Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  I clasp my hands together and bow as I have seen Asha do. Philon returns the gesture. We are at peace, for now.

  I cannot say how long the peace shall last.

  “You tried to warn me about Miss Moore, didn’t you?” I ask the gorgon once we are on the open river. Above us, white clouds spread out in grainy streaks, like sugar spilled across the floor of the sky.

  “I knew her once by another name.”

  “You must know a great deal,” I say.

  The gorgon’s hiss comes out as a sigh. "Someday, when there is time, I shall tell you stories of the days past.”

  “Do you miss them?” I ask.

  “They are but days my people lived,” she says. “I am looking forward to the days to come.”

  Father’s room is dark as a tomb when I finally return home. He sleeps fitfully on sweat-drenched sheets. It is the first time I will use the magic since binding it. I pray I shall make better use of it. The first time I tried to heal him, but I’ve come to think it doesn’t work that way. I cannot use the magic to control another. I cannot make him whole. I can only guide him.

  I place my hand over his heart. “Find your courage, Father. Find your will to fight. It is there still. I promise you.”

  His breathing grows less labored. His brow smooths. I think I even see a hint of a smile. Perhaps it is only the light. Perhaps it is the power of the realms at work through me. Or perhaps it is some combination of spirit and desire, love and hope, some alchemy that we each possess and can put to use, if we first know where to look without flinching.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  IT IS MY FINAL DAY IN LONDON BEFORE RETURNING to Spence. Grandmama has agreed to send Father to a sanitarium for a rest. Tomorrow, she will leave for the country and a rest of her own. The house is a flurry of servants covering furniture with sheets. Trunks are packed. Wages are settled. London is emptying its fashionable houses until April and the season.

  Tonight we are to dine one last time with Simon and his family. But first, I’ve two calls to make.

  He is surprised to see me. When I sweep into his room through the little door behind the drape he once showed me and pull the hood from my face with bold fingers, he stands softly at attention, like a child awaiting either the strap or a kiss of forgiveness. What I’ve brought is not quite either. It is my own compromise.

  “You remembered,” he says.

  “I remembered.”

  “Gemma—Miss Doyle, I—”

  Three gloved fingers is all it takes to silence him.

  “I shall be brief. There is work to be done. I could do with your help, if you are willing to offer it freely and without obligation to another. You cannot serve both our friendship and the Rakshana.”

  His smile catches me unawares. It flutters about the soft boughs of his lips, a broken bird unsure where to settle. And then the dark eyes fill with tears that he blinks away with a desperate concentration.

  “It . . .” He clears his throat. “It seems a necessary point that I am no longer wanted by the Rakshana. Therefore, it may do your cause no favor, being championed by one so disgraced.”

  “It shall have to do, I suppose. We are rather a ragtag crew.” His eyes clear. His voice strengthens. He nods to no one in particular.

  “It seems you’ve changed your destiny after all,” I say.

  “Unless it was my fate to do so,” he responds, smiling.

  “Well, then,” I say, pulling my hood forward again. I am nearly to the door unscathed, but he cannot keep from saying one last thing.

  “And allegiance to the Order . . . is that the only fealty you require of me?”

  Why does this one question have the power to push the breath from me?

  “Yes,” I whisper, without turning around. "That is all.”

  In a rustle of velvet and silk, I am through the door, trailing the scent of juniper, the silence, and a shadow of a whisper: For now . . . Miss McCleethy’s rooms are in Lambeth, not far from Bethlem Royal.

  “May I come in?” I ask.

  She lets me in with a pretense of friendliness. “Miss Doyle. To what do I owe this surprise visit?”

  “I’ve two questions for you. One concerns Mrs. Nightwing; the other, the Order.”

  “Go on,” she says, settling into a chair.

  “Is Mrs. Nightwing among our number?”

  “No. She is simply a friend.”

  “But you quarreled at the Christmas party, and again in the East Wing.”

  “Yes, about repairing the damage to the East Wing. I argued that it was time to rebuild. But Lillian is so very frugal.”

