The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
Felicity narrows her eyes, but there is hurt in them. “Behave?”
“Just till after your season…”
Felicity sneers. “Shall I tremble at every scrap of nasty gossip? I’ve survived worse. Honestly, Gemma, since you’ve stopped taking us into the realms you’ve become a dull mouse of a girl. I hardly know you anymore.”
“I only meant to warn you,” I protest.
“I don’t need warnings; I need a friend,” she says. “If you wish to scold me like a schoolmarm, you might as well sit with Nightwing.”
She flounces away, joining arms with Elizabeth, and the sun, which felt so warm, is no longer a comfort.
I eschew Nightwing for Ann. The morning sun illuminates the musty chapel’s stained-glass windows. It shows the coating of grime on the angels and lends a fierce brightness to the bizarre panel of a lone warrior angel beside a severed gorgon’s head.
We bow our heads for prayer. We sing a hymn. And in the end, our French teacher, Mademoiselle LeFarge, reads a poem from William Blake.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
Will this be my life forevermore? Careful tea parties and the quiet fear that I don’t belong, that I’m a fraud? I held magic in my hands! I tasted freedom in a land where summer doesn’t end. I outsmarted the Rakshana with a boy whose kiss I still feel somehow. Was it all for naught? I’d rather not have known any of it than have it snatched away after a taste.
With tears threatening, I fix my attention upon the stained glass and the odd mixture of dangerous angels and uncertain warriors to keep my composure. Mademoiselle LeFarge fills the chapel with Mr. Blake’s lofty words.
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Several of the younger girls titter at desire and LeFarge must wait for silence before continuing.
Bring me my spear! O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
LeFarge leaves the pulpit and Mrs. Nightwing takes her place there. “Thank you, Miss LeFarge, for that. Most stirring. The poem reminds us that greatness lies even in the smallest of moments, in the humblest of hearts, and we shall, each of us, be called to greatness. Whether we shall rise to meet it or let it slip away is the challenge put before us all.”
Her eyes sweep the room and seem to rest on every girl, bequeathing each of us with an unseen mantle. My earlier urge to giggle vanishes, and a heaviness settles over me like a late spring snow.
“April is nearly upon us; May beckons. And for some of our girls, the time will soon come to leave us.”
Beside me, Ann rubs absently at the scars on her arm. I put my hands in hers.
“Every year, we host a small tea to honor our graduates. This year, we shall not.”
A low rumble of shock reverberates in the small chapel. The girls lose their grins. Elizabeth looks as if she might cry. “Oh. Oh, no.”
“She wouldn’t dare,” Cecily whispers, horrified. “Would she?”
“Quiet, quiet, please.” Mrs. Nightwing’s words echo. “It is my great pleasure to tell you that this year, we shall not host a tea but rather a ball.”
A surge of excitement ripples through the girls from pew to pew. A ball!
“It is to be a masked ball, a jolly spectacle of costume, held on May Day for patrons and parents. No doubt you have already begun to dream of fairy wings and noble Indian princesses. Perhaps there will be among you a pirate or Nefertiti or a stately Queen Mab.”
Another ripple of girlish exhilaration disturbs the calm of the chapel.
“I shall make a splendid Queen Mab,” Felicity says. “Don’t you think?”
Cecily’s outraged. “Why, Felicity Worthington, that was to be my costume.”
“Not anymore it isn’t. I thought of it first.”
“How could you have thought of it first when I did!”
“Ladies! Grace, strength, beauty!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts over the din, reminding us of the Spence motto as well as our manners. We settle like a flower garden after a sudden tempest of wind. “I’ve another surprise. As you know, our Miss McCleethy has been away these months attending to urgent personal matters. I am pleased to say that her obligations elsewhere are at an end, and she will be returning to us soon. I’ve a letter, which I shall read aloud.” She clears her throat. “‘Dear Ladies of Spence, I do hope this letter finds you well. Spring should be shining on our dear school. It must be a lovely sight, and I hope to enjoy it soon. Mrs. Nightwing has asked if I might permanently accept the position vacated by Miss Moore, and I am happy to say that I have accepted. It was not my intention to stay on at Spence, but it seems I am needed there, and I go wherever duty calls. It is my fervent hope to see you all by month’s end. Until then, I wish you well with your studies and the best of luck with the porridge.’”
