The Sweet Far Thing Read online

  “Welcome home,” I say, helping Ann out of her wet coat.

  “Thank you.” Her nose runs, and her hair, the color of a field mouse’s fur, slips loose of its moorings. Long, thin strands of it hang over her blue eyes and plaster themselves to her full cheeks.

  “How was your stay with your cousins?”

  Ann does not smile at all. “Tolerable.”

  “And the children? Are you fond of them?” I ask, hopefully.

  “Lottie locked me in a cupboard for an hour. Little Carrie kicked my leg and called me a pudding.” She wipes her nose. “That was the first day.”

  “Oh.” We stand uncertainly under the glare of Spence’s infamous brass snake chandelier.

  Ann lowers her voice to a whisper. “Have you managed to return to the realms?”

  I shake my head, and Ann looks as if she might cry. “But we’ll try again tonight,” I say quickly.

  A glimmer of a smile lights Ann’s face for a moment. “There’s hope yet,” I add.

  Without a word, Ann follows me to the great hall, past the roaring fires and the ornately carved columns, the girls playing whist. Brigid thrills a small circle of younger girls with tales of fairies and pixies she swears live in the woods behind Spence.

  “They don’t!” one girl protests, but in her eyes I see she wants to be proven wrong.

  “Aye, they do, miss. And more creatures besides. You’d best not go out past dark. That’s their time. Stay safe in your beds and you’ll not wake to find you’ve been carried away in the company of the Others,” Brigid warns.

  The girls rush to the windows to peer into the vast expanse of night, hoping for a glimpse of fairy queens and sprites. I could tell them they won’t see them there. They’d have to travel with us through the door of light to the world beyond this one to keep company with such fantastical creatures. And they might not like all that they see.

  “Our Ann has returned,” I announce, parting the curtains to Felicity’s private tent. Ever the dramatic one, Felicity has cordoned off one corner of the enormous room with silk curtains. It is like a pasha’s home, and she lords over it as if it were an empire of her own.

  Felicity takes in the sight of Ann’s damp, mud-caked skirt hem. “Mind the carpets.”

  Ann wipes her soiled skirts, dropping crumbs of dried mud onto the floor, and Felicity sighs in irritation. “Oh, Ann, really.”

  “Sorry,” Ann mumbles. She pulls her skirts close to her body and takes a seat on the floor, trying not to dirty it further. Without asking, she reaches into the open chocolate box and takes three, much to Felicity’s annoyance.

  “You needn’t take them all,” Fee grumbles.

  Ann puts two back. They are imprinted with her hand. Felicity sighs. “You’ve touched them now; you might as well eat them.”

  Guiltily, Ann shoves all three into her mouth at once. She cannot possibly be enjoying their taste. “What do you have there?”

  “This?” Felicity holds out a white card with beautiful black lettering. “I’ve received an invitation to Lady Tatterhall’s tea for a Miss Hurley. It shall have an Egyptian theme.”

  “Oh,” Ann says dully. Her hand lingers over the chocolate box. “I suppose you’ve gotten one, too, Gemma.”

  “Yes,” I say guiltily. I hate that Ann’s not included—it is beastly unfair—but I can’t help wishing she didn’t make me feel quite so horrid about it.

  “And of course there is the ball at Yardsley Hall,” Felicity continues. “That promises to be quite grand. Did you hear about young Miss Eaton?”

  I shake my head.

  “She wore diamonds before evening!” Felicity nearly squeals with delight. “It was the talk of London. She’ll never make that mistake again. Oh, you should see the gloves Mother sent round for the Collinsworth ball. They’re exquisite!”

  Ann pulls a thread on the hem of her dress. She won’t attend the Collinsworth ball or any other unless it is as chaperone to Lottie or Carrie someday. She will not have a season or dance with handsome suitors. She will not wear ostrich feathers in her hair and bow to Her Majesty. She is here at Spence as a scholarship student, sponsored by her wealthy cousins so that she might make an appropriate governess to their children.