  “But she accepted you as Claire McCleethy, though that is not your real name.”

  “I told her I had taken a new name to escape a love affair gone wrong. That is something she understands. And that is all there is to it. What is your other question?”

  I cannot be sure if she is telling me the truth or not. I move on.

  “Why has the Order never shared its power?”

  She fixes me with that unsettling glare. “It is ours to have. We’ve fought for it. Sacrificed and shed blood for it.”

  “But you’ve hurt others as well. You’ve denied them any chance to have a part of the magic, to have a say.”

  “I promise you they’d do the same. We look out for ourselves. This is the way of things.”

  “It is an ugly business,” I say.

  “Power is,” she says without regret. “I was not happy when you left me with the Rakshana. But I understand that you thought I was Circe. It is of no consequence now. You kept Circe from the Temple and the magic. You have done well. Now we can reestablish the Order with our sisters, and—”

  “I think not,” I say.

  Miss McCleethy’s mouth wants to smile. "What?”

  “I am forging new alliances. Felicity. Ann. Kartik from the Rakshana. Philon of the Forest. Asha, the Untouchable.”

  She shakes her head. "You can’t be serious.”

  “The power must be shared.”

  “No. That is forbidden. We don’t know if they can be trusted with the magic.”

  “No. We don’t. We shall need to have good faith.”

  Miss McCleethy fumes. “Absolutely not! The Order must remain pure.”

  “That’s worked out well, hasn’t it?” I say with as much venom as I can muster.

  When she sees that she is getting nowhere, Miss McCleethy changes course, speaking to me as gently as a mother soothing an anxious child. “You may try to join hands with them, but chances are, it won’t work. The realms guide who shall become part of the Order. We have no power over that. That is the way it has always been.”

  She attempts to stroke my hair, but I break away.

  “Things change,” I say, taking my leave.

  Abandoning decorum, Miss McCleethy calls after me from her window. “Do not make enemies of us, Miss Doyle. We shall not give up our power so easily.”

  I do not turn back to look at her. Instead, I keep my eyes straight ahead, looking for the entrance to the Underground. A framed advert on the wall extols the virtues of the coming revolution in travel. They have already begun electrifying the tracks in some stations. Soon, all trains shall run on the invisible power of that most modern invention.

  It is indeed a new world.

  Dinner with the Middletons is bittersweet. It is hard to keep my mind upon polite conversation over soup and peas when I’ve so much to do. When it is time for the men and women to retire to separate quarters, Simon spirits me away to the parlor, and no one objects.

  “I shall miss your company,” he says. "Will you write me?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say.

  “Did I tell you Miss Weston made a fool of herself chasing after Mr. Sharpe at a tea dance?”

  I don’t find the story amusing. I only feel sorry for poor Miss Weston. I feel as if I can’t breathe suddenly.

  Simon’s concerned. "Gemma, what is it?”

  “Simon, would you still care
for me if you discovered I was not who I say I am?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean would you still care for me, no matter what you came to know?”

  “What a thing to ponder. I don’t know what to say.”

  The answer is no. He does not need to say it.

  With a sigh, Simon digs at the fire with the iron poker. Bits of the charred log fall away, revealing the angry insides. They flare orange for a moment, then quiet down again. After three tries, he gives up.

  “I’m afraid this fire’s had it.”

  I can see a few embers remaining. "No, I think not. If . . .”

  He sighs, and it says everything.

  “Pay me no mind,” I say, swallowing hard. "I’m tired.”

  “Yes,” he latches onto that excuse. "Still recovering. You’ll put this all behind you soon enough and everything will be like it was.”

  Nothing will be as it was. It is already changed. I am changed.

  The maid knocks. “Begging your pardon, sir. Lady Denby asked for you.”

  “Very good. Miss Doyle—Gemma, will you excuse me? I won’t be long.”

