by Libba Bray
The Hajin weigh her words. Some resume their work, pulling their garments across their misshapen legs to hide them.
“It is how it has always been. We will accept the legacy of our ancestors,” Asha says, smiling, and in her smile I do not see warmth or wisdom; I see fear.
“You’re afraid of losing your hold on them,” I say coolly.
“I? I have no power.”
“Don’t you? If you keep them from the magic, they will never know what their lives could be.”
“They will remain protected,” Asha insists.
“No,” I say. “Only untested.”
One of the Hajin stands uncertainly, holding tightly to her skirts. “We should have a voice, Asha. It is time.”
A spark of anger flashes in Asha’s eyes. “We have lived this way always. We shall go on living this way.”
The girl sits, but she does not bow as is customary. In her eyes are the twin gods of doubt and desire. When her skirt falls open, showing her scarred and blistered legs, she does not rush to cover them.
I shake my head. “Change is coming, Asha. Whether you’re ready for it or not.”
My mind is a jumble as I march toward the Borderlands. Who could have murdered Creostus and why? Is Circe telling me the truth? Did Pippa make a bargain with the Winterlands creatures for her magic, and if so, how powerful is she? How will I get Fee to see this? She’ll rightly claim that I’m one to talk, for I’ve been having meetings with a murderess. And still I haven’t deciphered Miss Wyatt’s cryptic messages. Oh, I’m a bloody fool.
No. There’s still a chance to put things right. Eugenia. I’ll find the dagger and save her. I’ll put the realms and the Winterlands to rights, and then…and then? I’ll worry about then another time.
At the turn toward the bramble wall, I note something strange. The fruit of the trees we restored our first day back in the realms has withered to mealy husks. And all the flowers have turned a brittle blue, as if they’ve been strangled upon their stalks. Every last bloom is dead.
I hurry to the bramble wall and tread the path through the blue forest to the castle.
Whoo-oot. The sound is near. Bessie steps out, her stick at the ready.
“Step aside, please, Bessie. I don’t mean you any harm. You know that.”
“You couldn’t do me no ’arm if you wanted,” she says, towering over me.
I shout Pip’s name and Felicity’s and Ann’s, too.
“See? They don’ wan’ you no more,” Bessie snarls.
The castle door swings open and Felicity barrels out, trailed by Ann, Pip, and the others.
“Gemma! What is it?” Felicity calls.
“Bessie wouldn’t let me pass,” I say.
Pippa gives Bessie a playful pout. “Is that true, Bessie?”
“Don’ know where she’s been,” Bessie offers in explanation.
Pippa twirls a marigold in her fingers. “It’s true, Gemma. If you don’t want to be questioned, you shouldn’t run off by yourself.”
“Yes,” I say, my apprehension growing. I fear her now, and I wonder if she can sense it in me. “It’s time to go back to Spence.”
“But I’m not ready to go back,” Felicity complains.
“Then don’t go. Stay here with me,” Pippa says as if proposing a holiday, and Felicity’s face floods with happiness.
“We can’t get back without Gemma,” Ann says bitterly.
“Tomorrow,” Felicity says softly.
“Tomorrow.” Pip gives Fee a gentle kiss on the cheek and strides back to the castle, the factory girls behind her like ladies-in-waiting. No one offers to help Wendy.
Wendy feels her way until she finds purchase in my sleeve. “Miss? Can’t you take me with you?”
“I’m sorry, Wendy. I can’t bring you back into my world,” I say, helping her toward the castle.
“I’m afraid, miss. I don’t like it ’ere. The castle’s so still at night without Mr. Darcy to keep close. When I call, nobody answers—”
“Wendy!” It’s Bessie come back for her. She stands like a warrior, her stick tall at her side. “Come on, then. Miss Pippa’s waitin’.” She lets Wendy stumble toward her and moves out of the way just as the girl closes in. “Missed me!” She laughs, and then she leads the girl roughly toward the castle.
“Where did you disappear to, Gemma? Off to see Circe?” Felicity goads. She trails her fingers along the corridor that leads to our secret door.
