by Libba Bray
Kartik pulls the ax from its resting place in the tree stump. His jaw tightens. “What did he want?”
“The magic. I told him I’d given it to the Order, but he didn’t believe me. He threatened trouble, and when Thomas returned home the next evening, he told me he’d been asked to join an exclusive gentlemen’s club. There on his lapel was the pin of the Rakshana.”
“That would not be given idly. He is being courted,” Kartik says.
“I must meet with the Rakshana,” I say. “Can you arrange it?”
“No.” He brings the ax down with new determination.
“They could hurt my brother!”
“He’s his own man.”
“How can you be so hard? You had a brother.”
“Once.” He swings the ax again, and the log is cleaved in two.
“Please…,” I say.
Kartik glances again at the East Wing, then nods toward the laundry house. “Not here. In there.”
I wait inside the laundry. There are no washerwomen today; the old wood-and-stone room is empty. Impatiently, I pace, past the stove where the flatirons are lined up to be heated. I step around the big copper tubs and bang my knuckles against the ribbed washboards lying inside, flit past the hooks holding the possers—those long sticks with flared ends for pushing the clothes about. I give the mangle’s wheel a churn. I know it works wonders on the wet clothes, squeezing every bit of water from them as they pass through its long rollers. How I wish I could pass my sodden thoughts through the machine, releasing the heaviness weighing me down.
At last Kartik comes. He stands so close I can smell the grass and sweat on him. “You don’t know what the Rakshana can do,” he warns.
“All the more reason for me to keep them from Tom!”
“No! You must stay away from Fowlson and the Rakshana. Gemma, look at me.”
When I won’t, Kartik takes my face in his hand and forces me to look him in the eye. “If your brother continues on this foolish path, he must be lost to you. I will not take you to the Rakshana.”
Angry tears threaten. I blink them back. “I have seen Amar. In the realms.”
It’s as if I’ve punched him. “When? Where?” He loosens his hold, and I move a safe distance to the washtub.
“The realms.”
“Tell me everything. I must know!” He advances but I keep the washtub between us.
“First, you help me. Arrange a meeting for me with the Rakshana, and I’ll help you find Amar.”
“That is blackmail.”
“Yes. I’ve learned much from you.”
He bangs the wall with his fist, shaking the washboard hanging there and rattling me as well. His moods are as black as my own at times and his temper just as mercurial.
“I will need some time,” he says evenly. “When I’ve arranged it, I’ll tie my scarf in the ivy beneath your window.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
He does not so much as nod. “Once our business is concluded, I’m leaving. We will not see each other again.”
He pushes through the laundry doors, and soon I hear him hacking the tree into kindling. I wait a few minutes. It is long enough to let his words settle into my belly like molten lead, hardening every part of me.
“Gemma, where have you been?” Elizabeth asks when I come round to the tables.
“A lady need not announce her need for the privy, need she?” I say, deliberately shocking her.
“Oh! Of course not.” And she doesn’t say another word to me, which is fine.
McCleethy was right—I do make a mess of everything. I dip my brush into the garish yellow and paint a big happy sun in the center of her muddy pink sky. If it’s sunny skies they want, then let me oblige them.
Ann sidles up to me. “I’ve just overheard Miss McCleethy and Mr. Miller,” she says, breathless. “Another of the men has gone missing. The inspector’s been called to look into it. What do you suppose has happened to them?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” I grouse. I steal a look at Kartik, who chops at the remains of the tree, obliterating it.
A gust of wind knocks over the purple paint. It splatters across the canvas, marring the scene of the Borderlands castle.
“Bad luck, Gemma,” Ann says. “Now you’ll have to start over.”
In the evening, Inspector Kent pays his visit, and though he makes a fuss over our paintings drying by the fires, we know that this is far from a social call. With three men gone, it must be seen to. He brushes the mud from his boots, having spoken already to Miller’s men and the Gypsies. He makes discreet inquiries among the younger girls, turning it into a sort of game to see if any of them have heard or seen some clue, however small. At last it is our turn, and we are ushered into the small parlor with its cozy furnishings and warm fire. Brigid has brought the inspector a cup of tea.
