The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
“Very well. Suit yourself,” Felicity says. She’s not shamed a bit, of course. “I cannot tell you how liberating it is to be without layers of skirts and petticoats. You are the witnesses to my solemn pledge: When I am free of these shackles and living in Paris on my inheritance, I shall never wear a dress again.”
“Oh, Fee,” Martha says, stricken. “How could you not want to wear those lovely gowns your mother has sent from France? Did I mention that my own gown is to be made by Lady Marble’s atelier?”
“You didn’t!” Cecily says.
They talk of dresses and gloves and stockings, buttons and baubles in such fevered, fawning detail I fear I shall go mad. The sounds of hammering and sawing drift out from the East Wing. The workmen glance at us, nudging each other, until Mr. Miller threatens to hold their pay.
“Ann, you look lovely this morning,” Felicity says, and Ann blooms at the compliment. Fee lowers her voice. “Wasn’t last night perfection? To see Pip again—a weight has been lifted from me.”
“Yes,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It was good to see her again.”
“And the magic,” Ann whispers.
“Oh, the magic.” Felicity beams. “I should like to have done everything I could think of with it, for I’ve none today.”
“None at all?” Ann can barely hide her smile.
Felicity shakes her head. “Not a bit. Have you any?”
Ann looks at me.
“It seems to be coming to life again in me. I gifted Ann this morning, and I shall do the same for you,” I say, holding her hands until I feel the magic spark between us.
“What are you three whispering about?” Martha asks, eyeing us suspiciously.
“Employing magic to better our lives,” I answer. Felicity turns away, giggling quietly.
“You are rude and common, Gemma Doyle,” Martha sniffs. “And you are wicked to encourage her, Felicity Worthington. And as for you, Ann Bradshaw—oh, why should I bother?”
Thank goodness, the three bicycles are brought round. We shall have to take turns. I’ve never seen a bicycle up close before. It’s rather like a metal S with two wheels and a bar for steering. And the seat! It seems far too high to sit upon.
Inspector Kent greets us in his brown cotton coat and cap. He is Mademoiselle LeFarge’s betrothed, a detective with Scotland Yard and a kind man as well. We are genuinely happy they shall be married come May. Mademoiselle LeFarge looks on from her spot on the grass, where she has laid out a blanket. She wears a thick bonnet that frames her plump face, her merry eyes. Not so long ago, she pined for a lost love. But under Inspector Kent’s kind attention, she has blossomed.
“The future Mrs. Kent is a picture of loveliness today, is she not?” the inspector says, making our French teacher blush.
“Do be careful no one is hurt, Mr. Kent,” she says, dismissing his kindness.
“I shall afford your charges the utmost care, Mademoiselle LeFarge,” he answers, and her face softens.
“I know you shall, Mr. Kent,” she says, returning the compliment.
Inspector Kent’s bushy mustache hides his smile, but we catch the twinkle in his eyes. “Now, ladies,” he says, wheeling one of the bicycles toward us, “who would like to ride?”
Several of the younger girls bounce in excitement and beg to be chosen, but of course it’s Felicity who marches forward and the question is answered. “I shall go first,” she says.
“Very well. Have you ridden before?” he asks.
“Yes, at Falmore Hall,” she answers, naming her family’s estate in the country. She mounts the wobbling bicycle, and I fear she’ll land in a heap upon the ground. But she gives the pedals a solid push and then she’s off, wheeling effortlessly about the grass. We clap and cheer. Cecily is next. Inspector Kent runs beside her, keeping her aloft. When he threatens to let go, she throws her arms about his neck and screams. Martha doesn’t fare much better. She falls over, and though she has injured nothing more than her pride, she refuses to remount. The workmen snicker, apparently amused to see us fine ladies so undone by such a simple piece of machinery, one they could fashion with their bare hands.
Felicity returns from her second go on the bicycle. Inspector Kent is helping Ann with her turn.
