by Libba Bray
“Yes,” I admit. "If.”
Tom’s suddenly beside me. He fiddles nervously with his tie. “I think it’s proceeding rather well, don’t you?”
“It is the best dance I’ve ever attended,” Ann says. It is the only dance she’s ever attended, but now hardly seems the time to mention it.
“I do hope tonight’s performance is satisfactory,” Tom says, looking in Dr. Smith’s direction. "I’ve had some of the patients prepare a small program of entertainment for this evening.”
“I’m certain it will be a delight to all,” Ann says as if it were a matter of grave importance.
“Thank you, Miss Bradshaw. You are exceedingly kind.” Tom offers a genuine smile.
“Not at all,” Ann says before staring longingly at the dance floor.
Felicity pinches me lightly. She coughs delicately into her handkerchief, but I know she’s trying desperately not to laugh at this forlorn exchange. Come on, Tom, I beg him silently. Ask her to dance.
Tom gives her a bow. "I trust you’ll have a pleasant evening,” he says, excusing himself.
Ann’s face registers disappointment, and then shock. “She’s here!” she whispers.
“Who?”
Ann opens her fan wide. From behind its protection, she points to the far side of the room. I see only Mr. Snow waltzing with the laughing Mrs. Sommers, but then my eyes find something familiar. I do not recognize her straightaway in her pale lavender dress and exposed neck.
It is Miss McCleethy. She has come.
“What should we do?” Felicity asks.
Remembering Miss Moore’s letter, I say, “We must keep her away from Nell at all costs.”
The orchestra has stopped its playing, and the lamps are dimmed to a cozy glow. People abandon the dance floor in pairs, moving to the sides of the room. Tom takes his place in the center. He goes to run his fingers through his hair—a nervous habit—and, remembering his gloves and the pomade, thinks better of it. There is an excessive clearing of the throat. I’m anxious for him. At last, he finds his voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention. Thank you for coming out on such a cold night. In gratitude, the Bethlem Royal players have prepared a small performance for you. And now, ah, well . . . I give you the Bethlem Royal players.”
Having acquitted himself well, Tom exits to polite applause. I find that I have lost Miss McCleethy in the crowd. A cold dread crawls slowly up my spine.
“I’ve lost Miss McCleethy,” I whisper to Felicity. “Do you see her?”
Felicity cranes her neck. "No. Where are you off to?”
“To look for her,” I say, slipping into the cover of the crowd.
As Mrs. Sommers plunks out a tune at the piano, I move quiet as fog through the room, searching for Miss McCleethy. Mrs. Sommers’s playing is somewhat painful to hear, but the crowd claps for her anyway. She stands uncertainly afterward, bowing and smiling, her hand covering her mouth. When she begins to tear at her hair, Tom bids her gently to sit. The eerie Mr. Snow delivers a soliloquy from Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale. He has a voice trained for the stage and would be impressive if I could forget his performance for me earlier in the evening.
I’ve gotten through half the crowd, but I haven’t spied Miss McCleethy again.
Nell Hawkins is introduced. Dressed in her best, her hair pulled back neatly at her neck, she seems a dainty doll of a girl. Pretty, like the laughing girl I’ve seen in my visions. The corsage has been pinned to her shirt. It nearly dwarfs her.
Nell stands staring at the crowd till they murmur with confusion: What is she doing? Is this part of the performance?
Her eerie, scratched phonograph of a voice rings out. “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after.”
A light sprinkling of low, polite laughter floats around the room, but I fear I shall cry. She promised me. And now I know that her promise was nothing more than another illusion spun from her disturbed mind. She does not know where to find the Temple. She is a poor, mad girl, and I could weep for both of us.
Nell grows animated, impassioned. It’s as if she’s a different girl.
“Where shall we go, maidens? Where shall we go? You must leave the garden. Leave it behind with a sad farewell. Down the river on the gorgon’s grace, past the clutches of the slippery, nippery nymphs. Through the golden mist of magic. Meet the folk of the fair Forest of Lights. The arrows, the arrows, you must use wisely and well. But save one. Save one for me. For I shall have need of it.”
