The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
“No doubt they think we can do them some favor in society,” Felicity mutters for my ears only.
“The party is tomorrow noon, though the invitation only arrived two days ago,” Mrs. Nightwing says, and I hear her add under her breath, “Ghastly manners.
“I know you have missed Miss Bradshaw’s company,” she continues. “Would you care to attend?”
“Oh, yes, please!” Felicity exclaims.
“Very well. You must be dressed and ready to leave first thing in the morning,” she says, and we promise to do so.
In the evening, Felicity sits with the other girls, basking in the praise they heap upon her ball. “And did you adore the Dervishes?” she asks, eyes bright.
“Very nice. And for such a long program it wasn’t too tiring,” Cecily says, managing to put a slap in the compliment as is her skill.
“Mother will only allow me a tea,” Elizabeth says, pouting. “I’ll not be remembered at all.”
I leave them and sequester myself in my room to examine Wilhelmina Wyatt’s slate. I turn it over in my hands, scrutinize the tiny nicks as if I might read its history of words there. I put my ear to it in hopes it might whisper its secrets. I even summon a bit of magic, instructing it to reveal all, as if I, myself, were Dr. Van Ripple. But whatever secrets Miss Wyatt’s slate may hold remain locked tightly inside.
“The key holds the truth,” I say to myself. “The key to what?”
Nothing, as far as I can see. I abandon the slate beside my bed and cross to the window, gazing at the woods beyond, toward the Gypsy camp. I wonder what Kartik is doing now, if he is still tortured by dreams of Amar, of me.
There’s a light below. I spy Kartik with his lantern, looking up at my window. My heart gives a little leap, and I have to remind it not to beat faster for a man who can’t be trusted. I close the drapes, turn down my own lamp, and crawl into bed. Then I shut my eyes tight and tell myself I am not to get back up and go to the window, no matter how much I’d like to.
I can’t say what it is that wakes me. A sound? A bad dream? I know only that I am awake with my heart beating a bit faster. I blink, adjusting to the dark. I hear a noise. It’s not inside the room; it’s above me. The roof groans over my head as if something very heavy were moving about. A long shadow crosses my wall, and I’m up.
Now I hear something else in the hall: a faint scuffling like the rustle of dead leaves. I open the door a crack, but there’s nothing there. I hear it again; it’s coming from below. I tiptoe down the corridor and around the stairs, following the sound. When I reach the great hall, I stop. From deep inside the vast room, the noise is stronger. Scratching. Whispers. Moans.
Don’t look, Gemma. Pass it by.
I peek through the keyhole. Moonlight falls across the room in windowpane blocks. I search each small box of light for movement. A slight shift catches my eye. Something is moving in the dark. I snuff the candle and wait, my knees weak with fear. I count silently—one, two, three—ticking off the seconds. But there is nothing. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…
Whispers come again. Soft and chilling as rats’ claws on stone. I press my eye to the keyhole again and my heart bangs against my ribs.
The column. It’s moving.
The creatures molded to it slowly reveal themselves in raised fists and the faint fluttering of reanimated wings. Gasping and gurgling, they squirm and push against the thinning membrane of stone like things ready to be born. I cannot scream, though I want to. A nymph breaks free of the ooze with a snap. She shakes the vestiges of the column from her body and glides through the air. I gasp. She cocks her head, hearing.
Quick as wind she’s at the keyhole. Her eyes are as large as a doe’s. “You can’t stop us,” she whispers. “The land is awakened and we with it. And soon will come the day when your blood is spilled and we rule forever. The sacrifice!”
“Here now, wot are you about, miss?”
I fall back against something with a shout and turn to see Brigid staring at me, her hands on her hips, her nightcap on her head. “You should be in bed!” she says.
“I h-heard a n-noise,” I stammer, gulping down my fear.
Brigid frowns and flings open the doors. She lights the lamp nearest us. The room is hushed. Nothing is amiss. But I hear those beastly scratches. Feel them under my skin.
“Don’t you hear that?” I ask, and my voice is desperate.
Brigid frowns. “’Ear what?”
“The column. It was alive. I saw it.”
Brigid’s face shows worry. “Now, now. You’re not tryin’ to scare your old Brigid, are you?”
“I saw it,” I say again.
“I’ll get awl the lights on, then.”
Brigid scurries for the matches.
Scratching. Above my head. Like hell’s messengers. Slide my eyes up, and there she is—the nymph, flattened against the ceiling, a wicked smile on her lips.
“Up there!” I scream.
Brigid turns up the lamp and the nymph is gone. She puts a hand to her chest. “Mary, Mother of God. You frightened the life out of me! Let’s ’ave a look at that column.”
We inch closer. I want to run. Brigid peers at it, and I half expect something to pull her in. “Well, it’s right queer, like ever’thin’ in this place, but it’s no’ alive. Jus’ ugly.”
She pats the column, and it’s solid. Or is it? For I think I see an empty space in the marble that wasn’t there before.
“Did you have the cabbage?” Brigid asks, turning down the lamps.
“What?” I say.
“Cabbage for dinner. It can give you wind somethin’ terrible and then you’ve got the most ’orrible dreams, too. No more cabbage, if you want m’advice.”
