The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
“You, sir,” she says, pointing to the unfortunate fellow. “My dear friend here is far too modest to make a confession of her admiration for you. Therefore, I’ve no choice but to make a case on her behalf.”
“Felicity!” I choke out. I dart behind the rock.
The poor fellow stands in the boat and I see, sadly, that he is as wide as his face—less a man, more a barrel in trousers. “I should like to make the lady’s acquaintance, if she would be so kind as to show herself.”
“Do you hear that, Gemma? The gentleman wishes to make your acquaintance.” Felicity tugs on my arm in an attempt to get me to my feet.
“No!” I whisper, pulling back. This foolishness has gone far enough.
“I’m afraid she’s rather shy, sir. Perhaps if you were to woo her.”
He recites a sonnet that compares me to a summer day. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he intones. On that score, he is sadly misguided. “Tell me your name, fair lady!”
It is out of my mouth before I can stop myself: “Miss Felicity Worthington of Mayfair.”
“Admiral Worthington’s daughter?”
“The same!” I shout.
Now it is Felicity who pulls on my arm, begging me to stop. In their zeal to speak to us, two other fellows leap up, upsetting the boat’s delicate balance. With a shout, they topple into the cold river, to the amusement of everyone.
Laughing like lunatics, we race away down the side of the bluff and take cover behind tall hedges. Our laughter is contagious: Each time the giggles subside, one of us begins anew, and it starts all over again. At last we lie on the grass, feeling the late-March breeze sweep over us as it carries along the merry shouts of the party in the distance.
“That was horrid of us, wasn’t it?” Ann says, still giggling.
“But merry,” I answer. Overhead the clouds are full and promising.
A note of worry creeps into Ann’s voice. “Do you think God shall punish us for such wickedness?”
Felicity makes a diamond of her thumbs and forefingers. She holds them up to the sun as if she can catch it. “If God has nothing better to do than punish schoolgirls for a bit of tomfoolery, then I’ve no use for God.”
“Felicity…” Ann starts to scold but stops. “And do you really think we can change the course of our lives with magic, Gemma?”
“We’re going to try. Already I feel more alive. Awake. Don’t you?”
Ann smiles. “When it’s inside me, it’s as if I can do anything.”
“Anything,” Felicity murmurs. She props herself up on her side, a beautiful S of a girl. “And what about Pip? What might we do for her?”
I think of Pippa in the water, thrashing about, unable to cross. “I don’t know. I don’t know if the magic can change her course. They say—”
“They say,” Felicity snorts in derision. “We say. You hold all the magic now, Gemma. Surely we can make changes in the realms, as well. For Pippa, too.”
I hear Gorgon’s words in my head: She need not fall. A ladybug struggles on her back. I right her with a finger, and she toddles through the grass before getting stuck again.
“There’s so little I know about the realms and the magic and the Order—only what people tell me. It is time we found out for ourselves what is possible and what is not,” I say.
Felicity nods. “Well done.”
We lie back in the grass and let the sun warm our winter-weary faces, which is a form of magic in itself.
“I wish it could be like this always,” Ann says, sighing.
“Perhaps it can,” I say.
We lie close together, holding hands, and watch the clouds, those happy ladies in their billowing skirts, as they dance and curtsy and become something else entirely.
In the afternoon, the business in the marketplace has begun to dwindle, and several of the exhibitors have packed their goods. It’s time for dancing and entertainment. Jugglers thrill children with gravity-defying acts. Men flirt with servant girls enjoying that rare day off from their labors. A troupe of mummers presents a pageant about Saint George. With their cork-reddened faces and tunics, they’re a merry, boisterous sight. As it’s near Easter, a morality play is staged at the far end of the green, near the hiring stalls. Nightwing takes us to see it, and we stand among the crowd, watching as a pilgrim makes his progress through his soul’s darkest hours and on into morning.
From the corner of my eye, I spy Kartik at the ship captain’s stall, and my stomach does a small flip.