The inspector’s eyes have always had a merry twinkle in them, but now he’s on official business for the Yard, those eyes seem to look through me and find my sins. I swallow hard and take my seat. The inspector chats merrily with us about our day, the parties we shall attend shortly, Spence’s impending masked ball. It is meant to disarm us, but it seems only to increase my apprehension.
He takes out a small notebook. He wets his thumb and uses it to flip through pages until he has the one he wants. “Ah, here we are. Now. Ladies. Have you heard anything unusual—sounds late at night? Have you noted anything amiss? Anything suspicious?”
“N-n-nothing,” Ann stammers. She bites her cuticle until Felicity takes hold of her hand, no doubt squeezing it tight enough to cut off the flow of blood in her arm.
“We are asleep, Inspector. How could we possibly know what goes on with Mr. Miller’s men?” Felicity says.
The inspector’s pencil hovers over the page. His eyes flick from Ann’s face to the sudden hand-holding. He smiles warmly. “The smallest detail might be the biggest of clues. No need for shyness.”
“Have you any suspects?” I ask.
Inspector Kent holds my gaze for a second longer than is comfortable. “No. But that gives credence to my theory that these men, under the bottle’s spell, wandered away from the camp to sleep it off and then, fearing the foreman’s wrath, decided to leave altogether. Or perhaps it is an effort to bring suspicion on the Gypsies.”
“Perhaps it is the Gypsies,” Felicity adds quickly. I should like to kick her.
“That would be convenient,” the inspector says, stirring milk into his tea. “Too convenient, perhaps, though I did see that one of theirs was missing this evening.”
Kartik. He’s gone already.
“Well, the truth shall come to light. It always does.” Inspector Kent sips his tea. “Aye, that’s what’s right with the world. A good cup of tea.”
When we return to the realms, I’m ill at ease. The trouble with my brother, my visit with Circe, and the fight with Kartik all weigh heavily on me. But the others are merry and ready for a grand party. Felicity takes Pippa’s hands in hers, and they twirl about on the thick carpet of vines. They laugh like the old friends they are. I envy them. Soon, the others join in the dance. Mae and Mercy take Wendy’s hands and lead her about. Even Mr. Darcy hops in his cage as if he should like to take a partner. Only I stand apart. And secretly, I fear it shall always be this way, me alone, belonging to no one, no tribe, always standing just outside the party. I try to push the thought away, but it has already spoken truth to my soul. The sadness of my independence sinks deep into my blood. It rushes through my veins with a fierce, pulsing refrain: You are alone, alone, alone.
Felicity whispers in Pip’s ear. They close their eyes, and Pip calls out, “Gemma! For you!”
There is a tap on my shoulder from behind. I turn to see Kartik dressed in a black cloak, and my heart leaps for a moment. He could be Kartik, but he isn’t. The others laugh at Pip’s little joke. I’m not amused. I put my hand on his shoulder, drawing on my own magic, and he becomes a doddering old pirate with a peg leg.
“That one,” I say, pointing to Pippa. “She desires a dance. Off with you.”
It is a very happy party, everyone laughing, singing, and dancing, so they don’t notice when I slip away and walk to the river, where I find Gorgon returning from her travels.
“Gorgon!” I call, for I’ve missed her more than I realized.
She pulls to the shore and lowers the plank for me, and I climb aboard, happy to see the twisting snakes that flick their tongues at me.
“Most High. You are missing the party, it would seem,” Gorgon says, nodding toward the castle.
“I tired of it.” I stretch out and lie on my back, looking up at the few pricks of light peeking through the clouds. “Have you ever felt as if you were utterly alone in the world?” I ask softly.
Gorgon’s voice is tinged with quiet sadness. “I am the last of my kind.”