She turns down the last lamp, and the room is cast in shadows again. Brigid closes the door and locks it. As we travel the stairs, she speaks to me of what foods and drink make for pleasant sleep, but I’m not really listening to her. My ears are tuned to the dark below us, where I hear that soft scratching and the faintest of cackles.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
* * *
TRUE TO HER WORD, THE NEXT MORNING MRS. Nightwing has us traveling the five miles to Balmoral Spring. As the carriage bounces over muddy roads, I find I’m eager to see Ann again, and I’m hopeful that she will accept an apology for my beastly behavior at her departure.
At last we arrive. Balmoral Spring is a nightmare of a country estate purchased by the sort who have new fortunes, old ambitions, and an appalling lack of taste in all regards. I wonder whether there is a servant left in the whole of England, for footmen stand at the ready for our carriages, and butlers and maids of all stripes line the walk and bustle about the grounds, tending to every need.
I whisper to Fee, “Do you see Ann?”
“Not yet,” she answers, searching the throngs. “What on earth is that?”
She nods toward an enormous marble fountain that features Mr. Wharton as Zeus and Mrs. Wharton as Hera. The rays of a bronzed sun shine behind them. Water trickles from Mr. Wharton’s mouth in a rather unfortunate stream, as if he were spitting.
“How absolutely appalling!” Felicity says, clapping in delight. “What other wonders await us?”
Mrs. Nightwing takes in the spectacle of the fountain, the lawns, the ceramic cherubim posed near groomed shrubbery, the newly constructed bandstand. “Merciful heavens,” she mutters.
Mrs. Wharton’s laugh can be heard above the din. We have come in simple summer-weight dresses, straw hats perched upon our heads, but she wears an elaborately beaded blue gown more appropriate for a ball. Diamonds drip from her neck, though it is afternoon. And her hat is a continent unto itself. One quick turn of her head and she nearly takes out a contingent of servants.
“How wonderful you could come,” she says, welcoming us. “Do try the caviar—it has come all the way from France!”
I do not recognize Ann at first. In her stiff gown, her hair pulled back severely, she does not re
“Annie, I want to play in the rose garden,” she whines.
“You broke the roses last time, Lottie, and I was called to account for it,” Ann says quietly.
“Oh, Miss Bradshaw,” Ann’s cousin calls to her, “let her play in the roses. She loves them so.”
“She does not handle them with care,” Ann answers.
“It is your duty to see that she does,” Mrs. Wharton tells her.
“Yes, Mrs. Wharton,” Ann answers dully, and Charlotte smiles in triumph. I can only imagine what other horrors Ann endures.
Felicity and I follow them at a safe distance. Ann tries desperately to keep up with the abominable children. Carrie, who is all of four, has her fingers in her nose nearly every moment, only taking them out to examine her disgusting finds. But Charlotte is far worse. When no one looks, she yanks the roses off their stalks so that their full blooms dangle sadly on broken necks. Ann’s admonishments fall on deaf ears. The moment her back is turned, Charlotte continues her carnage.
“Ann!” we call. Ann sees us but pretends she hasn’t.
“Ann, please don’t ignore us,” I beg.
“I hoped you wouldn’t come,” she says.
“Ann—” I begin.
“I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I?” she whispers. “Carrie!” she calls. “You mustn’t eat what is in your nose. It isn’t done.”
Felicity scowls. “Ugh. I shall never have children.” Carrie offers her the hideous pearl on her finger. “No, thank you. What a horrid little beast. How do you stand it?”
Ann wipes away a quick tear. “I’ve made my bed…,” she starts, but doesn’t finish.
“Unmake it,” Felicity urges.
“How?” Ann dabs at her other eye.
“You could run away,” Felicity suggests. “Or pretend to have some ghastly disease—or you could make yourself so odious that not even the most terrible children would want you for governess.”
“Gemma?” Ann looks to me, beseeching.
I’ve not given up my wounds so easily. “I offered you my help before,” I remind her. “Do you really want it this time?”
“Yes,” she says, and I can see from the set of her jaw that she means it.
“What are you discussing?” Charlotte demands, trying to break into our tidy cluster.
“A big monster who eats too-curious little girls and swallows their bones whole,” Felicity hisses back. Ann lets out a strangled laugh.
“I shall tell my mother on you.”
Felicity bends till she’s level with the child’s face. “Do your worst.”
Charlotte flinches first. With a glance at Ann, she runs to her mother, wailing. “Mummy, Annie’s friend told me a monster would eat me!”
“I’m done for,” Ann sighs.
“All the more reason to put our plan into effect,” I say.
After Mrs. Wharton has thoroughly taken Ann to task for Charlotte’s tantrum—in full view of the discomfited guests—she orders Ann back to her duties. We trail just behind them as Charlotte murders the roses. I bend down and say sweetly, “You mustn’t break the roses, Lottie.”
She stares at me with hateful eyes. “You’re not my mother.”
“That’s true,” I continue. “But if you don’t stop, I shall be forced to tell your mother.”
“Then I shall say it was Annie who broke the rose.”
