by Libba Bray
“They’ll come,” she growls, and limps away, the empty pail clattering against her bangles like chimes.
It’s noticeably colder on my return to Spence, and I curse myself for not bringing a wrap. Just one of the many foolish things I’ve done, such as trying to change Kartik’s mind. Something flies close to my head and I yelp.
“Caw! Caw!” it cries, soaring ahead of me. Nothing but a bloody crow. It settles in the rose garden, pecking at the blooms.
“Shoo, shoo!” I flap at it with my skirts and it rises. Then I see a curious thing: A patch of frost has taken out several of the budding roses. They are stillborn on their stalks, half-formed and blue with cold.
“Caw! Caw!”
The crow perches on the East Wing turret, watching me. And then, before my astonished eyes, it flies over the spot that marks the secret entrance to the realms, and disappears.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
* * *
BY THE FOLLOWING EVENING, OUR LAST AT SPENCE BEFORE Easter week, we are desperate to enter the realms again. I don’t try to conjure the door of light on my own anymore; it’s hardly worth the effort when I shall only be disappointed and we’ve another way in that never fails. Once we’re certain our teachers are gone to bed, we run straight for the secret door by the East Wing and then on to the Borderlands. We no longer bother with the garden. It feels like child’s play, somehow, a place where we turned pebbles into butterflies as girls do. Now we fancy the blue twilight of the Borderlands, with its musky flowers and the magnetic pull of the Winterlands. Each time we play, we find ourselves a toehold closer to that imposing wall that separates us from its unknown expanse.
Even the castle has grown less forbidding to us. The wealth of deadly nightshade blooming from its walls gives it color—like a Mayfair parlor covered in the most exotic paper. We burst through the castle’s vine-twisted doors, shouting Pip’s name, and she runs to us, squealing with delight.
“You’re here at last! Ladies! Ladies, our fine party can begin!”
After the magic has joined us in blissful communion, we own the night. The party spills out of the castle into the blue-tinged forest. Laughing, we play hide-and-seek behind the fir trees and the berry bushes, running merrily across the tangled vines that crisscross the frosty ground. Ann begins to sing. Her voice is lovely but here in the realms it achieves a freedom it does not have in our world. She sings without apology, and the song is like wine, loosening our cares.
Bessie and the other factory girls cheer wildly for her—not with the polite, tempered applause of drawing rooms but with the boisterous, joyful whoops of the music hall. Bessie, Mae, and Mercy have clouded themselves in a glamour of gowns, jewels, and fancy shoes. They’ve never owned such finery before, and it does not matter that it is borrowed by magic; they believe, and the believing changes everything. We’ve the right to dream, and that, I suppose, is the magic’s greatest power: the notion that we can pick possibility from the trees like ripe fruit. We are filled with hope. Alive with transformation. We can become.
“Am I a lady, then?” Mae asks, strutting in her new blue silks.
Bessie shoves her affectionately. “The Queen of Bloody Sheba!” She laughs hard and loud.
Mae shoves her back, a bit less gently. “’Oo are you, then? Prince Albert?”
“Oi!” Mercy chides. “Enuf! It’s a happy occasion, ain’t it?”
Felicity and Pip perform a comical waltz, pretending they are a Mr. Deadly Dull and a Miss Ninny Pants. In a ridiculously stuffy voice, Felicity prattles on about fox hunting—“The fox should be grateful to face our guns, for they are the finest guns in all of society trained on his lowly form. How lucky indeed!”—whilst Pippa bats her lashes and says only, “Why, Mr. Deadly Dull, if you say it’s so, it must be so, for I’m sure I have no opinions of my own upon the subject!” It is rather like Punch and Judy come to life and we laugh till tears fall. Yet for all their silliness, they move beautifully. With exquisite grace, they anticipate each other’s steps, sweeping round and round, Pip’s gems winking in the dust.
Pippa prances about, grabbing each of us in turn for a dance. She sings a merry bit of doggerel. “Oh, I’ve a love, a true, true love, who waits upon yon shore…”
This makes Felicity laugh. “Oh, Pip!”
