The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
I blink against the sudden surprise of tears. “You told me not to make an enemy of you.”
“I spoke rashly. I was disappointed that you did not come to us.” Miss McCleethy takes my hands in hers. Her hands are bony and far too light and feel as if they are not accustomed to holding another’s. “You have been able to do what no one before you has. You were able to open the realms again. You defeated Circe for us.”
At Circe’s name, my heartbeat quickens. I stare at a big brown spot on the floor where the wood is warped. “And what about my friends? What of Felicity and Ann?”
Miss McCleethy slides her hands from mine. She walks around the room, her fingers clasped behind her back, like a priest in thought. “If the realms haven’t chosen them, there is nothing I can do about it. They are not destined for this life.”
“But they are my friends,” I say. “They’ve helped me. So have some of the tribes and creatures within the realms.”
Miss McCleethy brushes an invisible speck of dirt from the mantel. “They cannot be a part of us. I am sorry.”
“I can’t turn my back on them.”
“Your loyalty is commendable, Gemma. Truly it is. But it is misplaced. Do you suppose that if your roles were reversed and they were chosen for membership in the Order, the others would hesitate to abandon you?”
“They are my friends,” I repeat.
“They are your friends because you have power. And I have seen how power changes everything.” Miss McCleethy settles into the large wingback chair across from me. Her gaze bores into me. “Your mother fought bravely for our cause. You wouldn’t want to sully her memory, to disappoint her, would you?”
“You’ve no leave to speak of my mother.” My hair falls into my face. I push it furiously behind my ear but it will not stay.
Miss McCleethy’s voice is low and sure. “Haven’t I? She was one of us—a sister of the Order. She died trying to protect you, Gemma. I would honor her memory by looking after you.”
“She didn’t want me to be part of your Order. That’s why she kept me hidden in India.”
Gently, Miss McCleethy secures the errant hair behind my ear, where it has the bad manners to obey her by staying put. “And yet, she asked your father to send you here should anything happen to her.”
I’ve been so certain these past few days, but now my thoughts feel mud-soaked, and I cannot see the way clearly. What if they are right and I am wrong?
“What will you do, Gemma? How will you manage all on your own?”
“But you’ve not been inside in twenty-five years,” I say, coming round again. “You are the one who doesn’t know how it is now.”
She stiffens. That motherly smile fades from her lips. “You’d be wise to listen to me, Miss Doyle. You may believe you can show largesse to these creatures, befriend them, join with them, but you are deceived. You’ve no idea what terrible acts they are capable of committing. They will betray you in the end. We are your friends, your family. There is only one way—our way—and it must be exercised with no exceptions.”
The clock tsk-tsks in time. The brown spot in the wood seems to grow. I can feel Miss McCleethy’s eyes upon me, daring me to look. Her voice softens once more to that motherly coo.
“Gemma, we’ve been protectors of the magic for generations. We understand its ways. Let us carry the burden. We shall bring you into the Order as one of our own. You’ll take your rightful place.”
“And if I refuse?”
Miss McCleethy’s voice turns razor-sharp. “I can no longer protect you.”
She means to frighten me. But I shan’t give up so easily.
“Miss McCleethy, there is something I must confess,” I say, still staring at the floor. “I cannot enter the realms. Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
I force myself to meet her gaze. “I’ve tried, but the power has left me. I was afraid to tell you. I’m not who you thought me to be. I’m sorry.”
“But I thought you’d bound the magic to yourself.”
“I thought I had, too. But I was wrong. Or it wouldn’t take in me after all.”
“I see,” she says.
For the longest moment of my life, McCleethy holds my gaze while I try desperately not to flinch, and the clock measures our unspoken hate in ticks and tocks. At last, she turns her attention to a small ceramic angel figurine perched near the edge of a side table.
“Miss Doyle, if you’re lying, I’ll know in time. Such power can’t easily be hidden.”
