Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  There’s no way around it. I force down a few mouthfuls of the chalky liquid. It tastes strangely sweet.

  “Peppermint,” Miss McCleethy announces, as if reading my mind. “It aids sleep. I’ll take the glass back to Brigid. I don’t think she much likes me, do you?”

  “I am sure you are mistaken,” I say, because it is the polite response.

  “She looks at me as if I am the devil himself. Do you think I am the devil, Miss Doyle?”

  “No,” I croak. "Of course not.”

  “I am glad we have decided to be friends. Sleep well, Miss Doyle. No more reading aloud tonight.”

  My body feels warm and heavy. Is it the warm milk? The peppermint? Or has Miss McCleethy poisoned me? Don’t be ridiculous, Gemma.

  I open both windows, letting in the freezing air. Must stay awake. I move about the room in large paces. I bend at the waist and touch my toes. At last, I sit on the bed, singing Christmas carols to myself. It’s to no avail. My song trails off, and I slide into twilight dreaming.

  The crescent moon glows in my hand. My hand becomes a lotus blossom on a trail. Thick green vines push through cracks, their tiny buds blooming into magnificent roses. I see my face staring back at me, reflected in a wall of water. I push my hand through the wall until I’m falling through it entirely.

  I fall deeper and am swallowed by the black cloak of dreamless sleep.

  I do not know what time it is when I am startled awake by something. I listen for it, but there is nothing. The milk has left a thin coating on my tongue. It seems to grow in my mouth. Much as I wish I didn’t, I have to go downstairs for a drink.

  With a heavy sigh, I push back the blanket and light a candle, cupping the flame with my hand as I travel the darkened hall, which seems a mile long. I’m the only soul who remains on this floor. The thought lends quickness to my steps.

  When I’m near the stairs, the flame sputters and dies. No! I shall have to go back to light it. A sudden dizziness overtakes me. My knees buckle, and I manage to grip the top of the banister to steady myself. In the darkness, there’s a faint, sharp scratching sound, like chalk pulled too hard across a slate.

  I am no longer alone. There’s someone here with me.

  I barely manage a whisper. "Hello? Brigid? Is that you?”

  The scraping sound moves closer. In my hand, the candle flares to life, filling the hall with a tight sphere of light. There they are, shimmering about the edges. Not quite real, yet more solid than the vision I saw in the snow. Three girls, all in white. The pointed toes of their boots scrape against the wooden floor with the most awful sound as they float closer and closer. They move their mouths to speak. I cannot hear them. Their eyes are sad, and there are great dark circles beneath them.

  Don’t scream, Gemma. It’s only a vision. It can’t hurt you. Can it?

  They are so close I have to turn my head and close my eyes. I am near to vomiting with fright and the smell. What is it? The sea and something else. Decay.

  There is that sound again, like the scratching of thousands of insect wings. They’re speaking so softly it takes me a moment to make out the message, but when I do, it chills me to the bone.

  “Help us.”

  I don’t want to open my eyes, but I do. They are so close, these flickering bright things. One reaches out a hand. Please. Please don’t touch me. I’m going to scream. I’m going to scream. I’m going to . . .

  Her hand’s like ice on my shoulder, but there is no time to scream because my body goes rigid as I’m pulled under. Images flood my mind. Three girls hop along craggy cliffs. The sea splashes up and over, leaving thin strands of foam across their feet. The clouds are darkening. A storm. A storm is coming. Wait, there’s a fourth girl. She lags behind. Someone calls to them. A woman comes. She wears a green cloak.

  The girls’ syrupy voices slip into my ear. "Look . . .”

  The woman takes the hand of the fourth girl. And then comes the terror from the sea. The sky darkening. The girls screaming.

  We’re back in the incandescent hall. The girls fade, pulling back into the darkness. “She lies . . . ,” the girls whisper. “Don’t trust her. . . .” And then they are gone. The pain disappears. I’m on my knees on the cold, hard floor, alone. The candle hisses suddenly, spitting out a wayward spark.