“Felicity,” I whisper, tugging on her sleeve. “I’ve just spied Kartik. I must speak with him. If Nightwing or LeFarge looks for me, tell them I’ve gone to see the cockfights.”
“But—”
“Please?”
Felicity nods. “Be quick about it.”
Swift as a hare, I slip through the crowd, catching Kartik just as he shakes hands with the captain, sealing their bargain. My heart sinks.
“Excuse me, sir. Might I have a word?” I say.
My familiarity draws the consternation of a few farmers’ wives, who must wonder what business a well-brought-up girl could have with an Indian.
I glance toward the captain. “Are you going to sea?”
He nods. “The HMS Orlando. It leaves from Bristol in six weeks’ time, and I shall be on it.”
“But…a sailor? You told me you didn’t care for the sea,” I say, a sudden lump forming in my throat at the memory of the first night we spoke in the chapel.
“If the sea is all there is, it will suffice.” From his pocket Kartik takes a worn red bandana, the one we used as a silent communiqué before. I would place it in my bedroom window if I needed to speak with him, and he would tie it in the ivy nestled below if he needed me. He presses it to his neck.
“Kartik, what has happened?” I whisper. “When I left you in London, you pledged your loyalty to me and to the alliance.”
“That person doesn’t exist any longer,” he answers, his eyes darkening.
“Has this anything to do with the Rakshana? What of all your talk of destiny and—”
“I no longer believe in destiny,” Kartik says, his voice shaking. “And if you recall, I am also not a member in good standing of the Rakshana. I am a man without a place, and the sea will suit me fine.”
“Why do you not come with me into the realms?”
His voice is barely a whisper. “I’ll not see the realms. Not ever.”
“But why not?”
He won’t look at me. “I have my reasons.”
“Then tell me what they are.”
“They are my reasons, and mine alone.” He rips the bandana in two and places half in my hand. “Here, take it. Something to remember me by.”
I stare at the crumpled ball of fabric. I should like to throw it at him and walk away in triumph. Instead, I clutch it tightly, hating myself for this weakness.
“You shall make a fine sailor,” I say sharply.
It is nearly sundown when we return to Spence, laden with parcels from the fair. Mr. Miller’s men are quitting for the day. Dirty and damp with sweat, they load their tools onto a wagon and wash up in the buckets of water the scullery maid has left for them. Brigid offers them cool lemonade, and they drink it in greedy gulps. Mrs. Nightwing inspects the day’s work with the foreman.
“Oi, Mr. Miller, sir,” one of the men calls. “That old stone in the ground. It’s broke clean in two.”
Mr. Miller squats down to have a look. “Aye,” he says, brushing his dirty hands against his strong thighs. “Can’t say how it happened, though, thick and tough as it is.” He turns to Nightwing. “It ain’t but an eyesore, missus. Should we take it out?”
“Very well,” Mrs. Nightwing says, dismissing them with a wave of her hand.
The men grab shovels and picks and plunge them into the sodden earth around the stone. I hold my breath, wondering if the secret door will be revealed or if their efforts shall affect our ability to enter. But there’s little I can do about it
“Might fetch a price somewhere,” Miller muses.
Mother Elena staggers toward us from the woods. “You mustn’t do this!” she cries, and I realize she’s been hiding and watching. It gives me a shiver, though I can’t say why, exactly. Mother Elena is mad; she’s always saying strange things.
It’s gotten to a few of the men, as well. They stop digging.
“Back to it, mates,” Mr. Miller shouts. “And you, Gypsy—we’ve ’ad enough of your mumbo jumbo.”
“Off you go, Mother,” Brigid says, starting toward the old woman.
But Mother Elena doesn’t wait. She backs away. “Two ways,” she mutters. “Two ways. You’ll bring the curse on us all.”
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
* * *
WE DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL AFTER MIDNIGHT TO make our escape from Spence. Everyone is so exhausted from the fair I can hear the snores resounding in the hallways. But the three of us are more awake than ever, giddy with anticipation. We gather in the great room. I try to make the door of light appear once more, but I cannot seem to summon it. I feel Fee’s and Ann’s eagerness turning to desperation, so I abandon that way for the other.
