The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
Asha greets me as she always has: with a small bow, her palms pressed together as if in prayer. “Welcome, Lady Hope.”
I return the gesture and am ushered inside the cave. Two of the Hajin carry bushels of bright red poppies gathered from the fields below. They sort through them, taking only the good, which they weigh on large scales before feeding them to the smoke pots. As I pass, the Untouchables welcome me warmly, offering flowers and smiles.
“Have you come to return the magic to the Temple?” Asha asks.
“Not just yet. But I shall,” I assure her.
Asha bows, but I see from her lack of a smile that she does not believe me. “How may the Hajin be of help to you?”
“I should like to approach the well of eternity.”
“You wish to face your fears?”
“There is something I must put to rest,” I answer.
She shakes her head slowly. “Putting to rest is not so easy. You are free to enter.”
A wall of water separates me from what lies within. I need only pass through it, and I will know for certain. My lips are dry with fear. I moisten them with my tongue, try to steady myself. Holding my breath, I push through the water’s skin, and then I’m inside the sacred heart of the Temple.
The well of eternity sits in the center. Its deep waters make no sound. Heart hammering in my chest, I approach the well, until my fingers light upon the rough edge of it. I can scarcely draw a breath. My tongue catches against the roof of my mouth. I grip the edge of the well tightly and peer in. The water inside has turned to ice. My face is reflected in its smoky surface. I trace the outline of it there.
A woman’s face presses against the surface, and I stumble back, gasping. Her features emerge from the murky deep of the well. The eyes and mouth are closed as in death. Her face is bleached of all color. Her hair floats on the water beneath the ice like the rays of a dark sun.
Circe’s eyes snap open. “Gemma…you’ve come.”
I back away further, shaking my head. My stomach lurches. I want to vomit. But fear keeps me from doing even that. “You…you’re dead,” I whisper. “I killed you.”
“No. I live.” Her voice is a strangled whisper. “When you bound the magic to yourself, you trapped me here. I shall die when the magic is returned.”
“And I’m g-glad of it,” I stammer, walking quickly toward the wall of water that separates this terrible room from the Caves of Sighs.
Circe’s eerie voice echoes in the cave like the imagined murmurs of demons. “The Order is plotting against you. They plan to take back the realms without you.”
“You’re lying,” I say, shivering.
“You forget, Gemma—I was one of them for a time. They’ll do anything to have the power again. You can’t trust them.”
“You’re the one I can’t trust!”
“I did not kill Nell Hawkins,” she says, naming the girl whose blood is on my hands.
“You gave me no choice!” But it’s too late. She has found my wound and gouged it further.
“There is always a choice, Gemma. While there is time, I can teach you to harness your power, to make it obey you. Do you want it to lead you, or will you be its master?”
I approach the well cautiously. “My mother might have taught me in time. But she never got the chance. You killed her first.”
“She killed herself.”
“To keep her soul safe from you and that horrid Winterlands creature—that tracker! She did not wish to be corrupted! I’d have done the same.”
“I wouldn’t have. For a daughter such as you, I’d have fought with my very last breath. But Mary was never much of a fighter, not like you.”
“You’ve no leave to speak of my mother,” I snap.
I steal a quick glance, and for a second, I see in her face something of who she once was, a glimpse of my former teacher, Miss Moore. But then she speaks, and that chill runs up my spine.
“Gemma, you needn’t worry about me. I would never harm you. But I might still help you. And all I ask in return is to have a taste of magic again—just once more before I die.”
For a moment, her words sow doubt under my skin. But she is not to be trusted. It’s only a ploy to get the power. She hasn’t changed. “I’m leaving.”
“There is a plan in motion. You cannot imagine what dangers you face. You cannot trust the Order. Only I can help you.”
I was wrong to come. “You’ll get nothing from me. You can rot in there for all I care.”
She slips below the shadowy surface of the water, and the last thing I see before she disappears is one pale hand that seems as if it’s reaching toward me.
“You’ll come back to me,” she whispers in a voice as cold as the icy water itself. “When there is no one else to trust, you will have to.”
“Did you find what you sought, Lady Hope?” Asha asks as I return to the Cave of Sighs.
“Yes,” I answer bitterly. “I know all I need to know.”
Asha leads me down a corridor of faded frescoes and into a cave I remember. Carvings of lush-hipped women and sensual men adorn its walls. They draw me even though I blush at their nakedness. I spy something I’ve not noticed before. It is an engraving of two hands clasped in the center of a perfect circle. It is familiar to me though I cannot say why, like something glimpsed in a dream. The stones seem to speak to me: This is a place of dreams for those who are willing to see. Place your hands inside the circle and dream.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
Asha smiles. “This is a special place. It was where the Order and the Rakshana would come as lovers.”
The word brings another fiery blush that will not cool.
“They would place their hands together inside the circle so that they could walk in each other’s dreams. It forged a bond that could not be broken. The circle represents love in eternity. For there is no beginning and no end. You see?”
“Yes,” I say, letting my fingers trace the circle.
“They would come to test their devotion. If they could not walk in each other’s dreams, they were not destined to be lovers.”
Asha leads me down the Temple’s colorful corridor. I wait for her to ask me about the magic and the alliance, but she doesn’t. “I do mean to form an alliance and bind the magic to us all,” I explain without her prompting. “But there are matters I must attend to in my own world first.”
Asha only smiles.
“I shall share it. You have my word.”
She watches as I leave. “Of course, Lady Hope.”
