Rebel Angels

Page 5

I am the link to that place.
"Let's gather our coats," Ann says, moving for the immense, coiling staircase that dominates the foyer.
Felicity regards her curiously."What ever for? Where are we going?"
"It's Wednesday," Ann says, turning away. "Time to visit Pippa."
CHAPTER TWO
WE MAKE OUR WAY THROUGH THE BARREN TREES behind the school until we reach a familiar clearing. It is frightfully damp, and I'm glad for my coat and gloves. To our right lies the pond where we lay lazily in a rowboat under early September skies. The rowboat sleeps now on the frostbitten rocks and the bitter, dead grass of winter at the water's edge. The pond is a smooth, thin sheet of ice. Months ago, we shared these woods with an encampment of Gypsies, but they are long gone now, headed for warmer climes. In their party, I suppose, is a certain young man from Bombay with large brown eyes, full lips, and my father's cricket bat. Kartik. I cannot help wondering if he thinks of me wherever he is. I cannot help wondering when he will come looking for me next, and what that will mean.
Felicity turns to me. "What are you dreaming about back there?"
"Christmas," I lie, my words pushing out in small, steam engine puffs of white. It is miserably cold.
"I have forgotten that you've never had a proper English Christmas. I shall have to acquaint you with it over the holiday. We'll steal away from home and have the most splendid time," Felicity says.
Ann keeps her eyes trained on the ground. She'll stay here at Spence over the holiday. There are no relations to take her in, no presents to shake or memories to warm her till spring.
"Ann," I say too brightly."How lucky you are to have the run of Spence while we're away."
"You needn't do that," she answers.
"Do what?"
"Try to paint a bright face on it. I shall be alone and unhappy. I know it."
"Oh, please don't go and feel sorry for yourself. I shan't be able to bear the hour with you if you do," Felicity says, exasperated. She grabs a long stick and uses it to whack at the trees as we pass them. Shamed into silence, Ann trods on. I should say something on her behalf, but more and more, I find Ann's refusal to speak up for herself an annoyance. So I let it go. "Will you be attending balls over Christmas, do you think?" Ann asks, biting her lip, torturing herself. It is no different from the small cuts she makes on her arms with her sewing scissors, the ones her sleeves hide, the ones I know she has begun again.
"Yes. Of course," Felicity answers, as if the question is tedious. "My mother and father have planned a Christmas ball. Everyone shall be there."
Everyone except you, she might as well say.
"I shall be confined to close quarters with my grandmama, who never misses an opportunity to point out my faults, and my infuriating brother, Tom. I promise you, it shall be a very taxing holiday." I smile, hoping to make Ann laugh. The truth is that I feel guilty for abandoning her, but not guilty enough to invite her home with me.
Ann gives me a sideways glance. "And how is your brother, Tom?"
"The same. Which is to say impossible."
"He hasn't set his hopes on someone, then?"
Ann fancies Tom, who would never look twice at her. It's a hopeless situation.
"I do believe he has, yes," I lie.
Ann stops."Who is it?"
"Ah ... a Miss Dalton. Her family is from Somerset, I believe."
"Is she pretty?" Ann asks.
"Yes," I say. We press on, and I hope that is the end of it.
"As pretty as Pippa?"
Pippa. Beautiful Pip, with her dark ringlets and violet eyes.
"No," I say."No one is as beautiful as Pippa."
We've arrived. Before us stands a large tree, its bark mottled with a thin coat of frost. A heavy rock sits at its base. We remove our gloves and push the rock out of the way, revealing the decaying hollow there. Inside is an odd assortment of things--one kid glove, a note on parchment secured by a rock, a handful of toffees, and some desiccated funeral flowers that the wind takes the moment it whips through the old oak's ancient wound.
"Have you brought it?" Felicity asks Ann.
She nods and pulls out something wrapped in green paper. She unfolds the paper to reveal an angel ornament constructed of lace and beads. Each of us has had a hand in sewing bits of it. Ann wraps the gift in the paper again and places it on the makeshift altar with the other remembrances.
"Merry Christmas, Pippa," she says, speaking the name of a girl who lies dead and buried these two months some thirty miles from here. A girl who was our dearest friend. A girl I might have saved.