“To work?” Felicity says, as if the idea of a woman with a profession is as fantastical as the Loch Ness monster.
“Not all of us are free to visit the shops of Paris on a moment’s whim, Fee.”
“That would explain your dress,” Felicity grouses.
“Forgive us. We’ve not seen each other in some time,” I say to Sameera in apology.
Sameera’s brows rise. “And you’re friends?”
“We’re very close. Like sisters. But more like the Borgias than the March girls.” Fee gives a coquettish smile. She’s flirting. We’re talking of murder and dangerous magic with a pistol-toting stranger, and Fee is flirting. Ye goddesses.
“Little Women! Why, Fee! You’ve been reading! This is a surprise.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gemma. Someone else read it for me. I hear it’s very sad at the end. I don’t enjoy sadness. It’s pathetic.”
Sameera regards us warily. “Shall I continue? Or is there to be further tiresome arguing?”
I blush. “Please. Do go on.”
“Noor attended Vassar, where she studied antiquities and ancient languages. Education is very important to my family. My father is a professor who wanted his daughters to be as educated as any man.”
“Your father is quite extraordinary,” I say, thinking of how Tom and Grandmama balked at my coming to New York to study.
She nods, pleased. “Yes. My family is quite…was quite wonderful before all of this.”
I know what it is to watch your family fall apart before your eyes. In this matter of the heart, Miss Hassan and I are not such strangers after all.
“Noor was occupied with artifacts discovered in a recent archaeological dig. There were funerary amulets. Scrolls of hieroglyphics. Daggers and ceremonial objects. But she also found some very strange artifacts she’d not encountered before. Artifacts that seemed to be tied to some sort of afterlife or underworld ruled by a powerful tribe of sorceresses who had the gift of traveling back and forth between that world and ours. Women who could possess and wield its phenomenal magic.”
Beside me, Ann gasps.
“Do you need a handkerchief for that sneeze, Miss Bradshaw?” I say with intent.
“No. Thank you,” Ann says, catching my warning. Beside her, Fee’s eyes find mine and look quickly away again.
“Go on,” I say to Sameera.
“This was an extraordinary find, and Noor was consumed with it. She imagined an important exhibition dedicated to these powerful women who had been erased from the historical record. She talked of her work to the exclusion of all else. She began to translate a papyrus of magical rituals and spells. And there was an amulet found. Noor was familiar with amulets, of course—they offer protection, both to the living and the dead. But this was one she’d not seen before. It wasn’t Egyptian. In fact, it seemed to have no known origin and could be found among many cultures—from the ancient Celts to the Mesopotamians. She sent me a drawing in one of her letters. Here.”
Miss Hassan riffles through her purse. If there were a time for me to charge her for the pistol, this would be it. But again, I am the curious cat. She shows us the drawing. The symbol is clearly that of the crescent moon. The paper shakes in my hand and I hope that Sameera doesn’t notice.
“These priestesses called themselves the Order.” She stares into my eyes. I force myself not to break.
“Interesting,” I manage.
At last, Sameera looks out at the ducks floating peacefully upon the reservoir. “Noor gave a small lecture about her findings at the museum in the hopes of raising interest. It seems the museum was not quite as consumed with the importance of these women as Noor. Afterward, she was approached by a woman who was very impressed with Noor’s findings regarding the magical rituals and spells in the papyrus. She wanted to fund Noor’s work. The woman called herself Sekhmet.”
“Sekhmet…,” I repeat, for the name rings a bell.
“Sekhmet was the Egyptian goddess of destruction and war. At first I thought it an irritating affectation, some wealthy American woman fancying herself an Egyptian goddess. You can find bored socialites like that hosting salons and thinking themselves clever.”
“We are not American. We are British,” Fee feels it necessary to explain.
Sameera turns her steely gaze on Felicity. “I hope you weren’t expecting a medal for it. My country is occupied by the British.” She gives a rueful snort. “The British! Always looking for another world to conquer and rule. Another puzzle piece to place into their never-ending empire.”