“Yes,” I say, because I’m tired of lying.
“You’re a fine one, aren’t you? You don’t trust Pip but you’ll trust that…that thing who murdered your mother!”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I say, pushing through the shimmering light of the secret door to the East Wing.
Felicity pulls me round to face her. “Of course I wouldn’t. For I’m only your friend who cares about you.”
“Would you care about me if I didn’t have magic?” I ask.
“That is like asking ‘Would you like me if I weren’t myself?’ The magic is a part of you, and you are my friend,” she says. Her answer brings tears to my eyes, and I feel awful for the way I treated her earlier, for not trusting her, for what I shall have to tell her about Pip.
“Oh, no!” Ann says suddenly. She pats her shoulders. “My shawl! It must have fallen.”
Without thinking, she puts her hand out, and the world is flooded with light as the door opens for her.
“Ann, how did you do that?” Felicity asks, wide-eyed.
“I don’t know,” she answers. “I just wanted to get in and…there it was.”
“Stand aside,” Felicity orders. This time, Felicity puts her hand to the door, a look of fierce concentration on her face. Again, the portal into the realms opens wide. She grins as if it were Christmas morning. “Do you realize what this means? Gemma isn’t the only way into the realms! Anyone can open that door. We may come and go as we please!”
They hop up and down in their excitement.
“I’ll just get your shawl for you, will I?” I say.
Ann laughs. “I can get it for myself.” She opens the door and comes out with her shawl, happy as can be. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
Go on, Gemma. Say ‘Yes, it’s wonderful that you don’t need me so much.’
“It’s late,” I say. “We should be in.”
I hear them behind me, giggling and giddy. I keep walking toward Spence, hoping they will follow, knowing they might not.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
* * *
THE WHOLE OF THE DAY, I CANNOT REST EASILY IN MY skin. Creostus has been murdered. I am no longer trusted by the forest folk, and I cannot say I blame them for their suspicion of me, for what have I done to earn their trust? I see specters and shadows that aren’t there. Wilhelmina has vanished as in one of her magic tricks. And the magic and the realms are changing: The door will open without my aid now, and Pippa…
Pip. The magic has taken root in her. It’s building. And every time I try to talk myself out of my growing fear of her, I remember Mr. Darcy.
The key holds the truth. I wish I had the key, for my head spins so, and I’m desperately in need of truth.
There is one error I might put to rights. When our tasks are completed at day’s end, I go in search of Cecily. I find her in the library. Brigid has propped her up on a chaise, her ankle resting upon a pillow. She’s in a thoroughly disagreeable mood now she cannot participate in the masked ball—not that I can blame her. And she isn’t happy to see me. When I approach, she lifts her La Mode Illustrée so that I am face to face with an illustration of an elegant woman modeling the most fashionable frock.
“I’ve brought Pride and Prejudice. I thought perhaps I could read to you,” I offer.
Cecily thumbs through the pages of beautiful gowns. “I’ve been doing my own reading for many years now.”
“How is your ankle?” I ask, taking the chair beside the chaise.
“It hurts. I shall not perf
orm my ballet. I shall not even be able to dance. My evening is ruined,” she says, sniffling.
“I thought perhaps you might recite Mr. Yeats’s poem in my stead.”
Cecily’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Well, you are an excellent reader, far better than I and—”
“No, why are you offering? Have you a troubled conscience, Miss Doyle?” Cecily’s glare is quite penetrating, and I realize I have not given her powers of observation sufficient acknowledgment.
“It is a fair offer,” I say.
“Let me see it,” she says after a moment, and I hand over the poem. She begins her recitation at once, and when I leave her, she rehearses with such whispered ferocity from her sickbed that I know she shall be the star of the ball.
Heaven help us.
Ann stops me in the hall. In her hands is a copy of The Era Almanack, which lists adverts for performers of all sorts as well as management companies and theaters.
“Gemma, look.” She shows me an advert for the Gaiety Theatre.
THE MERRY MAIDENS
A new and original musical entertainment to be performed in July.