“I’m sorry to be such a disappointment,” I say.
“Not half as sorry as I am.”
She tries to move the angel back from the table’s edge and nearly drops it. It wobbles precariously, then stops.
“May I go to bed now?” I ask, and she dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
“Gemma. Pssst!” It’s Felicity. She and Ann have hidden in Ann’s bed. She pops up like a jack-in-the-box in hair ribbons. “What happened? Did McCleethy bite you with her fangs?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I say, pulling at my boots. I loosen the tiny loops from the hooks. “She wanted me to become one with the Order and follow their training.”
“She wanted you to give them all your power, you mean,” Felicity scoffs.
“Did she mention taking us into the Order?” Ann asks.
“No,” I say, leaving my stockings on the floor in a heap. “She only wanted me.”
Felicity’s eyes narrow. “You told her no, then?” It is not so much a question as a demand.
“I told her I no longer held the power and that I couldn’t enter the realms at all.”
Felicity snorts in delight. “Well done, Gemma!”
“I don’t think she believed me,” I warn. “We shall have to be very careful.”
“She’ll be no match for us.” Felicity bounds out of Ann’s bed. “Till morning, mes amies!”
“Mawah meenon ne le plus poohlala,” I say with an affected bow.
Felicity laughs. “What, pray tell, was that?”
“My French. I daresay it’s improving.”
Ann falls asleep within minutes, and I am left to stare at the cracks branching off left and right in the ceiling. What if Miss McCleethy is right? What if the realms don’t choose my friends or the forest folk? Whom will they blame for that? Then again, Miss McCleethy tried to force me to take her into the realms once before. She’d say or do anything to return the realms to the Order.
So many decisions, so many responsibilities, and no clear path. Out my window, the woods are dark save for the firelight coming from the Gypsy camp. There is one matter I can put to rest tonight, and I will have answers about that, at least.
I creep down the stairs, taking care not to make a single sound. The doors to the great hall are ajar. A lamp still burns inside. I hear whispering voices, and I crouch low, listening.
“You’re certain?”
“It’s the only way. We can’t leave it to chance. The risk is too great.”
“You would place all your faith in this plan? We have no real proof—”
“Don’t question me. I cannot do this without you.”
“I am loyal. You know that I am.”
“I do.”
The door is opened, and I hide behind a tall potted fern. I watch Miss McCleethy and Mrs. Nightwing ascend the stairs, the candle flame casting their long shadows on the wall and ceiling till they seem to loom over everything. I wait until long after I hear the baize door click. When I am satisfied that they are gone, I fly on angel feet to the Gypsy camp.
I approach the camp stealthily, searching for the best way in. I wish I’d brought scraps to quiet the dogs. A twig breaks to my right, and suddenly, I’m yanked hard to the ground and the full weight of another pins me there.
“I shall scream,” I gasp, but I’ve barely enough breath to speak.
“Miss Doyle!” Kartik lifts me from the ground. “What are you doing out here?”
“What are you…d
“I am sorry, but you shouldn’t creep about the woods at night. It isn’t safe.”
“So I see,” I reply.
“You’ve not answered my question. Why are you here?”
“I came to find you.” My breath comes shakily but now it has little to do with being thrown to the ground. “I want answers, and I shan’t leave until I have them.”
“I’ve nothing to tell you,” he says, turning away.
I fall in beside him. “I’m not leaving. I need your help. Wait—where are you going?”
“To feed the horses,” he answers without stopping.
“But the Order has a secret plan!” I protest.
“That does not change the fact that the horses are hungry and must be fed. You may tell me along the way.”
I match his stride. “Miss McCleethy returned this evening.”
“She’s here now?” Kartik cranes his neck toward Spence.
“Yes,” I say. “But she’s sleeping. We’re safe.”
“Not with that woman about,” Kartik mumbles. “What did she tell you?”
