The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 219

Tom clears his throat. “Gemma, there’s something I need to say to you.”

“All right,” I reply.

“I know you adore Father, but he isn’t the white knight you imagine him to be. He never was. True, he’s charming and loving in his way. But he’s selfish. He’s a limited man determined to bring about his own end—”

“But—”

Tom grabs both my hands in his and gives them a small squeeze. “Gemma, you can’t save him. Why can’t you accept that?”

I see my reflection on the surface of the Thames. My face is a watery outline, all blurred edges with nothing settled.

“Because if I let go of that”—I swallow hard, once, twice—“then I have to accept that I am alone.”

The ship’s horn howls again as it slips out toward the sea. Tom’s reflection appears beside mine, just as uncertain.

“We’re every one of us alone in this world, Gemma.” He doesn’t say it bitterly. “But you have company, if you want it.”

“We stayin’ out ’ere all nigh’?” Fowlson calls. He and Kartik lean against the carriage like a couple of stoic andirons in need of a fire to guard.

I offer Tom my hand and help him up.

“So this magic of yours…I don’t suppose you could make me into a baron or an earl or something like that? A duchy would be nice. Nothing ostentatiously grand—well, unless you care to make it so.”

I push that one rebellious lock from his forehead. “Don’t press your luck.”

“Right.” He grins and his lip cracks open again. “Ow!”

“Thomas, I intend to live my own life as I see fit without interference from now on,” I tell him as we press toward our carriage.

“I shan’t tell you how to live it. Just don’t turn me into a newt or a braying ass or, heaven forbid, a Tory.”

“Too late. You’re already a braying ass.”

“God, you’ll be insufferable now. I’m too frightened to say anything back,” Tom says.

“You don’t know how happy that makes me, Thomas.” Fowlson goes to open the carriage door, but I get there first. “I have it, thank you.”

“Where are we going?” Tom asks, brushing past me and settling himself inside without so much as a care for the rest of us. Order has returned.

“A place where you’re wanted,” I say. “Mr. Fowlson, take us to the Hippocrates Society, if you please.”

Fowlson folds his arms across his chest. He won’t look at me. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you ask fer me?”

“I trust them slightly less than I do you. And it would seem that I believe in you slightly more.”

“They wouldn’t leave me behind,” Fowlson says quietly.

Kartik scoffs.

“Do you believe that enough to stake everything upon it?” I ask. “I will not be threatened any longer. They have no power over me. This is your chance to be heroic, Mr. Fowlson. Don’t fail me. Don’t fail her,” I say meaningfully.

“I would never,” he says, looking down. And I realize that even Mr. Fowlson has his Achilles’ heel.

When we arrive at the Hippocrates Society, Mr. Fowlson bangs hard on the doors until they swing open.

“What is it?” a white-haired gentleman demands, several of his compatriots at his heel.

“Please, sirs, it’s Mr. Doyle. We need your help.”

The gentlemen push out in a haze of cigar smoke. Nursing his bruised face, Tom wobbles from the carriage with Kartik’s and Fowlson’s help while I follow.

“Doyle, old boy. What has happened?” the white-haired gentleman exclaims.

Tom rubs his sore jaw. “Well, I…I…”

“As we returned from dinner, ruffians set upon our carriage,” I explain, wide-eyed. “My dear brother saved us from those who would have done us harm.”

“I…I did?” Tom’s head whips in my direction. I plead with my eyes: Don’t muck this up. “Right! I did. Terribly sorry to be delayed.”

The men fall into shouts and questions. “You don’t say!” “Fantastic tale—how did it happen?” “Let’s have a look at that jaw!”

“It—it really was nothing,” Tom stammers.

I tighten my hold on Tom. “Don’t be so modest, Thomas. He dispensed with them single-handedly. They didn’t stand a chance against such a brave and honorable man.” To say this, I must fight the giggle that shouts “Ha!” from my stomach.