by Libba Bray
“Gemma, please,” Tom snaps.
“No, Thomas. Is this the life you want for me? To be like you? To wear blinders and talk of nothing that matters and drink weak tea with other people who would do anything to hide the truth, especially from themselves? Well, I won’t do it! And I won’t lie for you anymore.”
Grandmama presses her thumb across the white plain of the folded handkerchief, forcing it to lie down. She is suddenly small and frail. I’m ashamed to have treated her so shabbily and more ashamed that I hate her for her frailty. As I storm from the room, I hear her voice, faint and unsure. “It’s the climate.”
Tom catches me on the stairs and pulls me into the library. Father’s books stare down at us from their shelves. “Gemma, that was unkind.”
My blood has settled and my anger is now tamed by remorse, but I’ll not give Thomas the satisfaction of knowing it. I take a book from Father’s shelves, and perching in a rather uncomfortable wooden chair, I open to its title page. The Inferno by Dante Alighieri.
“Father’s health isn’t the sole reason I sent for you. Your behavior at the ball was…” He trails off. “Frightening.”
You’ve no idea, Tom. I turn the page, feigning passionate interest.
“Since the moment we arrived in England, you’ve been rebellious and difficult. It only takes one infraction, one whiff of scandal, to ruin your reputation and your chances forever.”
Anger surges past the constraints of shame. “My reputation,” I say coolly. “Is that all I am?”
“A woman’s reputation is her worth, Gemma.”
I flip a page hard and it tears slightly. “It’s wrong.”
Tom lifts the stopper from a crystal decanter and pours a splash into a tumbler. “It is the way it is. You may hate me for saying so, but there is the truth. Do you not remember that this is how our mother died? She would still be here and Father would be well and none of this would ever have happened if she had simply lived according to the time-trusted codes of society.”
“Perhaps it proved impossible. Perhaps she could not fit within so tight a corset.”
Perhaps I am the same.
“One does not have to like the rules, Gemma. But one does need to adhere to them. That is what makes civilization. Do you think that I agree with every rule at Bethlem Hospital or with every decision made by my superiors? Do you think I would not rather do as I please?” He takes a sip of the spirits, making a grimace as he swallows. “I had no control over Mother, but I do over you. I won’t allow you to follow the same path.”
“You won’t allow it?” I scoff. “I don’t see that you’ve a say in my life.”
“You’re wrong on that score. With Father ill, it falls to me to be your guardian, and I intend to take my position very seriously indeed.”
A new fear takes root in me. All this time, I’ve been worried about what the Order, the Rakshana, and the creatures of the Winterlands could do to me. I’d forgotten the very real dangers I face here, in my own world.
“You will not be returning to Spence. The Spence Academy for Young Ladies has obviously been a grave mistake. You’ll stay here until your debut.”
“But I’ve friends there….”
Tom turns on me. “Miss Bradshaw, the penniless liar, and Miss Worthington, who is of questionable virtue. A fine lot of friends. You shall meet the right sort of girls here.”
I’m on my feet. “The right sort? I’ve met plenty of them, and I can tell you they are as shallow as your teacup. And as for my friends, you don’t know them, and I’ll thank you not to speak about them.”
“I’ll thank you to lower your voice,” Tom hisses, glancing toward the door.
Yes, wouldn’t want the servants knowing our business. Wouldn’t want them to know I’ve a mind and a mouth to voice it.
“Do you care so little about your own family, then? Do you not care that Miss Bradshaw made a fool of me—and you—by her deceit?”
“Her deceit! You were only interested in her once you heard she had a fortune.”
Tom pours another splash of spirits. “A man in my position has to think of such things.”
“She thought the world of you, and you treated her shabbily! Is it only ladies such as I, those with privilege, who require protecting, Thomas?”
His eyes widen. “And you would take her part against me, your own blood?”
Blood is thicker than water. That’s what they say. But in truth, most things are.
Tom’s narrow shoulders sag. “Believe it or not, Gemma, I do care about your welfare,” he says.
“If you mean that, Thomas, send me back to Spence.”
He swallows his drink. “No. I shall follow Lord Denby’s sound advice, and you shall remain here, where I might watch over you.”
I toss the book aside. “Lord Denby! I knew it! This is the Rakshana’s doing, isn’t it? They mean to control me yet.”
Tom points an accusing finger. “This is exactly the sort of behavior I mean. Listen to yourself—you’re prattling on about things that make no sense at all!”
“Do you deny that you’ve joined the Rakshana? If so, tell me the name of your gentlemen’s club.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything about it. It is a gentlemen’s club, and you are not a gentleman, though I’ve no doubt you’d wear trousers if you could.”
I let his barb pass. “But you wear the Rakshana’s pin!” I point to the skull-and-sword insignia on his lapel.
“Gemma,” Tom growls, “it is a pin! There is nothing malevolent about it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Tom twirls his tumbler and the beveled glass catches the light, sending spectrums of color dancing on the wall. “You may believe me or not, but it is the truth.”
“What is the name of your club, then?”
My brother loses his snide smile. “Now, see here, Gemma. That is my affair.”