“Oh, Gemma,” Felicity says, breathless and pink-cheeked. “You must have a ride! It’s simply marvelous! Here, I’ll help you.”
She places my hands upon the unwieldy handlebars. My arms shake as I straddle the bicycle. It is the most awkward thing I have ever attempted.
“Now, sit,” Felicity instructs.
I struggle to perch on the high seat and lose my balance, splaying out over the handlebars in a most unladylike fashion.
“Oh, Gemma!” Felicity laughs, doubled over.
I grab the handlebars with renewed determination. “Right. All I need is a proper push and I’ll be off,” I say with a sniff. “Steady the beast, if you please.”
“Do you speak of the bicycle or of your behind?”
“Felicity!” I hiss.
She rolls her eyes. “Get on, then.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and hoist myself onto the spectacularly uncomfortable seat. I grip the handlebars so tightly my knuckles ache. I lift one foot. The iron beast sways, and I put my foot down again quickly, my heart beating fast.
“You won’t get far that way,” Felicity scolds. “You have to let go.”
“But how…,” I say, alarmed.
“Just. Let. Go.”
With a solid push, Felicity launches me across the grass and down the slight hill, toward the dirt path. Time seems to stand still. I am terrified and exhilarated all at once.
“Pedal, Gemma!” Felicity screams. “Just keep pedaling!”
My feet push jerkily against the pedals, propelling me forward, but the handlebars have a mind of their own. I cannot control them.
You will behave, bicycle!
A rush of power surges through my veins. Suddenly, the bicycle is very light. It’s no trouble at all to keep it moving.
“Ha!” I shout in exultation. Magic! I am saved! I descend a small hill and come round the other side, the picture of Gibson Girl grace. The crowd on the lawn cheers. Cecily stares at me, openmouthed.
“There’s a good girl!” Inspector Kent calls. “Like she was born to it!”
Felicity’s mouth hangs open too. “Gemma!” she scolds, knowing my secret.
But I don’t care. I am mad for bicycling! It is a most marvelous sport! The wind rips my hat from my head. It rolls down the hill, and three workmen run after it. Laughing, they fight amongst themselves over who will be the one to return it to me. This is freedom. I feel the turning of the wheels deep in my belly, as if we are one machine, and I cannot fall. It makes me bold. Picking up speed, I race up the hill and whoosh down the other side, toward the road, pushing harder and faster with each enchanted pedal stroke. The wheels leave the ground, and for one brief, glorious moment, I am airborne. My stomach tickles me from the inside. Laughing, I lift my hands from the handlebars, tempting fate and gravity.
“Gemma! Come back!” the girls yell, but it’s their hard luck. I turn to offer them a cheery wave, watching as they grow smaller with distance.
When I face front again, there’s someone in the road. I don’t know where he’s come from, but I’m headed straight for him.
“Look out!” I shout.
He ducks out of the way. I lose concentration. The beast is no longer within my control. It weaves frantically from side to side before pitching me to the grass.
“Let me help you.” He offers his hand and I take it, standing on shaky legs. “Are you hurt?”
I’m scraped and bruised. I’ve a tear in my bloomers, and under it, where my stocking shows, is a stain of grass and blood.
“You might have been more careful, sir,” I scold.
“You might have been looking out, Miss Doyle,” he answers in a voice I know, though it has grown huskier.
My head snap
I choose my words as carefully as knives. “How good it is to see you again.”
He offers me a small smile. “You’ve taken up bicycling, I see.”
“Yes, much has happened these months,” I snap.
Kartik’s smile fades, and I am sorry for my uncivil tongue.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not,” I say with a harsh slap of a laugh.
“I don’t blame you for it.”
I swallow hard. “I wondered if the Rakshana had…if you were…”
“Dead?”
I nod.
“It would seem not.” He lifts his head and I note the dark circles beneath his eyes.
“Are you well? Have you eaten?” I ask.
“Please don’t worry on my account.” He leans in and for one giddy moment I think he means to kiss me. “And the realms? What news of them? Have you returned the magic and formed the alliance? Are the realms secure?”
