by Libba Bray
“Miss Doyle?” Mrs. Nightwing calls. “Do you intend to add a dramatic pause? Or have you gone into a catatonic state?”
“N-no. I only forgot my place,” I murmur. Don’t cry, Gemma. For heaven’s sake, not here. “‘Beauty grown sad with its eternity / Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea. / Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, / For God has bid them share an equal fate; / And when at last, defeated in His wars, / They have gone down under the same white stars, / We shall no longer hear the little cry / Of our sad hearts, that may not live or die.’”
There is halfhearted applause as I leave my spot. Head raised, Mrs. Nightwing glares at me through the bottom of her spectacles. “That wants work, Miss Doyle. I had rather hoped for more.”
Everyone seems to hope for more from me. I am a thoroughly disappointing girl all around. I shall wear a scarlet D upon my bosom for all to see so that they will know not to raise their expectations.
“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” I say, and the tears threaten again, for underneath it all, I should like to please her, if it’s possible.
“Yes, well,” Mrs. Nightwing says, softening. “Do practice, will you? Miss Temple, Miss Hawthorne, and Miss Poole, I believe we are ready for your ballet.”
“You shall be proud of us, indeed, Mrs. Nightwing,” Cecily trills. “For we have rehearsed ever so much.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” our headmistress replies.
Blasted Cecily. Always so very superior. Does she ever have bloodstained dreams? Does her sort ever worry about anything at all? Living in her precious cocoon where no trouble may intrude.
Cecily floats across the floor with absolute grace. Her arms arch over her head as if they would shield her from all harm. I cannot help it: I hate her smugness and sureness. I wish I could have what she does, and now I hate myself for that.
Before I can stop it, the magic roars through me. And before I can call it back Cecily slips out of her graceful pirouette. She falls hard, her ankle twisting painfully underneath her as she hits the floor with a loud bang.
Everyone gasps. Cecily’s hands fly to her bleeding mouth and her swelling ankle as if she cannot decide which hurts more. She bursts into tears.
“Good heavens!” Mrs. Nightwing exclaims. Every girl scurries to her side save for me. I stand watching, the magic still weighting my limbs. A tea towel is offered for Cecily’s lip. She sobs while Mrs. Nightwing offers cold comfort by telling her she shouldn’t make such a fuss.
My skin still itches with the magic. I rub my arms as if I could make it go away. I’m overcome with the shouts, the gasps, the confusion, and below that—far below—I hear the raw scratchings of wings. Something glows in the corner, near the draperies. I move closer. It’s the nymph I saw the other night, the one who broke free of the column. She hides inside a fold in the velvet.
“How…how did you get here?” I ask.
“Am I here? Do you see me? Or is it only your mind that says I am here?”
She flits above my head. I make a grab for her but come away with only air.
“Funny. What you did to that mortal.” She giggles. “I like it.”
“It wasn’t amusing,” I say. “It was awful.”
“You made her fall with your magic. You’re very powerful.”
“I didn’t mean to make her fall!”
“Miss Doyle? To whom are you speaking?” Mademoiselle LeFarge asks. I’ve drawn attention away from Cecily. They’re watching me now.
I look back but there’s nothing. Only a drapery. “I…I…”
Across the room, Miss McCleethy looks from me to Cecily and back again, an expression of alarm stealing slowly over her.
“You did it, didn’t you?” Cecily sobs. There is real fear in her eyes. “I don’t know how she did it, Mrs. Nightwing, but she did! She’s a wicked girl!”
“Wicked.” The nymph cackles in my ear.
“You be quiet!” I shout at it.
“Miss Doyle?” Mademoiselle LeFarge says. “Who…”
I do not give an answer, and I do not wait for permission. I run from the room, down the stairs, and out the door, not caring that I shall earn one hundred bad-conduct marks for it and be made to scrub the floors forevermore. I run by the startled workers trying to erase the East Wing’s past with fresh white limestone. I run till I reach the lake, where I fall into the grass. I lie curled on my side, gasping for breath, and watch the lake through long blades of grass that welcome my tears.
