The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 190

No, I felt her pull my hair, felt myself fall, the dirt closing in. And then, it was as if it had never happened. Wilhelmina Wyatt frightens me.

She could see into the dark. That was what Eugenia said about her once. But what if she is part of the darkness? What if she’s working with the creatures?

And I no longer know if she means to help me or kill me.

I watch the girls running around the maypole. Tomorrow they’ll don their costumes and flit about it like pixies without a care in the world at our May Day masked ball. A little tickle of cold starts in my stomach and whooshes out to the rest of me.

Tomorrow. May Day. May first. The “birth” of May.

Beware the birth of May.

I cannot get warm. Whatever Eugenia feared, what Miss Wyatt meant to warn me about, will happen tomorrow, and I’ve no idea what it is or how to stop it. When I see Miss McCleethy and Mrs. Nightwing bent toward each other in conference, I shake. In their every glance, every laugh, every touch, I see danger.

All around me, the girls prance about, drunk on excitement, oblivious to my fear. The little ones play in their costumes whilst Brigid scolds them and insists they’ll dirty their pretty dresses and then where will they be? They nod solemnly and promptly ignore her.

“Why don’t you come join us, luv?” Brigid calls, seeing my long face.

I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m not good company just now.”

Mrs. Nightwing glances at me, brow slightly furrowed, and my skin itches. I can’t stay here. I decide to take refuge in Fee’s tent. I’m surprised to see her sitting there, all alone. Her lips tremble.

“Fee?” I say.

She wipes her tears with unforgiving hands. “Well, I’ve done it now,” she says with a laugh that’s too hard. “I’ve charmed them, all right.”

“What do you mean?”

She holds up a letter. “It’s from Mother. Lady Markham has agreed to sponsor me—if I will marry her Horace.”

“She can’t do that.”

“She can,” Felicity says, wiping away more tears. “She means to mold me into the proper wife; it will be a feather in her cap if she does. She’s told Father that it might be a way for them to find favor in society again. And of course, there’s the money.”

“But it’s your inheritance….” I trail off.

“Don’t you see? Once I am married, my inheritance belongs to my husband! There will be no garret in Paris. My future has been decided for me.” She’s as small and lifeless as a porcelain doll.

“I’m sorry,” I say, though it is far too little.

Felicity takes both my hands in hers. My bones ache from her grip. “Gemma, you see how it is. They’ve planned our entire lives, from what we shall wear to whom we shall marry and where we shall live. It’s one lump of sugar in your tea whether you like it or not and you’d best smile even if you’re dying deep inside. We’re like pretty horses, and just as on horses, they mean to put blinders on us so we can’t look left or right but only straight ahead where they would lead.” Felicity puts her forehead to mine, holds my hands between hers in a prayer. “Please, please, please, Gemma, let’s not die inside before we have to.”

“What can I do?”

“Promise me we might hold on to this magic a bit longer, until I can secure my future—just until our debut,” she pleads.

“That is weeks away yet,” I answer. “And I must make amends with the forest folk. We should make the alliance.”

“Gemma, this is the rest of my life,” she begs, her tears turning to anger.

Two giggling girls streak past the tent in a blur of ribbon and lace. They twirl furiously in their princess gowns, picking up speed, laughing madly. It’s no matter that the dresses are only a night’s borrowed finery. They believe, and the belief changes everything.

I put my palms to Felicity’s in promise. “I’ll try.”

I sit on my bed trying to make sense of everything, but I can’t, and May first will soon be here. As a distraction, I tidy up my few possessions, arranging them neatly in my cupboard: the ivory elephant all the way from India, my mother’s diary, Kartik’s red bandana, Simon’s false-bottom box. I should toss that out. I open the secret chamber, and it’s as empty as I feel inside. A place to keep all your secrets, he told me. It will take a box larger than this for my secrets. I leave it on Ann’s bed as a gift and resume my straightening. I stack my books in one corner. Gloves and handkerchiefs. Wilhelmina Wyatt’s slate, mute as its owner. What to do with that? Useless. And heavy. That thick wooden base weighing it down…Suddenly, I realize how stupid I’ve been.