I think of the realms. Everyone wants to rule that world, including us. It gives me pause, like a tiny bit of grit in my shoe rubbing up a blister. The realms should be self-governed, and yet, as a woman, I can’t help but think that our sex so seldom rules anything. Why should the Order have to give up this power? It is an uneasy question with no answer. I can see that Felicity is about to say something we will all regret.
“And did your sister go to be with this woman, this Sekhmet?” I say quickly.
“Yes. Noor referred to herself as Bastet, saying that she and Sekhmet were two sides of the same person, and that they had grown as close as sisters.” Sameera pauses, the hurt of this evident in her downturned mouth, fighting a cry. Her voice fades to a thin semblance of itself. “But I am Noor’s sister, and I will not stop until I find her.”
“Of course,” I say.
Sameera regains her composure. “In the beginning, Noor sent us two letters a week. She loved her work, but she was homesick for the warm sun, our family. It wasn’t long after she met her new friends that her letters became infrequent—two letters a month. Then only one, which was addressed only to me. It was strange. The writing was all over the page, as if she were doing some sort of calculations. Her own hieroglyphics. I could feel the madness in it. Her fear. She said something about these women and blood sacrifices and conjuring demons. Of reckless magic. She also mentioned A History of Secret Societies by Wilhelmina Wyatt. That was why I sought it at the library when I arrived.”
A man selling popcorn approaches us, tips his hat. He gives us his full introduction, though it should be clear to all that we are engaged in deep conversation and do not wish to be interrupted.
“No, thank you,” I say, and wave him on, and he scowls at us and mutters under his breath.
“After that cryptic letter, there was nothing for ages,” Sameera continues. “My parents wrote to the Metropolitan Museum. They told us that Noor had left months before and taken artifacts with her. My parents were beside themselves with worry and disappointment And then, suddenly, a month ago, a postcard arrived.”
Sameera produces a postcard of Cleopatra’s Needle; from our spot near the reservoir, we can see its sharp stone point. The obelisk’s twin sister lives in London. On the postcard’s other side is a brief note: They have shown me the way. It is beautiful beyond measure. I am with them now until the end.
A cold chill runs through me. It is word for word what the missing Rakshana agent wrote to his brothers. “And this is from her? You’re sure?”
“That is her handwriting,” Sameera says. “I’ve come to retrace her steps. And to find this woman who calls herself Sekhmet. She’s the key.”
“Do you know anything about them?” Ann asks.
“I know that they wear red cloaks.”
I think of the red capes we wore to chapel at Spence. Little Red Riding Hoods, all of us. The world one Big Bad Wolf, ready to eat us down to bones.
“Like yours?” Ann nods at the cloak draped across Sameera’s arm.
“I had this one made in the hopes that I might draw their attention somehow. Noor told me the scarlet capes were a way of recognizing each other.”
“Like a fraternity?” I ask. There are fraternities at Barnard, with names like Chi Omega and Kappa Kappa Gamma. Why aren’t
they called sororities? Juliet often harrumphs when we see the sisterhoods traipsing about campus, singing sentimental songs or organizing poetry readings. The sight of those laughing girls always leaves me with a wistful feeling. I am torn between wanting to be asked to join their number and wanting nothing to do with any of it. I wonder if I will always have a foot in and out of every world, never standing in any one for long.
“The red cloaks are also a reference to the goddess Sekhmet,” Sameera says. “She is known as the Scarlet Woman.”
“I rather like the sound of that,” Felicity jokes. When she doesn’t get the desired response, she turns defensive. “Are you saying that these women, this new Order, are trying to conjure Sekhmet? But she’s a mythical goddess. She doesn’t exist.”
Sameera’s eyes narrow. “Does your Christian god exist? Do you believe there’s a white-bearded man in the sky judging your sins?”
I am reminded of Miss Moore, how often she challenged us.
How often we needed to be challenged in our beliefs.
“Sekhmet is not the point. Not entirely,” Sameera says. “The point is that somewhere in this city there’s a secret society of women cobbling together different belief systems and playing with dangerous magic. They are appealing to forces they don’t understand, forces they can’t begin to control. I don’t know about gods and goddesses, Miss Worthington, but magic is real. Magic exists. Both good and bad.”
