The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
“No. You tell yourself that. That’s why Circe told me to search my dark corners. So I wouldn’t be caught off guard.”
Circe laughs, a splintered cackle that finds a way under my skin.
“And what about you, Gemma?” Eugenia purrs. “Have you ‘searched’ yourself, as you say?”
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I’ve made mistakes,” I say, my voice growing stronger, my fingers feeling for the dagger again. “But I’ve done good, too.”
“And yet, you’re still alone. All that trying and still you stand apart, watching from the other side of the glass. Afraid to have what you truly want because what if it’s not enough after all? What if you get it and you still feel alone and apart? So much better to wrap yourself up in the longing. The yearning. The restlessness. Poor Gemma. She doesn’t quite fit, does she? Poor Gemma—all alone.”
It’s as if she’s delivered a blow to my heart. My hand falters. “I—I…”
“Gemma, you’re not alone,” Circe gasps, and my hand touches metal.
“No. I’m not. I’m like everyone else in this stupid, bloody, amazing world. I’m flawed. Impossibly so. But hopeful. I’m still me.” I’ve got it now. Sure and strong in my grip. “I see through you. I see the truth.”
I spring to my feet, and suddenly, the illusion Eugenia has crafted is broken. I see the battlefield awash in blood and fighting. Hear the clang of steel against steel, the cries of vengeance, of fear, of principle and power lust, of desperation, of pure valor and unmerciful righteousness—all of it blurring into one terrible roar that drowns out every voice, every heart, every hope.
“Well done, Gemma,” Eugenia says. “You’re very powerful, indeed. Pity you won’t live long enough to make more of those glorious mistakes.”
I raise the dagger. “Right. Let’s end this properly.”
The tree’s many arms stretch and groan. Its surface roils with those devoured souls. I try to see clearly, but this is no illusion. This is terrifyingly real, and I fall back as the tree rises taller, looming over me.
“Gemma, do it,” Circe moans in agony.
I summon every bit of magic I’ve got, channeling it into the dagger. “I free the souls trapped here! You are released!”
I close my eyes and try to plunge the dagger into the tree. One of the branches knocks it from my hand. With a gasp, I watch it drop below. The tree shrieks and howls, calling the attention of every person on the battlefield.
“Her blood must fall!” the tree commands.
“Gemma!” Kartik calls, and I hear the alarm in his voice.
Amar comes for me. He spurs his horse forward, picking up speed. I scramble loose of the tree’s grip and race for the dagger, just out of reach. For a moment, time slows. The roar of battle dims to a hum. There is only the sound of hoofbeats matching the pounding throb of my blood in my ears. I see Kartik running after his brother with a fierce determination in his eyes. And then the world spins into time.
The roots trip me. I fall to the ground. Gasping, I crawl toward the dagger, but Amar is quicker.
“No!” Kartik shouts, and then I feel a sharp pain in my side. When I look down, the dagger is there and my blood spreads across my white blouse in a widening stain.
“Gemma!” Felicity screams. I see her running toward me with Ann just behind.
I stagger forward, and when I reach the tree, I pull the dagger from my side with an anguished cry.
“I…release…these souls,” I repeat in a whisper.
I plunge the dagger into the tree. It screams in pain, and the souls slip from its skin, pushing out of the branches like leaves of fire, and then they are gone.
My eyes flutter. The land goes wavy. My body trembles till I cannot stop it. I’m caught in the tree’s embrace. And the last thing I hear as I fall against the cradle of the branches is Kartik shouting my name.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
* * *
THE MIST IS THICK AND WELCOMING. IT KISSES MY FEVERISH skin with a coolness, like a mother’s caring lips. I cannot see what is ahead. It is just as in my dreams. But now a yellow glow is cutting the gray fog. Something is coming through. The glow comes from a lantern hanging from a long pole, and the pole is attached to a barge bedecked in lotus blossoms. The Three have come, and they’ve come for me. Behind me in the mist, I hear a familiar voice: Gemma, Gemma. It moves through me all whispery soft, and I long to return to it, but the women beckon with their hands and I move to meet them. Their movements are slow, as if they take great effort. I am slowing as well. My feet seem to sink into the mud with each step, but I’m getting closer.
I step onto the barge. They nod to me. The old one speaks.
“Your time has come. You have a choice to make.”
She opens her hand. There rests a cluster of deep purple berries, much darker in hue than the ones Pip ate. They sit cupped in her palm, as bright as jewels.
