The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
Lucy rises. Our visit is at an end.
“Thank you, Miss Doyle. It was good of you to speak to me.” She does not extend her hand, nor would I expect her to.
“It was good of you to hear me out.”
In the evening, Tom leaves once again for his club. I try to dissuade him from it, but he refuses to speak to me. Grandmama has met with her friends for a game of baccarat. So I sit alone in my room, trying to devise a plan to return to Spence and the realms.
“Gemma.”
I nearly shout as a man steps out from behind my drapes, and when I see it’s Kartik, I’m overcome with joy.
“How did you get here?”
“I borrowed a horse from Spence,” he explains. “Well, I stole it, actually. When you didn’t return…” I cover his mouth with mine and silence him with a kiss.
We lie beside each other on my bed, my head resting on his chest. I can hear his heart thrumming, strong and sure. His fingers trace patterns on my back. His other hand is linked to mine.
“I don’t understand,” I say, enjoying the warmth of his fingers traveling the length of my spine and back again. “Why hasn’t she shown me how to save Eugenia?”
“Could Wilhelmina have been aiding Circe? You said yourself they were close.” Kartik kisses the top of my head.
“Why would she betray the Order and Eugenia?” I say. “It doesn’t make sense. None of it does,” I sigh. “The key holds the truth. It’s a phrase that recurs in my dreams, my visions, Wilhelmina’s book. But what does it mean?”
“There was no key inside the leather pouch along with the dagger?” Kartik asks.
“No. And I thought perhaps the book was the key.” I shake my head. “But I’m not certain of that. I think…”
I’m remembering the pictures Wilhelmina drew for A History of Secret Societies. The Hidden Object. Guardians of the Night. The tower. I’ve deciphered them all save one—the room with the painting of boats.
“Yes?” Kartik prompts. His hand wanders to my breast.
“I think it might be a place,” I say, reaching up to kiss him.
He moves on top of me, and I accept the weight of him. His hands slide down my body and mine push down the broad expanse of his back. His tongue makes small explorations in my mouth.
There’s a knock at my door. I push Kartik off me, panicked.
“The drapery!” I whisper.
He hides behind the drapes as I quickly arrange myself. I perch on my bed, a book in hand.
“Come in,” I call, and Mrs. Jones enters. “Good evening,” I say, turning the book right side up. I can feel the flush on my cheeks. My heart thumps in my ears.
“A parcel has come for you, miss.”
“A parcel? At this hour?”
“Yes, miss. The boy just left it.”
She hands me a box wrapped in brown paper and tied crudely with string. There is no name or card with it.
“Thank you,” I say. “I believe I shall turn in. I’m very tired.”
“As you say, miss.” The door clicks shut, and I lock it, exhaling loudly.
Kartik comes up behind me and wraps his hands around my waist. “Best open it,” he says, and I do. Inside are Tom’s ridiculous hat and a note.
Dear Miss Doyle,
You possess something of great value to us. At present, we possess something of great value to you. I am certain we may come to an agreeable arrangement. Do not be tempted to use the magic against us. At the first hint of it, we shall know, and your brother will die. Mr. Fowlson is on the corner. Do not keep him waiting.
The Rakshana have Tom.
The Rakshana mean to take my magic, and if I deny them, they will kill my brother. And if I attempt to draw upon my power now to save Tom? I cannot say that it is solely my power, and I may do more harm than good. I’ve nothing at my disposal tonight but my wits, and they seem little aid just now. But at present, it is the only hope I have.
“I’m coming with you,” Kartik insists.
“You’ll get yourself killed,” I argue.
“Then it’s a good day to die,” he says, and it makes my stomach flip.
I put my fingers to his lips. “Don’t say that.”
He kisses my fingers, then my mouth. “I’m coming with you.”
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
* * *
FOWLSON IS WAITING FOR ME BY HIS SLEEK CARRIAGE. HE flips a coin high, catching it neatly each time. When he sees me coming, he stops the coin on his arm with a slap.
