The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
“We’re back now,” he says. “For you.”
The birds raise a clamor with their chilling caws. Johnny’s hand grips my cape. I slip the clasp and let the cape drop in his fingers. I waste no time. I turn and scramble for the path. I run hard and fast the way I have just come, for they block the way to Spence. The wind rises behind me, bringing the sounds of cackles and whispers, rat scratchings, and the flapping of wings. The crows’ cries are like the screeches of hell. For all I know, I am screaming with them.
The chapel wavers before me, shaking along with my ragged breath. Whatever is behind me is gaining fast, and now I hear horses as well, horses that seem suddenly to have come out of thin air. I slam hard into the chapel doors. I tug but they will not open. The dirt of the path whirls and eddies around me.
Dogs. I hear dogs barking, and they are near. And just like that, the dirt on the path settles. The sound of horses and birds fades to a throb and then nothing. Torches flicker and smoke in the woods. The Gypsies have come—some on horseback, some on foot.
“Gemma!” Kartik’s voice.
“I saw…I saw…” I put a hand to my stomach. I cannot talk. Can’t breathe.
“Here,” he says, taking my arm to steady me. “What did you see?”
Several gulps of air and my voice returns. “Men…in the woods. Miller’s men—the ones who disappeared.”
“You’re certain?” Kartik asks.
“Yes.”
Immediately the Gypsies fan out. The dogs sniff the ground, confused.
“Mrs. Nightwing sent me to the chapel for a hymnal,” I explain.
“Alone?” Kartik’s eyebrows arch.
I nod. “In the chapel…the windows came alive,” I whisper. “They warned me not to go into the woods!”
“The windows warned you,” Kartik repeats slowly, and I am aware that I sound mad. For all I know, I am.
“The angel, the one with the gorgon’s head…it came alive, warned me. ‘The woods be not safe.’ And that’s not all. He said something about a sacrifice—‘If you be sacrificed in the Winterlands, the magic falls to them, and all is lost.’”
Kartik chews his lips, thinking. “Are you certain it wasn’t a vision?”
“I don’t think it was. And then, on the path, I saw those men, and they seemed like specters. They said they had come for me.”
A sudden, startled cry rings out from the Gypsy camp. It’s followed by more shouts.
“Stay here!” Kartik instructs.
There isn’t a prayer that I will stay here alone. I’m right on his heels. With each footfall, the angel’s voice rumbles through me: The woods be not safe. The camp is in chaos—screams, curses, men’s shouts. There are no spirits here. It is Mr. Miller and his men. They pull the women from the tents and ransack the wagons, stuffing their pockets with whatever they find. When the women try to protect what is theirs, Mr. Miller’s men threaten them with torches. One woman rushes a slightly built thug, beating him with her fists until she is struck across the face by another.
The dogs are loosed. They attack one of the men, knocking him to the ground, where he screams and cowers. Daggers are drawn.
“Inspector Kent has come to call at Spence. I’ll run for him,” I say, but when I think of the unquiet woods, where ghostly figures seem to wait, my feet are like lead. I hesitate, and in that moment, Mr. Miller raises his pistol and fires two shots into the air. “Right. Who wants lead in his belly? I want to know where my missing men are.”
He takes aim at one of the Gypsy men. There is no time for the inspector. Something must be done at once.
“Stop!” I shout.
Mr. Miller cups his hand over his brow, peering into the dark. “Who said that?”
“I did,” I say, stepping forward.
Mr. Miller breaks into a huge grin and a big cackle. “You? Aren’t you one of them Spence girls? What ya gonna do, then? Pour me tea?”
“Inspector Kent of Scotland Yard has called upon us this evening,” I say, hoping I sound much surer of myself than I feel. My insides have gone to jelly. “If you do not leave at once, I shall send for him. In fact, he may very well be on his way now.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Miller nods and two of his men come for me. Kartik steps between us. He gets off a solid punch to each of them, but another joins the fray. He is outnumbered. He is hit hard across the mouth, his lip bloodied.
