The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 148

“Indeed.”

We pass by the pools, where the mud larks sift. And for only a few seconds, I let the magic loose again.

“Oi! By all the saints!” a boy cries from the river.

“Gone off the dock?” an old woman calls. The mud larks break into cackles.

“’S not a rock!” he shouts. He races out of the fog, cradling something in his palm. Curiosity gets the better of the others. They crowd about trying to see. In his palm is a smattering of rubies. “We’re rich, mates! It’s a hot bath and a full belly for every one of us!”

Kartik eyes me suspiciously. “That was a strange stroke of good fortune.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I don’t suppose that was your doing.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I say.

And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time.

Freya takes us toward Spence. The new moon offers us little help, but the horse knows the way and there’s not much for us to do but ride and rest after the adventure of our evening.

“Gemma,” Kartik says after a long while, “I have upheld my end of the bargain. Now you must tell me what you know of Amar.”

“He spoke to me. He said I should give you a message.”

“What was it?”

“He said to tell you to remember your heart in all things, that it is where your honor and your destiny will be found. Does it mean anything to you?”

“It is something he would say from time to time—that the eye could be misled, but that the heart was true.”

“Some part of your brother remains, then.”

“It would have been better if it hadn’t.”

We settle into quiet again. The road smooths. I’m so tired my head nods against Kartik’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I say, yawning.

“It’s all right,” he answers softly, and my head eases against his back again. My eyes are heavy. I could sleep for days. We pass the graveyard on our left. Crows perch on the headstones, and just before my eyes shut, I think I see a faint glimmer. The crows disappear into it, and everything on the hill goes dark and still as death.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

THE MORNING BREAKS WITH A FUROR. LOUD SHOUTING comes from the lawn. There is trouble, and trouble draws us in as a carnival barker would. When I open my window and stick my head out, I count at least a dozen others poking from other windows, including Felicity’s. It is so early that Miss McCleethy is still in her dressing gown, a cap upon her head. Mrs. Nightwing wears her customary dark dress with that preposterous bustle at the back. I’ve no doubt she sleeps in it. For all I know, she was born in full corsetry.

Mr. Miller has Mother Elena’s arm in one hand; in the other is her bloody pail.

“We found the vandal, and jus’ like I said, it’s one of them!” he shouts.

“Here now, Mr. Miller. Unhand her at once,” Mrs. Nightwing commands.

“You won’t be so quick to say that, m’um, when you hear what she done. She’s the one wot painted the hex marks. And who knows what else besides.”

Mother Elena’s face is gaunt. Her dress has grown bigger on her. “I try to protect us!”

The Gypsies stream over the lawn from the camp, drawn by the clamor. Kartik hurries behind, pulling up his suspenders, his shirt half undone, and warmth pools in my stomach.

One of the Gypsy women steps forward. “She is not well.”

Mr. Miller doesn’t let go of Mother Elena’s arm. “No one’s goin’ anywhere till them Gyps tell me where to find Tambley and Johnny.”

“We did not take them.” Ithal marches down the lawn, pushing up his sleeves as if he would fight. He takes hold of Mother Elena’s other arm.

Mr. Miller tugs hard on the old woman, making her stumble. “What sort of people travel round all the time?” he shouts. “People what can’t be trusted, that’s who! No better than jungle savages! I’ll ask you again: Where’s my men?”

“That is quite enough!” Mrs. Nightwing bellows at full headmistress volume, and the field goes silent. “Mr. Miller, Mother Elena is not well, and it would be best to allow her people to care for her. When she is well enough to travel, I will expect to see no more of her.” She faces Ithal. “The Gypsies will no longer be welcome on our land. As for you, Mr. Miller, you’ve work to tend to, haven’t you?”

“I’ll ’ave my men ’fore you leave,” Mr. Miller grumbles to Ithal. “Or I’ll ’ave one of yours for it.”