The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 171

“Yes, yes,” she says, shepherding us toward Spence. “Let’s not catch a chill.”

“Ann, you were wonderful,” I say as she joins us. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes clear. Her moment of glory becomes her.

“When the dragon was beside me, I felt real fear! It was thrilling. I could perform every night of my life and never tire of it.” She shakes her head. “If I could sing for Mr. Katz now, I’d do it, and I’d not throw it away. But it’s too late. They’ve gone.”

A few of the younger girls trot by to congratulate Ann and tell her she made a perfect princess. Ann basks in their praise, smiling shyly at each compliment.

Suddenly, my ears are filled with a growing hiss that sounds like a gas lamp being turned to its brightest flame. The breath is torn from me. It feels as if someone is pulling on every part of my body. Everything goes topsy-turvy. Time slows. I see the girls moving so very slowly, their hair ribbons defying gravity as they turn their heads by infinitesimal degrees. The sounds of their laughter are low and hollow. Ann’s mouth twists with words too slow for me to decipher. I alone seem to move at ordinary speed. It’s as if I’m the only one truly alive.

I turn toward the trees and feel a chill in my soul. The mummers haven’t slowed at all. As they walk into the woods, they appear to grow fainter till they are nothing more than outlines. Before my astonished eyes, they transform into crows and fly away, their dark wings stirring trouble into the calm sky. The tremendous pull is gone but I feel drained, as if I’ve run for miles.

Ann’s mouth spits out its words now. “…I dare say, don’t you agree? Gemma? You’ve a queer expression.”

I grip Ann’s arm too tightly and she winces. “Gemma!”

“Did you see that?” I gasp.

“See what?”

“The mummers…they…they were there and then…they turned into birds and flew away.”

Hurt burns in Ann’s eyes. “I didn’t ask them to choose me over you.”

“What? No, that isn’t it at all!” I speak more softly. “I’m telling you, one moment, the mummers were there, and the next, they’d changed into birds—just like—” I go cold all over. “Just like the Poppy Warriors.”

Ann peers into the dark. The mummers’ lamp weaves through the trees, growing smaller with the distance. “Do birds carry lanterns?”

“But I—” I cannot finish. I’m no longer certain of what I saw.

“Ann Bradshaw! How could you not have told us how brilliant you are?” Elizabeth exclaims. She and Martha draw Ann into an eddy of girlish fawning, and Ann goes happily with the current.

I stand alone on the lawn, searching for some sign that I did not imagine what I saw. But the woods are quiet. Eugenia’s voice echoes in my head: They could make you see what they wish you to see. It will be as if you are mad. I turn to see Mrs. Nightwing and Miss McCleethy chattering. Cool prickles of sweat break out on my brow and I wipe them away.

No. I won’t listen to what they say. I am not their pawn, and I am not insane.

“The dark plays tricks, Gemma,” I say to comfort myself. “It was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

I repeat the word with every step until I convince myself it is true.

“Isn’t this wonderful? Just like old times,” Ann says as we ready for bed.

“Yes,” I say, running a brush through my hair. My hands still shake, and I’m glad Ann is back in her bed this evening.

“Gemma,” she says, taking note of my trembling, “I don’t know what you thought you saw in the woods, but there was nothing there. You must have imagined it.”

“Yes, you’re right,” I say.

And that is what frightens me most.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

WHEN IT IS TIME TO WAKE, I DO NOT WELCOME IT. MORE than a lack of sleep has me uncomfortable. I do not feel well. My body aches, and my thoughts are sluggish. It’s as if I have run hard and fast for so long that every step now is an effort. My edges blur into everything else—other people’s humors and emotions, the painful sunlight, the myriad sensations—until I cannot tell where the world begins and I leave off.

But the others at Spence are alive with the excitement the masked ball brings. The girls cannot resist flitting about in their costumes for a trial. They prance before the mirrors that are already too crowded, jockeying for their moment to see themselves as princesses and fairies with ornate masks festooned with feathers and beads. All that can be seen are their eyes and mouths. Some of the younger girls growl at each other, their hands bent into claws. They swipe and jab like wild tigers.