“Stop!” I growl.
Mr. Miller’s feral grin returns. “I told Missus Nightwing them dirty Gypsies would sully her girls. Guess I was right.”
I hate him for that. I wish I could show him how much, and at once, the magic eats through me with a terrible velocity. I am inside Mr. Miller’s head, an unwelcome guest.
I know what you fear, Mr. Miller, what you desire.
Mr. Miller whips around wildly. “Who said that? Which one of you?”
These woods know your secrets, Mr. Miller. I know them, too. You like to hurt things. You like it very much.
“Show yourself!” Mr. Miller’s voice is raw with fear.
You drowned a kitten once. It struggled and scratched for its tiny life, and you squeezed harder. You squeezed till it hung limp in your hands.
“Don’t you hear that?” Mr. Miller screams at his men. They regard him as one would a madman, for they hear nothing.
Retribution rumbles over my soul. I make the wind gather force. It rattles the leaves, and Mr. Miller sets off running, his men chasing after, all thoughts of revenge abandoned for now. The magic calms, and I fall to my knees, gasping. The Gypsies regard me warily, as if I were something to be feared.
“It is you who brings the curse,” Mother Elena says.
“No,” I say, but I’m not sure I believe it.
Immediately, the women set about cleansing the camp of the wickedness we foreigners have brought. They pour out water from all the pitchers. I see some of the women placing small bits of bread in their pockets, which Brigid has told us wards off bad luck.
Kartik offers me his hand, and I take it. “The men you saw in the woods—now you see they were not specters but flesh and blood. They had come seeking revenge on the Gypsies.”
I want to believe him. I would do anything to have it all explained away with easy assurances, like those from a governess patting a fretting child’s head. “And the windows?”
“A vision. A most unusual one. You said yourself that things are changing.” He combs his fingers through his thick curls, which I know he does when he is thinking. I find I’ve missed that. I’ve missed him.
“Kartik…,” I start.
Lanterns appear in the trees. Inspector Kent has come with Nightwing, McCleethy and two of our stableboys. Elizabeth trails behind. They call my name and it sounds foreign, the name of a girl who played happy games with her friends inside the realms weeks ago. I no longer remember that girl. I have become someone else, and I am not quite sure she is sane.
“I’m here!” I call, because I would be found.
Nightwing’s face displays a mixture of relief and fury. Now that she has found me safe, she looks as if she would kill me for the trouble I’ve caused.
“Miss Doyle, it was most ungracious of you to run off and abandon Miss Poole,” Mrs. Nightwing reprimands. Elizabeth slinks behind her.
I open my mouth to protest but it isn’t worth it.
“We heard shots!” the inspector says, taking charge. Just now he is not the twinkly-eyed man who sips tea by our fire. He is a hardened man of the law. It’s astonishing that men can inhabit their two selves so easily.
“Miller’s men came to hurt the Gypsies,” I say, and Kartik explains what has happened.
“I shall have a word with Mr. Miller,” Inspector Kent says gravely. “He will answer for this. And you say you saw his missing men in the woods?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Will you see if they have Ithal in their camp?” Kartik asks. “He is still missing.”
“Missing? Since when? Why wasn
Kartik’s jaw tightens. “No one cares about one missing Gypsy.”
“Rubbish!” the inspector growls. “I shall see to it immediately. I’ll search the camp from top to bottom, if necessary. Mr. Miller has a great deal to answer for, indeed.”
Mrs. Nightwing and Inspector Kent lead us through the woods. It no longer feels as if this place belongs to us girls for our games and wanderings. It feels as if it is being claimed by someone else.
“Mrs. Nightwing was sick with worry. She never would have allowed you to go to the chapel had she thought there was the slightest danger,” Miss McCleethy tells me, but I’m not listening. I don’t trust either of them.
A slice of moon peeks out from behind the clouds for a moment, illuminating Spence’s roof. My steps slow. There’s something odd about it, though I cannot quite place it. I see the spires, the bricks, the jumble of angles, the gargoyles. An enormous shadowy outline of wings stretches out against the moon’s brief light. The stone beast is standing tall.