“Swallow the berries, and we will ferry you away to glory. Refuse them, and you must return to whatever awaits. Once you choose, there is no turning back.”
For a moment, I hear my friends calling me, but they seem far away, as if I could run and run and never catch them.
“Gemma.” I turn to see Circe behind me. She has lost the gray pallor she wore earlier. She looks just as she did the first day I saw her at Spence, when she was Miss Moore, the teacher I loved. “You did well,” she says.
“You knew Eugenia had become the tree, didn’t you?” I say.
“Yes,” she answers.
“And you meant to save me?” I ask hopefully.
She gives me a rueful smile. “Have no illusions about me, Gemma. I meant to save myself first. To have the power second. You were a distant third.”
“But I was third,” I say.
“Yes,” she says with a little laugh. “You were third.”
“Thank you,” I say. “You saved me.”
“No. You saved yourself. I only helped a bit.”
“What will become of you now?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
“She will roam here in this mist for all time,” the crone tells me.
The choice is before me in her palm. The cries of my friends grow faint in the fog. I take one plump berry and place it on my tongue, tasting it. It is not tart. Rather, there is only a pleasant sweetness and then nothing. It is the taste of forgetting. Of sleep and dreams with no waking. Never to long or yearn, to struggle or hurt or love or desire ever again. And I understand that this is what it truly means to lose your soul.
My mouth goes numb with sweetness. The berry sits on my tongue.
Felicity carrying goldenrod in her arms. Ann’s voice, strong and sure. Gorgon marching through the battlefield.
I have only to swallow the berry and it is done. That is all. Swallow the berry and with it all struggle, all care, all hope. How easy it would be to do.
Kartik. I left him at the tree. The tree. I was to do something there.
So very, very easy…
Kartik.
With a tremendous effort, I spit the berry from my mouth, gagging as I try to rid my tongue of the sugary numbness. My body aches as if I have pushed a heavy rock uphill forever, but now I am rid of it.
“I’m sorry. I cannot go with you. Not now. But I am to have a request, am I not?”
“If you wish it,” the crone says.
“I do. I should like to offer my place to another,” I say, looking toward Circe.
“You would give it to me?” she says.
“You saved my life. That must count for something,” I say.
“You know I abhor self-sacrifice,” she replies.
“I know, but I’ll not have you wandering in the mists. Too dangerous.”
She smiles at me. “You’ve done very well, indeed, Gemma.” She turns to the Three. “I accept.”
Circe steps onto the barge.
The crone nods to me. “You have made your choice. There is no turning back now. Whatever shall happen yo
u must accept.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then we wish you luck. We’ll not meet again.”
I step onto the muddy, mist-shrouded shore as the maiden pushes the pole against the bottom of the river and drifts off into the fog and Circe retreats into the shadows. I move slowly till my legs remember how to walk quickly, and then I am running, running with all my strength, pushing through the mist with greedy, determined steps until it feels as if I am flying. I feel the hardness of branches at my back, a sharp pain in my side. I press a hand to it, and when I pull my hand away, it’s soaked in blood.
I’m back where I was on the frozen ground of the Winterlands.
“Kartik. Kartik!” My voice is raw and weak. What little magic I have left is ebbing.
His eyes are wide with alarm. “Gemma! You mustn’t move. If your blood falls on the ground of the Winterlands—”
“I know.” With a great effort, I plunge the dagger in to its hilt and fall back, trying to get away from the tree’s muddle of roots. I keep my hand to the wound and blood trickles over my hand. The tree sways precariously. The Winterlands creatures shriek to see its mortal wound. With an enormous crack, it splits open and the magic inside bleeds out.
“Step away!” Gorgon calls, but not soon enough.
Every bit of the tree’s power flows into Kartik. His body receives the magic like one hundred blows. He falls to the ground, and I fear it has killed him.
“Kartik!” I scream.
He staggers slowly to his feet, but he is no longer Kartik. He is something else entirely, a being etched in shadow and light, his eyes shifting from brown to a terrifying blue-white. He is so bright it hurts my eyes to look. All of the tree’s power—the Winterlands magic—now lives inside him, and I do not know what this means.
“Kartik!” I reach for him, and my blood drops into the frozen soil.
“It begins again!” a tracker cries to the shouts of the others.
The injured tree’s roots come alive. They twist themselves round my ankles and climb up my shins. I scream and try to move away, but I am being devoured.