  When I’m alone, I take the poker and strike at the smoldering logs again and again till one catches and a small fire blazes to life. He quit too soon. It only needed a bit more tending. The stillness of the room closes in around me. The carefully grouped furnishings. The portraits looking down with passive eyes. The tall clock measuring the time I have left. Through the open doors, I can see Simon and his family, smiling, content, not a care in the world. Everything is theirs—not for the taking but for the having. They do not know hunger or fear or doubt. They do not have to fight for what they want. It is simply there, waiting, and they walk into it. My heart aches. I would so very much like to wrap myself in the warm blanket of them. But I have seen too much to live in that blanket.

  I leave the pearl brooch on the mantel, grab my coat before the maid can give it to me, and walk out into the cold dusk. Simon will not come after me. He is not the sort. He’ll marry a girl who is not me and who will not find the brooch heavy in the slightest.

  The air is crisp and biting. The lamplighter ambles up the street with his long stick. Behind him the lights burn. Across Park Lane, Hyde Park rolls out, the shroud of winter covering its eventual spring. And beyond that, Buckingham Palace stands, governed by a woman.

  All things are possible.

  Tomorrow I shall be back at Spence, where I belong.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  SPENCE, THAT DOUR, IMPOSING LADY EAST OF LONDON, has grown a friendly face in my absence. I’ve never been so happy to see a place in all my sixteen years. Even the gargoyles have lost their fierceness. They are like wayward pets who haven’t the sense to come in from the roof and so we let them live there, glaring but cheerful.

  The rumors surrounding the night the constable found me in Baker Street have already run rampant through the school. I was kidnapped by pirates. I lay at death’s door. I nearly lost a leg—no, an arm to gangrene! I actually died and was buried only to pull the bell rope with my toe, giving the poor gravedigger a fright when he had to release me from the coffin in the nick of time. It is astonishing the stories girls will concoct to relieve their boredom. Still, it is nice to have everyone offering to do things for me, to have them part when I enter a room. I shan’t lie; I am enjoying my convalescence immensely.

  Felicity has taken it upon herself to give the younger girls archery lessons. They adore her, of course, with her Parisian hair combs and status as one of the older, fashionable girls. I suspect that they would follow her like the Pied Piper of Hamlin no matter how nasty she chose to be. And I suspect that Felicity is aware of this and rather enjoys having a crowd of adorers.

  As I am under strict orders from Grandmama and Mrs. Nightwing to do no exercise until I am well again, I sit under a mound of blankets in a large chair that has been brought out especially for me. It is, I find, the best way to exercise, and I shall try to extend this for as long as possible.

  Out on the great lawn, the targets are in place. Felicity instructs a passel of ten-year-olds in the proper technique, correcting this one’s form, chiding that one for giggling. Admonished, the giggling girl stands straight, closes one eye, and shoots. The arrow bounces along the ground and sticks in a lump of dirt.

  “No, no,” Felicity sighs. “Pay attention. I shall demonstrate proper form again.”

  I open the morning’s post. There is a letter from Grandmama. She doesn’t mention anything of Father until the end. Your father is making progress at the sanitarium and sends his warm regards.

  There is also a small parcel from Simon. I am afraid to open it, but eventually curiosity wins out. Inside is the small black box I returned to him by messenger along with its original note: A place to keep all your secrets. That is all. He has surprised me. Suddenly, I am not at all sure of what I am doing, of whether I have done the right thing by letting him go. There is something so very safe and comforting about Simon. But it’s a bit like the false-bottomed box, that feeling. I know only that something in me senses I might eventually fall through the bottom of his bright affection and find myself trapped there.

  I’ve been so absorbed that I haven’t noticed Mrs. Nightwing behind me. She takes in the sight of the girls with bows and arrows and clucks in disapproval.

  “I am not at all certain about this,” she says.

  “It is nice to have choices,” I say, the box in my hand. I’m trying not to cry.

  “In my day, there were not such choices. Such freedom. There was no one to say, ‘Here is the world before you. You have only to reach for it.’ ”

  At that moment, Felicity’s hand springs open, releasing the arrow. It cleaves the air in two and finds its target directly in the center, a solid bull’s-eye. Felicity cannot contain herself. She shrieks with the joy of victory in a most natural and unladylike fashion, and the girls follow suit.