It’s moving.
“Miss Doyle?” Miss McCleethy looks from me to the roof and back again. “Is something the matter?”
They could make you see what they wish you to see. It will be as if you are mad. Eugenia warned me, didn’t she?
“No, nothing’s the matter,” I answer, but my hands shake, and now I hear Neela’s words in my head: How will you fight, when you cannot even see?
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
* * *
“HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY, GEMMA?” ANN ASKS. SHE’S sitting on the edge of her bed, an excited smile on her lips. She has on her gloves and her best dress, one of Felicity’s cast-offs let out on the sides by Brigid.
“Tired,” I say, rubbing my aching head. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Today’s the day,” she says. “Don’t you remember? Charlie Smalls? The Gaiety? Between noon and three o’clock?”
“Oh, no!” I say, for with all that’s happened, I’d forgotten.
“We’ll still go, won’t we?” she asks.
In truth, I’d rather not draw on the magic today, not after last night. Not with my mind so tenuous. But there is Ann. She is my friend. She means to take command of her life, and I should like to believe she will this time. But to do that, she will need my help—and I will need hers.
I throw back the covers. “Go and fetch Felicity. This will take all of us.”
We devise our plan together. We direct our efforts toward Brigid. I make her believe that both Ann and I are taken ill with the monthly curse and must not be disturbed. She will repeat this story throughout the afternoon, for I’ve put it in her head quite thoroughly. And of course, Felicity embellishes the tale, as she is wont to do, until everyone at Spence fears to venture anywhere near our door. But it takes time to accomplish this, and once we catch the train to London and secure a hansom to Piccadilly, we are a full hour late. We huff and puff on our way to the theater, but when we arrive, Charlie Smalls is just leaving. In his company is another man.
“Oh, no,” Ann gasps. “What shall I do?”
For a second, I am tempted to influence the clock, pave the way and make it all fine, but I think better of it. This is Ann’s show. Let her run it.
“Do what you must,” I say.
“Mr. Smalls!” she calls out.
Charlie Smalls squints at us. He looks from Ann to me, and finally, there’s a glimmer of recognition. “Miss Washbrad’s chum, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I say. “And this is my friend Miss Bradshaw.”
They tip their hats. “What ever happened to Miss Washbrad? Mr. Katz and Miss Trimble waited but she never showed.”
Ann’s cheeks redden. “She ran off.”
He nods, grinning. “Got married, then? Miss Trimble said that’s what happened. Guess she was right.”
“I read about your composition in the Era,” Ann says. “Miss Doyle says you are very talented.”
His face brightens further. “Exciting, isn’t it? My first musical entertainment, bowing at the Gaiety come July. The Merry Maidens.”
“I am a performer,” Ann says so quietly it is hard to hear her over the rumble of the wagons and horses on the street. “I should like to sing for you.”
Charlie’s partner looks Ann over. He nudges Charlie. “Not much to look at.”
“It’s Merry Maidens, Tony, not Gorgeous Girls,” Charlie whispers back, and I fear that Ann will take offense and call it all off.
“It’s true I’m not a Gaiety Girl,” Ann says. “But I can sing whatever you like. And read, too!”
“Don’t mind him. He didn’t mean no harm, miss,” Charlie says. “Look at me, with these big ears and long snout.” He pulls at his nose.
“Call was for noon to three,” Tony says, checking his watch. “It’s after four, nearly half past.”
“I am sorry,” Ann says. “We couldn’t secure a cab and—”
“The other girls made it on time,” Tony says. “We’re off to the pub. Good day to you.”
“Sorry, miss,” Charlie says, tipping his hat. “I hope you’ll come to the show.”
“Yes, thank you,” Ann says, her head low. As they brush past, Ann’s features settle into that emotionless mask, and I know that’s it. She’s done. It’s Balmoral Spring and little Charlotte’s tantrums and Carrie’s nose picking. And I can’t help it: I’m angry.
