by Libba Bray
“Stop. Please.” The voice is young, male, and vaguely familiar.
A match flares in the darkness. My eyes follow the light as it fills the chamber of a lantern. The light spills out, catches the outline of broad shoulders, a black cloak, before rising to frame a face with large dark eyes fringed in a halo of lashes. I’m not imagining things. He’s really here. I jump up but he’s faster, blocking off all access to the door.
“I’ll scream. I swear I will.” My voice is no more than a scratching sound in the dark.
He’s tensed and ready, for what I don’t know, but it makes my heart hammer against my ribs. “No, you won’t. How will you explain what you’re doing here with me in the middle of the night without proper clothes, Miss Doyle?”
Instinctively, I put my arms around my body, trying to hide the shape of me beneath my thin white gown. He knows me, knows my name. My pulse throbs in my ears. How long would it take for my scream to reach someone? Is there anyone out there to hear me?
I step behind the altar, putting it between us. “Who are you?”
“You don’t need to know who I am.”
“You know my name. Why can’t I know yours?”
He ponders this before answering with a curt reply. “Kartik.”
“Kartik. Is that your real name?”
“I’ve given you a name. That’s enough.”
“What do you want?”
“Just to talk to you.”
Keep thinking, Gemma. Keep him talking. “You’ve been following me. At the train station today. And earlier at vespers.”
He nods. “I stowed away on the Mary Elizabeth in Bombay. Rough passage. I know the English are terribly sentimental about the sea, but I can live without it.” The lantern casts his shadow up and across the wall like a winged thing, hovering. He’s still guarding the door. Neither of us moves.
“Why? Why come all this way?”
“As I told you, I need to talk to you.” He takes a step forward. I shrink back and he stops. “It’s about that day and your mother.”
“What do you know about my mother?” My voice startles a bird hiding in the rafters. Panicked, it flaps to another beam in a flurry of frantic wings.
“I know that she didn’t die of cholera, for one thing.”
I force a deep breath. “If you’re hoping to blackmail my family . . .”
“Nothing of the sort.” Another step forward.
Against the cool marble of the altar, my hands tremble, unsure whether they’ll have to put up a fight. “Go on.”
“You saw it happen, didn’t you?”
“No.” The lie turns my breath shallow and fast.
“You’re lying.”
“N-no . . . I . . .”
Fast as a snake, he’s up on the altar, crouched before me, the lantern inches from my face. He could easily burn me or snap my neck. “For the last time, what did you see?”
My mouth has gone completely dry with the sort of fear that will say anything. “I . . . I saw her killed. I saw them both killed.”
His jaw clenches tight. “Go on.”
There’s a sob riding hard on my ragged breath. I push it down. “I . . . I tried to call out to her, but she couldn’t hear me. And then . . .”
“What?”
The weight in my chest is unbearable, making each word a struggle. “I don’t know. It was as if the shadows started to move . . . I’ve never seen anything like it . . . some hideous creature.” For some reason, it feels good to pour out to a complete stranger what I’ve been holding in from everyone else.
“Your mother took her own life, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” I whisper, astonished that he knows this.
“She was lucky.”
“How dare you—”
“Trust me, she was lucky not to be taken by that thing. As for my brother, he was not so fortunate.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing you can fight.”
“I saw it again. On the carriage ride here. I had another . . . vision.”
He’s alarmed. I can see the fear in him, and now I’m sorry I’ve told him anything. In one move, he’s off the altar and in front of me. “Listen to me well, Miss Doyle. You are not to speak about what you’ve seen to anyone. Do you understand?”
Moonlight pokes through the stained glass in weak slices. “Why not?”
“Because it will put you in danger.”
“What was that thing I saw?”
“It was a warning. And if you don’t want other, terrible things to happen, you will not bring on any more visions.”
The night, the pranks, the fear and exhaustion—they all collide in a sneering laugh I can’t seem to stop. “And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that? It’s not as if I asked for it in the first place.”