I make my way alone across the poppy fields and down a dusty lane hidden beneath the green lace canopy of willow trees. Their delicate leaves sweep against the ground with a comforting swish. I take a deep breath and try to clear my mind but find I can’t. Circe’s warnings have found a home there. I shouldn’t have gone. I shan’t make that mistake twice. And Pippa? Perhaps there is a reason she couldn’t cross. Perhaps there is a chance to save her still. That thought makes my steps lighter. I’ve nearly reached the end of the lane when I hear the faint pounding of horses.
Through the willows’ curtain of green, I spy a quick flash of white. One horse? Ten? Are there riders? How many? The leaves shift, and I no longer see anything. But I can hear the pounding getting closer. I lift my nightgown and run for all I’m worth, feeling the path hit hard against the soles of my feet. I slip between two trees and dart into the wheat field, parting the slapping stalks with my hands. Still I hear it. My heart beats its refrain: Don’t look behind you; don’t stop; run, run, run.
I’m nearly to the statue of the three-faced goddess that marks the ascent to the secret door. Gulping for breath, I turn the corner. Zigzag through the sentry stones, those watching women. Up ahead, the mossy hill gives no indication of a door. Behind me is the steady pounding of that unseen rider. I fling myself at the hill. Open, open, open…
The door appears and I push through, and the sound of horses fades. I race through the firefly glow of the passa
Atop Spence’s roof, the gargoyles sit on their perches, keeping watch over everything. With their shadowy backs pressed against the moon’s light, they seem almost alive, as if their wings might unfurl and fling them into flight.
The tingling starts in my hands, and before I can take my next breath, it’s coursing through my blood with a power that brings me to my knees. The magic is strong. It surges like an animal that must run. I’m panicked; I shall be devoured by it if I don’t let it free.
I stagger into the rose garden and run my hands over the sleeping buds. Where my fingers trail, the flowers burst into a symphony of color unlike anything I have ever seen—deep reds, fiery pinks, creamy white, and yellows as bright as summer sun. When I finish, spring has come to every rose. It has come to me, as well, for I feel magnificent—strong and alive. Color blooms inside me, a newfound joy.
“I did that,” I say, examining my hands as if they were not my own. But they are. I brought forth roses in my world with them. And that is only the beginning. With this power, there is no telling what I can do to change what needs to be changed—for me, for Felicity, and for Ann. And once we have secured our futures, we’ll forge an alliance in the realms.
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.
“You couldn’t go as yourself, Ann,” I say. “But you could go as someone else.”
She gives me an odd look.
“The magic,” I whisper. “Don’t you see? This will be our first chance to change our fortunes.”
“Right under Mother’s nose.” Felicity grins. That temptation alone is enough to pull her in.
“What if it doesn’t work?” Ann says.
“Shall we let that stop us from trying?” I protest.
Felicity puts out her hand. “I’m for it.”
Ann adds hers, and I put mine on top. “To the future.”
Excitement ripples through the crowd of fairgoers. The rowers are within sight. People crowd the banks to cheer them on. We scramble down beneath a bluff, where we can be closer to the river but hidden from Nightwing’s view. Three boats battle for the lead with a trail of lesser rowers following in their wake. The men have rolled up their shirtsleeves to their elbows, and as they pull past us, we can see their brawny arms at work. Hands tight on the oars, they move as one, forward and back, forward and back, like a great engine of muscle and flesh. The movement is hypnotic and we are under its spell.
“Oh, they’re quite strong, aren’t they?” Ann says dreamily.
“Yes,” I say. “Quite.”
“Which would you marry?” Ann asks.
Kartik’s face flashes in my mind, unbidden, and I shake my head to remove the thought before I feel melancholy. “I should have the one in the front,” I say, nodding toward a handsome man with fair hair and a broad chest.
“Oh, he is lovely. Do you suppose he has a brother for me?” Ann says.
“Yes,” I say. “And you shall honeymoon in Umbria.”
Ann laughs. “He’s rich, naturally.”
“Naturally,” I echo. Already the game has me in a lighter mood. Take that, Kartik.
“Whic
Felicity barely considers them. “None.”
“You’ve not even looked,” Ann complains.
“As you wish.” Felicity hops onto a rock. She crosses her arms and scrutinizes the men. “Hmmm, that one is balding. The fellows in the back are barely in whiskers. This one nearest us…dear me, are those ears or wings?”
My laugh is a harsh bark. Ann covers her mouth as she giggles.
“But the pièce de résistance is the one on the right,” she says, pointing to a man with a round, doughy face and a large red nose. “He has a face to make a girl contemplate drowning.”
“He’s not as bad as all that,” I say, giggling. It’s a lie. For all the times men weigh us according to our beauty, we are none the better about it.
Felicity’s eyes take on a sinister gleam. “Why, Gemma, how could I possibly stand between you and true love? He shall be your intended, I think.”
“I think not!”
“Oh, yes, he shall,” Felicity taunts in a singsong. “Think of all the grisly children you shall have—all with big, fat, red noses, just like his!”
“I can’t bear your envy, Fee. You should have him. Please. I insist.”
“Oh, no. No, I am not worthy of such loveliness. He must be yours.”
“I’d die first.”
“It would be the less painful course.” Felicity jumps to her feet and waves her handkerchief. “Good afternoon!” she calls, bold as you please.
“Fee!” I squeal in embarrassment. But it is too late. We have their full attention now, and there is nowhere to run. The race forgotten, their boat floats on the river as they call out and wave to us young ladies under the bluff.