wounded heart, sense the heavy stain upon her soul. I can smell the earthy nearness of Fowlson in the corridor. I can sense a deep well of strength opening inside me. Every part of me is coming alive.

  The door appears.

  “Now,” I say, and we step through into the realms once again.

  The garden is wild. There are more toadstools. They’ve grown to nearly six feet or more. Deep black
holes have been eaten away in their fat, doughy stems. An emerald green snake slithers from one of the holes, dropping into the grass.

  “Oh!” Ann screams as it narrowly misses her foot.

  “What has happened here?” Felicity marvels at the change.

  “The sooner we get to the Temple, the better.”

  “But where is it?” Ann asks.

  “If I’m right, it has been under our noses the entire time,” I say.

  “What do you mean?” Felicity asks.

  “Not here,” I say, looking around. "It’s not safe.”

  “We should find Pip,” Felicity says.

  “No,” I say, stopping her. “No one is to be trusted. We go alone.”

  I’m braced for an argument, but Felicity gives me none. “Fine. But I shall bring my arrows,” she says, searching for the hiding place.

  “You mean arrow,” Ann corrects. Felicity has used all but one.

  “It shall have to do,” she says, pulling it from the quiver. She slings the bow over her shoulder. "I’m ready.”

  We follow the path through the jungle growth till we reach the base of the mountain. “Why are we going this way?” Felicity asks.

  “We’re going to the Temple.”

  “But this is the way to the Caves of Sighs,” Felicity says, voice filled with disbelief. "Surely you’re not suggesting . . .”

  Ann is astonished. “But it is just caves and some old ruins. How can that be the Temple?”

  “Because we haven’t seen it the way it really is. If you wanted to hide your most valuable possession, would you not hide it in a place where no one would think to look? And why not have it guarded by those everyone assumes have no power?”

  “Offer hope to the Untouchables, for they must have hope,” Ann says, repeating Nell’s words.

  “Exactly,” I say. I point to Felicity and then to Ann. “Strength. Song. I am Hope. Lady Hope. That’s what she kept calling me.”

  Felicity shakes her head. "I still don’t understand.”

  “You will,” I say.

  We make our way up to the narrow, dusty road that leads to the top of the mountain, where the Caves of Sighs wait. I have to stop along the way to rest.

  Felicity steadies me against her shoulder. "Are you all right?”