“Awww, look at that—tails. Bad luck, luv.” He opens the carriage door for me. I see Kartik sneaking around the back.
“Tell me, Mr. Fowlson, will you always do their bidding? And when, pray, will they reward you for your efforts? Or will it always be like this—they dining at the feast, you off doing their dirty work?”
“They’ll reward me in time,” he says, pulling a blindfold from his pocket.
“No doubt that is why you are here instead of sitting with them. They needed a driver.”
“You shut it!” He glowers, but there’s a small ember of doubt in his eyes, the first I’ve seen.
“I shall make you a bargain, Mr. Fowlson. Help me, and I shall take you into the realms.”
He laughs. “Once we ’ave the magic, I’ll be there all I like. No, I don’t fink I’ll be makin’ bargains tonigh’, luv.”
He secures the blindfold over my eyes more tightly than is necessary. He threads rope around my wrists and ties it to something—the door’s handle, I think.
“Don’t go nowhere,” he calls, and laughs till he coughs.
The carriage starts with a jolt. The horses’ hooves strike the pavement in quick rhythm, and I hope Kartik is holding fast.
We do not travel far. The horses come to a stop. Fowlson’s fingers work to loosen my bindings, but the blindfold remains in place. A cloak is thrown over my head.
“This way,” Fowlson hisses.
A door is opened. I’m half dragged, down, down, around and around, and when the blindfold is removed, I find myself in a room where candles line the periphery. My brother sits in a chair. His hands are bound, and he appears drunk. A cloaked man stands behind him, his knife at the ready near Tom’s throat.
“Tom!” I run for him and a voice booms out from above.
“Stop at once!” I look up to see a gallery that runs about the room. Men in cloaks stand watching, their faces hidden. “If you touch him, he will die, Miss Doyle. Our man is quick with a knife.”
“Gemma, don’t worry,” Tom mumbles. “It’s my ini…inish…”
“Initiation,” Kartik shouts, coming to my side. “Call it off.”
“Brother Kartik. I’d been told you were no longer living,” a voice calls. “Mr. Fowlson, you will answer for this.”
Fowlson’s face drains of color. “Yes, m’lord.”
“Let my brother go!” I shout.
“Certainly, dear lady. Just as soon as you give us the magic.”
I glance at Tom, who is helpless under the executioner’s knife.
“I can’t do that,” I say.
Tom screams as the knife presses a bit closer. “Stop,” he says in a strangled voice.
“Please, I need your help!” I cry. “Something terrible is happening in the Winterlands. We’re all in danger. I believe those creatures mean to come into our world.”
The room breaks into polite laughter. Beside me, Fowlson laughs hardest.
“I have seen Amar in the realms!” I shout. “He was one of you once. He warned me that it was coming. ‘Beware the birth of May,’ he said.”
The laughter dies away. “What did he mean by it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, keeping an eye on my brother. Tom is starting to come around. I see it in his eyes. “I thought it meant the first of May, but that day has come and gone. It could be another day—”
Lord Denby steps out of the shadows. “I don’t know what manner of trickery this is, Miss Doyle, but it will not stand.” His finger lower
s, and the cloaked figure presses the knife harder to my brother’s throat. “He will die.”
“And what if you kill him?” I say. “What bargaining power will you have then?”
“Your brother will die!” His voice thunders in the room.
It’s as if some fog has lifted, and I see clearly for the first time since this all began. I will not be intimidated, not by them. Not by anyone.
“And you will have nothing then,” I shout, sure and strong. “Nothing to shield yourselves from my power. And I will unleash it, sirs, like the hounds of hell, if you should harm one hair on his head!”
Lord Denby’s finger waits at the ready. The executioner’s knife also. For the longest moment, we all wait on the precipice.
“You’re a woman. You won’t do it.” He lowers his hand, and I don’t stop to think. I summon the magic and the knife becomes a balloon that slips from the man’s grip.