“She wanted me to join the Order but I refused. And just now, I overheard her talking with Mrs. Nightwing. They mentioned a plan of some sort. She also said that she’s kept the Rakshana from coming for me, but that if I don’t join the Order, she won’t protect me any longer.” I steal a glance at him. “She has a spy within your ranks. Do you know anything about it?”
Kartik’s pace doesn’t slow. “They are not my ranks. I am no longer Rakshana.”
“You’ve heard nothing, then?”
“The Rakshana think me a dead man, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
I stop. “Why? What do you mean?”
“Some matters are best not discussed,” he says, pushing on till I have to catch him.
We reach a small clearing where the horses are tethered. Kartik pulls an apple from his pocket and offers it to a dappled mare. “Here you are, Freya. Enjoy. This is Ithal’s horse. She’s a fine old girl,” he says, stroking her nose gently. “Never a moment’s trouble.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that what makes a fine girl, then? A lack of trouble?”
He shakes his head, a small smile starting. “No, that is what makes for good horses.”
“What do you think of my story?” I stroke Freya’s soft mane, and she allows it.
“Gemma…” He trails off. “You shouldn’t tell me anything more about the realms. I am no longer privy to their secrets.”
“But I—”
“Please,” he says, and something in his eyes silences me.
“Very well. If you wish it.”
“I do,” he says, sounding relieved.
A hedgehog flees from the safety of a bush, startling me. It darts past us in a terrible hurry. Kartik nods toward the furry little thing. “Don’t mind him. He’s off to meet his lady friend.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He has on his best hedgehog suit.”
“Ah, I should have noticed,” I say, happy to play this game—any game—with him. I put my hand on a tree’s trunk and swing myself around it slowly, letting my body feel gravity’s pull. “And why has he worn his best?”
“He’s been away in London, you see, and now he has returned to her,” Kartik continues.
“And what if she is angry with him for being away so long?”
Kartik circles just behind me. “She will forgive him.”
“Will she?” I say pointedly.
“It is his hope that she will, for he didn’t mean to upset her,” Kartik answers, and I am no longer sure we speak of the hedgehog.
“And is he happy to see her again?”
“Yes,” Kartik says. “He should like to stay longer, but he cannot.”
The bark chafes against my hand. “Why is that?”
“He has his reasons, and he hopes his lady will understand them one day.” Kartik has changed direction. He comes around the other side of the tree. We are face to face. A palm of moonglow reaches through the branches to caress his face.
“Oh,” I say, heart beating fast.
“And what would the lady hedgehog say to that?” he asks. His voice is soft and low.
“She would say…” I swallow hard.
Kartik steps closer. “Yes?”
“She would say,” I whisper, “‘If you please, I am not a hedgehog. I am a woodchuck.’”
A small sad smile plays at Kartik’s lips.
“He is fortunate to have found so witty a lady friend,” he says, and I wish I could have the moment back again to play differently.
We offer more of the apple to Freya, who gobbles it greedily. Kartik strokes her mane and she softens under his touch, nuzzling him with her nose. Around us the night creatures have their say. We are surrounded by a symphony of crickets and frogs. Neither of us feels the need to speak, and I suppose that is one of the qualities I find comforting in Kartik. We can be alone together.
“Well, that’s done,” he says, wiping his hands on his trousers. “No more for you, Freya.”
Yawning, Kartik stretches his arms overhead. His shirt comes untucked. It rises with his arms and a faint trail of dark hair is visible on the muscled plain of his stomach.
“Y-you seem tired,” I stammer, grateful that he cannot see my red cheeks in the dark. “You should go to bed.”
“No!” he says. “I thought I might walk by the lake, if you care to join me.”
“Of course,” I say, happy to be asked.
The lake laps lazily at the bank in a peaceful rhythm. An owl hoots in the distance. A light breeze blows my hair against my cheeks, tickling them. Kartik sits with his back against a tree. I settle near him.
“What did you mean when you said our fates were no longer intertwined?” I ask.
