The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 5

The workers have caught the fever of us now. They stop what they are doing and quickly doff their caps. The gesture is all politeness, but their smiles hint at less mannerly thoughts. I find I am blushing.

“Oi, gents. Keep to the work if you want to keep working,” the foreman warns. Mr. Miller is a burly man with arms the size of small hams. To us, he is courteous. “Good day, ladies.”

“Good day,” we murmur.

“There’s trinkets for the taking, if you’d like a souvenir of the old girl.” He nods toward a rubbish pile where discarded lumber lies along with the broken, soot-smudged glass of decades-old lamps. It is the very sort of thing Mrs. Nightwing would place on her To Be Avoided for Fear of Injury, Death, or Disgrace list. “Take any souvenirs you like.”

“Thank you,” Cecily mumbles, backing away. Elizabeth continues to blush and smile and glance shyly at the man with the red-patched shirt, who appraises her longingly.

“Yes, thank you,” Felicity says, taking control of the situation as she always does. “We shall do that.”

We set about scavenging through the remains of the old East Wing. The great school’s past is told here in splintered, charred wood and remnants of paper. To some, it is the story of a tragic fire that took the lives of two girls. But I know better. The true story of this place is one of magic and mystery, of devotion and betrayal, of wickedness and unspeakable sacrifice. Most of all, it is the story of two girls—best friends turned bitter enemies—both of them thought dead in the fire twenty-five years ago. The truth was so much worse.

One of the girls, Sarah Rees-Toome, chose a path of darkness under the name Circe. Years later, she hunted down the other girl, her former friend, Mary Dowd, who had become someone new, Virginia Doyle—my mother. With an evil spirit at her disposal, Circe murdered my mother and set my life on a different course. The story whispered in these walls is my story as well.

All around me, the girls jump about in merry treasure hunting. But I can’t feel happy here. This is a place of ghosts, and I don’t believe that new beams and a warm fire in a marble hearth will change that. I want no souvenirs of the past.

A fresh round of hammering sets a family of birds squawking toward the safety of the sky. I stare at the pile of discarded remnants and think of my mother. Did she touch that pillar there? Does her scent still linger in a fragment of glass or a splinter of wood? A terrible emptiness settles into my chest. No matter how much I go about living, there are always small reminders that make the loss fresh again.

“Oi, there’s a beauty.” It’s the man with the red patch on his shirt. He points to a jagged wooden pillar eaten through at one end with rot. But much of it has managed to survive the wrath of the fire and the years of neglect. Carved into it is an assortment of girls’ names. I run my fingers over the grooves and the fanciful scrapings. So many names. Alice. Louise. Theodora. Isabel. Mina. My fingers move across the bumpy wood, feeling it like a blind person’s. I know that her name must be here, and I am not disappointed. Mary. I flatten my palm against the years-worn carving, hoping to feel my mother’s presence beneath my skin. But it is only dead wood. I blink against the tears that sting my eyes.

“Miss?” The man is looking at me curiously.

Quickly, I wipe my cheeks. “It’s the wind. It’s blown cinders into my eyes.”

“Aye, wind’s strong. More rain comin’. Maybe a storm.”

“Oh, here comes Mrs. Nightwing!” Cecily hisses. “Please, let’s go! I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Quickly, we gather our sketches and sit a safe distance away on a stone bench by the still-hibernating rose garden, our heads bent in desperate concentration. But Mrs. Nightwing takes no note. She appraises the progress on the building. The wind carries her voice to us.

“I had hoped to be farther along by now, Mr. Miller.”

“We’re putting in a ten-hour day, missus. And then there’s the rain. Can’t blame a man for nature.” Mr. Miller makes the grave error of smiling at Mrs. Nightwing in a charming way. She does not succumb to charm. But it is too late for me to warn him. Mrs. Nightwing’s withering glare sends the men’s heads down over their lumber. The sound of hammers and saws hard at work is deafening. Mr. Miller’s smile vanishes.

“If you cannot finish the job in a timely manner, Mr. Miller, I shall be forced to seek other workers.”

“There’s building all over London, mum. You won’t find the likes of us growing on trees.”

By my count, there are at least twenty men working day in and day out, and still Mrs. Nightwing isn’t satisfied. She clucks and fusses and badgers Mr. Miller daily. It is very queer. For if the old building has lain hollowed out for this long, what do a few months more matter?