Composed by Mr. Charles Smalls.
Young ladies of sound form and good voice should make an appointment with Mr. Smalls for Wednesday, the twenty-ninth of April, between the hours of noon and three o’clock.
Some dancing.
“You remember Charlie Smalls, the accompanist? He liked my voice,” she says, and bites her lip. “If I could get in to see him…”
“The twenty-ninth. That’s tomorrow,” I say.
“I know I shouldn’t ask,” she says. “But I promise I shan’t fail this time.”
I nod. “All right. We’ll manage. I don’t know how, but we will.”
Just after supper, Inspector Kent comes to call on Mademoiselle LeFarge. Their wedding is only weeks away. In the great room, the inspector regales us with tales of Scotland Yard’s derring-do. We want to know about Jack the Ripper, but he politely declines to discuss it. All the while, Mademoiselle LeFarge sits near, proud that he will be hers.
“Do tell us another!” we plead.
“Now, I fear I shall haunt your sleep if I tell you this one,” he says, smiling wickedly. That is all it takes for us to fall into desperate pleas for more and fervent promises that we shall not wake in the night crying for help.
Inspector Kent takes a sip of his tea. “This tale concerns a troupe of mummers who seem to have gone missing not too far from these parts.”
“Gracious,” Mademoiselle LeFarge says. “We had a visit from some mummers recently.”
“Against my better judgment,” Mrs. Nightwing grumbles.
“It’s a strange little story. Apparently, these chaps were due to rendezvous with others of their profession in Dorset, but they never showed. Meanwhile, we’ve reports of them spotted in various villages, like phantoms. And in their wake, there have been rumors of missing persons.”
The girls delight in the story, especially when Inspector Kent waggles his eyebrows at them.
But every hair on my neck is at attention. “Were they ghosts?”
Inspector Kent’s booming laugh rings out. The other girls giggle, too, thinking me foolish.
“In my twenty years with the Yard I have seen all manner of skullduggery but never have I seen a ghost. I shall tell you what I think. I believe these mummers, being of dubious station in life, owed money to these chaps in Dorset. That’s why they’ve not showed. And as for reports of missing persons, well, in every village there is someone who needs a means of escape from his present circumstances.”
“What sort of circumstances?” Cecily presses.
“Never you mind about that.” Mademoiselle LeFarge tuts, leaving us to wonder about it all the more.
The inspector chuckles. “With your curiosity, you should all work for me.”
“Ladies cannot become detectives,” Martha says. “They haven’t the constitutions for it.”
“Tommyrot!” the inspector answers, slapping his thigh. “My dear mother reared four boys, and it was woe unto any one of us who tried to fool her. She could have been a chief inspector, such were her talents. Someday there shall be women at Scotland Yard. Mark my words.”
“Oh, Mr. Kent.” Mademoiselle LeFarge chortles. “No more of this or these girls won’t sleep tonight. Let us talk of the wedding, shall we?”
“As you say, Mademoiselle LeFarge, as you say,” he answers.
“I thought perhaps you girls could help us decide which hymns we might sing.” She frowns. “Oh, dear. I’ve forgotten to bring a hymnal from the chapel. And there I was reminding myself all day long.”
“I shall get it,” Inspector Kent says, putting down his teacup.
Mrs. Nightwing stops him. “No. I’ll send Miss Doyle for it. She’s a few days of penance left, by my ledger. It will do her good. Miss Poole, you will accompany her.”
Bloody Nightwing.
Elizabeth follows me out to the lawn. She jumps at every sound. “What was that?” she gasps. A frog hops over her foot and she yelps and grabs hold of my arm.
“It’s only a frog, Elizabeth. You’d think it a dragon the way you’re carrying on,” I grumble.
We’ve gone no more than a few feet when Elizabeth gasps and nearly climbs up me.
“What is it now?” I say, pushing her off.
“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes tearing. “It’s so dark! I hate the dark! I always have. It frightens me.”