“Close your mind to them and they’ll stop soon enough.”
“And if I can’t?”
Without a sound, he reaches out quickly and clamps a hand around the delicate bones of my wrist, squeezing tightly. “You will.” Down the center aisle, a mouse makes a bold run for it, rushing across to the other side of the church, where it’s only a scratching sound again. I’m bending under the pressure on my wrist. He lets go, a satisfied smirk on his face. I pull my arm close and rub at the sting on my skin.
“We’ll be watching you, Miss Doyle.”
There’s a clattering sound at the chapel’s heavy oak doors. I can hear Reverend Waite’s drunken singing as he fumbles to lift the bolt, cursing as it falls back into place with a thud. I don’t know whether to be thankful or terrified that he’ll find me here. In the instant I turned to look, my tormentor has vanished. He’s simply gone. The door is unguarded. I have a way out. And then I see it. The decanter of communion wine sitting full and ready in its cubbyhole.
The wooden bolt slides free. He’s almost in. But tonight Reverend Waite will be denied his wine. It’s cradled in my arm as I bound through the side door and stop at the top of a dark stairwell. What if he’s waiting for me down those shadowy stairs?
Reverend Waite calls out, half-drunk. “Is anyone there?”
I’m down the stairwell and out behind the chapel as if I’ve been shot from a cannon. Not till I’ve stumbled my way down the hill and have the imposing bricks of Spence in sight do I stop for breath. A crow caws, making me jump. I feel eyes on me everywhere.
We’ll be watching you.
What did he mean by that? Who is “we”? And why would anyone want to keep an eye on a girl who wasn’t clever enough to outwit a quartet of boarding school pranksters? What does he know about my mother?
Just keep looking at the school, Gemma. You’ll be all right. I keep my eyes on the rows of windows ahead. They bob up and down with each step. You will not bring on any more visions.
It’s ridiculous. Galling, in fact. As if I have any control over them. As if I could just shut my eyes, like this, right now, and will myself into one. The sound of my breath slows, grows louder. My whole body has gone warm and relaxed, as if I’m floating in the most delicious bath of sweet rose water. At the smell of roses, I snap my eyes open.
The little girl from the alley stands in front of me, shimmering. She beckons me with her hand. “This way.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?”
She doesn’t answer, just darts into a thicket of trees, her brightness leading the way in the night, like a flame under glass.
“Wait,” I say. “Not so fast.”
“We’ve got to hurry.”
She flits ahead on the path. What am I doing? I’ve gone and done the one thing I’ve been asked not to do—bring on more visions. But how could I know that I could do it at will? We’re in a clearing of some kind. There’s a dark mound just before us. I’m terrified that these shadows will come alive and I’ll hear that ghastly voice from the alley, but the little girl doesn’t seem afraid. The mound is hollowed out inside, a sort of makeshift cave. She leads me down into the dank-smelling dar
kness. Her light fills the cave but even so, I can barely make out anything beyond a bit of rock, a spot of shiny moss.
“Behind that rock.” Her hand, incandescent and tiny, points to the near wall of the cave, where a large rock sits just at the base. “She says you’ve got to look behind it.”
“Who is she?”
“Mary, of course.”
“I’ve told you—I don’t know any Mary.” I’m arguing with a vision, a spirit. Next I know, I’ll be calling myself the queen of Romania and wandering down the lane wearing my bed linens for a cape.
“She knows you, miss.”
Mary. It’s only the most common name for a girl in all of England. What if this is all a trick, a way of testing me? He said I was in danger. What if this otherworldly little girl is a malevolent spirit who means to do me harm? What if the bedtime stories used to keep children at heel—tales of ghosts and goblins and witches ready to trick you into giving up your soul—are true? And now I’m trapped here in a dark cave with some sinister force who only seems like a lost urchin?
I swallow hard but the lump in my throat stays. “Suppose I don’t want to look.”
