The Sweet Far Thing

Page 174

“You’re there,” he says quietly.
“I am?”
He nods. “You’re right beside me. We’re fighting together.”
“I’m beside you?” I repeat.
“Yes,” he says.
The sun catches his face in such a way that I can see the tiny golden flecks in his eyes. He’s so earnest, and for a second, I should like to lay down my arms and kiss him.
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about,” I say, turning from him. “For that is most assuredly a dream.”
To say that Mrs. Nightwing is displeased with me is to say that Marie Antoinette received a small neck scratch. Our headmistress allots me thirty conduct marks, and in penance, I am to do her bidding for a week. She begins by having me tidy up the library, which is not the torture she imagines, for any time spent in the company of books cheers my soul. That is, when my soul can be cheered.
McCleethy enters my room without knocking and settles herself in the only chair. “You didn’t come to dinner,” she says.
“I’m not well.” I pull the blanket to my chin as if that might shield me from her prying.
“Whom were you talking to in the ballroom?”
“No one,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “I was rehearsing.”
“You said you didn’t mean to make her fall.”
She waits for me to answer. I lie upon my back and stare at a spot on the ceiling where the paint peels.
“Miss Temple’s ankle is injured. She will not perform her ballet. It’s a pity. She was quite good. Miss Doyle, you might do me the courtesy of looking at me when I am speaking to you.”
I lie on my side and look straight through her as if she were made of glass.
“You can stop pretending, Gemma. I know you have the magic still. Did you cause her fall? I am not here to punish you. But I must know the truth.”
Again I am sorely tempted to tell her everything. It might be a relief. But I know McCleethy. She lures. She entices. She says she wants the truth when what she really wants is to be proven right, to tell me where I am wrong. And I can’t trust her. I can’t trust anyone. I’ll not fail Eugenia.
I turn back to my fascination with the tear in the ceiling. I want to pick at the wound in the plaster. Rip it down to the boards and start over. Paint it another color. Make it a different ceiling entirely.
“She fell,” I say, my voice hollow.
McCleethy’s dark gaze is upon me, weighing, judging. “An accident, then?”
I swallow hard. “An accident.”
I close my eyes and feign sleep. And after what seems an impossibly long time, I hear the scrape of the chair against the floor, signaling Miss McCleethy’s departure. Her footsteps are heavy with disappointment.
I do sleep. It is fretful, with dreams of running over both black sand and fresh grass. No matter where I run, what I want is just out of reach. I wake to Felicity’s and Ann’s faces hovering mere inches from mine. It gives me a start.
“It’s time for the realms,” Felicity says. Anticipation burns in her eyes. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it, Ann?”
“Feels as if it has,” Ann agrees.
“Very well. Give me a moment.”
“What were you dreaming about?” Ann asks.
“I don’t recall. Why?”
“You’re crying,” she says.
I put my fingers to my damp cheeks.
Felicity throws my cloak to me. “If we don’t leave soon, I shall lose my mind.”
I secure my cloak and place my finger and my tears deep into my pocket, where it’s as if they do not exist at all.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
THE MOMENT WE STEP INTO THE BORDERLANDS, IT FEELS different. Everything seems to have fallen into disarray. The vines are ankle-deep. Crows have settled into the highest parts of the fir trees like inkblots. As we travel to the castle, they follow us, hopping from branch to branch.
“It’s as if they’re watching us,” Ann whispers.
The factory girls do not greet us with their familiar cry.
“Where are they? Where’s Pip?” Felicity says, quickening her steps.
The castle is deserted. And just like the grounds outside, it is overgrown and ill tended. The flowers have gone brittle, and worms slither along their purple husks. I step in a mealy patch and pull up my boot in disgust.
We wander through the vine-covered rooms, calling the girls’ names, but no one responds. I hear a faint rustling from behind a tapestry. I pull it aside, and there’s Wendy, her face dirty and tear-streaked. Her fingers are blue.