A lady beside me turns to her husband. “Is this from Pinafore?” she says, confused, thinking it a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.
I’m on fire. She does know! She has found an ingenious way of disclosing the Temple’s location. For who, save us girls, could understand this gibberish? Miss McCleethy steps from behind a pillar, her left side showing, her right hidden in shadow. She too is listening intently.
“Offer hope to the Untouchables, for they must have hope. Travel on, far beyond the lotus blossoms. Follow the path. Yes, stick to the path, maidens. For they can lead you astray, away, with false promises. Beware the Poppy Warriors. The Poppy Warriors steal your strength. They will gobble you up. Gobble, gobble!”
This makes everyone laugh. Several of the patients repeat “Gobble you up” to amuse themselves. They are like chickens clucking until they are shushed by the nurses into quiet again. The hair at the back of my neck stands at attention. It is as if Nell is pantomiming for my benefit, speaking in a code I must decipher—or else she has slipped into total madness.
“Do not leave the path, for it is hard to find again once lost. And they will take the song to the rock. Do not let the song die. You must be careful with beauty. Beauty must pass. There are dark shadows of spirits. Just beyond the Borderlands, where the lone tree stands and the sky turns to blood . . .”
A few of the ladies flap their fans, uncomfortable with the mention of blood.
“. . . in the Winterlands they plot and plan with Circe. They will not rest till the army is raised and the realms are theirs to rule.”
There is unrest in the crowd, a sense that Nell has been indulged too long. Tom makes his way to the front. No! Not until she tells me where to find the Temple! Tom is already there.
“Thank you, Miss Hawkins. And now . . .”
Nell doesn’t sit. She grows more agitated. "She wants in! She has found me and I cannot keep her out!”
“Nurse, if you would please . . .”
“Go where no one will, where it is forbidden, offer hope. . . . Jack and Jill went up the hill, the sea, the sea, came from the sea . . . go where the dark hides a mirror of water. Face your fear and bind the magic fast to you!”
“Come along now, Miss Hawkins,” the nurse says, grabbing hold. Nell won’t budge. She fights against the nurse with a brutal fierceness. Her shirt rips along the arm seam so that the whole of the sleeve pulls off in the nurse’s hand. The crowd gasps. Nell’s beside herself.
“She means to use me to find it, Lady Hope! She will use us both, and I will be lost, lost forever! Don’t let her take me! Do not hesitate! Set me free, Lady Hope! Set me free!”
Two burly orderlies have arrived with a straitjacket.
“Come with us, miss. No trouble now.”
Nell kicks and screams, showing that surprising strength again, but she is no match for them. One hooks her slender neck in the crook of a beefy arm, while the other forces Nell’s grasping hands into the jacket’s arms and tightens the laces at her back. Her body sags against the men, who half carry, half drag the limp girl till all that can be heard are her whimpers and the dull thud of her heels against the floors.
The crowd is loud with shock over the spectacle. Tom asks the musicians to resume playing. The music works to quiet the room, and soon some of the braver souls are at the dance again. I’m shaking all over. Nell’s in danger, and I’ve got to save her.
I push my way to Felicity and
Ann. "I’ve got to slip away and find Nell,” I say.
“What did she mean, ‘Beware the Poppy Warriors’?” Ann asks.
“It seemed like madness,” Felicity adds, “what do you make of it?”
“I think it was a code for us, for finding the Temple,” I say. “And I’m certain Miss McCleethy was listening too.”
Felicity scans the crowd. "Where is she?”
Miss McCleethy is gone from her place near the pillar. She is not among the dancers, either. She has vanished.
Felicity looks at me, wide-eyed. "Go to her at once!”
I steal from the room as quickly as possible, running for the women’s ward. I’ve got to reach her before Miss McCleethy does. She has found me! Right. Well, I’m not about to let her take you, Nell. Don’t you worry.
The corridor is busy with the comings and goings of the nurses. When the last nurse leaves, I hike up my skirt and fly to Nell’s room, as fast as I can.
