The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 101

“Gracious me.” Mademoiselle LeFarge chuckles. And that’s when I notice that Miss McCleethy’s chair is empty. Surely, McCleethy isn’t frightened by a magic-lantern show; she isn’t frightened of anything.

I spy her hurrying out of the gallery.

“Gemma,” Felicity whispers. “Where are you off to?”

“The ladies’ dressing room, if anyone should ask.”

McCleethy slips into a long room and behind a curtain that hides a winding staircase. I take a deep breath and trail her at a safe distance. When I reach the bottom, I fear I have lost her. But soon, I hear her footsteps. Taking great pains to be as quiet as possible, I follow. We seem to be in a tunnel under the hall, for I still hear the hustle and bustle above us.

Miss McCleethy goes into a large dimly lit room that houses all sorts of exhibitions—statues, exotic costumes, magic apparatus, a placard for the Wolfson brothers with the word scoundrels painted across it. I secrete myself behind a bust of some Egyptian goddess sporting a lion’s head.

McCleethy is arguing with someone in the shadows. “You lied to me. I don’t take kindly to liars. This is not a game we’re playing! I saved your life. You’re in my debt. Or have you forgotten?”

I can’t hear the answer, nor can I see more without revealing myself.

“I must know everything from now on,” McCleethy commands. “I don’t think I need remind you that they would kill you where you stand if they knew you were here with me. If you mean to save them, you must follow me. It’s the only way.”

She pushes her hair into place and fiddles with the brooch at her collar until it’s straight. “For twenty-five years, I’ve been devoted to the cause. I do not mean to lose to the Rakshana or a sixteen-year-old girl. Go on, then, before you’re seen.”

The figure in the dark retreats. I shrink behind the giant statue, and Miss McCleethy hurries back the way she came. I wait until I no longer hear the echo of her footsteps, and then I return to the hall, where the audience delights in the merry image of a jumping dog and a clown juggling balls.

I steal a quick glance at McCleethy. The triumph I felt earlier at deceiving her has been replaced by wariness. To whom could she have been talking? Was it Fowlson? Is he her spy within the Rakshana? You lied to me, she said. Lied about what? And whom did they mean to save?

At last, Mr. Wolfson shuts down the lamp that fuels the magic lantern. The room burns with light once again, and the ghostly apparitions vanish from the walls. But the haunts inside me won’t leave so easily.

“I thank you for your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Wolfson’s voice booms out. “These images are enchantments of a sort, but they are illusions—dreams born of gas and light. Our good hosts, Maskelyne and Cooke, have made it their work to expose the fraudulent among us. I would advise you to be on guard against all forms of trickery and deceit disguised as truth. We shall play again at eight o’clock this evening and tomorrow again at three and eight. We bid you good evening, all!”

We’re ushered from the hall in a crushing sea of excited people making their last-minute purchases. I try to keep a safe distance from McCleethy, holding fast to my friends’ arms.

“Where did you go, Gemma?” Felicity asks.

“I followed McCleethy. She had a secret meeting with someone.”

“Who?” Ann asks.

I look behind me, but McCleethy is deep in conversation with LeFarge and Inspector Kent. “I couldn’t see who it was. Perhaps it was someone from the Rakshana or the Order,” I say, and tell them all I know.

The streets are a madhouse of people and carriages, gloom and bustle. The program has promised carriages at five o’clock but there are far too many people for so few carriages, and we shall be forced to wait an eternity.

“Right,” Inspector Kent says. “Let’s see what the law can do.”

He marches purposefully toward the man corralling the cabs.

“I am sorry to abandon you like this, Mademoiselle LeFarge,” Miss McCleethy says. “Are you certain you’ll be fine on your own with the girls?”

“Of course,” Mademoiselle LeFarge says, patting Miss McCleethy’s hands.

“Miss McCleethy, are you leaving us?” Felicity pries.

“Yes, I’ve a dinner engagement with a friend this evening,” our teacher answers.

“What friend is that?” Fee says, abandoning all propriety.

“Now then, Miss Worthington, it’s none of your affair, is it?” Mademoiselle LeFarge reprimands, and Fee falls quiet. Miss McCleethy does not grant us an answer to the impertinent question.