He only wants to know about the realms. My stomach’s as heavy as if I’d swallowed lead. “I have it well in hand.”
“And…have you seen my brother in your realms? Have you seen Amar?” he asks a bit desperately.
“No, I haven’t,” I say, softening. “So…you were not able to come sooner?”
He looks away. “I chose not to come.”
“I—I don’t understand,” I say when I find words again.
His shoves his hands into his pockets. “I think it would be best if we parted ways. You have your path, and I have mine. It would seem that our fates are no longer intertwined.”
I blink to keep the tears at bay. Don’t cry, for heaven’s sake, Gemma. “B-but you said you wished to be part of the alliance. To join hands with me—with us—”
“I’ve had a change of heart.” He is so cold I wonder that he has a heart to change. What has happened?
“Gem-ma!” Felicity calls from beyond the hill. “It’s Elizabeth’s turn!”
“They’re waiting for you. Here, I shall help you with that,” he says, reaching for the bicycle.
I pull it away. “Thank you, but I don’t require your help. It isn’t your fate.”
Pushing the bicycle ahead of me, I run quickly to the road so that he cannot see how deeply he has wounded me.
I excuse myself from the bicycling under the pretense of tending to my knee. Mademoiselle LeFarge offers to help me, but I promise her I shall repair straight to Brigid and bandages. Instead, I slip through the woods toward the boathouse, where I can take refuge and nurse my deeper wounds in private. The small lake reflects the slow migration of pilgrim clouds.
“Carolina! Carolina!”
An old Gypsy woman, Mother Elena, searches the woods. She wears her silvery hair wrapped in a bright blue kerchief. Several necklaces hang to her chest. Every spring, when the Gypsies come around, Mother Elena is with them. It was her daughter, Carolina, whom my mother and Sarah led to the East Wing to sacrifice to the Winterlands. The loss of her beloved daughter was more than Mother Elena could bear; her mind frayed and now she is more a haunt than a woman. I’ve not seen her since the Gypsies returned this time. She hasn’t ventured far from their camp, and I’m surprised to see how frail she is.
“Have you seen my little girl, my Carolina?” she asks.
“No,” I say weakly.
“Carolina, love, do not play with me so,” Mother Elena says, looking behind a large tree as if she were merely involved in a game of hide-and-seek. “Will you help me find her?”
“Yes,” I say, though it makes my heart ache to join her folly.
“She’s mischievous,” Mother Elena says. “And a good hider. Carolina!”
“Carolina!” I call halfheartedly. I peek behind bushes and peer into the trees, pretending to look for a girl killed long ago.
“Keep looking,” Mother Elena instructs.
“Yes,” I lie, shame reddening my neck, “I’ll do that.”
The moment Mother Elena is out of sight, I steal into the boathouse, exhaling in relief. I shall wait here until the old woman goes back to the camp. Dust motes shimmer in the cracks of weak sunlight. I can hear the hammering of the workers and the hopeful call of a mother searching for the daughter who will not be found. I know what happened to little Carolina. I know that the child was murdered, nearly sacrificed to the Winterlands creatures twenty-five years ago. I know the horrible truth of that night, and I wish I didn’t.
An oar propped haphazardly against a wall slides toward me. I feel the smooth weight of the wood in my hands as my body is seized by a sensation I have not had in months—that of a vision taking hold. Every muscle contracts. I squeeze the oar tightly as my eyelids flutter and the sound of my blood grows as loud as war drums in my ears. And then I am under, whooshing through light as if I alone am awake inside a dream. Images rush past and blend into one another as in a turning kaleidoscope. I see the lady in lavender writing furiously by lantern light, her hair plastered to her face with sweat. Sounds—a mournful cry. Shouts. Birds.
