The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 113

“The magic. I told him I’d given it to the Order, but he didn’t believe me. He threatened trouble, and when Thomas returned home the next evening, he told me he’d been asked to join an exclusive gentlemen’s club. There on his lapel was the pin of the Rakshana.”

“That would not be given idly. He is being courted,” Kartik says.

“I must meet with the Rakshana,” I say. “Can you arrange it?”

“No.” He brings the ax down with new determination.

“They could hurt my brother!”

“He’s his own man.”

“How can you be so hard? You had a brother.”

“Once.” He swings the ax again, and the log is cleaved in two.

“Please…,” I say.

Kartik glances again at the East Wing, then nods toward the laundry house. “Not here. In there.”

I wait inside the laundry. There are no washerwomen today; the old wood-and-stone room is empty. Impatiently, I pace, past the stove where the flatirons are lined up to be heated. I step around the big copper tubs and bang my knuckles against the ribbed washboards lying inside, flit past the hooks holding the possers—those long sticks with flared ends for pushing the clothes about. I give the mangle’s wheel a churn. I know it works wonders on the wet clothes, squeezing every bit of water from them as they pass through its long rollers. How I wish I could pass my sodden thoughts through the machine, releasing the heaviness weighing me down.

At last Kartik comes. He stands so close I can smell the grass and sweat on him. “You don’t know what the Rakshana can do,” he warns.

“All the more reason for me to keep them from Tom!”

“No! You must stay away from Fowlson and the Rakshana. Gemma, look at me.”

When I won’t, Kartik takes my face in his hand and forces me to look him in the eye. “If your brother continues on this foolish path, he must be lost to you. I will not take you to the Rakshana.”

Angry tears threaten. I blink them back. “I have seen Amar. In the realms.”

It’s as if I’ve punched him. “When? Where?” He loosens his hold, and I move a safe distance to the washtub.

“The realms.”

“Tell me everything. I must know!” He advances but I keep the washtub between us.

“First, you help me. Arrange a meeting for me with the Rakshana, and I’ll help you find Amar.”

“That is blackmail.”

“Yes. I’ve learned much from you.”

He bangs the wall with his fist, shaking the washboard hanging there and rattling me as well. His moods are as black as my own at times and his temper just as mercurial.

“I will need some time,” he says evenly. “When I’ve arranged it, I’ll tie my scarf in the ivy beneath your window.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

He does not so much as nod. “Once our business is concluded, I’m leaving. We will not see each other again.”

He pushes through the laundry doors, and soon I hear him hacking the tree into kindling. I wait a few minutes. It is long enough to let his words settle into my belly like molten lead, hardening every part of me.

“Gemma, where have you been?” Elizabeth asks when I come round to the tables.

“A lady need not announce her need for the privy, need she?” I say, deliberately shocking her.

“Oh! Of course not.” And she doesn’t say another word to me, which is fine.

McCleethy was right—I do make a mess of everything. I dip my brush into the garish yellow and paint a big happy sun in the center of her muddy pink sky. If it’s sunny skies they want, then let me oblige them.

Ann sidles up to me. “I’ve just overheard Miss McCleethy and Mr. Miller,” she says, breathless. “Another of the men has gone missing. The inspector’s been called to look into it. What do you suppose has happened to them?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I grouse. I steal a look at Kartik, who chops at the remains of the tree, obliterating it.

A gust of wind knocks over the purple paint. It splatters across the canvas, marring the scene of the Borderlands castle.

“Bad luck, Gemma,” Ann says. “Now you’ll have to start over.”

In the evening, Inspector Kent pays his visit, and though he makes a fuss over our paintings drying by the fires, we know that this is far from a social call. With three men gone, it must be seen to. He brushes the mud from his boots, having spoken already to Miller’s men and the Gypsies. He makes discreet inquiries among the younger girls, turning it into a sort of game to see if any of them have heard or seen some clue, however small. At last it is our turn, and we are ushered into the small parlor with its cozy furnishings and warm fire. Brigid has brought the inspector a cup of tea.