Nell sits in a corner. They’ve taken off the straitjacket. The beautiful corsage has been damaged, the petals torn and flattened. Nell rocks back and forth, banging her head each time against the wall just slightly. I take her hands in mine.
“Miss Hawkins, it’s Gemma Doyle. Nell, we haven’t much time. I need to know the location of the Temple. You were just about to say it when they took you. It is safe now. You may tell me.”
A thin stream of drool works its way out of the corner of her mouth. An odor like overripe fruit scents the tiny gusts of her breath. They’ve given her something to sedate her.
“Nell, if you do not tell me how to find the Temple, I fear we are lost. Circe will find it before us, and then there is no telling what could happen. She could rule the realms. She could do this to another girl and another.”
From far below us, the music changes tempo as another dance begins. I do not know how long I can be gone before they begin searching for me.
“She’ll never stop,” Nell’s raspy voice scrapes through the silence. "Never. Never. Never.”
“Then we must stop her ourselves,” I say. “Please. Please help me.”
“It’s you she wants, you she’s always wanted,” she slurs. "She’ll make me tell her where to find the Temple, just as she made me tell her where to find you.”
“What do you mean?”
A sound pricks at my ears. Footsteps in the hall, coming closer. I’m up at the door, peeking out. Someone comes. Someone in a deep green cloak. She stops to check each room in the gallery. I close the door gently.
“Nell,” I say, my heart racing. "We’ve got to hide.”
“Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet . . . frightened her away, frightened her away.”
“Shhh, Nell. You’ve got to be quiet. Here, quickly, under the bed.”
Nell is a small girl, but weighed down by the drug, she is hard to maneuver. We fall to the floor together in a heap. With effort, I manage to push her under the bed, then follow her. The footsteps stop at Nell’s door. I’ve got my hand over her mouth as the door opens. I don’t know what I fear more, that Nell will suddenly speak out and reveal our hiding spot or that the pounding of my heart will announce us.
There’s a whisper in the dark. "Nell?”
Nell goes rigid against me.
The whisper comes again. "Nell, darling, are you here?”
The hem of her green cloak comes into view. Beneath it, I can see the delicate lacings of polished, buffed boots. I feel certain I could see my own fear reflected in the high shine of them. Those boots come closer. I hold my breath; keep my hand on Nell’s open mouth, where the saliva pools in my palm.
Beside me, Nell’s so quiet I fear she may be dead. The boots turn away from us, and the door closes with a click. I scuttle out from under the bed and pull Nell out after. Nell clasps her hand on my wrist. Her eyelids flutter; her lips tighten into a grimace that lets only four words escape.
“See what I see. . . .”
We’re falling hard and fast into a vision. But it is not my vision. It is Nell’s. I see what she sees, feel what she feels. We’re running through the realms. Grass licks at our ankles. But it’s happening too fast. Nell’s mind is a jumble, and I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. Roses pushing up through a wall. Red clay on skin. The woman in green, holding fast to Nell’s hand by a deep, clear well.
And I am falling backward into that water.
I can’t breathe. I’m choking. I fall out of the vision to find Nell’s hand clamped around my throat. Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t see me, doesn’t seem to know what she is doing. Frantic, I pull at her hand, but it doesn’t budge.
“Nell,” I croak. "Nell . . . please.”
She releases me, and I fall to the floor, gasping for air, my head aching from her sudden brutality. Nell has faded into her madness again, but her face is slick with tears.
“Don’t hesitate, Lady Hope. Set me free.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
TODAY IS CHRISTMAS EVE. ACROSS LONDON, THE shops and taverns are filled with people in high spirits, the streets bustling with this one carrying home a fragrant tree or that one selecting a fat goose for supper. I should be filled with the Christmas spirit and the urge to spread goodwill to my fellow man and woman. Instead, I am contemplating the puzzle that Nell Hawkins has left me to put together.
Go where no one will, where it is forbidden, o fer hope. Go where the dark hides a mirror of water. Face your fear and bind the magic fast to you. It makes no sense. Stick to the path. They will lead you astray with false promises. Who? What false promises? The entire thing is a riddle wrapped inside another and another. I have the amulet to guide me. But I do not know where to find the Temple, and without that I have nothing. It vexes me till I want to pitch my washbowl across the room.