“She says you must, miss. It’s the only way to understand what’s happening to you. To understand the power.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I only know I don’t particularly fancy turning my back on her.
“Why don’t you get it, then?”
She shakes her head. “She says you have to find it yourself. That’s the way of the realms.”
I’m tired and cold and in no mood for a mystery anymore. “Please, I don’t understand. Just tell me what this is all about!”
“You’d best hurry, miss.” Those large brown eyes flit toward the mouth of the cave and back again, and I shudder to think of what she could be afraid of out there in the dark.
Whatever happens, I can’t end up knowing less than I do right now. The rock is solid, but not unmovable. With effort, I push it away. There’s a hole in the cave wall, about an arm’s length deep. My heart is racing as my fingers feel their way inside the cold, hard rock. God only knows what’s crawling around in there, and I have to bite my lip to stifle a scream. I’m in up to my shoulder when I feel something solid. It’s stuck fast, and I have to pull hard to bring it into the light. It’s a leather-bound diary. I open to the first page. A stream of dirt trickles free; the rest I brush away. An envelope has been tucked into the book’s binding. The paper crackles in my fingers as I pull out one of the pages roaming loose inside.
What frightens you?
What makes the hair on your arms rise, your palms sweat, the breath catch in your chest like a wild thing caged?
Is it the dark? A fleeting memory of a bedtime story, ghosts and goblins and witches hiding in the shadows? Is it the way the wind picks up just before a storm, the hint of wet in the air that makes you want to scurry home to the safety of your fire?
Or is it something deeper, something much more frightening, a monster deep inside that you’ve glimpsed only in pieces, the vast unknown of your own soul where secrets gather with a terrible power, the dark inside?
If you will listen, I will tell you a story—one whose ghosts cannot be banished by the comfort of a roaring fire. I will tell you the story of how we found ourselves in a realm where dreams are formed, destiny is chosen, and magic is as real as your handprint in snow. I will tell you how we unlocked the Pandora’s box of ourselves, tasted freedom, stained our souls with blood and choice, and unleashed a horror on the world that destroyed its dearest Order. These pages are a confession of all that has led to this cold, gray dawn. What will be now, I cannot say.
Is your heart beating faster?
Do the clouds seem to be gathering on the horizon?
Does the skin on your neck feel stretched tight, waiting for a kiss you both fear and need?
Will you be scared?
Will you know the truth?
Mary Dowd, April 7, 1871
Is this the Mary who thinks she knows me? I don’t know any Mary Dowd. My head aches and I’m cold out here in just my nightgown.
“Tell Mary to leave me alone. I don’t want this power she’s giving me.”
“She’s not giving you the power, miss. Just showing you the way.”
“Well, I don’t want to follow! Do you understand, Mary Dowd?” I’m shouting at the cave till my voice echoes in my ears. It’s enough to pull me hard from the vision, until I’m alone in the cave, the diary in my hands.
The life of Mary Dowd sits on my bed, taunting me. I could burn it. Take it back and bury it. But my curiosity is too strong for that. Alone in my bed, I light a candle, place it on the windowsill, and read as much as I can in that weak light. I discover that Mary Dowd is sixteen in 1871. She adores walks in the woods, misses her family, wishes her skin were fairer. Her dearest friend in the world is a girl named Sarah Rees-Toome who is the “most charming and virtuous girl in the world.” They are like sisters, never apart. I find myself jealous of a girl I’ve never met. All in all, the first twenty pages of the diary are a thudding bore, and I can’t understand why the little girl wanted me to have it. The threat of sleep makes my eyelids flutter and my head nod, so I place the diary at the back of my closet behind Father’s cricket bat. And then I’m off to sleep, banishing it from my mind.