  That’s all it takes. I’m up and scurrying, pell-mell, like a frightened mouse, and I don’t stop running until I’m back in my room with the door shut tight—though what I think I’m shutting out, I cannot say. I put on all the lamps in the room. When the room is bright, I feel a bit better. What sort of vision was that? Why have they become so much stronger? Is it because the magic is loose? Does that somehow make it bolder? I felt her hand on my shoulder. . . .

  Stop it, Gemma. Stop frightening yourself.

  Who are these girls and what do they want with me? What did they mean, “Don’t trust her”? It doesn’t help that the school is so empty, or that tomorrow I shall be in London with my family, and who knows what real horrors await me there.

  I’ve no answers to any of it. And I’m afraid of sleep. By the time the first light presses its nose against my windowpanes, I am already dressed, my trunk is packed, and I am ready to see London if I have to drive the horses there myself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TOM IS LATE, AS USUAL.

  I’ve arrived at Victoria Station on the twelve o’clock train from Spence as expected, but my brother is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he’s been in a horrible accident and lies dying on the street, begging with his last breath that one of the crying bystanders rush to the train station to rescue his most innocent and virtuous sister. It is the only charitable explanation I can muster. Most probably, he is at his club, sharing laughs and cards with his friends, and has forgotten all about me.

  “My dear, are you sure your brother is coming for you?” It is Beatrice, one of the seventy-year-old spinster sisters who sat beside me on the train, talking incessantly of rheumatism and the joys of cabbage roses till I thought I should go mad. Unlike my brother, they are concerned for my welfare.

  “Oh, yes. Quite sure, thank you. Please don’t worry on my account.”

  “Oh, dear, Millicent, I don’t believe we can leave her here alone, do you?”

  “No, quite right, Beatrice. She must come with us. We shall send word to her family.”

  That decides it. I am going to murder Tom.

  “There he is!” I say, looking off into the distance, where my brother is not.

  “Where?” the sisters ask.

  “I see him just over there. I must have been looking in the wrong direction. It was lovely to meet you. I hope we shall meet again,” I say, offering my hand and sending them on their way. I march off purposefully and hide behind the ticket booth. When all is clear, I take a seat on a bench far down the platform.

  Where could he be?

  Another train whooshes into the station and unloads its passengers. They are embraced by smiling relations. Packages are handed over; flowers are given. Tom is a half hour late. Father shall hear about this.

  A man in a fine black suit comes to sit next to me. What must he think of me sitting here by myself? An angry scar mars the left side of his face, stretching from above his ear to the corner of his mouth. His suit is expertly tailored. I spy his lapel pin and my mouth goes dry, for I know what it is. It is the sword and skull of the Rakshana. Is it coincidence that he has sat beside me? Or has he come with a purpose? He gives me a slight smile. Quietly, I rise and walk away. When I’ve gone halfway down the platform, I turn back. He’s left the bench as well. His newspaper tucked beneath his arm, he follows me. Where is Tom? I stop at a flower seller, pretending to inspect the blooms and buds there. The man comes as well. He selects a red carnation for his buttonhole, tips his hat in thanks, and drops a coin in the vendor’s hand without so much as a word.

  Fear makes my legs weak as a newborn kitten’s.

  What if he tries to take me? What if something has gone wrong wit
h Kartik? What if Pippa is right and these men cannot be trusted at all?

  I can feel the man in the black suit closing in. If I were to scream, who would hear me above the hiss and snarl of the trains? Who might help me?

  I spy a young man standing alone, waiting.

  “There you are!” I say, striding quickly toward him. He looks about to see whom I’m addressing. "You’re late, you know.”

  “I’m . . . late? I’m terribly sorry, but have we . . .”

  I lean in, whispering urgently. “Please help me. That man is following me.”

  He looks confused. "What man?”

  “That man.” I look behind me, but he is gone. There is no one. “There was a man in a black suit. He had a hideous scar on his left cheek. He sat beside me on the bench, and then he followed me to the flower seller.” I’m aware that I sound slightly mad.

  “Perhaps he wanted a flower for his lapel,” the young man says.

  “But he followed me over here.”

  “We are near the way out.” He points to the doors that lead to the street.