“We understand that. More than most,” I say. “Did your sister ever tell you this woman’s real name?”
Sameera shakes her head. Her eyes fill with tears again. “But she sent me this.” From her hat, Sameera removes a beautiful pin, silver filigree with engraved initials: E.S. “And I feel that the letter itself is a clue. Here.” She takes it out again, turns it over. The other side is an advert for a charity ball hosted by a women’s club. “These women have my sister. And I will stop at nothing to get her back. Nothing. But I have heard your name before, Miss Doyle,” she says coolly. “In Noor’s last letter, your name was written along the side. Find Gemma Doyle. And now, it seems, you have found me. I can’t help but wonder why.”
The pistol is raised once more. Before I can say another word, a whistle, shrill and insistent, breaks the peace of the park. People scurry past us toward Cleopatra’s Needle, where a policeman blows for all he’s worth. A crowd is gathering, craning their heads to see, asking questions—What is it? What has happened?—whilst the policeman pleads with them to stand back.
Fee breaks into a devilish grin. “Come on, then,” she says, running toward the others, pistol at her back be damned. But instead of shooting us, Sameera hurries after Felicity, and Ann and I follow suit.
“What is it?” I ask breathlessly of a man nearby.
“It’s a dead man, miss. You shouldn’t look. It’s not for women’s eyes.”
Felicity scoffs. “We’ll be the judge of that.”
People shout and shriek, turn away. Others jockey for the chance to see. Policemen on horseback trot toward the lone officer, who has his arms outstretched, trying to keep order. A man near the front of the crowd breaks away, pale and sweating. “He’s torn open. His heart is missing! Animals! Animals!” The information is repeated, carried through the crowd.
We push through the scrum so that we can see for ourselves. The dead man’s chest has been sliced down the middle, his internal organs ripped out. His mouth is open. So are his eyes. They look up toward the cloudless sky. They are a startling and familiar blue. The dead man is none other than my recent tea date, Edwin Dwight. I turn to say something to the others.
And that’s when I see that Sameera Hassan has vanished.
“I met with him only yesterday,” I say to Ann and Felicity as we leave the park, which has drawn a crowd of onlookers eager to be a part of New York’s latest crime. Could the murderer be here among them? I see no red cloaks.
“We’ve been back together less than a full day, and already things have taken a dreadful turn. I’d hoped we could do something ordinary, like eat cake,” Ann says. She stops me with a hand on my arm. “Gemma. Are we going into the realms again?”
My heartbeat quickens with panic. I can’t. I can’t.
“Funny, once I couldn’t wait to go into the realms. But now…without Pip…now…,” Felicity says out of the blue, a rare moment of doubt. She trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish for me to understand what she means: everything is different. Once, we had a need for that world’s magic. But our lives have moved on and become so busy—mine with school, Fee’s with travel, and Ann’s with both the theater and Charlie Smalls—that we’ve felt less of its pull. We are no longer schoolgirls. We are young women, making our way in a world that seems at best to tolerate us, and then only if we behave according to rules we had no part in making.
All the adrenaline of the past two days and from this latest attack of panic leaves me at once. I feel faint. I stumble, and Felicity and Ann right me.
“This time it isn’t acting. We really do need to see you home,” Ann announces just before she makes Felicity secure us a carriage.
* * *
When I return to the Ashfield, there’s a note from Juliet pinned to my door.
Gemma, where are you? Marian Tortham is wearing the most appalling dress. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. Eight o’clock downstairs?
Fondly, Juliet
Alone in my room once more, I lie down, exhausted and drained. Sleep overtakes me.
In my dream, I stand again at the gate between the Borderlands and the Winterlands. The cold bites at my skin, excites my blood. The beating heart encased in bone thumps louder and louder, till it is like distant war drums getting closer. The gate asks me its age-old question: What is your heart’s desire?
