The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 226

“Hugo?” I say, wide-eyed. I see a grin pulling at Kartik’s lips.

Fowlson’s face darkens. “Promised you wouldn’t call me that.”

“The dead come. They come, they come…,” Mother Elena mutters, bringing us back to the terrible task at hand.

“How do we keep them out?” I ask.

“Mark the windows and doors,” she says. “And still it may not be enough.”

“We can’t possibly mark every door and window,” I say.

“We’ll do what we can,” Kartik says.

Mother Elena has us mix chicken blood and ashes, which she pours into bowls and gives to us all. When the doors to the great room swing open, we sweep in, our faces grim with purpose. The girls gasp upon seeing Mother Elena and Kartik with us, fascinated by the old Gypsy woman muttering to herself, as well as the handsome, forbidden young man at her side.

“What is happening?” Felicity asks.

Ann peers into the bowl of blood and ashes in my hands. “What is that?”

“Protection,” I say, shoving it at her. “Follow Mother Elena’s lead.”

We spread out along the sides of the great room, moving quickly from window to window, checking each of the latches. Mother Elena dips her finger into a small metal char pot. She hurries as best she can, painting each window with bloody ashes, moving to the next and the next. Mrs. Nightwing, Ann, Felicity, Kartik, and I do the same. Brigid tucks tiny sprigs of rowan leaves onto the sills with one hand and holds fast to her cross with the other.

The girls watch them with morbid fascination.

“Brigid, what are you doing?” a girl in a large pink hair ribbon asks.

“Never you mind, dearie,” she answers.

“But, Brigid—”

“It’s a game,” I say brightly. Brigid and I exchange glances.

The girls clap in excitement. “What sort of game?”

“Tonight, we’ll pretend the pixies are coming. And to keep them out, we must mark all the doors and windows,” I answer.

Brigid says nothing but her eyes are as big as saucers. The girls squeal with delight. They want to play the game too.

“What is this?” Elizabeth stares into the pot and wrinkles her nose. “It looks like blood.”

Martha and Cecily turn up their noses.

“Really, Mrs. Nightwing. It’s unchristian,” Cecily sniffs.

The younger girls are enthralled. They scream, “Let me see! Let me see!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Nightwing scolds. “This is nothing more than sherry and molasses.”

“Doesn’t smell like molasses or sherry,” Elizabeth grumbles.

Brigid pours the foul mixture into small cups. “’Ere, we’ll all help.” The girls take the cups doubtfully. They sniff the mixture and come away with wrinkled noses and curled lips. But each girl dutifully paints the mark on a window and soon it becomes a merry competition to see who can complete the most. They laugh and jostle for position. But beads of sweat appear on Brigid’s forehead. She wipes at them with the back of her hand.

With everyone’s help, we seal and mark every door, every window. Now all we can do is wait. Dusk slips too quickly into night. The pinks and blues of day shade first into gray, then indigo. I cannot will the light to stay. I cannot hold back the dark. We peer out at the violent night. The lights of Spence blind us to the shadows of the woods.

The air has gone still as death. It’s warm, and my skin’s moist. I pull at my collar. By nine o’clock, the younger girls have grown tired of waiting for the pixies to show themselves. They yawn, but Brigid tells them we’re to stay together in the great room past midnight—it’s part of the game—and they accept it. The older girls share disapproving glances about Gypsies in our midst. They gossip over their needlework, small stitches to match their small talk. I am alert and afraid. Every sound, every movement terrifies. Is that them? Have they come for us? But no, it is only the creak of a floorboard, the hiss of the gas lamp.

Mrs. Nightwing has a book in her hands, but she’s not reading a word of it. Her eyes dart from the doors to the windows as she watches, waits. Felicity and Ann play whist in Felicity’s tent, but I am far too agitated to join them. Instead, I hold Mother Elena’s hand and keep watch over the mantel clock as if I can divine the future there. Ten o’clock. Fifteen after. Half past. Will this day pass uneventfully? Have I been mistaken again?

The second hand moves. To my ears it sounds like the firing of a cannon. Three, boom, two, boom, one. By eleven o’clock, most of the girls have fallen asleep. Kartik and Fowlson keep steady watch by the closed doors, stopping occasionally to glare at one another. Beside me, Mother Elena has drifted into fitful sleep.