“Tom, run!” I shout.
Tom sits, confused, and Kartik makes a grab for him and pulls him away as I vibrate with the power I’ve suppressed for too long. It speeds out of me with new purpose. And no one’s eyes are wider than my brother’s as I send the walls crawling with flames. Phantoms swirl overhead, shrieking. It doesn’t matter that it’s only illusion; the men believe it.
“Stop!” Lord Denby cries, and the flames and the phantoms are gone. He stumbles to the railing. “We are reasonable men, Miss Doyle.”
“No, you’re not. And so I must speak very plainly, sir. You are never to approach my family again, or there shall be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite,” he gasps.
“What about the realms?” Kartik calls out. “Do you forget that we have long been its guardians? Will you not come with us into the Winterlands?”
The men mumble to one another. No one comes forward for the ardous journey.
“Very well,” Lord Denby says. “I shall assemble some foot soldiers for the task.”
“Foot soldiers?” I ask.
Kartik folds his arms. “Men like Fowlson and me. Men who won’t be missed.”
“Yes, take Mr. Fowlson with you,” Lord Denby says as if suggesting a servant for hire. “He has a way with a knife. You’re a good chap, aren’t you, Folwson?”
Mr. Fowlson accepts the statement like a blow he will not return. His jaw clenches.
“As it is my choice, I shall have Mr. Fowlson. We understand one another. And he does have a way with a knife,” I say. “Untie my brother, if you please.”
Mr. Fowlson loosens Tom’s bonds. He shoulders Tom’s limp body, and we move toward the door.
“The blindfold!” a man bellows.
I throw it on the floor. “I don’t need it. If you wish to wear it, be my guest.”
“Gemma! What the devil is going on? What did you do?” Tom demands. He’s beginning to unravel, and action must be taken.
“Hold him still, will you, please?” I say to Kartik and Fowlson, who take hold of Tom’s arms.
“Here now! Unhand me at once!” he insists, but he’s a bit too groggy to struggle.
“Thomas,” I say, removing my gloves, “this will hurt you far more than it will hurt me.”
“What?” he says.
I give him a good, clean punch to the mouth, and Tom is unconscious.
“You’re a hard one,” Fowlson says to me, propping my brother up in the carriage.
I settle my skirts over my legs properly and pull my glove neatly over my aching hand. “You’ve never taken a carriage ride with my brother when he is in such a state, Mr. Fowlson. Trust me, you will thank me for it.”
When Tom has recovered his senses—what sense he has, that is—we sit near the embankment. The streetlamps cast pools of light onto the Thames; they run like wet paint. Tom’s a mess: His collar sticks out like a broken bone, and the front of his shirt is spotted with his blood. He holds a wet handkerchief to his bruised face while stealing glances at me. Each time I meet his gaze, he looks quickly away. I could call on my magic to help me here, to blot all traces of this evening and my powers from his mind, but I decide against it. I’m tired of running. Of hiding who I am to make others happy. Let him know the truth of me, and if it’s too much, at least I shall know.
Tom moves his jaw gingerly. “Ow.”
“Is it broken?” I ask.
“Nuh, jus huhts,” he says, putting the handkerchief to his bloody bottom lip and wincing.
“Don’t you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“Tal’ abou’ wha’?” He glances at me like a frightened animal.
“What just happened.”
He removes the handkerchief. “What is there to discuss? I was given ether, taken to a secret hideaway, bound, and threatened with death. Then my sister, the debutante, who is supposedly away at school learning to curtsy and embroider and order mussels in French, unleashed a force the likes of which I’ve never seen and which cannot be explained by any rational mind or laws of science. I shall commit myself come morning.” He stares out at the murky river that snakes through the heart of London. “It was real, all of it. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And you’re not going to, em…” He makes a hand motion like waving a wand, which I suppose stands for “unleash magical forces that frighten me.”