“Let’s go,” I say, leading the charge out onto the lawn.
The night is a living, breathing thing filled with possibility. The cloudless sky twinkles with thousands of stars that seem to urge us on. The moon sits fat and content.
I put out my hand and conjure the door in my mind. The energy of it makes my hand shake. The secret portal shimmers into view, as strong as before, and I let out my breath in relief.
“What are we waiting for?” Fee asks, grinning, and we race each other through the glowing passageway, laughing. We come out in the realms. Arm in arm, we take the trail that winds among the stones, sneaking about so that we’re not seen, looking for any signs of trouble.
“Oh, Winterlands creatures,” Felicity singsongs as we near the Borderlands. “Come out of your hiding places.”
Ann shushes her. “I d-d-don’t think we sh-should…”
“Can’t you see they’ve gone? Or something has happened to them. When Gemma took the magic out of the Temple, perhaps that was the end of them.”
“Then why hasn’t Pip…” I let the words die on my tongue.
“Because she’s not one of them,” Felicity snaps.
When we come to the Borderlands, we step carefully through the thorn wall. Its snares are easier to escape this time, and we make it through without so much as a scratch.
Woo-oot! Woo-oot!
The call resonates in the blue-tinged forest. Bessie Timmons and Mae Sutter, sticks in hand, pop out from behind the trees, eliciting a yelp from Felicity.
“You needn’t do that. It’s only us,” Felicity says.
“Can’t be too careful,” Bessie says.
“I don’t care for how familiar they are,” Felicity whispers to me. “Or how vulgar.”
Pippa waves to us from the castle’s tower. “Don’t go away—I’m coming down!”
“Pip!” Felicity leads the charge to the castle’s doors. Mercy opens them up and welcomes us inside. The castle seems a bit tidier than it was before. Some care has been taken. The floors swept, the fire lit. It is almost cozy. Even the vines do not seem quite so intimidating, their deadly nightshade flowers a pretty purple against the crumbling stone.
Pippa races into the room. “I saw you at the bramble wall! I counted the seconds until you reached us—two hundred thirty-two, to be exact!”
Pippa’s dress is in tatters again, but the rest of her is still lovely. The magic seems to have lasted for her, which is curious, for when I have gifted Fee and Ann, it hasn’t lasted longer than a few hours at best.
“You’re absolutely radiant,” Fee says, embracing her.
Pippa slides me a sly glance. “Yes! It must have been the joy of being reunited with my friends again, for I feel a different girl altogether. Oh, Gemma, will you help me with the kindling?”
“Of course,” I say, ignoring Fee’s curious stare.
Pip leads me behind the tapestry and into the old chapel.
“How are you?” I ask.
Her lips tremble. “How should I be? I am doomed to live here forever. To be this age forever while my friends grow older and forget about me.”
“We shan’t forget about you, Pip,” I say, but it feels like a false balm.
Pippa puts her hand on my arm. “Gemma, it gave me hope to feel the magic once again. But now, it’s slipping away.” She gestures to her tattered dress. “Can you give me more? Something to keep my spirit bright while I try to make my peace with my fate? Please?”
“I—I can’t do this forever,” I say haltingly, afraid of what will happen, whichever course I take.
“I didn’t ask you to do it forever.” Pippa pulls a shriveled berry from a bowl and eats it, making a face. “And anyway, you were the one who offered. Please, Gemma. It means the world to me. If I must endure this place…”
She wipes away tears, and I feel the perfect louse of a friend. For all my talk of changing things, why do I hesitate with Pippa? If I could change her lot, wouldn’t that prove it’s a new world, a new hope, with no limits?
“Give me your hands,” I say, and Pippa embraces me.
“I’ll not forget it,” she says, kissing my cheek. Then her brow furrows. “Can’t you give me more this time, so that I might make it last?”
“I can’t control how long it lasts,” I explain. “I’m only just trying to understand it.”