A shy brown mare saunters out from the cover of the trees. She puts her nose to the water but does not drink. She wanders closer and we watch each other warily, two lost things.
When she nears me, I see that it’s Freya. There’s a saddle on her strong back, and I wonder, if she was to be ridden, where is the rider?
“Hello, you,” I say. She snorts and lowers her head, restless. I stroke her nose and she allows it. “Come on,” I say, grabbing hold of her reins. “Let’s take you back home.”
The Gypsies are not usually happy to see me, but today, they blanch at my approach. The women put their hands to their mouths as if they would stop what words might leap out. One of them calls for Kartik.
“Freya, you naughty girl! We were worried about you,” he says, putting his head to the horse’s nose.
“I found her down by the lake,” I say coolly.
Kartik strokes Freya’s nose. “Where have you been, Freya? Where’s Ithal? Did you see him, Miss Doyle?”
“No,” I say. “She was alone. Lost.” A kindred spirit.
Kartik nods gravely. He takes Freya to her post and brings her oats, which she gobbles up. “Ithal went riding last night and did not return.”
Mother Elena speaks to the others in their language. The Gypsy men shift uncomfortably. A small cry goes up among the women.
“What are they saying?” I whisper to Kartik.
“They say he might be a spirit now. Mother Elena insists they must burn everything of his so that he will not come back to haunt them.”
“And do you think he’s dead?” I ask.
Kartik shrugs. “Miller’s men said they’d get their justice. We will search for him. But if he doesn’t return, the Gypsies will burn every trace of him.”
“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I say, and head for the lake again.
Kartik follows me. “I tied the bandana into the ivy three days ago. I waited for you.”
“I’m not coming,” I say.
“Will you punish me forever?”
I stop, face him.
“I need to talk to you,” he says. There are dark circles under his eyes. “I’m having the dreams again. I’m in a desolate place. There’s a tree, tall as ten men, frightening and majestic. I see Amar and a great army of the dead. I’m fighting them as if my very soul depended upon it.”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear any more,” I say, because I’m tired. I’m half sick of shadows, I think, remembering the poem Miss Moore taught us so many months ago, “The Lady of Shalott.”
“You’re there,” he says quietly.
“I am?”
He nods. “You’re right beside me. We’re fighting together.”
“I’m beside you?” I repeat.
“Yes,” he says.
The sun catches his face in such a way that I can see the tiny golden flecks in his eyes. He’s so earnest, and for a second, I should like to lay down my arms and kiss him.
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about,” I say, turning from him. “For that is most assuredly a dream.”
To say that Mrs. Nightwing is displeased with me is to say that Marie Antoinette received a small neck scratch. Our headmistress allots me thirty conduct marks, and in penance, I am to do her bidding for a week. She begins by having me tidy up the library, which is not the torture she imagines, for any time spent in the company of books cheers my soul. That is, when my soul can be cheered.
McCleethy enters my room without knocking and settles herself in the only chair. “You didn�
�t come to dinner,” she says.
“I’m not well.” I pull the blanket to my chin as if that might shield me from her prying.
“Whom were you talking to in the ballroom?”
“No one,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “I was rehearsing.”
“You said you didn’t mean to make her fall.”
She waits for me to answer. I lie upon my back and stare at a spot on the ceiling where the paint peels.
“Miss Temple’s ankle is injured. She will not perform her ballet. It’s a pity. She was quite good. Miss Doyle, you might do me the courtesy of looking at me when I am speaking to you.”
I lie on my side and look straight through her as if she were made of glass.
“You can stop pretending, Gemma. I know you have the magic still. Did you cause her fall? I am not here to punish you. But I must know the truth.”
Again I am sorely tempted to tell her everything. It might be a relief. But I know McCleethy. She lures. She entices. She says she wants the truth when what she really wants is to be proven right, to tell me where I am wrong. And I can’t trust her. I can’t trust anyone. I’ll not fail Eugenia.