“Mr. Smalls!” Ann shouts, startling me. She turns and runs after him. “I’ll sing for you here! Right now!”
Charlie’s eyes widen. He breaks into a grin. “On the street?”
“No time like the present, Mr. Smalls,” Ann rejoins.
He laughs. “Now you sound like Mr. Katz.”
“She’s a nutter. The pub, mate,” Tony says, pulling on Charlie’s sleeve.
But Charlie folds his arms. “All right, then, Miss…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name!”
“Bradshaw,” Ann says crisply.
“All right, Miss Bradshaw.” He gestures to the curious passersby. “Your audience awaits. Let’s hear it.”
A small crowd gathers to see the spectacle of the young lady singing for her supper for the two impresarios on a street in the West End. I feel a blush forming on my cheek, and I cannot imagine how Ann will manage to get out a single note. But sing she does, as I’ve never heard her before.
The sound that pours out of her is as pure as anything I’ve ever heard, but it has a fresh strength. There’s a bit of grit under the notes and it’s married to heart. Now the song tells a story. There’s a new Ann Bradshaw singing, and when she finishes, the crowd responds with whistles and cheers—honey to any budding showman.
Charlie Smalls breaks into a huge grin. “It’s funny, ’cause you sound a lot like Miss Washbrad—only better! Tony, I think we’ve found ourselves one of our merry maidens!”
Even the surly Tony nods in approval. “Rehearsals commence the end of May, the twenty-fifth, at the Gaiety, two o’clock—and that’s two o’clock sharp!”
“I won’t be late,” Ann promises.
“You won’t run off and get married on me like Miss Washbrad, will you?” Charlie teases.
“Not on your life,” Ann says, smiling, and she’s more beautiful than ten Nan Washbrads.
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTY
* * *
THE WHOLE OF SPENCE IS ENGAGED IN PREPARATIONS FOR our masked ball tomorrow evening. A fleet of maids has been employed to buff the old girl as if she herself were readying for the marriage market. Carpets are dragged to the back lawn, where they are beaten of every speck of dirt. Floors are scrubbed and waxed to a high shine. Grates are cleaned. Nooks and crannies are dusted. Nightwing bustles about as if we were expecting Her Majesty to come rather than a small coterie of parents and patrons.
She sends us out of doors—for fear we might breathe and somehow sully the pristine rooms of Spence—which suits everyone fine, as it’s a pa
A rough-hewn maypole has been erected on a gentle slope farther on. The younger girls run giggling around it, crossing this way and that, their flower crowns perched precariously on their shining heads. They are scolded by the older, more serious girls, who are quite keen on producing a perfect plait. They weave in and out, over and under each other, until the pole wears a colorful gown of ribbon.
Felicity, Ann, and I walk through the grass to a bluff overlooking the river, a smaller cousin of the mighty Thames. Mrs. Nightwing would do well to turn the maids loose here, for the river wears a coat of moss and new leaves. Ann and I dip our feet into the cold water whilst Felicity gathers posies. Her dress is stained with pollen.
“I’m marked, I’m afraid.” She sinks next to us. “Violet?” she says, offering a flower.
Ann waves away the delicate bloom. “If I should wear that, they’ll think I intend not to marry. That is what it means to wear violets.”
Unbowed, Felicity places the violet in her white-blond hair, where it shines like a beacon.
“Now that Mrs. Nightwing will allow me to attend the ball, I must have a costume,” Ann says. “I rather thought I’d go as Lady Macbeth.”
“Mmmm,” I murmur, casting backward glances at the girls playing round the maypole, then beyond, toward the camp. But I’ve not seen Kartik since the night of the men in the woods.
Felicity dangles a violet over my forehead like a spider, and I scream, which pleases her beyond measure.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Very well, Your Ladyship Brooding St. Petulant,” she says. “What are you thinking about so intently?”
“I was wondering why Wilhelmina hasn’t shown me where to find the dagger or the key that holds the truth. I’m wondering what she meant to warn me about.”