High-pitched laughter escapes from the castle as if from another world. Beyond the watery blue-ink sky of the Borderlands, the deep gray clouds of the Winterlands rumble with distant thunder.
“You never did tell me that story,” I remind her.
She takes a heavy breath. “Are you certain you would hear it?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Then sit close and I will tell it.”
I do as she asks, taking a perch right beside her enormous green face.
“This was many generations ago,” she says, briefly closing her eyes. “All feared the Winterlands creatures and the chaos they brought, and so, when the Order’s power began to rise, we welcomed it. The Order brought the tribes together, and for a time, the tribes flourished, the gardens blossomed; in your world men were influenced, history was made. But still the Winterlands creatures rode, drawing more souls to their side. The Order sought to stop the threat by taking greater control.
“There were small concessions at first. Certain freedoms were denied, for our own good, we were told. Our own powers atrophied from lack of use. And the Order grew stronger.”
I interrupt. “I’m confused. I thought the Order was good, that the magic was good.”
“Power changes everything till it is difficult to say who are the heroes and who the villains,” she replies. “And magic itself is neither good nor bad; it is intent that makes it either.”
The castle hums with music and laughter. The light shining from the windows does not quite reach us. Gorgon and I sit in our pool of shadows.
“The discontent festered,” Gorgon continues after a pause. “There was a rebellion, every tribe fighting for its own survival without a care for the others. In the end, the Order won the day, but not without cost. They no longer allowed the tribes to draw magic from the runes. The creatures in your world were stranded there. And my people…” She trails off, her eyes closed tightly as if she is in pain. Long minutes pass with nothing but the music drifting from the castle.
“Your people were lost in the battle,” I say, because I can stand the silence from her no more.
Gorgon’s eyes are downcast. “No,” she says in a voice sadder than I have ever heard. “Some remained.”
“But…where are they? Where did they go?”
Gorgon lowers her great head, and the snakes hang like willow branches. “The Order meant to make an example of me.”
“Yes, I know. And so they imprisoned you in the ship and bound you to only tell truth to them.”
“True. But that was later, as punishment for my sin.”
A weight settles into my stomach, pulling it down. Gorgon has never told me this, and I am not certain I want to know it now.
“I was a great warrior then. A leader of my people. And proud.” She spits the word. “I would not have us living as slaves. We were a warrior race, and death was the honorable choice. Yet my people agreed to the priestesses’ terms of surrender. That was not our code. I was shamed by their choice, and my rage became my righteousness.” Her head lolls back as if her face seeks a sun that is not there.
“What happened?”
Restless in their sleep, the snakes of her hair slither over one another. “While the Order slept, I employed the very charms I had used against so many of my enemies. I enthralled my people, held them in a trance. I turned them to stone, and one by one, they fell to my sword. I killed them all, no quarter given. Not even to the children.
“My crime was discovered. As I was the last of the gorgons, the witches would not execute me. Instead, they bound me to this ship. In the end I lost my freedom, my people, and my hope.”
Gorgon opens her yellow eyes, and I turn my head, afraid to look upon her face now that I know the truth.
“But you’ve changed,” I whisper. “Haven’t you?”
“It is the scorpion’s nature to sting. Just because he has no opportunity doesn’t mean that he cannot.” The snakes wake, crying, and she soothes them to sleep with a gentle rock of her head. “As long as I remain on this ship, I shall be safe. That is my curse and my salvation.”
She turns her yellow eyes toward me, and though I do not mean to, I avert my own.
“I see my tale has changed your opinion of me after all,” she says with a touch of sadness.
“That isn’t true,” I protest, but it sounds false.
“You should return to the party. They are your friends, and it seems merry enough.” She lowers the creaking plank and I scramble over it and into the light dusting of snow at the shore.
“I will not see you for a while, Most High,” Gorgon says.
“Why? Where are you going?”
From the corner of my eye, I see her arching her majestic head toward the sky over the Winterlands. “Far down the river, farther than I have yet gone. If something is at hand, I’ll not be caught unawares. You must guard yourself.”