“We didn’t kill it,” I gasp. “Why?”
“It cannot be killed,” Amar thunders. “It can only be changed.”
Felicity and Ann race to pull the roots free while Fowlson hacks at them, but the new shoots are strong.
“I told you that you would bring her to us, Brother. That you would be the death of her,” Amar says sadly.
Kartik glows with power. “You told me to follow my heart,” he says to Amar, and some shred of Amar, whatever remains of him, hears it.
“So I did, Brother. Will you give me peace?”
“I will.”
As swiftly as a tiger, Kartik grabs Amar’s sword. Amar raises his arms, and Kartik pushes it through. Amar gives a great howl. The light is piercing, and then he is no more. Kartik puts his hands to my side. The magic flares to life, and we are both bright with light, dark with shadow. His strength flows into me till the Winterlands magic mixes with the Temple magic. And for one brief moment, we are a perfect union. I can feel him inside me, me inside him. I can hear his thoughts; I know what is in his heart, what he means to do.
“No,” I say. I try to break away but he holds fast to me.
“Yes, it’s the only way.”
“I won’t let you!”
Kartik pulls me closer. “The debt must be paid. And you are needed in the world. I’ve waited my whole life to feel a sense of purpose. To know my place. I feel it now.”
I shake my head. Tears burn my cold cheeks. “Don’t.”
He smiles sadly. “Now I know my destiny.”
“What is it?”
“This.”
He draws me to him in a kiss. His lips are warm. He pulls me tighter in his embrace. The roots sigh and release their hold on my waist and the wound in my side is healed.
“Kartik,” I cry, kissing his cheeks. “It’s let me go.”
“That is good,” he says. He makes a small cry. His back arches, and every muscle in his body tightens.
“Stay back!” Gorgon shouts, her eyes cool.
“Blimey,” Bessie says in awe.
The magic takes hold of Kartik, and now I see what he’s done. He’s let the tree claim him in exchange. Ann and Felicity reach out to me. Fowlson tries to hold me back, but I break away.
It’s too late to reverse the magic. The Winterlands have accepted Kartik’s bargain.
“If I could go back…undo it…,” I say, sobbing.
“There is never any turning back, Gemma. You have to go forward. Make the future yours,” Kartik says.
He kisses me sweetly on the lips, and I return his kiss until the vines twine themselves round his throat and his lips go cold. The last sound I hear from him is my name spoken softly. “Gemma…”
The tree accepts him. He is gone. Only his voice remains, echoing my name on the wind.
The trackers point. “She still has the Temple magic! We might have it yet!”
I push them back with the force of my power. “This is what you would fight for? Kill for? What you would try to hoard or protect? No more,” I say, my lips still warm with Kartik’s kiss. “The magic was meant to be shared. None of you will hold it! I will give the magic back to the land!”
I put my hands to the broken earth. “I give this magic back to the realms and the Winterlands, too, that it may be shared equally among the tribes!”
The trackers shriek and howl as if in pain. The souls they have captured push through me on their way to wherever it is we go from here. I feel their passage. It is rather like the swoop of a carnival ride. And when they have gone, there is no one to lead the others, the dead. They stare in wonder, no longer sure what has happened or what will be.
The pale things that hide in the crevices and the cracks of the Winterlands crawl closer. The tree’s warmth melts a small patch of ice at its base. Thin shoots of grass struggle up through the new earth. I touch them and they are as soft as Kartik’s fingers on my arm.
Something in me breaks open. My face is slick with tears. So I do what I yearn to do. I sink into the burgeoning grass and cry.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTY
* * *
MRS. NIGHTWING WAITS FOR US IN THE CHAPEL, WHERE she cradles the body of Mother Elena.
“The creatures?” Ann asks, her voice ragged with the screams she’s spent.
Mrs. Nightwing shakes her head. “Her heart. She didn’t fall to them. There is that, at least.”
Mrs. Nightwing counts us as we file past—Felicity, Ann, Fowlson, me.
“Sahirah…?” she whispers. “And—”
I shake my head. She lowers her eyes, and nothing more is said.
The girls of Spence sit huddled together. Their eyes are wide and frightened. What they have seen tonight is beyond teas and balls, curtsies and sonnets.
Mrs. Nightwing puts her hand on my shoulder. “There is nothing more I can tell them. They’ve seen and they are frightened.”