  I clear my throat. Felicity catches my eye.

  “Ann,” she says, far too cheerfully. “How was your time in Kent? Is it as lovely in the spring as they say?”

  “Little Carrie called me a pudding.”

  Felicity tries not to laugh. “Ahem. Well, she’s only a child. You’ll have her in hand soon enough.”

  “There’s a small room for me at the top of the stairs. It looks out on the stables.”

  “A window. Yes, well, quite nice to have a view,” Felicity says, missing the point entirely. “Oh, what do you have there?”

  Ann shows us a program for a production of Macbeth at the Drury Lane Theatre, starring the great American actress Lily Trimble. Ann gazes longingly at the dramatic drawing of Miss Trimble as Lady Macbeth.

  “Did you attend?” I ask.

  Ann shakes her head. “My cousins went.”

  Without her. Everyone who knows Ann at all knows how much she adores plays.

  “But they let you keep the program,” Felicity says. “That’s quite nice.”

  Yes, just as a cat that lets a mouse keep its tail is nice. Felicity can be so beastly at times.

  “Did you have a fine birthday?” Ann says.

  “Yes, ever so enjoyable,” Felicity purrs. “Eighteen. What a glorious age. Now I shall come into my inheritance. Well, not straightaway, mind. My grandmother did insist I make my debut as a condition of her will. The moment I curtsy before the Queen and back away again, I shall be a rich woman, and I may do as I please.”

  “Once you make your debut,” Ann repeats, swallowing the last of her chocolate.

  Felicity takes a chocolate for herself. “Lady Markham has already announced her intention to sponsor me. So it’s as good as done. Felicity Worthington, heiress.” Fee’s good spirits vanish. “I only wish Pippa were here to share it.”

  Ann and I exchange glances at the mention of Pip. Once, she was one of us. Now she is somewhere in the realms, most likely lost to the Winterlands. Who knows what she has become? But Fee still clings to the hope that she might be found, might yet be saved.

  The tent opens. Cecily, Elizabeth, and Martha crowd inside. It is far too close with all of us here. Elizabeth falls into Felicity while Martha and Cecily take a seat next to me. Ann is pushed to the very back of the tent.

  “I’ve just had an invitation to a ball hosted by the Duchess of Crewesbury,” Cecily says. She settles herself on the floor like a spoiled Persian cat.

  “And I as well,” Elizabeth adds.

  Felicity does her best to look bored. “My mother received ours ages ago.”

  I haven’t received such an invitation, and I hope no one will ask me if I have.

  Martha fans herself, grimacing. “Oh, dear. It is rather close in here, isn’t it? I’m afraid we cannot all fit.” She glances at Ann. Cecily and her lot have never treated Ann as more than a servant, but since our unfortunate attempt to pass her off in society as a duke’s daughter of Russian blood last Christmas, Ann has become a complete pariah. The gossip has spread in letters and whispers and now there isn’t a girl at Spence who doesn’t know the story.

  “We shall miss you dearly, Cecily,” I say, smiling brightly. I should like to kick her squarely in the teeth.

  Cecily makes it quite clear she won’t be the one to leave. She spreads out her skirts, taking up even more space. Martha whispers in Elizabeth’s ear and they break into tittering. I could ask what they are laughing about, but they won’t tell me, so there’s no point.

  “What is that smell?” Martha asks, making a face.

  Cecily sniffs dramatically. “Caviar, perhaps? All the way from Russia! Why, it must be from the czar himself!”

  The venal little trolls. Ann’s cheeks blaze and her lips quiver. She stands so
quickly she nearly topples over as she rushes for the tent’s flaps. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve needlework to finish.”

  “Please do give my best to your uncle, the duke,” Cecily calls after her, and the others snicker.

  “Why must you taunt her so?” I ask.

  “She doesn’t deserve to be here,” Cecily says with easy certainty.

  “That isn’t true,” I say.