Another turn of the kaleidoscope, and I am on the streets of London. The lady motions to me to follow. The wind blows a handbill at my feet. Another leaflet for the illusionist Dr. Van Ripple. I pick it up, and I’m in a raucous music hall. A man with black hair and a neat goatee places an egg into a box and, as quick as a blink, he makes it disappear. The pretty lady who led me here takes the box away and returns to the stage, where the illusionist places her into a trance. He takes hold of a large slate, and with a piece of chalk in both hands, the lady writes upon it as if possessed: We are betrayed. She is a deceiver. The Tree of All Souls lives. The key holds the truth.
The crowd gasps and applauds, but I’m pulled out of the music hall. I’m on the streets again. The lady is just ahead, running over cobblestones slick with the damp, past rows of narrow, unlit houses. She runs for her life, her eyes wild with fear.
The rivermen shout to one another. With their long hooks they fish the cold, dead body of the lady from the river. She clutches one sheet of paper. Words scratch themselves onto the page: You are the only one who can save us….
The vision leaves me like a train whooshing through my body, out and away. I come back to myself inside the musty boathouse just as the oar snaps in my hands. Trembling, I slump to the floor and place the broken pieces there. I’m unaccustomed now to a vision’s force. I can’t catch my breath.
I stumble from the boathouse, sucking in a great lungful of fresh, cool air. The sun works its magic, dispelling the last remnants of my vision. My breathing slows and my head settles.
The Tree of All Souls lives. You are the only one who can save us. The key holds the truth.
I’ve no idea what it means. My head aches, and it isn’t helped by the steady syncopation of hammers drifting over the lawn.
Mother Elena startles me. She pulls her braid, listening to the hammering. “There is mischief here. I feel it. Do you feel it?”
“N-no,” I say, staggering toward the school. Mother Elena falls in behind me. I walk faster. Please, please go away. Leave me be. We reach the clearing and the small hill. From here, the top of Spence rises majestically above the trees. The workmen are visible. Great panes of glass are hoisted on heavy ropes from the roof and fitted into place. Mother Elena gasps, her eyes wide with fear.
“They must not do this!”
She moves quickly toward Spence, yelling in a language I do not understand, but I can feel the alarm in her words.
“You do not know what you do!” Mother
Mr. Miller and his men have a small chuckle at the mad Gypsy woman and her fears. “Go on now and leave us to men’s work!” they shout.
But Mother Elena is not swayed. She paces on the lawn, pointing an accusing finger at them. “It is an abomination—a curse!”
A worker yells a sudden warning. A pane of glass has gotten the better of its handlers. It twists on its rope, hovering precariously until it is guided into the hands of workers below. One man grabs for it and cuts his palm along the sharp edge. He cries out as the blood flows down his arm. A handkerchief is given. The bloody hand is wrapped.
“You see?” Mother Elena calls.
There’s murder in Mr. Miller’s eyes. He threatens her with a hammer till the other men pull him back. “You bloody Gypsies! You’re the only curse I see!”
The shouts have drawn the Gypsy men to the lawn. Ithal stands protectively in front of Mother Elena. Kartik is there as well. Mr. Miller’s men grab hammers and irons to stand with their foreman, and I fear there shall be a terrible row.
Someone has sent for Inspector Kent. He steps into the thin line of grass separating the Gypsies and the English workmen. “Here now, what’s all the trouble?”
“Bloody Gypsies, mate,” Mr. Miller spits.
Inspector Kent’s eyes go steely. “I’m not your mate, sir. And you’ll have a care around these ladies or I’ll have you at the Yard.” To Mother Elena, he says, “Best go back, m’um.”
The Gypsies slowly turn but not before one of the workers—the man in the red-patched shirt—spits at them, and the insult lands on Ithal’s cheek. He wipes it away but he can’t erase his rage so easily. Anger burns in Kartik’s eyes too, and when he glances at me, I feel as if I am the enemy.
Ithal speaks softly to Mother Elena in their native language. Her mouth tightens in fear as the men lead her away. “Cursed,” she mutters, trembling. “Cursed.”
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CHAPTER TWELVE
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