  “Oh. So we are,” I say. I am such a fool. “I’m terribly sorry. I am jumping at shadows, it seems. My brother was to meet my train. He is late, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I shall stay and keep you company until he arrives.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly . . .”

  “You could be of help to me, actually,” he says.

  “What sort of help could I give?” I ask warily.

  From his coat pocket, he pulls out a beautiful velvet box the size of a cracker tin. “I need a lady’s opinion about a gift. Will you help me?”

  “Of course,” I say, relieved.

  He places the box on his open palm and lifts the top. There is nothing inside.

  “But it is empty,” I say.

  “So it seems. Watch.” He pulls at what appeared to be the floor of the box. It comes up to reveal a secret compartment, and inside this hidden space sits a beautiful cameo.

  “It’s lovely,” I say. "And the box is very clever.”

  “So you approve?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be pleased,” I say. I blush instantly.

  “It’s for my mother,” the young man explains. “I’ve come to meet her train.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  We stand uncertainly. I don’t know what to say or do. Should I continue to stand here like an idiot or should I salvage what’s left of my pride, bid him good day, and find a place where I can hide until my brother comes for me?

  I open my mouth to say goodbye just as he extends a hand.

  “I am Simon Middleton. Oh, I’m terribly sorry. What were you about to say?”

  “Oh, I, I was only . . . How do you do?”

  We shake hands.

  “Very well, thank you. How do you do, Miss . . . ?”

  “Oh, dear. Yes, I am—”

  “Gemma!” My name rings out. Tom has arrived at last. He rushes over, hat in hand, that annoying lock of hair flopping into his eyes. "I thought you said Paddington Station.”

  “No, Thomas,” I say, forcing a smile for politeness’ sake. “I distinctly said Victoria.”

  “You’re mistaken. You said Paddington!”

  “Mr. Middleton, may I present my brother, Mr. Thomas Doyle. Mr. Middleton has been kind enough to wait with me, Thomas,” I say pointedly.

  Tom’s face pales. If he’s feeling ashamed, then I am glad for it.

  Simon smiles broadly. It makes his eyes dance. “Good to see you, Doyle, old boy.”

  “Master Middleton,” Thomas says, offering his hand. “How fare the Viscount and Lady Denby?”

  “My mother and father are well, thank you.”

  Simon Middleton is a viscount’s son? How could someone as kind and charming and titled as Mr. Middleton be on familiar terms with my disagreeable brother?

  “You are acquainted with each other?” I ask.

  “We were together at Eton,” Simon says. That would make Simon—the Honorable Simon Middleton—my brother’s age, nineteen. Now that I’m past my shock, I see that Simon is also handsome, with brown hair and blue eyes. “I’d no idea you’d such a charming sister.”

  “Nor did I,” Tom says. I take his arm, but only so that I can pinch the inside of it without being seen by Simon. When Tom gasps, I feel better and stop pinching. “I do hope she hasn’t pestered you too much.”

  “Not at all. She was under the impression that someone was following her. A man in a dark suit with a, what was it? A hideous scar upon his left cheek.”

  I feel very foolish about that now.

  A flush rises up Tom’s pale neck. "Ah, yes. The famous Doyle imagination. She’s likely to become a writer of mystery novels, our Gemma.”

  “I am sorry to have bothered you,” I say.

  “Not at all. It was the most exciting part of my day,” he says with such a winning smile that I believe him. “And you were most helpful with this,” he adds, holding up the velvet box. “Our carriage is just outside. If you care to wait, I could offer you a ride.”

  “We’ve our own carriage waiting,” Tom says smugly.

  “Of course.”

  “It was a most generous offer,” I say. "Good day to you.”

  Simon Middleton does the most extraordinary, daring thing. He takes my hand and gives it a courtly kiss. “I do hope we shall meet again over the holiday. You must come to dinner. I shall see to it. Master Doyle, carry on.” He gives Tom a grand tip of the hat, and Tom returns it as if they are two old friends playacting together.

  Simon Middleton. I cannot wait to tell Ann and Felicity.