  “Isn’t it? Some people simply don’t belong.” Cecily fixes me with a haughty stare. “I’ve recently heard your father is unwell and resting at Oldham. How worried you must be. Pray, what is his affliction?”

  All Cecily lacks is a forked tongue, for she is certainly a snake beneath that beautiful dress.

  “Influenza,” I say, the lie tasting sharp in my mouth.

  “Influenza,” she repeats, glancing slyly at the others.

  “But he is much improved, and I shall pay him a visit tomorrow.”

  Cecily doesn’t yield just yet. “I am glad to know it, for one hears such unsavory stories at times—gentlemen being found in opium dens and forced into sanitariums for it. Scandalous.”

  “Cecily Temple, I shall not hear slander this evening,” Felicity warns.

  “It is influenza,” I repeat, but my voice has lost its steadiness.

  Cecily’s smile is triumphant. “Yes, of course it is.”

  I hurry after Ann, calling her name, but she doesn’t stop. Instead, she quickens her pace till she’s nearly running, desperate to be away from us and our talk of parties and teas. All that glittering promise close enough to touch but not to have.

  “Ann, please,” I say, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. She’s halfway up. “Ann, you mustn’t pay them any mind. They’re not true girls. They are hideous fiends—troglodytes in ringlets!”

  If I’d hoped to make Ann laugh, I’d missed my mark. “But they are the ones who rule,” she says without looking up. “They always have and they always shall.”

  “But, Ann, they’ve not seen the things you have in the realms. They don’t know what you’ve done. You turned rocks to butterflies and sailed through a curtain of gold. You saved us from the water nymphs with your song.”

  “Once,” she says flatly. “What does any of it matter? It won’t change my fate, will it? Come May, you and Felicity will have your season. I shall go to work for my cousins. It will end, and we’ll never see each other again.”

  For a moment, she looks into my eyes, obviously hoping to find comfort there. Tell me I am wrong; tell me you’ve got another trick up your sleeve, Gemma, her eyes plead. But she isn’t wrong, and I’m not quick or glib enough to lie. Not tonight.

  “Don’t let them win, Ann. Come back to the tent.”

  She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her disgust. “You don’t understand, do you? They’ve already won.” And with that, she retreats into the shadows.

  I could return to Fee and the others, but I’m in no humor for it. A melancholy has settled over my heart and will not yield, and I want solitude. I find a proper reading chair in the great hall far away from the chatter of girls. I’ve read no more than a few pages when I notice that I am only an arm’s length away from the infamous column. It is one of the many odd touches at Spence. There is the chandelier of carved snakes in the foyer. The leering gargoyles upon the roof. The ridiculous ostrich-feather paper on the walls. The portrait of Spence’s founder, Eugenia Spence, looming at the top of the stairs, her piercing blue eyes seeing all. I would count among these oddities the giant hearths that seem less like mantels and more like the open maws of terrible beasts. And then there is this column in the center of the great room. It boasts carvings of fairies, satyrs, sprites, nymphs, and imps of all sorts.

  It is also alive.

  Or it was once. Those “carvings” are realms creatures stuck here for eternity. Once, we foolishly brought them to life with the magic, and we were nearly destroyed by it. Some of the mischievous creatures tried to escape; others attempted to compromise our virtue. In the end, we forced them back to their prison.

  I peer closely at those tiny bodies frozen in stone. The creatures’ mouths are open in a scream of anger. Their eyes stare through me. If they got loose, I shouldn’t want to be here. Though it frightens me, I’m compelled to touch the column. My fingers come to rest on a fairy’s rigid wings, stopped in midflight. A shudder passes through me, and I lay my palm elsewhere. It lands on a satyr’s snarling lips, and my heartbeat quickens, for I feel a curious mixture of fascination and repulsion. I close my eyes and allow my fingers to explore the rough grooves and rises of its threatening mouth, the tongue, the lips, the teeth.