“Not at present,” I say.
He winces. “Can you make this pain in my head go away?”
“Sorry,” I lie.
He puts the wet cloth to his cheek and sighs. “How long have you been…like this?” he asks.
“Are you sure you want to hear it—all of it? Are you ready for the truth?” I ask.
Tom considers for a moment, and when he answers, his voice is sure. “Yes.”
“It all began last year on my birthday, the day Mother died, but I suppose, in truth, it began much earlier than that….”
I tell him about my powers, the Order, the realms and the Winterlands. The only thing I don’t divulge is the truth about Mother killing little Carolina. I don’t know why. Perhaps I sense he’s not ready to know that just yet. Maybe he never will be. People can live with only so much honesty. And sometimes, people can surprise you. I talk to my brother as I never have before, trusting in him, letting the river listen to my confessions on its path toward the sea.
“It’s extraordinary,” he says at last. He stares at the ground. “So they really did want you, not me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s no matter. I rather hated their port,” he says, trying to cover the injury to his pride.
“There is a place that would have you if you would have them,” I remind him. “It may not be your first choice, but they are sound men who share your interests, and you may come to like them best over time.” Then, changing the subject, I say, “Tom, there is something I must know. Do you think that I could have brought Father’s illness on, when I tried to make him see…with the magic…”
“Gemma, he has consumption, brought on by his grief and his vices. It’s not your doing.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Don’t misunderstand me—you are quite vexing.” He touches his tender jaw. “And you hit like a man. But you didn’t cause his illness. That is his doing.”
Farther down the river, a ship’s horn makes a mournful cry. It’s plaintive and familiar, a howl in the night for what one has lost and can’t get back.
Tom clears his throat. “Gemma, there’s something I need to say to you.”
“All right,” I reply.
“I know you adore Father, but he isn’t the white knight you imagine him to be. He never was. True, he’s charming and loving in his way. But he’s selfish. He’s a limited man determined to bring about his own end—”
“But—”
Tom grabs both my hands in his and gives them a small squeeze. “Gemma, you can’t save him. Why can’t you accept that?”
I see my reflection on the surface of the Thames. My face is a watery outline, all blurre
d edges with nothing settled.
“Because if I let go of that”—I swallow hard, once, twice—“then I have to accept that I am alone.”
The ship’s horn howls again as it slips out toward the sea. Tom’s reflection appears beside mine, just as uncertain.
“We’re every one of us alone in this world, Gemma.” He doesn’t say it bitterly. “But you have company, if you want it.”
“We stayin’ out ’ere all nigh’?” Fowlson calls. He and Kartik lean against the carriage like a couple of stoic andirons in need of a fire to guard.
I offer Tom my hand and help him up.
“So this magic of yours…I don’t suppose you could make me into a baron or an earl or something like that? A duchy would be nice. Nothing ostentatiously grand—well, unless you care to make it so.”
I push that one rebellious lock from his forehead. “Don’t press your luck.”
“Right.” He grins and his lip cracks open again. “Ow!”
“Thomas, I intend to live my own life as I see fit without interference from now on,” I tell him as we press toward our carriage.
“I shan’t tell you how to live it. Just don’t turn me into a newt or a braying ass or, heaven forbid, a Tory.”
“Too late. You’re already a braying ass.”
“God, you’ll be insufferable now. I’m too frightened to say anything back,” Tom says.
“You don’t know how happy that makes me, Thomas.” Fowlson goes to open the carriage door, but I get there first. “I have it, thank you.”
“Where are we going?” Tom asks, brushing past me and settling himself inside without so much as a care for the rest of us. Order has returned.
“A place where you’re wanted,” I say. “Mr. Fowlson, take us to the Hippocrates Society, if you please.”
Fowlson folds his arms across his chest. He won’t look at me. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you ask fer me?”
“I trust them slightly less than I do you. And it would seem that I believe in you slightly more.”
