The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 153

“And then?” Fowlson asks.

“Then…”

Fowlson’s shadow head dips toward Miss McCleethy. Their faces meet and blend into one shadow on the wall. My stomach tightens with hate for them both.

“You’re a bit mad, Sahirah,” Fowlson says.

“You used to like that quality in me,” Miss McCleethy purrs.

“Din’t say I don’t still.”

Their voices fade to sighs and murmurs I feel in my belly, and I blush.

“I need this, Sahirah,” Fowlson says softly. “If I’m the only one o’ ’em allowed in wif you and the Order, I’ll be able to name my price. They’ll cawl me a great man for it. I don’ wanna be their strong arm forever. I want to sit a’ the table proper wif power o’ my own.”

“And you shall. I promise. Leave it to me,” Miss McCleethy answers.

“Brother Kartik is a problem. ’E tried to cawl a meetin’. What if m’lord knew I’d let Kartik go ’stead of killin’ ’im like they asked me to do?”

“Your employer will never know. But I need Kartik just now.”

I hold my breath. What if they mean to harm him? I’ve got to get to him, to warn—

“He and I have our agreement,” Miss McCleethy continues. “He can’t forget it was I who bargained for his life with you, I who sheltered him in London for those months until he was well. Now he is in my debt, and he will answer to me.”

“’E was s’posed to spy on the girl, tell us ever’ fin’ ’e ’eard and saw, not sneak behind our backs.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Miss McCleethy vows.

The weight of their words has me sinking slowly down the wall. Miss McCleethy at the Egyptian Hall. The figure in the shadows. It was Kartik. She sent him to spy—on me. Bile, hot and acidic, claws up my throat.

“It’ll take more ’n words. Let me take the strap to ’im again. That’s ’ow you get fings done, Sahirah.”

“That’s how you get things done,” Miss McCleethy says. “I shall stick with my methods.”

“You’re sure she don’t suspect nuffin’?”

Miss McCleethy’s voice is as sure as always. “Not a thing.”

There’s the scraping of boots on the floor. I sit numbly in the dark as Miss McCleethy shows Fowlson to the door and treads the stairs to her bed. I sit awhile longer, unable to move. And when I feel my legs again, I march straight to the boathouse, where I know I will find him.

I’m not disappointed; he’s there, reading Homer by lantern light.

“Gemma!” he calls, but his smile fades when he sees my expression. “What is wrong?”

“You lied to me—and don’t try to deny it! I know!” I say. “You’re working for them!”

He doesn’t try to feign innocence or offer an excuse to save himself, as I knew he wouldn’t.

“How did you find out?” he asks.

“That is hardly the point, is it?” I snarl. “That’s the other part you didn’t want to tell me when we were sitting on the wharf? Just before you…”

Kissed me.

“Yes,” he says.

“And so, you were spying for them and kissing me?”

“I didn’t want to work for them,” he argues. “I wanted to kiss you.”

“Should I swoon now?”

“I didn’t tell Miss McCleethy anything. That’s why I kept pushing you away—so I’d have nothing to confess. I know you’re very angry with me, Gemma. I understand but—”

“Do you?” The magic sparks in my belly. I could make this all go away, but it wouldn’t. Not really. Not for good. I’d still know. I use every bit of my concentration to push the magic down, and it coils inside me, a sleeping snake. “Just tell me why.”

He sits on the floor, resting his arms on his bent knees. “Amar was all I had in this world. He was a good man, Gemma. A good brother. To think of him trapped in the Winterlands, damned for eternity…” He trails off. “And then I had that terrible vision when Fowlson”—he swallows—“tortured me. He would have killed me, and at that moment, I wouldn’t have minded. It was Miss McCleethy who stopped it. She told me that with her help, I could save Amar. That I could save you. But she needed to know what you were about. She knew you wouldn’t tell her.”

“For good reason,” I spit.

“I thought I could save you both,” he says.