I turn back to my fascination with the tear in the ceiling. I want to pick at the wound in the plaster. Rip it down to the boards and start over. Paint it another color. Make it a different ceiling entirely.
“She fell,” I say, my voice hollow.
McCleethy’s dark gaze is upon me, weighing, judging. “An accident, then?”
I swallow hard. “An accident.”
I close my eyes and feign sleep. And after what seems an impossibly long time, I hear the scrape of the chair against the floor, signaling Miss McCleethy’s departure. Her footsteps are heavy with disappointment.
I do sleep. It is fretful, with dreams of running over both black sand and fresh grass. No matter where I run, what I want is just out of reach. I wake to Felicity’s and Ann’s faces hovering mere inches from mine. It gives me a start.
“It’s time for the realms,” Felicity says. Anticipation burns in her eyes. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it, Ann?”
“Feels as if it has,” Ann agrees.
“Very well. Give me a moment.”
“What were you dreaming about?” Ann asks.
“I don’t recall. Why?”
“You’re crying,” she says.
I put my fingers to my damp cheeks.
Felicity throws my cloak to me. “If we don’t leave soon, I shall lose my mind.”
I secure my cloak and place my finger and my tears deep into my pocket, where it’s as if they do not exist at all.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
* * *
THE MOMENT WE STEP INTO THE BORDERLANDS, IT FEELS different. Everything seems to have fallen into disarray. The vines are ankle-deep. Crows have settled into the highest parts of the fir trees like inkblots. As we travel to the castle, they follow us, hopping from branch to branch.
“It’s as if they’re watching us,” Ann whispers.
The factory girls do not greet us with their familiar cry.
“Where are they? Where’s Pip?” Felicity says, quickening her steps.
The castle is deserted. And just like the grounds outside, it is overgrown and ill tended. The flowers have gone brittle, and worms slither along their purple husks. I step in a mealy patch and pull up my boot in disgust.
We wander through the vine-covered rooms, calling the girls’ names, but no one responds. I hear a faint rustling from behind a tapestry. I pull it aside, and there’s Wendy, her face dirty and tear-streaked. Her fingers are blue.
“Wendy? What has happened? Why are you hiding?”
“It’s that screamin’, miss.” She sniffles. “Used to be a lit’le. I ’ear it all the time these days.”
Felicity checks behind the other tapestries in the room on the chance it’s all a game of hide-and-seek. “Allee-allee-all free! Pip? Pippa Cross!” She drops into the throne with a pout. “Where is everyone?”
“It’s as if they’ve vanished.” Ann opens a door but there’s nothing but vines inside.
Wendy shivers. “Sometimes I wake up and it feels like I’m the only soul ’ere.”
She flutters her blue-stained fingers to a basket of the berries Pip has gathered, the berries that have cursed our friend to her existence here. I note the blue stains on her mouth as well.
“Wendy, have you been eating the berries?” I ask.
Her face shows fear. “It’s all there was, miss, and I was so hungry.”
“Don’t fret,” I say, because there is nothing else that can be done.
“I’m going to the tower for a lookout,” Fee says, and I hear her feet making quick work of those crumbling stairs.
“I’m afraid, miss,” Wendy says, fresh tears falling.
“Now, now.” I pat her shoulder. “We’re here. It will be all right. And what of Mr. Darcy? Where is your twitchy friend?”
Wendy’s lips quiver. “Bessie said ’e gnawed through his cage and got out. Been callin’ for ’im but ’e won’t come.”
“Don’t cry. Let’s see if we can scare him up. Mr. Darcy,” I call. “You’ve been a very naughty bunny.”
I search anywhere a mischievous rabbit might hide—in the berry baskets, under the moldy carpets, behind doors. I spy the cage sitting upon the altar in the chapel. There’s no sign of the twigs having been nibbled through; they’re right as rain. But the cage door is open.
“Looking for your friends?” The fairy glows brightly in the gloom of a corner. “Perhaps they have gone back to the Winterlands.”