“They should be.” Is it my voice that sounds so hard?
“They can’t know what has happened.”
She wants me to take what magic I have left and blot every memory of this evening from their minds. To make them forget so that they can carry on as before. There will always be the Cecilys, Marthas, and Elizabeths of the world—those who cannot bear the burden of truth. They will drink their tea. Weigh their words. Wear hats against the sun. Squeeze their minds into corsets, lest some errant thought should escape and ruin the smooth illusion they hold of themselves and the world as they like it.
It is a luxury, this forgetting. No one will come to take away the things I wish I had not seen, the things I wish I did not know. I shall have to live with them.
I wrench away from her grip. “Why should I?”
I do it anyway. Once I am certain the girls are asleep, I creep into their rooms, one by one, and lay my hands across their furrowed brows, which wear the trouble of all they
’ve witnessed. I watch while those brows ease into smooth, blank canvases beneath my fingers. It is a form of healing, and I am surprised by how much it heals me to do it. When the girls awake, they will remember a strange dream of magic and blood and curious creatures and perhaps a teacher they knew whose name will not spring to their lips. They might strain to remember for a moment, but then they will tell themselves it was only a dream best forgotten.
I have done what Mrs. Nightwing said I should do. But I do not take all their memories from them. I leave them with one small token of their evening: doubt. A feeling that perhaps there is something more. It is nothing more than a seed. Whether it shall grow into something more useful, I cannot say.
When it is time for me to visit Brigid, I find her awake in her little room. “That’s awl righ’, luv. I don’ care to forget, if it’s all the same,” she says, and there are no rowan leaves at her window anymore.
There is an ancient tribal proverb I once heard in India. It says that before we can see properly we must first shed our tears to clear the way.
I cry for days.
Mrs. Nightwing does not force me to go downstairs, and she doesn’t allow anyone, not even Fee and Ann, in to see me. She brings my meals on a tray, placing them on my table in the darkened room and leaving without a word. I hear only the rustling of her bustle as she treads the old wood floors, back and forth. Sometimes when I wake in the early hours, I feel as if I am emerging from a long, strange dream. The velvety light softens every edge in the room, bathing it in possibility. In that blissful moment, I expect a day like any other: I shall study French, laugh with friends. I shall see Kartik coming across the lawn, his smile filling me with warmth. And just as I begin to believe that all is well, there is some subtle change in the light. The room takes its true shape. I fight to go back to that blissful ignorance, but it is too late. The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.
* * *
Circe laughs, a splintered cackle that finds a way under my skin.
“And what about you, Gemma?” Eugenia purrs. “Have you ‘searched’ yourself, as you say?”
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I’ve made mistakes,” I say, my voice growing stronger, my fingers feeling for the dagger again. “But I’ve done good, too.”
“And yet, you’re still alone. All that trying and still you stand apart, watching from the other side of the glass. Afraid to have what you truly want because what if it’s not enough after all? What if you get it and you still feel alone and apart? So much better to wrap yourself up in the longing. The yearning. The restlessness. Poor Gemma. She doesn’t quite fit, does she? Poor Gemma—all alone.”
It’s as if she’s delivered a blow to my heart. My hand falters. “I—I…”
“Gemma, you’re not alone,” Circe gasps, and my hand touches metal.
“No. I’m not. I’m like everyone else in this stupid, bloody, amazing world. I’m flawed. Impossibly so. But hopeful. I’m still me.” I’ve got it now. Sure and strong in my grip. “I see through you. I see the truth.”
I spring to my feet, and suddenly, the illusion Eugenia has crafted is broken. I see the battlefield awash in blood and fighting. Hear the clang of steel against steel, the cries of vengeance, of fear, of principle and power lust, of desperation, of pure valor and unmerciful righteousness—all of it blurring into one terrible roar that drowns out every voice, every heart, every hope.
“Well done, Gemma,” Eugenia says. “You’re very powerful, indeed. Pity you won’t live long enough to make more of those glorious mistakes.”
I raise the dagger. “Right. Let’s end this properly.”
The tree’s many arms stretch and groan. Its surface roils with those devoured souls. I try to see clearly, but this is no illusion. This is terrifyingly real, and I fall back as the tree rises taller, looming over me.
“Gemma, do it,” Circe moans in agony.
I summon every bit of magic I’ve got, channeling it into the dagger. “I free the souls trapped here! You are released!”