“You know what it is,” I answer, my voice as bitter as the wind coming off that vast, desolate place.
The heart exhales, a small sigh that could be satisfaction or regret—which, I cannot say. I step across the threshold into that forbidden land, running through smoke until I am before the Tree of All Souls. I see through the bark into the tree’s womb. He sleeps within it, curled upon himself, naked. The heart inside the Winterlands gate beats a steady rhythm, gaining speed like war drums. The tree is moving. Its limbs unfurl, pushing out, racing along the ground, reaching for me. I cannot lift my feet. I cannot do anything but stare at him. His head turns toward me. His eyes snap open. They are cold and dark and fathomless.
I jolt awake to Juliet banging on my door. The light outside my window has faded to a purplish gold. Dusk is well under way. Night comes soon. When I open my door, Juliet stands outside with her impish, freckled face and gap-toothed smile. She holds what looks like a hatbox. Her smile fades. “Gemma! Are you ill? You look just awful.”
“Thank you, Juliet.”
“Oh, isn’t that just like me? I’m sorry, pet. I didn’t mean it like that.”
I like Juliet. She’s a cheerful soul from Poughkeepsie. “No one wants to be from Poughkeepsie,” she often says in her flat American accent.
“I’ve had…unexpected visitors,” I say. It isn’t quite a lie. “Friends of the family.”
“Say no more! My brother and his wife were here, and I thought if I had to take one more stroll down Broadway, listening to them prattle on about New York being a modern Sodom and Gomorrah and asking when will I come to my senses and go back home, I’d lose my mind!”
“What’s that?” I ask, nodding at the box.
“Oh. Someone delivered this for you. I brought it up.” She frowns. “But it isn’t your birthday. That was June, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say, pleased that she remembered.
“Well. Whatever it is, it looks fancy. Beautiful red bow. Or, no, what would Professor Lyttles call it if we were painting? Ruby? Crimson?” She snaps her fingers. “Scarlet! Like Hester Prynne’s mark o
f shame!”
“Scarlet…,” I say. Already my fingers are at work untying the ribbon. My pulse beats faster, like the drums of my dream. I lift the top from the box and fall back, a hand to my mouth as my stomach lurches.
“Gemma? Gemma!” Juliet races to my side. “Merciful heavens! What on earth?”
Inside the box, nestled in a bed of silk, is a human heart. There is a note stabbed to it with an initialed hatpin. Gingerly, I remove it and read: Greetings from the Order of the Scarlet Woman. Sekhmet. The hatpin is engraved with initials: E.S.
I turn to Juliet, wild-eyed. “Did you see who left this?”
Juliet nods, frightened. “I might have? Not her face, really, but there was a woman just leaving as I came into the lobby. She wore a red cloak, same color as the ribbon on the box. And she had on a pendant just like the one you wear, Gemma. The funny little moon with the eye—say! Where are you going? Gemma? Gemma!”
I stagger along the hallway of the Ashfield and down the staircase, hoping against hope that the woman who delivered this bloody muscle of a gift is nearby, watching, waiting for me. Still dazed, I race out into the street. A carriage nearly runs me over. The coachman jolts the reins at the last minute. “Watch where you’re going! You wanna get killed?”
My eyes are wide and wild. Where is she? The street is alive with strolling couples. Women in white dresses, brown silk. Businessmen in black bowler hats. Chimney sweeps in gray finishing up a day’s work, ready for the cheer of a good pint. Where. Is. She?
It is not something I see but something I feel, like an invisible thread pulling my attention. Someone is watching me. I sense it. Slowly, I turn my head to the right, where the crowd parts just enough to expose a flash of bright color. There’s a cloaked and hooded figure at the end of the block, standing perfectly still in the storm, facing my direction. And then, quick as a snake, she turns and races around the corner out of sight, trailing a blood-red swish of fabric in her wake.
It was, of course, my aunt’s idea; my mothers never would have suggested it. In fact, when my tía put forth the possibility, my mothers’ exclamations of “No” were as clipped and identical as two branches snapping at once.
A Universe of Wishes Page 7