Felicity bounds into the room at precisely that moment. “Pippa wouldn’t go without me.”
“Do you know for certain?” the winged thing asks.
“Yes, I do,” Fee says, but her face darkens, and she glances quickly toward the Winterlands.
“Someone comes,” the fairy says. Quick as a snap, she flits out of the castle. Felicity, Ann, and I chase after her into the forest. On the other side of the bramble wall, a cloud of dust moves toward us. It is the centaurs riding fast. They pull up short, not daring to cross into the Borderlands.
One of the centaurs shouts to me through the thorns. “Philon has called for you, Priestess.”
“Why? What has happened?”
“It’s Creostus. He’s been murdered.”
Beneath the olive trees in the grotto where the Runes of the Order once stood, Creostus’s body lies sprawled, his arms stretched out on either side. His eyes are open but unseeing. In one hand he clutches a perfect poppy. It mirrors the bloody wound in his chest. Creostus and I were not friends—his temper was far too great—but he was so very alive. It is hard to see him dead.
“What do you know of this, Priestess?” Philon asks.
I can scarcely look away from Creostus’s blank eyes. “I knew nothing of it until a few moments ago.”
“Liar.” Neela hops onto a rock. “You know who is responsible.” She transforms herself into Asha—the orange sari, the blistered legs, the dark eyes.
“You think it is the Hajin,” I say.
“You know it is! Creostus had ridden to bargain for poppies. The foul tribe had cheated him of a full bushel. Now we find him here with a poppy in his hand. Who else could be responsible? The filthy Hajin, helped by the Order!”
Neela’s voice chokes with emotion. She strokes Creostus’s face lovingly. Crying, she lowers herself to his chest, stretching out across his lifeless form.
Gorgon speaks from the river. “The Order can be hard, but they have never killed. And you forget that they have no entry into the realms at present. They have no power here.”
Neela glares at me. “And yet I saw the priestess on her way to the Temple, alone.”
“Neela speaks the truth, for we were with her. We saw the priestess, too,” a centaur adds.
“You’re lying!” Felicity shouts, coming to my defense, but my cheeks redden, and it does not go unnoticed by Philon.
&
nbsp; “Is this true, Priestess?”
I’m done for. If I tell them what I know, they will accuse me of disloyalty. If I lie and they discover it for themselves later, it will be much worse.
“I did go to the Temple alone,” I say. “But it was not to see the Hajin. I saw another. Circe.”
“Gemma…,” Ann whispers.
Philon’s eyes widen. “The deceiver? She is dead. Killed by your hand.”
“No,” I say. “She is still alive. Imprisoned in the well of eternity. I needed to see her, to ask her about the Winterlands and—”
A ripple moves through the crowd. They press closer. Felicity stares at me in horror.
Neela is up, her voice slicked with fury, her mouth twisted in a deranged smile. “I told you, Philon! I told you she could not be trusted! That she would betray us as the others did. But you would not listen. And now, now Creostus is dead. He is dead….” She buries her face in her hands.
“So this one of the Order is housed in the Temple. With the Hajin,” Philon says.
“No. That’s not quite how it is. And she isn’t of the Order. They would have nothing to do with her—”
“But you would?” a centaur growls.
Neela addresses the crowd. There are no tears in her eyes. “Would you take the word of one who has lied? You see that even her own friends did not know of her deception. The Order priestess and the deceiver have conspired with the Hajin to take the power! Perhaps Creostus knew too much, and this is why he was murdered! Philon! Will you not demand justice?”
The centaurs, the forest folk, the Gorgon—all turn their faces toward Philon, who closes those catlike eyes and breathes deeply. When the eyes open again, there is something hard and determined in them, and I am afraid.
“I have given you the benefit of the doubt, Priestess. I have defended you to my people. And in return, you have given us nothing. Now I will side with my people, and we will do whatever is necessary to protect ourselves. Nyim nyatt e volaret.”
The centaurs lift their fallen brother above their heads, then carry his dead body on their shoulders.