This is followed by laughter, as Spence’s porridge is notoriously awful.
“‘And for those leaving us soon to take their places in the world, I would ask them to remember their obligations as well as their dreams. Fondly, Your Miss McCleethy.’”
The gust has blown through: The girls fall into merry chatter again. Though I am excited too, I am not entirely at ease. I can’t help feeling that this last bit is directed at me, an arrow flying straight from the hard bow of Miss McCleethy’s desire to have the Order resume their place within the realms.
The last I saw of Claire Sahirah McCleethy was at Christmastime in London. She pretended to forge an alliance with the Rakshana and tried to force me to take her into the realms. Once I bound the magic to myself, she expected me to return the power to the Order, to join with them on their terms. When I refused, she warned me not to make enemies of them. And then she was gone. Mrs. Nightwing told the girls of Spence little about her absence. Now she’s coming back, and I wonder what it bodes for me.
We pour out the chapel’s ancient oak doors in twos and threes, talking breathlessly of what is to come.
“I am glad to hear Miss McCleethy’s returning. That is welcome news, indeed,” Cecily says.
“We should prepare a song or poem to welcome our Miss McCleethy home,” Elizabeth trills. Her voice offends my ears at this hour.
Martha’s joined the fray. “Oh, yes! I rather like Mr. Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
“I c-c-could sing for her,” Ann offers. She’s trailing just behind.
For a moment, no one speaks. “Oh, Elizabeth, you’ve a lovely voice. Why don’t you sing for our Miss McCleethy?” Cecily coos, as if Ann never said a word. She reminds me of a bee, seemingly in the business of honey but with a rather nasty sting.
“Yes, do,” Martha quickly agrees.
“Then it is settled. Martha and I shall read a sonnet. Elizabeth, you shall sing. Fee, perhaps you’d prepare with us?”
I wish Ann would defend herself, tell Cecily what a toad she is. But she doesn’t. Instead, she slows her steps, falling farther behind.
“Ann,” I say, holding out a hand. But she won’t look at me, won’t answer. She makes it clear that I’m one of them now. It’s weeks yet until we part but she’s already pushing me away.
Fine. Let her. I walk down the path to join the others. The trees wear their new greenery awkwardly still. Through the sparse leaves I spy the East Wing’s progress. The turret is striking. I find I cannot help looking at it, as if it were a magnet pulling me in.
Loud shouts and threats erupt from the site and we rush to see what they are about. A group of men stand on the lawn,
The workers form a line behind their foreman, Mr. Miller. They outnumber the Gypsies two to one, but they keep their hammers close.
“Here now, what is all this fuss? Mr. Miller, why have your men stopped work?” Mrs. Nightwing demands.
“It’s these Gypsies, missus,” Mr. Miller sneers. “Causin’ trouble.”
A tall Gypsy with fair hair and a knowing smile steps forward. Ithal is his name. He is the Gypsy Felicity kissed behind the boathouse. Felicity sees him too. Her face goes pale. Hat in hand, he approaches Mrs. Nightwing. “We look for work. We are carpenters. We are building for many people.”
“Shove off, mate,” Mr. Miller says in a low, tight voice. “This is our job.”
“We could work together.” Ithal offers his hand. Mr. Miller doesn’t take it.
“Oi. These are decent ladies. They don’t need no dirty, thieving Gypsies here.”
Mrs. Nightwing steps in. “We have had the Gypsies on our land for years. We’ve had no trouble from them.”
Mr. Miller’s eyes flash. “I can see yer a fine, charitable lady, mum. But if you show them kindness, they’ll never leave. They should go back to their own country.”