To make matters worse, Father is not home. He did not come home from his club last night. I am the only one who seems concerned about this. Grandmama is busy barking orders at the servants for our Christmas dinner. The kitchen is a flurry of cooks tending to puddings and gravies and pheasant with apples.
“He wasn’t here for breakfast?” I ask.
“No,” Grandmama says, pushing past me to yell at the cook. “I think we shall omit the soup course. No one bothers with it, anyway.”
“But what if he’s hurt?” I ask.
“Gemma, please! Mrs. Jones—the red silk will suffice, I should think.”
Christmas Eve dinner comes and goes, and still there is no Father. The three of us set about opening our gifts in the parlor, pretending that there is nothing amiss.
“Ah,” Tom says, unwrapping a long woolen scarf. “Perfect. Thank you, Grandmama.”
“I am glad you like it. Gemma, why don’t you open yours?”
I get to work on the box from Grandmama. Perhaps it is a beautiful pair of gloves or a bracelet. Inside are matching handkerchiefs embroidered with my initials. They’re quite lovely. “Thank you,” I say.
“Practical gifts are always the best, I find,” Grandmama remarks with a sniff.
The unwrapping of gifts is over within minutes. Besides the handkerchiefs, I receive a hand mirror and a tin of chocolates from Grandmama, and from Tom, a jolly red nutcracker, who amuses me. I’ve given a shawl to Grandmama, and to Tom, a skull to keep in his office someday.
“I shall call him Yorick,” Tom says, delighted. And I’m glad that I’ve made him happy. Father’s gifts sit under the tree, unopened.
“Thomas,” Grandmama says. “Perhaps you should go to his club and ask for him. Make some discreet inquiries.”
“But I’m to go to the Athenaeum tonight as a guest of Simon Middleton, ”Tom protests.
“Father is missing,” I say.
“He’s not missing. I am certain that he will be home at any moment, probably laden with gifts he’s traveled to get on a whim somewhere. Do you remember the time he arrived on Christmas morning like Saint Nicholas himself, riding an elephant?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling at the memory. He’d brought me my fi
rst sari, and Tom and I had coconut milk, lapping it from bowls as if we were tigers.
“He’ll be home. Mark my words. Doesn’t he always turn up?”
“You’re right, of course,” I say, because I want desperately to believe him.
The house falls into hushed tones of gasping fires and steady clocks, the lamps shushed to glowing murmurs of their former brightness. As it’s after eleven o’clock, the servants have retired to their rooms. Grandmama is snuggled into her bed, and she thinks I am tucked safely in as well. But I can’t sleep. Not with Father gone. I want him to come home, with or without an elephant. So I sit in the parlor, waiting.
Kartik slips into the room, still dressed in his coat and boots. He is out of breath.
“Kartik! Where have you been? What is it?”
“Is your brother at home?” He’s very agitated.
“No. He’s gone out. Why do you ask?”
“It’s imperative that I speak with your brother.”
I rise to my full height. "I’ve told you, he is not at home. You may tell me.”
He takes a poker and stabs at the brittle logs. They flare to life. He says nothing, and I am left to imagine the worst.
“Oh, no. Is it Father? Do you know where he is?” Kartik nods. "Where?”
Kartik cannot look me in the eyes. "Bluegate Fields.”
“Bluegate Fields?” I repeat. "Where is that?”
“It is the dregs of the world, a place inhabited only by thieves, addicts, murderers, and the like, I am sorry to say.”
“But my father . . . why is he there?”
Again, Kartik cannot look at me. “He is addicted to opium. He is at Chin-Chin’s, an opium den.”
It’s not true. It can’t be. I’ve cured Father. He’s been better since the magic, hasn’t asked for a drop of laudanum. "How do you know this?”
“Because he bade me drive him there last night and he hasn’t left since.”
My heart sinks at this. "My brother is with Mr. Middleton at his club.”
“We must send for him.”
“No! The scandal. Tom would be humiliated.”
“Yes, wouldn’t want to upset The Right Honorable Simon Middleton.”