  My fingers slip on the stone; a harsh edge cuts my skin. I gasp at the pain. Blood beads in the slim crevice. I’ve no handkerchief, so I plunge my finger into my mouth, tasting the bitter tang of it. The column is silent, but I can feel its menace in the throb of my injury. I move my chair closer to Brigid’s comforting patter, her motherly maxims, and far away from the column’s dangerous beauty.

  At ten o’clock, our eyes heavy and our bodies longing for the warmth of blankets and the forgetting of sleep, we girls climb the stairs to our rooms for the night.

  Felicity squeezes past me. “Half past twelve. The usual spot,” she whispers. She does not wait for my nod. She has given the order and that is all.

  The lamps still burn softly in my room. Ann is asleep, but she has left the sewing scissors where I can see them. The blades are closed, but I know they have done their work marking the insides of her arms. I know she is covered in fresh welts that will soon blend into the tapestry of old scars woven into her flesh. If I had a way into the realms again, a way to the magic, I might be able to help her. But for now, I cannot change her fate. I can only wonder if she will.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  WHEN I FIRST ARRIVED AT THE SPENCE ACADEMY FOR Young Ladies, I knew nothing of its past and its relation to my life. I had come in mourning weeds, my mother having died only months before. Cholera was the official explanation for her death. But I knew better. In a vision I had seen her die, hunted by a hideous wraith from another world, a tracker, that meant to take her soul had she not taken her own life in self-defense.

  It was the first of my visions but not the last. I came to have many of them. I had inherited a power; a lineage passed from my mother to me, a gift in some ways, a curse in others. It was here at Spence that I learned of my bond to a world beyond this one, a world of extraordinary power called the realms.

  For centuries, the realms were ruled by a powerful tribe of priestesses called the Order. Together, they used the realms magic to help the dead complete their souls’ tasks when needed and cross the river. Over time, their power grew. They could cast grand illusions, influence people and events in the mortal world. But their greatest duty was to keep the balance between good and evil within the realms. For there are many tribes there, and some of them—the malevolent creatures of the Winterlands—would do anything to seize control of the magic, that they might rule the realms and perhaps our world as well. To keep the magic safe, the Order sealed it in a circle of runes. Only they could draw upon its power then. The other tribes of the realms grew disenchanted and resentful. They wanted to have equal say.

  Even the Order’s allies became untrustworthy over time. The Order was once united in protecting the realms with the Rakshana. These men kept law there and watched over the priestesses. They were also their lovers. But they, too, grew resentful of the Order’s control over the realms and its great magic.

  And so it had been for ages: every side grappling to hold the magic—until the fire twenty-five years ago. On that night, my mother and her best friend offered a sacrifice—a young Gypsy girl—to the Winterlands creatures in exchange for power. But something went wrong. The child was accidentally killed, and thus her soul could not be taken. Enraged, the creatures demanded the girls themselves, for they had foolishly entered into the bargain, and now it would be ho
nored, one way or another. To save the lives of my mother and Sarah, Eugenia Spence, the Order’s great teacher and the founder of Spence Academy, gave herself to the Winterlands creatures in payment for the girls’ terrible deed. Her last act was to throw her amulet to my mother. Eugenia closed the realms, sealed them so that no one and nothing could go in or come out until a powerful priestess was born, one who could open the realms again and chart a new course for the magical world.

  I am that girl. And no one seems at all happy about it. The Order thinks me headstrong and foolish. The Rakshana find me dangerous. They sent one of their own, a young man named Kartik, to watch me, to warn me not to enter the realms, and when that did not work, they told him to kill me. Instead, he betrayed his brotherhood and saved my life, putting a price on his own head.

  They may not like it, but the facts are these: I was the one who was able to open the realms again, and so far, no one may enter without my help. I was the one who broke the seal on the magic by shattering the runes. And I was the one to find the source of the magic, in a protected place called the Temple. It was at the Temple that I fought Circe, my mother’s foe and an enemy of the Order, to keep the magic safe. In so doing, I killed her and bound the magic to myself for safekeeping. I promised to join hands with my friends, with Kartik, and with the tribes of the realms to make an alliance, with a share of magic for all.