To demonstrate her power, she throws a rose at my feet. How delightful. What a pleasant child.
“Here we go,” I whisper in Ann’s ear.
“Lottie, you mustn’t hurt the roses,” Ann says as sweetly as possible. “Or the roses might hurt you.”
“That’s silly.” She breaks another.
She has moved to a third when Ann says, quite firmly, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She waves her hand over the roses, summoning the magic I’ve bequeathed her. Charlotte’s eyes widen as the decapitated blooms fly free of their broken stems. They rise in a sparkling red spiral. It’s a lovely effect and would most likely make a point all on its own, but it is important to impress the little beast thoroughly. The roses fly quickly toward her and hover for only a second above her astonished face before they descend in full attack, the thorns pricking her arms, her hands, her legs, and her backside several times. Charlotte screams and runs for her mother. The roses lie back down. I can see the girl pulling on her mother’s arm while rubbing her sore bottom. Within seconds, a whimpering Charlotte drags her mother to us. Several guests follow to see what the commotion is about.
“Tell her!” Charlotte cries. “Tell her what the roses did! What you made them do!”
We give Mrs. Wharton our most innocent smiles, but Ann’s is the biggest.
“Why, Lottie, what do you mean, dear?” Ann asks, all concern and worry.
Charlotte is having none of it. “She made the roses fly! She made them hurt me! She made the roses fly! She did!”
“My goodness, how did I do that?” Ann chides gently.
“You’re a witch! And you are, too. And you!”
The guests chuckle at this, but Mrs. Wharton is chagrined. “Charlotte! Such an imagination. You know how Papa feels about fibbing.”
“It isn’t a fib, Mama! They did it! They did!”
Ann closes her eyes, spinning one last charm. “Oh, dear,” she says, examining Charlotte’s face. “What are those spots?”
Indeed, small red bumps appear on the child’s face, though they are nothing more than an illusion.
“Why, it’s pox,” a gentleman says.
“Oh. Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wharton says. A ripple of concern passes through the guests. No one wants to be near, and though Mrs. Wharton fights to hold on to her perfect party, she’s losing her grip. Already, wives are tugging on husbands’ sleeves, making their excuses to leave.
And then it begins to rain, though Ann, Felicity, and I can take no credit for that event. The brass band stops playing. The carriages are brought round. The guests scatter, and the children are ushered to the nursery by Mr. Wharton. We are left blissfully alone.
“Oh, I should like to relive that moment again and again,” Ann says as we take cover under a pergola draped in grapevine.
“Witches!” Felicity says in imitation of Charlotte, and we snicker behind our hands.
“Still,” Ann says, a note of concern creeping into her voice, “she is only a child.”
“No,” I say. “She is a demon cleverly disguised in a pinafore. And her mother deserves her utterly.”
Ann considers that. “True. But what if her mother believes her?”
Felicity tears a blade of grass in two. “No one listens to children, even when they speak the truth,” she says bitterly.
The doctor arrives and makes his diagnosis: chicken pox. As Ann has never had it, he orders her away from the children and the house for three weeks. Mrs. Nightwing agrees to host Ann until she can safely return, and we have our friend packed and in our carriage within minutes.
Mrs. Wharton objects strenuously to Ann’s leaving.
“Couldn’t she stay on?” she says as Ann’s case is secured to our carriage.
“Indeed she cannot,” the doctor insists. “It would be very serious if she were to contract the pox.”
“But how will I manage?” Mrs. Wharton pleads.
“Come now, Mrs. Wharton,” Mr. Wharton says. “We’ve a nurse, and our Annie will be with us again in three weeks’ time. Won’t you, Miss Bradshaw?”
“You’ll hardly notice I’m gone,” Ann answers, and I do believe she rather enjoys saying it.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
* * *
ANN’S RETURN TO SPENCE IS GREETED WITH CHEERS FROM the younger girls, who clamor for h
Only Cecily, Elizabeth, and Martha keep their distance, but Ann doesn’t seem to mind. We tell Ann about everything—our visit to Dr. Van Ripple, the slate, my discovery of McCleethy and Fowlson’s plan to take back the power. Kartik. That part plunges me into melancholy. The only thing I don’t confess is my association with Circe, for I know they’d not understand it. I scarcely do myself.
“So,” Ann says, reviewing, “we know that Wilhelmina was betrayed by someone she trusted, someone she knew from her days at Spence.”
Felicity bites into a chocolate. “Correct.”
“Both Eugenia Spence and Mother Elena feel that someone is in league with the Winterlands creatures, and Mother Elena fears that this association will bring the dead to us.”
“Doing very well, carry on,” I say, stealing a chocolate for myself.
“The tribes of the realms might also be joining with the Winterlands creatures in rebellion.”
We nod.
“In order to free Eugenia and bring peace to the Winterlands, we must find the dagger, which Wilhelmina Wyatt stole from Spence. And Wilhelmina, who was an addict and a thief and a generally disreputable person, might be trying to guide us to its location through Gemma’s visions. Or it’s quite possible she could be leading us to a very bad end.”
“Indeed.” Felicity licks her fingers.