“They wouldn’t leave me behind,” Fowlson says quietly.
Kartik scoffs.
“Thank you, Miss Doyle. It was good of you to speak to me.” She does not extend her hand, nor would I expect her to.
“It was good of you to hear me out.”
In the evening, Tom leaves once again for his club. I try to dissuade him from it, but he refuses to speak to me. Grandmama has met with her friends for a game of baccarat. So I sit alone in my room, trying to devise a plan to return to Spence and the realms.
“Gemma.”
I nearly shout as a man steps out from behind my drapes, and when I see it’s Kartik, I’m overcome with joy.
“How did you get here?”
“I borrowed a horse from Spence,” he explains. “Well, I stole it, actually. When you didn’t return…” I cover his mouth with mine and silence him with a kiss.
We lie beside each other on my bed, my head resting on his chest. I can hear his heart thrumming, strong and sure. His fingers trace patterns on my back. His other hand is linked to mine.
“I don’t understand,” I say, enjoying the warmth of his fingers traveling the length of my spine and back again. “Why hasn’t she shown me how to save Eugenia?”
“Could Wilhelmina have been aiding Circe? You said yourself they were close.” Kartik kisses the top of my head.
“Why would she betray the Order and Eugenia?” I say. “It doesn’t make sense. None of it does,” I sigh. “The key holds the truth. It’s a phrase that recurs in my dreams, my visions, Wilhelmina’s book. But what does it mean?”
“There was no key inside the leather pouch along with the dagger?” Kartik asks.
“No. And I thought perhaps the book was the key.” I shake my head. “But I’m not certain of that. I think…”
I’m remembering the pictures Wilhelmina drew for A History of Secret Societies. The Hidden Object. Guardians of the Night. The tower. I’ve deciphered them all save one—the room with the painting of boats.
“Yes?” Kartik prompts. His hand wanders to my breast.
“I think it might be a place,” I say, reaching up to kiss him.
He moves on top of me, and I accept the weight of him. His hands slide down my body and mine push down the broad expanse of his back. His tongue makes small explorations in my mouth.
There’s a knock at my door. I push Kartik off me, panicked.
“The drapery!” I whisper.
He hides behind the drapes as I quickly arrange myself. I perch on my bed, a book in hand.
“Come in,” I call, and Mrs. Jones enters. “Good evening,” I say, turning the book right side up. I can feel the flush on my cheeks. My heart thumps in my ears.
“A parcel has come for you, miss.”
“A parcel? At this hour?”
“Yes, miss. The boy just left it.”
She hands me a box wrapped in brown paper and tied crudely with string. There is no name or card with it.
“Thank you,” I say. “I believe I shall turn in. I’m very tired.”
“As you say, miss.” The door clicks shut, and I lock it, exhaling loudly.
Kartik comes up behind me and wraps his hands around my waist. “Best open it,” he says, and I do. Inside are Tom’s ridiculous hat and a note.
Dear Miss Doyle,
You possess something of great value to us. At present, we possess something of great value to you. I am certain we may come to an agreeable arrangement. Do not be tempted to use the magic against us. At the first hint of it, we shall know, and your brother will die. Mr. Fowlson is on the corner. Do not keep him waiting.
The Rakshana have Tom.
The Rakshana mean to take my magic, and if I deny them, they will kill my brother. And if I attempt to draw upon my power now to save Tom? I cannot say that it is solely my power, and I may do more harm than good. I’ve nothing at my disposal tonight but my wits, and they seem little aid just now. But at present, it is the only hope I have.
“I’m coming with you,” Kartik insists.
“You’ll get yourself killed,” I argue.
“Then it’s a good day to die,” he says, and it makes my stomach flip.
I put my fingers to his lips. “Don’t say that.”
He kisses my fingers, then my mouth. “I’m coming with you.”
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
* * *
FOWLSON IS WAITING FOR ME BY HIS SLEEK CARRIAGE. HE flips a coin high, catching it neatly each time. When he sees me coming, he stops the coin on his arm with a slap.