It is the Rakshana. I’m certain of it. They mean to keep me a prisoner until I give up the magic, and they’ve recruited my own brother to their purposes.
Tom shoves his fists into his pockets. “You and I, we must carry on, Gemma. I cannot afford the luxury of love. I must marry well. And now I must look after you. It is my duty.”
“How noble,” I snarl.
“Well, there’s a fine thank-you.”
“If you wish to suffer, you do so of your own free will, not on my behalf. Or Father’s or Grandmama’s or anyone’s. You are a fine physician, Thomas. Why is that not enough?”
His jaw tightens. That boyish lock of hair falls into his eyes, shadowing them. “Because it isn’t,” he says with rare candor. “Only this and the hope of nothing more? A quiet respectability with no true greatness or heroism in it, with only my reputation to recommend me. So you see, Gemma, you are not the only one who cannot rule her own life.”
He tilts his head back and drains the last of the spirits. It’s too much and he could do with a hearty cough but he holds it down. No hint of vulnerability will escape him. Not even a cough.
I wander to the window. There’s a carriage waiting outside. It is not our carriage but I recognize it. The black curtains, the funereal aspect. A match is struck and brought to a cigarette. Fowlson.
Tom’s just behind me. “Ah, my driver. I have a rather important engagement this evening, Gemma. I trust you’ll not burn the house down while I am away.”
“Tom,” I say, following him down the stairs to the foyer, “please don’t go to the club tonight. Stay here with me. We could play cards!”
Tom laughs and pulls on his coat. “Cards! How thrilling!”
“Very well. We needn’t play cards. We could…” What? What have my brother and I ever shared other than a few games in childhood? There is precious little that holds us together but the same unhappy history. Tom is waiting for my offer, but I have nothing.
“Right, then. I’m off.”
He grabs his hat, that silly affectation, and checks himself in the mirror by the door. I’ve
nothing left to venture but the truth.
“Tom, I know I shall sound like one of your patients at Bedlam, but please, hear me out. You mustn’t go to that meeting this evening. I believe you are in danger. I know you’ve joined the Rakshana—” Tom tries to object but I hold up my hand. “I know it. Your gentlemen’s club isn’t what you imagine them to be, Tom. They’ve existed for centuries. They’re not to be trusted.”
Tom stands uncertainly for a moment. I can only hope I’ve reached him. He bursts into laughter and applause. “Bravo, Gemma! That is, without a doubt, the most fantastic story you’ve concocted yet. I do believe it is not I but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who is in danger. For your stories may surpass his in intrigue and dastardly deeds!” I grab his arm and he brushes me away. “Have a care with that coat! My tailor is a good man but also a costly one.”
“Tom, please. You must believe me. It isn’t a story. They don’t want you; they want me. I have something they want, something they would do anything to get. And they would employ you to get to me.”
A terrible hurt flickers in Tom’s eyes. “You’re just like Father, aren’t you? Doubting me at every turn. After all, why would anyone want Thomas Doyle, his father’s constant disappointment?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“No, but you thought it all the same.”
“No, you’re wrong—”
“Yes, I’m always wrong. That’s the trouble with me. Well, not tonight. Tonight, I will become a part of something larger than myself. And they asked me, Gemma. They want me. I don’t expect you to be happy for me but at the very least you could allow me to have my happiness.”
“Tom…,” I plead, watching him walk out the door. The maid holds it open, trying to avert her eyes from our argument.
“And for the last time, I don’t know what you mean by all this Rakshana business. I’ve never heard of them.” He wraps his scarf about his neck with flair. “I bid you good night, Gemma. And please, stay away from those books you devour. They are putting the most fantastical tales into your head.”
Tom strides down the walk toward the carriage. Fowlson gives him a hand into it, but his wicked smile is all for me.
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
* * *
FATHER’S ROOM IS LIT ONLY BY THE SMALL LAMP BESIDE HIS bed. His breathing is labored but he is calm. Dr. Hamilton has given him morphine. It is strange how a drug can be both tormentor and comfort.
“Hello, pet,” he calls in a drowsy voice.
“Hello, Father.” I sit by his bedside. He reaches out a hand and I take it.
“Dr. Hamilton was here earlier,” he says.
“Yes, I know.”
“Yes.” He closes his eyes for a moment, then startles awake. “I think…I think I see that tiger. The old fellow’s back.”
“No,” I say quietly, wiping my cheeks. “There’s no tiger, Papa.”
He points to the far wall. “Don’t you see his shadow there?” There’s nothing but the murky outline of my father’s raised arm. “I shot him, you know.”
“No, Papa,” I say. He’s shivering. I pull the linens to his neck, but he pushes them down again in his delirium.
“He was out there, you see? I could not live…with the threat of it. I thought I killed him, but he’s come back. He’s found me.”
I blot his brow with a damp rag. “Shhh.”
His eyes find mine. “I’m dying.”
“No. You only need to rest.” Hot tears burn my cheeks. Why are we compelled to lie? Why is the truth too bright for our souls to bear?
“Rest,” he murmurs, settling into another drugged sleep. “The tiger is coming….”
If I were braver, if I thought the truth would not blind us forever, I would ask him what I have longed to ask since Mother died: Why was his grief more powerful than his love? Why couldn’t he find it within himself to fight back?