It’s all the encouragement Pippa needs. Still singing, she pulls Fee into yet another dance. “And if my love won’t be my love, then I will live no more…”
Indeed, Pip is charming at the moment; she’s irresistible. I’ve not always liked her. She can annoy and delight in equal measure. But she saved these girls from a terrible fate. She saved them from the Winterlands, and she means to look after them. The old Pip would never have been able to look beyond her own troubles to help someone else, and that must count for something.
When at last we are exhausted, we sprawl on the cool forest floor. The fir trees stand guard. The jagged-leaved bushes offer a handful of tiny hard berries, no bigger than new peas. It smells like cloves and oranges and musk. Felicity lays her head in Pip’s lap and Pip braids her hair into long, loose plaits. Bessie Timmons eyes them miserably. It is hard to be replaced in Pippa’s affections.
Sparkling lights appear on the thick boughs of a fir.
“What’s that?” Mae rushes to the tree and the lights fly away to another tree branch.
We follow them. Upon closer inspection, I see that they are not lights at all, but small fairylike creatures. They flit from branch to branch, and the tree swirls with movement.
“You have magic,” they call. “We can feel it.”
“Yes, what of it?” Felicity says, challenging them.
Two of the tiny creatures land on my palm. Their skin is as green as new grass. It glistens as if dew-kissed. They’ve hair like spun gold; it hangs in waves that tumble down their iridescent backs.
“You’re the one—the one who holds the magic,” they whisper, breaking into ecstatic smiles. “You’re beautiful,” they whisper sweetly. “Gift us with your magic.”
Ann has come up behind me. “Oooh, may I see?” She leans close and one of the fairies spits in her face.
“Go away. You are not our beautiful one. Not our magical one.”
“Stop that at once,” I say.
Ann wipes the spit from her cheek. Her skin glistens where it has been. “I have magic, too.”
“You ought to crush them with it,” Felicity says.
The fairies moan and cling to my thumb and fingers. They stroke their faces against my skin like little pets. I reach out and touch one. Its skin is like a fish’s. It leaves a wake of glittering scales on my fingers.
“What do you want, then?” Felicity demands. She flicks at one with her fingernail and it falls on its backside.
“Beautiful,” the fairy creatures murmur again and again.
I know I’m not beautiful in the way that Pippa is, and I don’t have Felicity’s allure. But their words bathe me in new hope. I want to believe them, and that is enough to keep me listening. The larger fairy steps forward. She moves with a seductive grace, the way I have seen cobras dance for their masters: compliant yet able to strike at a moment’s notice. I should like to hear them tell me that I am beautiful again. That they love me so very well. It is a curious thing: The more they say it, the more I feel a void opening inside me that I am desperate to fill.
The little creatures grab hold of me. “Oh, yes, lovely, lovely, our fair one is. We worship you. We would have some of you for our own, we love you so.”
I put my hand to their heads. Their hair is as soft as corn silk. Eyes closed, body humming, I can feel the magic starting. But they are impatient. Their miniature hands grab greedily for my fingers. The scaly roughness of their skin is a surprise, and for a moment, I lose my concentration.
“No! Foolish mortal!” The voice hurts my ears. When I look down, they are staring at me with longing…and hatred, as if they would kill and eat me given the chance. Instinctively, I pull my hand
back.
They jump for my fingers just out of reach. “Give it back! You were going to gift us!”
“I’ve changed my mind.” I place them on a branch of the tree.
They turn their most brilliant shade of green yet. “We could never hope to be as grand as you, fair one. Love us, as we love you.”
They smile and dance for me, but their words are not as intoxicating this time. I can hear the gritty hiss beneath their declarations.
“You love what I can do for you,” I say, correcting them.
They giggle but there’s no warmth in it. It reminds me of a dying man’s cough. “Your power is nothing compared to that of the Tree of All Souls.”
I turn quickly. “What did you say?”
They sigh in ecstasy. “One touch of it, and you will know true power—all your fears banished, all your desires granted.”