“I thought my fate was to be Rakshana. But I was wrong. Now I don’t know what my destiny is. I don’t even know if I believe in destiny.”
As much as I’ve been infuriated by Kartik’s arrogance, his sureness, I find I miss it now. It is hard to see him so lost.
We fall into silence again. His eyes flutter with sleep, but he fights it. “There’s only one thing I must know and then I’ll not ask again. Have you seen Amar?”
“No. I promise.”
He seems relieved. “That is good. Good.” His eyes close, and within seconds, he’s asleep. I sit beside him, listening to his breathing, stealing secret glances at his beauty: long, dark eyelashes resting on high cheekbones; strong nose leading to full, slightly parted lips. They say a lady should not feel such desires, but how could a lady not? I should have to sleepwalk through my life not to feel the pull of those lips.
I reach out a tentative hand to touch them. Kartik startles awake violently, gasping for breath and frightened. I yelp, and he grabs hold of me and won’t let go.
“Kartik!” I call, but he’s fighting me. “Kartik, stop!”
He comes back to himself, releasing me. “I’m sorry. I have these dreams,” he says, breathing heavily. “Such awful dreams.”
“What sorts of dreams?” I still feel the imprint of his hands on my arms.
He rakes shaking fingers through his hair. “I see Amar on a white horse, but he’s not as I remember him. He’s like some horrible cursed creature. I try to run after him, but he’s always just ahead. The mist thickens, and I lose him. When the mist parts, I’m in a cold, bleak land—a terrible, beautiful place. An army of lost souls comes out of the mist. They’re looking to me, and I’m so very powerful. More powerful than I could have imagined.”
He wipes an arm across his brow.
“And is that all?”
“I…” He steals a quick glance. “I see your face.”
“Me? I’m there?”
He nods.
“Well…what happens next?”
He doesn’t look at me. “You die.??
Gooseflesh rises on my arms. “How?”
“I…” He stops. “I don’t know.”
The breeze coming off the lake gives me another shiver. “They’re only dreams.”
“I believe in dreams,” he answers.
I take hold of his hands, not caring if it’s too bold. “Kartik, why don’t you come into the realms with me and look for Amar yourself? Then you would know for certain and perhaps the dreams would go away.”
“But what if they’re right?” He slips his hands from mine. “No. As soon as I have paid my debt to the Gypsies for their aid, I’ll be on my way to Bristol and the HMS Orlando.”
I stand. “So you won’t even try to fight?” I say, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.
Kartik stares straight ahead. “Make the alliance without me, Gemma. You’ll be fine on your own.”
“I’m tired of being on my own.”
Wiping away tears, I march into the woods. Just past the Gypsy camp, I see Mother Elena heaving a pail toward Spence.
“What are you doing?” I demand. I yank the pail away, and the dark liquid in it sloshes against the sides. “What is this?”
“The mark has to be made in blood,” she says. “For protection.”
“You’re the one who painted the East Wing. Why?”
“Without protection, they’ll come,” she says.
“Who will come?”
“The damned.” She grabs for the pail and I hold it out of her reach.
“I’ll not spend another morning scrubbing,” I say.
Mother Elena tightens her shawl about her. “Two ways! The seal is broken. Why would Eugenia allow it? She knows—she knows!”
The whole ghastly night rises in me like a battered dog who’ll take no more taunting. “Eugenia Spence is dead. She’s been dead for twenty-five years. You’re not to do this again, Mother Elena, or I shall tell Mrs. Nightwing it was you, and you’ll be banished from these woods forever. Do you want that?”
Her face crumples. “Have you seen my Carolina?”
“No,” I say wearily.
“She’s a good hider.”
“She’s not…” I trail off. It’s no use talking sense to her. She’s mad, and I feel if I stand here talking longer, I’ll tip into madness myself. I empty the bucket into the grass and hand it back. “You mustn’t do it again, Mother Elena.”