“Awww, look at that—tails. Bad luck, luv.” He opens the carriage door for me. I see Kartik sneaking around the back.
“Tell me, Mr. Fowlson, will you always do their bidding? And when, pray, will they reward you for your efforts? Or will it always be like this—they dining at the feast, you off doing their dirty work?”
“They’ll reward me in time,” he says, pulling a blindfold from his pocket.
“No doubt that is why you are here instead of sitting with them. They needed a driver.”
“You shut it!” He glowers, but there’s a small ember of doubt in his eyes, the first I’ve seen.
“I shall make you a bargain, Mr. Fowlson. Help me, and I shall take you into the realms.”
He laughs. “Once we ’ave the magic, I’ll be there all I like. No, I don’t fink I’ll be makin’ bargains tonigh’, luv.”
He secures the blindfold over my eyes more tightly than is necessary. He threads rope around my wrists and ties it to something—the door’s handle, I think.
“Don’t go nowhere,” he calls, and laughs till he coughs.
The carriage starts with a jolt. The horses’ hooves strike the pavement in quick rhythm, and I hope Kartik is holding fast.
We do not travel far. The horses come to a stop. Fowlson’s fingers work to loosen my bindings, but the blindfold remains in place. A cloak is thrown over my head.
“This way,” Fowlson hisses.
A door is opened. I’m half dragged, down, down, around and around, and when the blindfold is removed, I find myself in a room where candles line the periphery. My brother sits in a chair. His hands are bound, and he appears drunk. A cloaked man stands behind him, his knife at the ready near Tom’s throat.
“Tom!” I run for him and a voice booms out from above.
“Stop at once!” I look up to see a gallery that runs about the room. Men in cloaks stand watching, their faces hidden. “If you touch him, he will die, Miss Doyle. Our man is quick with a knife.”
“Gemma, don’t worry,” Tom mumbles. “It’s my ini…inish…”
“Initiation,” Kartik shouts, coming to my side. “Call it off.”
“Brother Kartik. I’d been told you were no longer living,” a voice calls. “Mr. Fowlson, you will answer for this.”
Fowlson’s face drains of color. “Yes, m’lord.”
“Let my brother go!” I shout.
“Certainly, dear lady. Just as soon as you give us the magic.”
I glance at Tom, who is helpless under the executioner’s knife.
“I can’t do that,” I say.
Tom screams as the knife presses a bit closer. “Stop,” he says in a strangled voice.
“Please, I need your help!” I cry. “Something terrible is happening in the Winterlands. We’re all in danger. I believe those creatures mean to come into our world.”
The room breaks into polite laughter. Beside me, Fowlson laughs hardest.
“I have seen Amar in the realms!” I shout. “He was one of you once. He warned me that it was coming. ‘Beware the birth of May,’ he said.”
The laughter dies away. “What did he mean by it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, keeping an eye on my brother. Tom is starting to come around. I see it in his eyes. “I thought it meant the first of May, but that day has come and gone. It could be another day—”
Lord Denby steps out of the shadows. “I don’t know what manner of trickery this is, Miss Doyle, but it will not stand.” His finger lower
“And what if you kill him?” I say. “What bargaining power will you have then?”
“Your brother will die!” His voice thunders in the room.
It’s as if some fog has lifted, and I see clearly for the first time since this all began. I will not be intimidated, not by them. Not by anyone.
“And you will have nothing then,” I shout, sure and strong. “Nothing to shield yourselves from my power. And I will unleash it, sirs, like the hounds of hell, if you should harm one hair on his head!”
Lord Denby’s finger waits at the ready. The executioner’s knife also. For the longest moment, we all wait on the precipice.
“You’re a woman. You won’t do it.” He lowers his hand, and I don’t stop to think. I summon the magic and the knife becomes a balloon that slips from the man’s grip.
