The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 39

The woods dance with the sudden brightness of lanterns. The Gypsies have come; Kartik is among them, and I can scarcely keep myself from trying to catch his eye, no matter how much I loathe myself for it.

“Here now, what’s this? What is the matter?” Mrs. Nightwing demands. Sensing a fight, the girls pour out of the church and congregate at its doors, despite Mademoiselle LeFarge’s entreaties for them to go inside. She might as well try rounding up chickens in the rain.

“We watch the woods,” Ithal explains. He has a pistol stuck into his belt.

“Watch the woods for what, pray tell?” Nightwing bristles.

“Mother Elena does not like what she feels. I do not like what I see.” He jerks his head toward the workmen’s camp.

“There will be no trouble between you and Mr. Miller’s men,” Mrs. Nightwing says in a commanding tone. “Spence has always offered kindness to Mother Elena. But do not push me too far.”

“We offer protection,” Ithal asserts, but Mrs. Nightwing will not be swayed.

“We require no such protection, I assure you. Good night.”

Kartik places a hand on Ithal’s shoulder and speaks to him in Romani; Ithal nods. Not once does Kartik look at me. At last, Ithal motions to his men.

“We go,” he says, and the Gypsies turn back toward the woods and their camp.

“Rubbish. Absolute madness. Protection! That is my duty, and I should think I am rather accomplished at it,” Mrs. Nightwing grumbles. “To prayers, girls!”

Nightwing and LeFarge shoo us into the church. I take one last glance at the woods. The men have moved on, their lanterns burning small holes in the evening gloom. All except for one. Kartik is still there, hidden behind a tree, silently watching over us.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I CONSIDER NOT GOING. I WRESTLE WITH THE THOUGHT for the better part of an hour. I imagine Fee’s and Ann’s faces the next time we travel to the realms and Pippa is simply gone. I wonder how the factory fire girls will get on without her. I don’t know for certain that this is the right course, but I’ve promised, and so I must go.

I wait until Ann’s snoring deepens, and then I sneak down the stairs, hoping I’ll not be caught by Brigid, Nightwing, Felicity, or anyone else. Under the shadow of the East Wing’s skeleton, I put my hand to the secret door. It flares to life, and I steal into the realms by myself, running all the way.

Pippa is waiting by the bramble wall. “You came,” she says, and I cannot tell whether there is relief or fear in her voice. Perhaps both.

“Yes.”

“Fee will never know,” Pippa says, as if reading my mind.

We take the path to the garden and the river. I am at a loss as to what I should do. Is there something I should say—a prayer or a spell? If so, I do not know it. So I close my eyes for a moment and say silently, Please. Please help my friend Pippa.

A small boat bobs on the river behind a tall bunch of marigolds. We wade through the marshy grass, and I pull it to us.

Pip picks a marigold and twirls it in her hands. “It’s so beautiful here. I forget sometimes.”

“We can go whenever you are ready,” I say gently.

She tucks the posy behind her ear. “I’m ready now.”

We settle ourselves in the rocking boat and push off from the shore. I have ridden to adventure, joy, and danger on this river, but never has my journey been tinged with such melancholy. This is goodbye forever, and though I feel it’s right, it’s still very hard to let her go. I keep seeing the Pip I knew before, the Pip who called me friend.

I steer toward the other side of the river, where the horizon glows the golden orange of sunset. It makes me feel sleep-drunk, as if I am napping in the sun. And then, suddenly, the boat stops. It will go no further.

“Why have we stopped?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I try to push off, to no avail.

“I thought you had the power to take souls across,” Pippa says, sounding panicked.

“I’ve never done it before. You’re the first. I don’t think I can take you any further. I think you have to go the rest of the way on your own.”

Pip’s eyes widen. “No, I can’t! I can’t go in the water. Please, please don’t make me.”

“Yes, you can,” I assure her, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my nerves. “I’ll help you. Here, grab hold of my arms.”

I ease her into the water and let go. Her skirts billow out like lotus blossoms. “Goodbye, Gemma,” she says, moving against the current. Watching her go is like seeing a part of myself vanish, and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from shouting, “Don’t. Come back. Please.” The light is swallowing her up. My cheeks are wet with tears. Goodbye, Pip.