  Outside the station, the streets are alive with noise, horses, omnibuses, and people who’ve come into London for a day’s shopping or entertainment. It is a mad, merry scene, and I’m happy to be part of the beating heart of the city. The moment the foggy air and clanging bells of the churches greet me, I feel sophisticated and mysterious. I could be anyone here— duchess or witch or conniving fortune hunter. Who is to say? After all, I’ve already had a most wonderful encounter with a viscount’s son. I’m feeling very optimistic. Yes, this will be a pleasant visit with dances and gifts and perhaps even a dinner at the home of a handsome viscount’s son. Father loves Christmas. The Christmas spirit will make him merry, and he will not need the laudanum so much. Together, Ann, Felicity, and I shall find the Temple and bind the magic and it will all turn out right in the end.

  A man bumps me on his busy way without so much as an apology. But that is all right. I forgive you, busy man about town with the sharp elbows. Hail and farewell to you! For I, Gemma Doyle, am to have a splendid Christmas in London town. All shall be well. God rest us merry gentlemen. And gentlewomen.

  Tom’s trying desperately to secure a hansom cab among the throng.

  “But where is the carriage?” I ask.

  “There is no carriage.”

  “But you said—”

  “Yes, well, I wasn’t about to let on to Middleton and suffer that humiliation. We’ve a carriage at home, to be sure. But we’ve no driver. Old Potts left rather suddenly two days ago. I wanted to put in an advert but Father says he’s found someone. Oh, I say . . .”

  With a bit of finagling, we find a cab and set off for the London home I’ve never seen.

  “I cannot believe you ran into Simon Middleton of all people, ”Tom says as the cab pulls away from the station. "And now we are to have dinner with his family.”

  It hardly seems worth noting that the Honorable Simon Middleton invited me to dinner, not Tom. “Is he really a viscount’s son, then?”

  “Indeed. His father is a member of the House of Lords and a highly influential patron of the sciences. With his help, I could go far indeed. Pity they’ve no daughters to marry.”

  “Pity? I was just thinking it was a mercy.”

  “So, my own sister will not promote me? Speaking of which, weren’t you supposed to find me a beautiful future wife with a small fortune? Have you had any success on
that front?”

  “Yes—I have warned them all.”

  “And a merry Christmas to you, too!” Tom says, laughing. “I understand we’ll be attending your friend Miss Worthington’s Christmas ball. Perhaps I’ll find a suitable—which is to say wealthy—wife among the ladies attending.”

  And perhaps they will all run screaming for the convent.

  “How is Father?” I ask at last. That question, burning a hole inside me.

  Tom sighs. "We’re making progress. I’ve locked away the laudanum bottle and given him one that I’ve diluted with water. He’s getting less. I’m afraid it’s made him quite disagreeable at times, plagued by horrible headaches. But I’m certain it’s working.” He looks at me. “You’re not to give him more, do you understand? He’s clever, and he’ll press you for it.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” I argue. "Not to me. I know it.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  Tom doesn’t finish his thought. We ride in silence, the noise of the streets our only chatter. Soon my worries fade as the excitement of the city takes over. Oxford Street is a fascinating place. All these grand buildings side by side. They stand so tall and proud, and at the bottom story, their awnings stretch out over the sidewalks like ladies coyly lifting their skirt hems to reveal temptation. Here is a stationer’s shop, a furrier, a photographer’s studio, and a theater, where several patrons have congregated at the box office to see about the day’s program.

  “Blast!”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I was to pick up a cake for Grandmama, and we’ve just passed the shop.” Tom calls to the driver, who stops by the curb. "I won’t be a minute,” Tom says, though I suspect he says this less to reassure me and more to convince the driver not to charge him an egregious amount for this unscheduled stop.

  For my part, I am happy to sit and watch the world in all its glory. A young boy weaves his way through the passersby, a large goose resting precariously on his shoulder. Amidst a chorus of French horns and oboes, a happy throng of carolers makes its way to each establishment, hoping for a handful of nuts or a bit of drink. They walk on, their song drifting behind them. In the window of the shop where Tom has gone, there are all sorts of delicious confections on display: plump currants and candied lemons; mountains of pears, apples, and oranges; colorful piles of spices. It makes my mouth water. A tall woman in a smart hat and tweed suit approaches. She seems familiar, but it is not until she passes that I recognize her.