I close my eyes and try to plunge the dagger into the tree. One of the branches knocks it from my hand. With a gasp, I watch it drop below. The tree shrieks and howls, calling the attention of every person on the battlefield.
“Her blood must fall!” the tree commands.
“Gemma!” Kartik calls, and I hear the alarm in his voice.
Amar comes for me. He spurs his horse forward, picking up speed. I scramble loose of the tree’s grip and race for the dagger, just out of reach. For a moment, time slows. The roar of battle dims to a hum. There is only the sound of hoofbeats matching the pounding throb of my blood in my ears. I see Kartik running after his brother with a fierce determination in his eyes. And then the world spins into time.
The roots trip me. I fall to the ground. Gasping, I crawl toward the dagger, but Amar is quicker.
“No!” Kartik shouts, and then I feel a sharp pain in my side. When I look down, the dagger is there and my blood spreads across my white blouse in a widening stain.
“Gemma!” Felicity screams. I see her running toward me with Ann just behind.
I stagger forward, and when I reach the tree, I pull the dagger from my side with an anguished cry.
“I…release…these souls,” I repeat in a whisper.
I plunge the dagger into the tree. It screams in pain, and the souls slip from its skin, pushing out of the branches like leaves of fire, and then they are gone.
My eyes flutter. The land goes wavy. My body trembles till I cannot stop it. I’m caught in the tree’s embrace. And the last thing I hear as I fall against the cradle of the branches is Kartik shouting my name.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
* * *
THE MIST IS THICK AND WELCOMING. IT KISSES MY FEVERISH skin with a coolness, like a mother’s caring lips. I cannot see what is ahead. It is just as in my dreams. But now a yellow glow is cutting the gray fog. Something is coming through. The glow comes from a lantern hanging from a long pole, and the pole is attached to a barge bedecked in lotus blossoms. The Three have come, and they’ve come for me. Behind me in the mist, I hear a familiar voice: Gemma, Gemma. It moves through me all whispery soft, and I long to return to it, but the women beckon with their hands and I move to meet them. Their movements are slow, as if they take great effort. I am slowing as well. My feet seem to sink into the mud with each step, but I’m getting closer.
I step onto the barge. They nod to me. The old one speaks.
“Your time has come. You have a choice to make.”
She opens her hand. There rests a cluster of deep purple berries, much darker in hue than the ones Pip ate. They sit cupped in her palm, as bright as jewels.
“Swallow the berries, and we will ferry you away to glory. Refuse them, and you must return to whatever awaits. Once you choose, there is no turning back.”
For a moment, I hear my friends calling me, but they seem far away, as if I could run and run and never catch them.
“Gemma.” I turn to see Circe behind me. She has lost the gray pallor she wore earlier. She looks just as she did the first day I saw her at Spence, when she was Miss Moore, the teacher I loved. “You did well,” she says.
“You knew Eugenia had become the tree, didn’t you?” I say.
“Yes,” she answers.
“And you meant to save me?” I ask hopefully.
She gives me a rueful smile. “Have no illusions about me, Gemma. I meant to save myself first. To have the power second. You were a distant third.”
“But I was third,” I say.
“Yes,” she says with a little laugh. “You were third.”
“Thank you,” I say. “You saved me.”
“No. You saved yourself. I only helped a bit.”
“What will become of you now?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
“She will roam here in this mist for all time,” the crone tells me.
The choice is before me in her palm. The cries of my friends grow faint in the fog. I take one plump berry and place it on my tongue, tasting it. It is not tart. Rather, there is only a pleasant sweetness and then nothing. It is the taste of forgetting. Of sleep and dreams with no waking. Never to long or yearn, to struggle or hurt or love or desire ever again. And I understand that this is what it truly means to lose your soul.
My mouth goes numb with sweetness. The berry sits on my tongue.
Felicity carrying goldenrod in her arms. Ann’s voice, strong and sure. Gorgon marching through the battlefield.
I have only to swallow the berry and it is done. That is all. Swallow the berry and with it all struggle, all care, all hope. How easy it would be to do.
Kartik. I left him at the tree. The tree. I was to do something there.
So very, very easy…
Kartik.
With a tremendous effort, I spit the berry from my mouth, gagging as I try to rid my tongue of the sugary numbness. My body aches as if I have pushed a heavy rock uphill forever, but now I am rid of it.
“I’m sorry. I cannot go with you. Not now. But I am to have a request, am I not?”