I grab one in my fist. It struggles. Fear distorts its features into a terrible mask.
“Let me go, let me go!”
The other creature hops down and bites my thumb. I bat it away, and it somersaults through the air, grabbing hold of a branch to break its fall.
“I shall let you go in a moment! Stop struggling! I only want to know about this tree.”
“I won’t tell you anything.”
“Squeeze it into juice,” Felicity says, goading me.
The creature’s mouth forms a terrified O. “Please…I’ll tell you all….”
Felicity gives a satisfied smile. “That is how you get what you need.”
I cradle the creature in my palms. “What is the Tree of All Souls?”
The creature relaxes. “A place of very great magic deep within the Winterlands.”
“But I thought the Temple was the only source of magic in the realms.”
The creature’s grin is like a death mask. It hops to a higher branch just out of reach.
“Wait…don’t go,” I call after it.
“If you would know more, you will have to travel to the Winterlands and see for yourself. For how can you rule the realms if you’ve never even seen its stark beauty? How can you rule when you know only half the tale?”
“I know what I need to know about the Winterlands,” I answer, but I’m not convinced. There is truth in the little beast’s words.
“You know only what they have told you. Would you accept it as true without questioning it? Without seeing it for yourself? Have you never thought that they meant to keep you ignorant of its charms?”
“Go away!” Felicity blows hard. With a yelp, the creature falls, bouncing off branches till it lands on a fat leaf with an audible oof.
“You’re a fool, a fool!” it gasps. “In the Winterlands, it shall be decided! You will know what true power is and tremble….”
“What appalling little beasts. I’ll show you how to tremble!” Felicity gives chase. The frightened things fly away through the trees.
“Go away! Leave us be, foolish mortals.”
Little Wendy cowers, covering her ears. “There it is again, the screamin’.”
Mr. Darcy hops wildly in his cage, and Wendy holds fast to it.
“Wendy, you stop that!” Mae scolds. “There ain’t no screamin’.”
“’Ere now, luv, take my hand,” Mercy soothes, wrapping an arm around Wendy.
Far off over the Winterlands, a streak of red floods the gray sky. It burns for a moment, then disappears.
“Did you see it?” Ann asks.
“Let’s get closer.” Bessie runs through the tall reeds and cattails that stretch between the forest and the wall into the Winterlands. The heavy fog seeps into the Borderlands here, coating us in a fine shroud till we are like handprints in wet paint. We stop short of the enormous wall. On the other side of the gates, sharp mountaintops, black as onyx, rise above the fog. Ice and snow cling to them precariously. The sky churns gray, a constant storm. It spreads a tingle through me. It is forbidden; it is temptation.
“Can you feel it?” Mae asks. “Slips under your skin, don’t it?”
Pippa steals in beside me and takes my hand. Felicity wraps an arm around Pip’s waist, and Ann comes to take my other hand.
“Do you suppose there really is such a place of power inside the Winterlands?” Pippa asks.
The Tree of All Souls lives. That was what the mysterious lady wrote upon the slate. But no one has ever mentioned it to me before. I realize, once again, that there is very little I know about this strange world I am to help govern.
“It is so quiet. We’ve seen no Winterlands creatures at all since we’ve returned. What do you suppose is there now?” Ann asks.
Pippa leans her head against mine sweetly. “We should find out for ourselves.”
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
* * *
THE MORNING BRINGS A FOYER FILLED WITH CASES AND trunks, girls going home for Easter week. They stand hugging goodbye as if they shall see each other never again rather than Friday next.
I have come down in my most sensible traveling dress—a brown tweed that will not show the train’s smudges and soot. Ann has donned her drab traveling suit. Felicity, of course, will not be outdone. She wears a beautiful moiré silk dress in the perfect color of blue to complement her eyes. I shall look like a field mouse beside her.
The carriages that will take us to the train station are brought round. Groups of girls are paired with their chaperones. Spirits are high, but the true excitement is happening between Mrs. Nightwing and Mr. Miller.
“One of our men went missing last night,” Mr. Miller says. “Young Tambley.”