“Well, I can’t help you with that,” I grouse, and she starts to cry. “Very well,” I say with a heavy sigh. “Go hide in the kitchen. I’ll fetch the hymnal and come back for you.”
She nods and runs for the safety of the kitchen without so much as a thank-you. I hurry toward the chapel, my lamp leading the way. Night animals are tuning up their orchestra of chirps and croaks. It is not comforting this evening but a reminder that many things live in the dark. The dogs at the Gypsy camp start a chorus of barking that trails off into restless whimpering. It makes my nerves jangle.
Right. I shan’t tarry. The hymnal’s what I’ve come for, and I intend to be quick about it. The chapel’s ancient oak door is heavy. I pull hard and it creaks open a sliver to allow me passage. Inside it’s murky and silent. Anything could be waiting. My heartbeat quickens. I prop open the door with a rock and proceed.
The inky blue of late dusk surges against the stained-glass windows, casting patterns on the floor. My lamp sends shards of light through them. I find no hymnals at the back, so I’m forced to make my way down the center aisle, away from the doors and quick escape. I swing my lamp over the pews from side to side until at last I spy what I’m after in the middle of one. A sudden gust of wind bangs the door shut, and I drop the hymnal and hear it slide under the pew.
Blast.
Heart beating even faster now, I crouch on the floor, feeling for the book until I have it. A voice, hard as fingernails rapping on metal, sounds in the dark.
“Stay….”
I whip around so quickly the flame wobbles in the lamp. “Who’s there?”
The chapel is still, save for the wind that gusts against the now closed door. Hurriedly, I grab the hymnal and scurry up the aisle, breathing hard.
“You must not go….”
I turn myself around in a mad whirl. My lamp casts angry shadows on the walls.
“I know you’re here. Show yourself!”
“The woods be not safe now.”
The windows buckle and shift. The stained-glass images move. They’re alive.
“We would keep you safe, Chosen One….”
The voice comes from the odd window panel, the one of the angel in armor brandishing a bloody sword in one hand and a severed gorgon’s head in the other. At least, I have always taken the icon to be an angel; now, in the deepening dark, I am no longer certain of anything. The angel grows taller inside its glass prison. Its body bows the front of the window, and its face looms like the moon.
�
��They are in the woods….”
“You’re not real,” I say aloud. The gorgon’s head drips blood onto the chapel’s floor. I hear it hit in sickening drops, as steady as rain. Bile rises in my throat. I breathe through my nose, swallowing it in burning gulps.
“If you be sacrificed in the Winterlands, the magic falls to them, and all is lost. Do not leave the chapel!”
It’s too late. Abandoning my lamp and the hymnal, I bolt for the door. I throw my body against it and it flies open. Night’s army has come with a vengeance. I can barely see my way, and I curse myself for leaving the lamp. The dogs have not ceased their barking.
I rush down the path, taking very little care. A tree slaps me in the face and I look round. I gasp for breath. Something is moving in the trees. Two men step out from behind a large fir, and I scream. It takes me a moment to recognize them—Tambley and Johnny, Mr. Miller’s missing men.
“You frightened me to death,” I sputter. My heart thumps as quickly as a rabbit’s.
“Sorry, miss,” Johnny says, his voice calm.
“We didn’t mean no ’arm,” young Tambley adds. There is something odd about them. They seem as inconsequential as dust, two shimmers of men, and when they step forward into a stream of moonlight, I could swear I see their bones glowing beneath their skin.
“You’ve given us all quite a scare,” I say, moving back. “They said you’d gone.”
“Gone?” Johnny repeats without seeming to understand.
The trees shake with the fluttering of birds’ wings. Several crows perch on the branches, watching silently. A grim voice inside speaks its fear to me: Hide, Gemma.
“You should report to Mr. Miller straightaway. He’s worried about you.”
My hand strays out, searching for the trunk of a tree. A sound comes from my right. I slide my eyes toward the sound and there is Johnny. He was before me a second ago. How could he possibly…?
Tambley points a finger at me. His bones seem to shine under the surface of his skin, which is as pallid as a fish at the bottom of a pond.