“If you wish it,” the crone says.
“I do. I should like to offer my place to another,” I say, looking toward Circe.
“You would give it to me?” she says.
“You saved my life. That must count for something,” I say.
“You know I abhor self-sacrifice,” she replies.
“I know, but I’ll not have you wandering in the mists. Too dangerous.”
She smiles at me. “You’ve done very well, indeed, Gemma.” She turns to the Three. “I accept.”
Circe steps onto the barge.
The crone nods to me. “You have made your choice. There is no turning back now. Whatever shall happen yo
“Yes, I know.”
“Then we wish you luck. We’ll not meet again.”
I step onto the muddy, mist-shrouded shore as the maiden pushes the pole against the bottom of the river and drifts off into the fog and Circe retreats into the shadows. I move slowly till my legs remember how to walk quickly, and then I am running, running with all my strength, pushing through the mist with greedy, determined steps until it feels as if I am flying. I feel the hardness of branches at my back, a sharp pain in my side. I press a hand to it, and when I pull my hand away, it’s soaked in blood.
I’m back where I was on the frozen ground of the Winterlands.
“Kartik. Kartik!” My voice is raw and weak. What little magic I have left is ebbing.
His eyes are wide with alarm. “Gemma! You mustn’t move. If your blood falls on the ground of the Winterlands—”
“I know.” With a great effort, I plunge the dagger in to its hilt and fall back, trying to get away from the tree’s muddle of roots. I keep my hand to the wound and blood trickles over my hand. The tree sways precariously. The Winterlands creatures shriek to see its mortal wound. With an enormous crack, it splits open and the magic inside bleeds out.
“Step away!” Gorgon calls, but not soon enough.
Every bit of the tree’s power flows into Kartik. His body receives the magic like one hundred blows. He falls to the ground, and I fear it has killed him.
“Kartik!” I scream.
He staggers slowly to his feet, but he is no longer Kartik. He is something else entirely, a being etched in shadow and light, his eyes shifting from brown to a terrifying blue-white. He is so bright it hurts my eyes to look. All of the tree’s power—the Winterlands magic—now lives inside him, and I do not know what this means.
“Kartik!” I reach for him, and my blood drops into the frozen soil.
“It begins again!” a tracker cries to the shouts of the others.
The injured tree’s roots come alive. They twist themselves round my ankles and climb up my shins. I scream and try to move away, but I am being devoured.
“We didn’t kill it,” I gasp. “Why?”
“It cannot be killed,” Amar thunders. “It can only be changed.”
Felicity and Ann race to pull the roots free while Fowlson hacks at them, but the new shoots are strong.
“I told you that you would bring her to us, Brother. That you would be the death of her,” Amar says sadly.
Kartik glows with power. “You told me to follow my heart,” he says to Amar, and some shred of Amar, whatever remains of him, hears it.
“So I did, Brother. Will you give me peace?”
“I will.”
As swiftly as a tiger, Kartik grabs Amar’s sword. Amar raises his arms, and Kartik pushes it through. Amar gives a great howl. The light is piercing, and then he is no more. Kartik puts his hands to my side. The magic flares to life, and we are both bright with light, dark with shadow. His strength flows into me till the Winterlands magic mixes with the Temple magic. And for one brief moment, we are a perfect union. I can feel him inside me, me inside him. I can hear his thoughts; I know what is in his heart, what he means to do.
“No,” I say. I try to break away but he holds fast to me.
“Yes, it’s the only way.”
“I won’t let you!”
Kartik pulls me closer. “The debt must be paid. And you are needed in the world. I’ve waited my whole life to feel a sense of purpose. To know my place. I feel it now.”
I shake my head. Tears burn my cold cheeks. “Don’t.”
He smiles sadly. “Now I know my destiny.”
“What is it?”
“This.”
He draws me to him in a kiss. His lips are warm. He pulls me tighter in his embrace. The roots sigh and release their hold on my waist and the wound in my side is healed.
“Kartik,” I cry, kissing his cheeks. “It’s let me go.”
“That is good,” he says. He makes a small cry. His back arches, and every muscle in his body tightens.
“Stay back!” Gorgon shouts, her eyes cool.
“Blimey,” Bessie says in awe.
The magic takes hold of Kartik, and now I see what he’s done. He’s let the tree claim him in exchange. Ann and Felicity reach out to me. Fowlson tries to hold me back, but I break away.