Why am I not enough to live for?
“Sleep, Papa,” I say. “Let the tiger go for tonight.”
Alone in my room, I beg Wilhelmina Wyatt to show herself once again.
“Circe has the dagger. I need your help,” I say. “Please.”
But she will not come when called, and so I fall asleep and dream.
Under the shade of a tree, little Mina Wyatt sits drawing the East Wing of Spence. She shades in the side of a gargoyle’s mouth. Sarah Rees-Toome blocks the sun, and Mina frowns. Sarah crouches beside her.
“What do you see when you look into the darkness, Mina?”
Shyly, Mina shows her the pictures she has secreted in her book. Trackers. The dead. The pale things that live in the rocks. And last, the Tree of All Souls.
Sarah traces her fingers lovingly over it. “It’s powerful, isn’t it? That’s why they don’t want us to know about it.”
Mina flicks a glance toward Eugenia Spence and Mrs. Nightwing playing croquet on the lawn. She nods.
“Can you show me the way?” Sarah asks.
Wilhelmina shakes her head.
“Why not?”
It will take you, she scribbles.
Suddenly, I’m in the forest in the Winterlands where the damned hang from barren trees. The vines hold them fast at their necks; their feet dangle. One struggles, and the sharp branches press into her flesh to keep her.
“Help me,” she says in a strangled whisper.
The fog clears and I see her face going gray.
Circe.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY
* * *
FOR TWO IMPOSSIBLY LONG DAYS, I’M TRAPPED IN OUR house in London with no way to get word to Kartik, Ann, or Felicity. I don’t know what is happening in the realms, and I’m sick with worry. But each time I become brave enough to draw on the magic, I remember Circe’s warning that the magic has changed, that we’ve shared it, that it might be joined to something dark and unpredictable. I feel the corners of the room grow threatening with shadows of what I may not be able to control, and I push the power down, far away from me, and crawl, trembling, into my bed.
With no plan of escape in sight, I’ve been resigned to the life of a cosseted young lady of London society as Grandmama and I pay calls. We drink tea that is too weak and never hot enough for my liking. The ladies pass the time with gossip and hearsay. This is what they have in place of freedom—time and gossip. Their lives are small and careful. I do not wish to live this way. I should like to make my mark. To venture opinions that may not be polite or even correct but are mine nonetheless. If I am to be hanged for anything, I should like to feel that I go to the gallows on my own strength.
I spend the evenings reading to Father. His health improves a bit—he is able to sit at his desk with his maps and books—but he will not be well again. It is decided that after my debut, Father will travel to a warmer clime. We all agree that this will restore his vitality. “Hot sun and warm wind—that’s what’s needed,” we say through tight smiles. What we cannot bring ourselves to say seeps into the very bones of the house until it seems to whisper the truth to us in the stillness: He is dying. He is dying. He is dying.
On the third day, I am nearly out of my mind with worry when Grandmama announces that we are to attend a garden party in honor of Lucy Fairchild. I insist that I’m not well and should stay home—for perhaps I can sneak away to Victoria and a train back to Spence whilst she is gone—but Grandmama won’t hear of it, and we arrive at a garden in Mayfair that is blooming with every sort of beauty imaginable.
I spy Lucy sitting alone on a bench under a willow tree. Heart in my mouth, I sit beside her. She ignores me.
“Miss Fairchild, I—I wanted to explain about Simon’s behavior at the ball,” I say.
She has the good breeding to sit very still. She holds her temper as tightly as she does the reins of her horse. “Go on.”
“It might have seemed that Mr. Middleton was too familiar with me that evening, but that was not the case. In truth, when my chaperone was momentarily away, a gentleman whom I di
d not know, and who had had far too much to drink, pressed his suit to the point of being improper.”
Believe me…please believe…
“I was quite frightened, naturally, being all alone,” I lie. “Fortunately, Mr. Middleton saw my dilemma, and as our families are old friends, he took immediate action without thinking of the consequences. That is the sort of man he is. I thought you should know the true circumstances before passing judgment upon him.”
Slowly, her face loses its misery. A shy hope presses her lips into a smile. “He sent the most beautiful flowers round yesterday. And a clever silk box with a hidden compartment.”
“For all your secrets,” I say, suppressing a smile.
Her eyes light up. “That is what Simon said! He told me he’s nothing without me.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you so private a sentiment.”
It stings to hear that and yet I find it does not sting quite as much as it might have. Simon and Lucy are the same sort of people. They like things pleasant and untroubled. I could not abide such an arrangement, but it suits them.
“It was quite all right to do so,” I assure her.
Lucy fiddles with the brooch Simon gave her, the one he once gave to me. “I understand that the two of you were quite…close.”
“I was not the right sort of girl for him,” I say. I am surprised when I realize that it is not a lie. “I daresay that I have never seen him merrier than he is when he’s in your company. I hope you will find every happiness together.”
“If I should forgive him.” Her pride is back.
“Yes. That is solely within your power,” I say, and it is truer than she can know. For I can’t change what has happened. That is the path behind us and there is now only the course ahead.