When I dream, it’s of my mother. She pulls my hair back gently in her hands, her warm fingers weaving through it like sunlight, making me drowsy and content. Her arms hold me close, but I slip out of her embrace into the ruin of an ancient temple. Snakes slither along deep green vines grown heavy over an altar. A storm blows in fast, thick ropes of clouds knotting up the sky. Mother’s face looms, tight with fear. Lightning fast, she takes off her necklace, tosses it to me. It hangs in the air, making slow spirals, till it lands in my hands, the corner of the silvery eye cutting my palm. Blood seeps from the cut. When I look up, Mother is shouting to me over the storm. The howling wind makes it hard to hear. But I catch one word above all the others.
Run.
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN I WAKE, IT’S AN ACTUAL BRIGHT BLUE MORNING with real sun streaming through the window, making windowpane patterns on the floor. Everything outside is golden. No one asking me to steal anything. No young cloaked men issuing cryptic warnings. No strange, glowing little girls standing guard while I rummage about in dark places. It’s as if last night never even happened. I stretch my arms overhead, trying to remember my strange dreams, something about my mother, but it won’t come back to me. The diary’s in the wardrobe, where I intend to let it gather dust. Today, revenge is first in my mind.
“You’re awake,” Ann says. She’s fully dressed, sitting on her tidily made bed, watching me.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Best get dressed if you want a hot breakfast. It’s inedible once it’s cold.” She pauses. Stares. “I cleaned away the mud you tracked in.”
A quick glance down and ah, there it is, my dirty foot sticking out from the stiff white sheet. I quickly cover it up.
“Where did you go?”
I don’t want to have this conversation. It’s sunny out. There’s bacon downstairs. My life is starting over today. I’ve just made it official. “Nowhere, really. I simply couldn’t sleep,” I lie, managing what I think passes for a radiant smile.
Ann watches as I pour water from a flowered pitcher into a bowl and scrub at my mud-caked feet and ankles. I step behind the dressing screen for modesty’s sake and pull the white dress over my head, then sweep a brush through my Medusa curls and secure them in a tight coil at the base of my neck. The hairpin scrapes against my tender scalp on the way in, and I wish I could just wear my hair down as I did when I was a young girl.
There is the problem of the corset. There’s no way that I can tighten the laces at my back by myself. And it would seem that there is no maid to help with our dressing. With a sigh, I turn to Ann.
“Would you mind
terribly?”
She pulls hard on the laces, pushing the air out of my lungs till I think my ribs will break. “A bit looser, please,” I squeak. She obliges, and I’m now only uncomfortable instead of crippled.
“Thank you,” I say when we’re finished.
“You’ve got a smudge on your neck.” I do wish she would stop watching me. In the small hand mirror on my desk, I discover the spot, right below my chin. I lick my finger and wipe it off, hoping this offends Ann enough that she’ll look away before I’m forced to do something really horrible—pick at my scabs, examine a blemish, search for nose hair—in order to gain a little privacy. I give myself one last glance in the mirror. The face staring back at me isn’t beautiful but she isn’t something that would frighten the horses, either. On this morning with the sun warming my cheeks, I’ve never looked more like my mother.
Ann clears her throat. “You really shouldn’t wander around here alone.”
I wasn’t alone. She knows it, but I’m not eager to tell Ann about my humiliation at the hands of the others. She might think it bonds us together as misfits, and I’m an oddity of one, my strangeness too complicated to explain or share.
“Next time I can’t sleep, I’ll wake you,” I say. “Goodness, what happened here?” The inside of Ann’s wrist is a nightmare of thin, red scratches, like crosshatch stitching on a hem. It looks as if they’ve been gouged there by a needle or a pin. Quickly, she pulls her sleeves down past her wrists.
“N-n-nothing,” she says. “It was an a-a-accid-d-ent.”
What sort of accident could leave such a mark? It looks deliberate to me, but I say only, “Oh,” and look away.
Ann walks toward the door. “I hope they have fresh strawberries today. They’re good for the complexion. I read it in The Perils of Lucy.” She stands on the threshold, rocking back and forth on her heels slightly. Her unnerving gaze falters a little. She examines her fingers as she says, “My complexion could use all the help it can get.”