  Mrs. Nightwing shakes her head and raises her eyes briefly to heaven. "No doubt the fall of civilization is at hand.”

  A faint smile escapes, and just as quickly, she stifles it. For the first time, I notice the lax skin at Mrs. Nightwing’s jaw, the fine down that lies upon her cheek like the imprint of a child’s hand, and I wonder what it must be like watching yourself soften under the years, unable to stop it. What it’s like measuring your days in perfecting girls’ curtsies and drinking nightly glasses of sherry, trying to keep up with the world as it pulls you spinning into the future, knowing you are always one step behind.

  Mrs. Nightwing glances at the box in my hands. She clears her throat. "I understand you’ve decided against Mr. Middleton.”

  I see other rumors have spread as well.

  “Yes,” I say, fighting back the tears. "Everyone thinks me mad. Perhaps I am mad.” I try to laugh, but it comes out a small sob. “Perhaps there is something the matter with me that I cannot be happy with him.”

  I wait for Mrs. Nightwing to confirm that this is the case, that everyone knows it, that I should dry my eyes and stop acting the fool. Instead, her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “It is best to be sure, through and through,” she says, keeping her eyes steadfastly on the girls running and playing on the lawn. "Else you could find yourself one day coming home to an empty house, save for a note: I’ve gone out. You could wait all night for him to return. Nights turn into weeks, to years. It’s horrible, the waiting. You can scarcely bear it. And perhaps years later on holiday in Brighton, you see him, walking along the boardwalk as if out of some dream. No longer lost. Your heartbeat quickens. You must call out to him. Someone else calls first. A pretty young woman with a child. He stops and bends to lift the child into his arms. His child. He gives a furtive kiss to his young wife. He hands her a box of candy, which you know to be Chollier’s chocolates. He and his family stroll on. Something in you falls away. You will never be as you were. What is left to you is the chance to become something new and unsure. But at least the waiting is over.”

>   I’m scarcely breathing. “Yes. Thank you,” I say when I manage to find my voice again.

  Mrs. Nightwing gives my shoulder one small pat before taking her hand away to straighten her skirt, smoothing the waistband of its creases. One of the girls shouts. She’s found an orphaned baby bird that has somehow survived the winter. It cries in her hands as she runs to Mrs. Nightwing with it.

  “Oh, what madness is this?” our headmistress mutters, springing into action.

  “Mrs. Nightwing, please . . . may we keep it?” The young girl’s face is open and earnest. “Please, please!” the girls chirp like the eager little chicks they are.

  “Oh, very well.”

  The girls erupt in cheers. Mrs. Nightwing shouts to be heard. “But I shall not be responsible for it. It is your charge. You keep it. I’ve no doubt I’ll come to regret this decision,” she says with a sniff. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I should like to finish my book, alone, without the presence of a single ringleted girl to disrupt me. If you should come for me at dinner and find me in my chair, gone to the angels at last, you shall know that I died alone, which is to say in a state of utter bliss.”

  Mrs. Nightwing marches down the hill toward the school. At least four girls stop her along the way to ask about this or that. They besiege her. At last, she gives up and, with a gaggle of girls in tow, heads into Spence. She will not read her book until this evening, and somehow I know this is what she wants—to be needed. It is her charge.

  It is her place. She has found it. Or it has found her.

  After dinner, when we have gathered round the fire in the great hall, Mademoiselle LeFarge returns from her day in London with Inspector Kent. She’s beaming. I’ve never seen her so happy.

  “Bonjour, mes filles!” she says, sweeping into the room in her handsome new skirt and blouse. "I’ve news.”

  The girls make a mad dash for her, barely allowing her time to sit by the fire and remove her gloves. When she does, we immediately note the presence of a small diamond on the third finger of her left hand. Mademoiselle LeFarge has news indeed.