“Mr. Miller, how is it that I may keep watch over scores of schoolgirls yet you cannot keep watch over grown men?”
Brigid looks up from the back of a carriage, where she’s instructing the footman on exactly how to secure our cases, much to his annoyance. “Whiskey! Devil whiskey!” she offers with a firm nod.
Mrs. Nightwing gives a sigh. “Brigid, if you please.”
Mr. Miller shakes his head fervently. “It weren’t whiskey, m’um. Tambley was on watch in the woods and up by the old graveyard, where we’d ’eard noises. Now ’e’s gone.” He hisses through gritted teeth. “It’s them Gypsies, I tell ya.”
“And the reason you were behind on the East Wing was the rain, as I recall. There is always some blame, some excuse.” Mrs. Nightwing sniffs. “I’m sure your Mr. Tambley will show up. He is young, as you said, and the young tend to be rebellious.”
“You might be right, m’um, but it ain’t like Tambley not to show.”
“Have faith, Mr. Miller. I’m sure he’ll return.”
Felicity and I embrace Ann. We’re both to go to London, whilst Ann will spend the holiday with her horrid cousins in the country.
“Don’t let those ghastly brats get the better of you,” I tell Ann.
“It will be the longest week of my life,” she says with a sigh.
“Mother will insist on paying calls so that we might ingratiate ourselves,” Felicity says. “I’ll be on display like some hideous china doll.”
I look about, but Miss McCleethy is nowhere to be seen. “Here,” I say, taking their hands. “A bit of courage to see you through.”
Soon we all have magic running under our skin; it brings a glow to our eyes, a flush to our cheeks. A crow flies past and with a loud cry settles on the turret, where one of Miller’s men shoos it away. I’m reminded of the bird I saw the other night that vanished. Or did it? It was late, I tell myself, and dark, and the two make for unreliable impressions. And anyway, with the magic running high, I feel lovely just now, too lovely to worry.
Our carriage clippity-clops down the drive behind the others. I look back at Spence—at the men on the scaffolding mortaring stones into place, Mrs. Nightwing standing like a sentry at the front doors, Brigid helping girls on their way, the thick carpet of grass and the bright yellow of daffodils. The only threat is a band of rain clouds moving in. They puff out their cheeks and blow, sending shrieking
girls after their hats. I laugh. The magic has me in its warm embrace, and I feel that no harm shall come to me. Even the dark clouds pressing against the silent gargoyles can’t catch us.
Without warning, my blood gallops hard inside my veins till it is all I can hear—thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum. Outside, the world’s merry-go-round gathers speed too. Storm clouds slither and stretch, dancing in the sky. I blink, the sound a cannon in my ears. The crow is in flight. Blink. It settles on the gargoyle’s head. Blink. Sharp as a whip, the gargoyle’s head twists round. My breath catches, and in that instant, the gargoyle’s sharp teeth come down. My head feels light. My eyelids flutter, as frantic as the crow’s wings.
“Gemma…” Felicity’s voice carries as if underwater, and then it’s clear as day. “Gemma! What is the matter?”
My blood settles into its normal cadence.
Felicity’s wide-eyed. “Gemma, you fainted!”
“The gargoyle,” I say, trembling. “It came alive.”
The two other girls in the carriage regard me cautiously. The four of us crane our necks out the windows and peer up at the school’s roof. It’s quiet and still, nothing but stone. A fat raindrop hits me squarely in the eye.
“Ow,” I say, sitting back. I wipe the rain from my face. “It seemed so real. Did I really faint?”
Felicity nods. Worry creases her forehead. “Gemma,” she whispers. “The gargoyles are made of stone. Whatever you saw was some hallucination. There’s nothing there, I promise you. Nothing.”
“Nothing,” I echo.
I chance a last look behind us, and it’s an ordinary spring day before Easter, a patch of rain moving in from the east. Did I really see those things or did I only think so? Is this a new trick of the magic? My fingers shake in my lap. Without a word, Felicity places her hands over mine, silencing my fear.