We hold hands, and once again, that thread connects us. I feel what she feels. I see her in a fine ball gown, dancing happily with her friends, twirling beneath Fee’s arm, laughing all the while. Underneath, there’s something else, though. Something unsettling, and I break the contact.
“There you are,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the nerves in it.
Pippa stretches her arms over her head and licks her lips, which are already getting pink. The change comes over her more quickly this time, and it’s richer. Her eyes shine. “Am I beautiful?”
“You are the most beautiful girl of all,” I say, and it is the truth.
“Oh, Gemma, thank you!” She embraces me again like a grateful child, and I melt under her charm.
“You’re welcome, Pip.”
Pippa flounces into the main hall, her eyes shining. “Darlings!”
Bessie rises as if Pip were her beloved sovereign. “Miss Pip. You look grand.”
“I feel grand, Bessie. In fact, I am reborn. Look!” She puts her hands to Bessie’s neck, and a beautiful cameo with a velvet ribbon looped through it hangs there suddenly.
“I don’t believe it!” Bessie shouts.
“Yes, I have magic,” Pippa says, glancing in my direction. “Gemma gave it to me. All the power of the realms rests with her now.”
Felicity actually kisses my cheek. “I knew you’d do right by her,” she whispers.
The girls have a million questions: Where is the magic from? How does it work? What can it do?
“I wish I knew more about it myself,” I say, shaking my head. “Sometimes it’s very powerful indeed. Other times, I can scarcely feel it. It doesn’t seem to last long.”
“Can you give it to us?” Mae asks, eyes bright, as if I can change their lot.
“I…I’d rather…,” I stammer. I don’t want to give too much of it away, I find. What if my power should diminish? What if it meant I couldn’t help us in our own world? The factory fire girls’ eyes are on me.
Bessie Timmons snorts. “No, course she don’t wanna share it wif the likes of us.”
“That isn’t true,” I say, but in my heart, I know she’s not entirely wrong. Why shouldn’t they have magic too? Is it only because they worked in a factory? Because they speak with an accent different from my own?
“We’re not ladies, like them, Bessie,” little Wendy offers meekly.
“Yes, we can’t all expect it,” Felicity adds as if speaking to a servant.
Pippa leaps up from the weed-choked floor. “I will gift you, Mae. Here, hold out your hands.”
“Don’t feel nuffin’,” Mae says after a moment, and I’m glad that they cannot feel my relief. I like being the one who holds the magic.
Disappointment shows on Pip’s face. “Well, it’s only just come to me. If I could, my darling, I would gift you with it.”
“I know you would, Miss Pip,” Mae says, downhearted, and new shame takes me. Looking at the girls’ terrible burns and sorry state, how can I possibly be so callous as to deny them a bit of happiness?
“Right. Let’s have a jolly time now we’re here, shall we?” I say, and I join hands with every one of them but Wendy, who insists she doesn’t want to play. Soon we’re all brimming with a shining power and even the walls cannot contain our jubilant cries. They creak and groan as the vines tighten their hold.
Felicity and Ann show the factory girls how to turn their ragged skirts into sumptuous silks with beads and embroidery like those from the finest shops in Paris.
Everyone is merry except for Wendy. She sits in a corner, hugging her knees to her chest.
I take a seat beside her on the cold, weedy floor. “What is the matter, Wendy?”
“I’m afraid,” she says, holding tightly to her legs.
“Of what?”
“Of wantin’ it too much, miss.” She wipes her nose on her sleeve. “You said it don’t last forever. But what if, once I go’ a taste of it…” A tear slips down her dirty cheek. “What if I can’t go back to how it was?”
“A teacher of mine once said that we can’t go back; we can only move forward,” I say, parroting Miss Moore’s words. Back when she was Miss Moore in my mind and not Circe. “You don’t have to do it.”
She nods. “Maybe I could ’ave just a little? Not too much?”
I give her only a little, and when I feel her pulling away, I stop.
“So, Wendy, what will it be first—a ball gown? Ruby earbobs? A prince?” I swallow hard and touch my fingers to her useless eyes. “Or…I might…”