The Sweet Far Thing

Page 44

The magic urges me toward the East Wing. I put my hand to the half-built turret and feel energy flowing through me, as if the land and I are one. The earth is suddenly illuminated. A series of lines appear in the ground like pathways on a map. One line leads far over the hills toward the workers’ camp. Another meanders through the woods to the chapel. A third snakes off into the vicinity of the old caves, where we first ventured into the realms. But it shines most brightly where I stand. Time has slowed. Light bleeds around the edges of the secret door. I feel its pull. I place my other hand against it, and my body is seized by a rush of energy.
Images whip through my mind too quickly for me to grab hold; only threads remain: Eugenia’s amulet tossed to my mother’s hands, black sands flying past craggy mountains, a tree of stark beauty.
I’m released suddenly, and I fall to the ground. The night is still again, save for the fluttery beating of my heart.
Dawn raises its alarm of pink. Already it creeps over the treetops, bringing a new morning, and a new me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NOW THAT SPRING SEEMS TO BE MORE THAN A FICKLE suitor’s promise, and the days are warming into a happy assurance that winter is on the run at last, Britain celebrates with a bounty of fairs. The morning after I’ve been to see Pippa, Nightwing and LeFarge herd us onto a train, and we chatter animatedly in the belly of the great steel dragon as it storms through the lush countryside, belching a long plume of thick black smoke that leaves cinders on our skirts and gloves. It takes some time for me to woo Felicity from her ill temper about last night, but I promise her we shall go into the realms tonight without fail, and all is forgiven. And once Felicity forgives me, Ann soon follows.
We disembark in a small town, and picnic baskets in tow, we amble along in the happy company of villagers, farmers, servants on holiday, excitable children, and men in search of work, coming at last to a large green, where the fair has been established.
The outdoor marketplace spreads over nearly a half mile. Each stall offers some new temptation—crusty loaves of bread, milk with the cream hard on top, delicate bonnets and shoes. We take it all in with longing, granting ourselves a taste of sharp cheddar or a peek into the looking glass when trying on a new scarf. Everyone has come in her Sunday best in the hopes of an afternoon’s worth of dancing and merriment. Even Nightwing allows herself to observe the jolly spectacle of a cockfight.
In one corner, several men form a line to hire out as blacksmiths or sheepshearers. There is even a ship’s captain who enlists young men as sailors, promising food and drink and the excitement of the sea. These bargains are struck with a signature, a handshake, and a penny given out as a token of the contract.
Others are here with the purpose of selecting livestock. They mill about the sheep and horse stalls, listening to the assurances of the traders.
“You won’t find better, gentlemen. That I can promise!” a man in a leather apron and tall boots bellows to the two farmers inspecting his prized sheep. The farmers run their hands across the animal’s flanks. It baas loudly in what I believe to be utter mortification.
“I shouldn’t like that either,” I say under my breath. “Terribly rude.”
All in all, it’s a noisy, happy affair, what with the animals and the people, the farmers’ wives calling out: “The best cheese in England! Blackberry jam—sweet as a mother’s kiss! A plump goose, perfect for your Easter supper!”
In the afternoon, we take our tea down by the riverbank, where people have gathered to watch the boat races. Brigid has packed us a lovely luncheon of boiled eggs, brown bread and butter, raspberry jam, and currant tarts. Ann and I spread thick crusts of bread with generous slabs of butter and jam whilst Felicity grabs for the tarts.
“I’ve had a letter from Mother,” Fee says, biting happily into the fruit.
“That doesn’t usually put you in such a fine humor,” I say.
“She doesn’t often present me with such a grand opportunity,” she answers, cryptically.
“Very well,” I say. “Out with it.”
“We are to see Lily Trimble in Macbeth at the Drury Lane Theatre.”
“Lily Trimble!” Ann exclaims through a mouthful of bread. She swallows it in a lump, wincing. “You’re awfully lucky.”
Felicity licks her fingers clean. “I would take you, Ann, but Mother would never allow it.”
“I understand,” Ann says dully.
Mrs. Worthington has not forgotten Ann’s fraud at Christmas while Ann was a guest in their home. It’s no matter that we all had a hand in passing her off as a duke’s daughter. In Mrs. Worthington’s mind, Felicity and I are blameless, the victims of Ann’s devious scheme. It is amazing what mothers will believe despite all evidence to the contrary—anything to save themselves.