It’s too late to reverse the magic. The Winterlands have accepted Kartik’s bargain.
“If I could go back…undo it…,” I say, sobbing.
“There is never any turning back, Gemma. You have to go forward. Make the future yours,” Kartik says.
He kisses me sweetly on the lips, and I return his kiss until the vines twine themselves round his throat and his lips go cold. The last sound I hear from him is my name spoken softly. “Gemma…”
The tree accepts him. He is gone. Only his voice remains, echoing my name on the wind.
The trackers point. “She still has the Temple magic! We might have it yet!”
I push them back with the force of my power. “This is what you would fight for? Kill for? What you would try to hoard or protect? No more,” I say, my lips still warm with Kartik’s kiss. “The magic was meant to be shared. None of you will hold it! I will give the magic back to the land!”
I put my hands to the broken earth. “I give this magic back to the realms and the Winterlands, too, that it may be shared equally among the tribes!”
The trackers shriek and howl as if in pain. The souls they have captured push through me on their way to wherever it is we go from here. I feel their passage. It is rather like the swoop of a carnival ride. And when they have gone, there is no one to lead the others, the dead. They stare in wonder, no longer sure what has happened or what will be.
The pale things that hide in the crevices and the cracks of the Winterlands crawl closer. The tree’s warmth melts a small patch of ice at its base. Thin shoots of grass struggle up through the new earth. I touch them and they are as soft as Kartik’s fingers on my arm.
Something in me breaks open. My face is slick with tears. So I do what I yearn to do. I sink into the burgeoning grass and cry.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTY
* * *
MRS. NIGHTWING WAITS FOR US IN THE CHAPEL, WHERE she cradles the body of Mother Elena.
“The creatures?” Ann asks, her voice ragged with the screams she’s spent.
Mrs. Nightwing shakes her head. “Her heart. She didn’t fall to them. There is that, at least.”
Mrs. Nightwing counts us as we file past—Felicity, Ann, Fowlson, me.
“Sahirah…?” she whispers. “And—”
I shake my head. She lowers her eyes, and nothing more is said.
The girls of Spence sit huddled together. Their eyes are wide and frightened. What they have seen tonight is beyond teas and balls, curtsies and sonnets.
Mrs. Nightwing puts her hand on my shoulder. “There is nothing more I can tell them. They’ve seen and they are frightened.”
“They should be.” Is it my voice that sounds so hard?
“They can’t know what has happened.”
She wants me to take what magic I have left and blot every memory of this evening from their minds. To make them forget so that they can carry on as before. There will always be the Cecilys, Marthas, and Elizabeths of the world—those who cannot bear the burden of truth. They will drink their tea. Weigh their words. Wear hats against the sun. Squeeze their minds into corsets, lest some errant thought should escape and ruin the smooth illusion they hold of themselves and the world as they like it.
It is a luxury, this forgetting. No one will come to take away the things I wish I had not seen, the things I wish I did not know. I shall have to live with them.
I wrench away from her grip. “Why should I?”
I do it anyway. Once I am certain the girls are asleep, I creep into their rooms, one by one, and lay my hands across their furrowed brows, which wear the trouble of all they
I have done what Mrs. Nightwing said I should do. But I do not take all their memories from them. I leave them with one small token of their evening: doubt. A feeling that perhaps there is something more. It is nothing more than a seed. Whether it shall grow into something more useful, I cannot say.
When it is time for me to visit Brigid, I find her awake in her little room. “That’s awl righ’, luv. I don’ care to forget, if it’s all the same,” she says, and there are no rowan leaves at her window anymore.
There is an ancient tribal proverb I once heard in India. It says that before we can see properly we must first shed our tears to clear the way.
I cry for days.
Mrs. Nightwing does not force me to go downstairs, and she doesn’t allow anyone, not even Fee and Ann, in to see me. She brings my meals on a tray, placing them on my table in the darkened room and leaving without a word. I hear only the rustling of her bustle as she treads the old wood floors, back and forth. Sometimes when I wake in the early hours, I feel as if I am emerging from a long, strange dream. The velvety light softens every edge in the room, bathing it in possibility. In that blissful moment, I expect a day like any other: I shall study French, laugh with friends. I shall see Kartik coming across the lawn, his smile filling me with warmth. And just as I begin to believe that all is well, there is some subtle change in the light. The room takes its true shape. I fight to go back to that blissful ignorance, but it is too late. The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.
* * *