“Tom, run!” I shout.
Tom sits, confused, and Kartik makes a grab for him and pulls him away as I vibrate with the power I’ve suppressed for too long. It speeds out of me with new purpose. And no one’s eyes are wider than my brother’s as I send the walls crawling with flames. Phantoms swirl overhead, shrieking. It doesn’t matter that it’s only illusion; the men believe it.
“Stop!” Lord Denby cries, and the flames and the phantoms are gone. He stumbles to the railing. “We are reasonable men, Miss Doyle.”
“No, you’re not. And so I must speak very plainly, sir. You are never to approach my family again, or there shall be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite,” he gasps.
“What about the realms?” Kartik calls out. “Do you forget that we have long been its guardians? Will you not come with us into the Winterlands?”
The men mumble to one another. No one comes forward for the ardous journey.
“Very well,” Lord Denby says. “I shall assemble some foot soldiers for the task.”
“Foot soldiers?” I ask.
Kartik folds his arms. “Men like Fowlson and me. Men who won’t be missed.”
“Yes, take Mr. Fowlson with you,” Lord Denby says as if suggesting a servant for hire. “He has a way with a knife. You’re a good chap, aren’t you, Folwson?”
Mr. Fowlson accepts the statement like a blow he will not return. His jaw clenches.
“As it is my choice, I shall have Mr. Fowlson. We understand one another. And he does have a way with a knife,” I say. “Untie my brother, if you please.”
Mr. Fowlson loosens Tom’s bonds. He shoulders Tom’s limp body, and we move toward the door.
“The blindfold!” a man bellows.
I throw it on the floor. “I don’t need it. If you wish to wear it, be my guest.”
“Gemma! What the devil is going on? What did you do?” Tom demands. He’s beginning to unravel, and action must be taken.
“Hold him still, will you, please?” I say to Kartik and Fowlson, who take hold of Tom’s arms.
“Here now! Unhand me at once!” he insists, but he’s a bit too groggy to struggle.
“Thomas,” I say, removing my gloves, “this will hurt you far more than it will hurt me.”
“What?” he says.
I give him a good, clean punch to the mouth, and Tom is unconscious.
“You’re a hard one,” Fowlson says to me, propping my brother up in the carriage.
I settle my skirts over my legs properly and pull my glove neatly over my aching hand. “You’ve never taken a carriage ride with my brother when he is in such a state, Mr. Fowlson. Trust me, you will thank me for it.”
When Tom has recovered his senses—what sense he has, that is—we sit near the embankment. The streetlamps cast pools of light onto the Thames; they run like wet paint. Tom’s a mess: His collar sticks out like a broken bone, and the front of his shirt is spotted with his blood. He holds a wet handkerchief to his bruised face while stealing glances at me. Each time I meet his gaze, he looks quickly away. I could call on my magic to help me here, to blot all traces of this evening and my powers from his mind, but I decide against it. I’m tired of running. Of hiding who I am to make others happy. Let him know the truth of me, and if it’s too much, at least I shall know.
Tom moves his jaw gingerly. “Ow.”
“Is it broken?” I ask.
“Nuh, jus huhts,” he says, putting the handkerchief to his bloody bottom lip and wincing.
“Don’t you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“Tal’ abou’ wha’?” He glances at me like a frightened animal.
“What just happened.”
He removes the handkerchief. “What is there to discuss? I was given ether, taken to a secret hideaway, bound, and threatened with death. Then my sister, the debutante, who is supposedly away at school learning to curtsy and embroider and order mussels in French, unleashed a force the likes of which I’ve never seen and which cannot be explained by any rational mind or laws of science. I shall commit myself come morning.” He stares out at the murky river that snakes through the heart of London. “It was real, all of it. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And you’re not going to, em…” He makes a hand motion like waving a wand, which I suppose stands for “unleash magical forces that frighten me.”
“Not at present,” I say.