“Yes, I know. I hold all the magic,” I answer.
“No,” she corrects. “You must guard yourself because we would not lose you.”
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
* * *
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, JUST AFTER BREAKFAST, ANN and I sneak into the laundry.
“I could hardly sleep for thinking about our adventure today,” she says. “This afternoon, I might very well change my fate.”
I’ve spent the better part of the past few days perfecting our plan for today’s jaunt to the theater. Fee has forged a letter from her “cousin” Nan Washbrad asking if we might accompany her to London for the day, and Mrs. Nightwing has allowed it.
“Do you think this will work?” Ann asks, biting her lip.
“That rather depends on you. Are you ready?” I ask.
Ann breaks into an enormous grin. “Absolutely!”
“Right. Let’s begin.”
We work in tandem, the magic flowing between us. I can feel Ann’s excitement, her nerves, her unbridled joy. It makes me feel a bit drunk, and I can’t keep from giggling. When I open my eyes, she’s in flux. She cycles through physical changes like a girl trying on different gowns. At last, she settles into the appearance she sought, and Nan Washbrad is back. She twirls about in her new dress, an indigo satin trimmed in lace at the collar and along the hem. A jeweled pin sits at her throat. Her hair has darkened to the color of ebony. It’s piled high upon her head like a very grand lady’s.
“Oh, how nice to be Nan again. How do I look?” she asks, patting her cheeks, examining her hands, her dress.
“Like someone who should be on the stage,” I answer. “Now, let’s see if we can put your thespian talents to the test.”
Moments later, Nan Washbrad makes her entrance and is shown to the parlor, where Mrs. Nightwing chats amiably with her, not knowing that her fashionable guest is really Ann Bradshaw, poor scholarship student. Felicity and I can barely contain our wicked glee.
“That was marvelous,” Felicity says, giggling, as we wait for our train. “She never suspected. Not once. You’ve fooled Mrs. Nightwing, Ann. If that doesn’t give you confidence for facing Mr. Katz, nothing will.”
“What time is it?” An
n asks for possibly the twentieth time since we left Victoria Station and set off for our appointment.
“It is five minutes later than the last time you asked,” I grouse.
“I can’t be late. Miss Trimble’s letter was quite firm on that point.”
“You shan’t be late, for here we are in the Strand. You see? There is the Gaiety.” Felicity points to the great bowed front of the famous music hall.
A trio of beautiful young ladies exits the theater. In their hats adorned with eye-catching plumes, their long black gloves, and fashionable dresses replete with corsages of flowers, they are impossible to ignore.
“Oh, it’s the Gaiety Girls!” Ann exclaims. “They are the most beautiful chorus girls in the world, aren’t they?”
Indeed, men admire their beauty as they walk, but unlike Mrs. Worthington, they do not seem to live only for that recognition. They have their own work and the money to show for it; when they take to the street, it is as if the world is theirs.
“Someday, people shall say, ‘Why, look, there goes the great Ann Bradshaw! What a marvel she is!’” I tell her.
Ann adjusts and readjusts the pin at her neck. “Only if I am not late to my appointment.”
Address in hand, we travel the Strand in search of our destination. At last we find the unremarkable door, and our knock is met by a lanky young man in trousers and suspenders, no waistcoat, and a bowler hat. He’s got a cigarette clenched between his teeth. He eyes us warily.
“Can I help you?” he asks with an American accent.
“Y-yes, I’ve an appointment with M-Mr. Katz.” Ann produces the letter. The young man reads it over and swings the door open. “Right on time. He’ll like that.” He lowers his voice. “Mr. Katz’ll dock your pay for bein’ late. Charlie Smalls, by the way. Pleasure.”
Charlie Smalls has a gap-toothed grin that makes his narrow face come alive. It’s the sort of smile you can’t help returning, and I’m glad he’s the first to welcome us.