Ithal holds tight to his hat, bending the brim. “If we go back, they will kill us.”
Mr. Miller smiles broadly. “See? Their own country don’t even want ’em. You don’t want to hire them Gypsies, missus. They’ll rob you blind.” He lowers his voice. “And what with young ladies present, mum…What could happen, well, I shouldn’t like to say.”
I do not like Mr. Miller. His smile is an illusion. It does not match the venom of his words. Ithal says nothing in return, but I can see by the tight line of his jaw that he would like to.
Mrs. Nightwing straightens her spine as she does when she upbraids one of us. “Mr. Miller, I trust you’ll finish this portion in time for our ball?”
“Aye, missus,” Mr. Miller says, his eyes still on Ithal. “’Twas the rain what put us behind.”
Mrs. Nightwing speaks to the Gypsies as she would to meddling children in need of bed. “I thank you for your concern, gentlemen. At present we have it well in hand.”
I watch the Gypsies go, still hoping I’ll see Kartik at any moment. Mrs. Nightwing is occupied with Mr. Miller and I seize my chance. Palming a penny, I traipse after the Gypsies.
“Pardon me, sir. I believe you may have dropped this,” I say, offering the shiny coin.
The Gypsy knows I’ve invented the tale; I can see it in his suspicious smile. He looks to Ithal for guidance.
“It is not ours,” Ithal says.
“It could be!” I blurt out.
The other man is intrigued. “For what?”
“Careful, friend,” Ithal warns. “We are like dirt beneath their feet.” He flicks his glance to Felicity, who does not even bother to see.
“I only wish to know if Mr. Kartik is among your company at present.”
Ithal folds his arms across his chest. “Why do you want to know?”
“He had hoped for work as a driver. I happen to know of a family in need of such and thought I might inform him.” I feel shamed by my lie.
“You see? Dirt.” Ithal glares at me. “I have not seen Mr. Kartik for some months now. Perhaps he is already in the service of a fine family and cannot come to play anymore.”
It’s a slap of a comment, and I feel properly stung by it, but I’m more stung by the knowledge that no one has seen Kartik. I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him.
Mrs. Nightwing corrals the girls, and I hurry back into the fold. As I do, I hear Ithal talking to the other Gypsies. “Do not be tempted by English roses. Their beauty fades, but their thorns are forever.”
“Miss Doyle! What were you doing with those men?” Mrs. Nightwing scolds.
“I’d a pebble in my boot. I only stopped to remove it,” I lie.
“Scandalous,” Cecily whispers. Her whispers could be heard by the dead.
Mrs. Nightwing takes hold of my arm. “Miss Doyle, with the others, if you please—” Her admonition is interrupted by a loud shout from one of the workers.
“Oi! There’s somefin’ down ’ere!”
Several of the men jump into the hole between the new turret and the old portion of the school. A lamp is called for and one is lowered. We follow Nightwing, crowding around the hole, hoping for a glimpse of whatever has been found.
The workers discard their shovels. They whisk dirt-stained hands back and forth, clearing the clumps of drying mud away. There is indeed something beneath the ground—part of an old wall. The stone bears strange markings but they’re too faint to see. Mr. Miller frowns. “What’s that, now?”
“Could be a woine cellar,” a man with a bushy mustache opines.
“Or a dungeon,” another says, grinning. He smacks the boot of the smallest among them. “Oi, Charlie—be a good lad or it’s into the ’ole wif you!” He makes a sudden grab for the young man’s ankle, scaring him, and the men fall into rowdy laughter.
Mrs. Nightwing takes the lamp and holds it over the ancient stone. She examines it from above, pursing her lips, and then, just as quickly, gives the lamp back to Mr. Miller. “Likely it is a relic from the Druids or even the Romans. They say Hannibal himself may have led his troops through these parts.”
“Ye might be right, missus. Looks to be a marker of sorts,” the burly man says.