He winces. “Can you make this pain in my head go away?”
“Sorry,” I lie.
He puts the wet cloth to his cheek and sighs. “How long have you been…like this?” he asks.
“Are you sure you want to hear it—all of it? Are you ready for the truth?” I ask.
Tom considers for a moment, and when he answers, his voice is sure. “Yes.”
“It all began last year on my birthday, the day Mother died, but I suppose, in truth, it began much earlier than that….”
I tell him about my powers, the Order, the realms and the Winterlands. The only thing I don’t divulge is the truth about Mother killing little Carolina. I don’t know why. Perhaps I sense he’s not ready to know that just yet. Maybe he never will be. People can live with only so much honesty. And sometimes, people can surprise you. I talk to my brother as I never have before, trusting in him, letting the river listen to my confessions on its path toward the sea.
“It’s extraordinary,” he says at last. He stares at the ground. “So they really did want you, not me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s no matter. I rather hated their port,” he says, trying to cover the injury to his pride.
“There is a place that would have you if you would have them,” I remind him. “It may not be your first choice, but they are sound men who share your interests, and you may come to like them best over time.” Then, changing the subject, I say, “Tom, there is something I must know. Do you think that I could have brought Father’s illness on, when I tried to make him see…with the magic…”
“Gemma, he has consumption, brought on by his grief and his vices. It’s not your doing.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Don’t misunderstand me—you are quite vexing.” He touches his tender jaw. “And you hit like a man. But you didn’t cause his illness. That is his doing.”
Farther down the river, a ship’s horn makes a mournful cry. It’s plaintive and familiar, a howl in the night for what one has lost and can’t get back.
Tom clears his throat. “Gemma, there’s something I need to say to you.”
“All right,” I reply.
“I know you adore Father, but he isn’t the white knight you imagine him to be. He never was. True, he’s charming and loving in his way. But he’s selfish. He’s a limited man determined to bring about his own end—”
“But—”
Tom grabs both my hands in his and gives them a small squeeze. “Gemma, you can’t save him. Why can’t you accept that?”
I see my reflection on the surface of the Thames. My face is a watery outline, all blurre
“Because if I let go of that”—I swallow hard, once, twice—“then I have to accept that I am alone.”
The ship’s horn howls again as it slips out toward the sea. Tom’s reflection appears beside mine, just as uncertain.
“We’re every one of us alone in this world, Gemma.” He doesn’t say it bitterly. “But you have company, if you want it.”
“We stayin’ out ’ere all nigh’?” Fowlson calls. He and Kartik lean against the carriage like a couple of stoic andirons in need of a fire to guard.
I offer Tom my hand and help him up.
“So this magic of yours…I don’t suppose you could make me into a baron or an earl or something like that? A duchy would be nice. Nothing ostentatiously grand—well, unless you care to make it so.”
I push that one rebellious lock from his forehead. “Don’t press your luck.”
“Right.” He grins and his lip cracks open again. “Ow!”
“Thomas, I intend to live my own life as I see fit without interference from now on,” I tell him as we press toward our carriage.
“I shan’t tell you how to live it. Just don’t turn me into a newt or a braying ass or, heaven forbid, a Tory.”
“Too late. You’re already a braying ass.”
“God, you’ll be insufferable now. I’m too frightened to say anything back,” Tom says.
“You don’t know how happy that makes me, Thomas.” Fowlson goes to open the carriage door, but I get there first. “I have it, thank you.”
“Where are we going?” Tom asks, brushing past me and settling himself inside without so much as a care for the rest of us. Order has returned.
“A place where you’re wanted,” I say. “Mr. Fowlson, take us to the Hippocrates Society, if you please.”
Fowlson folds his arms across his chest. He won’t look at me. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you ask fer me?”
“I trust them slightly less than I do you. And it would seem that I believe in you slightly more.”
“They wouldn’t leave me behind,” Fowlson says quietly.
Kartik scoffs.