There is something strangely familiar about it all, like a dream I can’t quite catch before it flies away forever. I can’t keep from reaching fingers toward the relic. My breathing comes faster; my skin is warm. I want to touch it…
“Careful, miss!” Mr. Miller pushes me back as I topple forward.
The warmth leaves my hands, and I startle as if waking.
“Miss Doyle! You are entirely too close!” Mrs. Nightwing reprimands. “None of you girls should be here, and I do believe, in fact, that Mademoiselle LeFarge is waiting for quite a few of you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” we answer, but we don’t leave.
“Should we clear it away, missus?” Mr. Miller asks, and again that queer feeling surges through me, though I cannot say why.
Mrs. Nightwing nods. The men strain to remove it. Again and again, they fall away, red-faced and gasping for breath. The biggest and strongest of them jumps into the hole and puts his full weight against it. He, too, steps aside. “Won’t budge an inch,” he says.
“Wot d’yer wanna do, missus?”
Mrs. Nightwing shakes her head. “It’s been here this long. Just leave it be.”
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
* * *
FELICITY’S NOT FORGIVEN ME YET FOR MY ADVICE ABOUT Lady Markham, so I find myself shut out of her tent in the great hall. It’s not that she tells me I’m not welcome; she simply greets each of Cecily’s dull tales with a jolly laugh and fawns over the simpering details of Elizabeth’s latest trip to the dressmaker’s, whilst every syllable I utter is met with complete disdain. Eventually, I take refuge in the kitchen.
I’m surprised to see Brigid leaving a bowl of milk on the hearth. Even more curious, she has affixed a crucifix to the wall beside the door, and small sprigs of leaves mark the windows.
I help myself to a hard crust of brown bread from the larder. “Brigid…,” I say then, and she jumps.
“By all the saints! Don’t sneak up on your old Brigid like that,” she says, putting a hand over her heart.
“What are you doing?” I nod toward the milk. “Is there a cat about?”
“No,” she says, grabbing her basket of sewing. “And that’s all I ’ave to say on the subject.”
Brigid always has more to say on every subject. It’s simply a matter of luring the gossip out of her.
“Well…” She motions for me to sit with her by the fire. “It’s for protection,” she whispers. “The cross and rowan leaves on the windows as well.”
“Protection from what?”
Brigid dips her needle into the fabric and pulls it through the other side. “The East Wing. Ain’t right putting that cursed place back as it was.”
“You mean because of the fire and the girls who died?”
Brigid cranes her neck to be sure we’re not overhead. Her sewing sits idle in her lap. “Aye, that, but I always felt that there were somethin’ not right about it.”
“What do you mean?” I say, taking another bite of bread.
“You just get a knowin’ in your very bones about such things.” She fingers the cross she wears around her neck. “And one day, I heard Missus Nightwing askin’ Missus Spence somethin’ about the East Wing and Missus Spence, God rest her as an angel, tellin’ ’er not to worry, that she would never let anything in, even if she ’ad to die first. Gives me a shudder jus’ thinkin’ abou’ it.”
Eugenia Spence giving her life to save everyone from the Winterlands creatures. The bread I’ve been chewing goes down hard.
Brigid looks through the windows at the dark woods beyond. “I wish they’d leave it be.”
“But, Brigid, think how lovely it will look when it is complete and Spence is as she once was,” I argue. “Wouldn’t that be a fine tribute to Mrs. Spence?”
Brigid nods. “Aye, ’twould. But still…” She cups my chin in her hand. “You won’t tell on your old Brigid ’bout the milk, will you?”
I shake my head. “Of course not.”
“There’s a good girl.” She pats my cheek, and that, more than any good-luck charm, has the power to rid my soul of ghosts. “When you first came in your mourning weeds, I thought you the strangest thing. It’s your green eyes—they put me in mind of that poor Mary Dowd ’oo died in the fire and her friend, Sarah. But you’re nothin’ like them. Nothin’ at all.”