The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 6

I try to capture the likeness of the new turret on my paper. When completed, it will be the tallest part of Spence, perhaps five stories high. It is wide as well. A man stands near the top, pressed against the gathering rain clouds like a weather vane.

“Do you not find it odd that Nightwing’s in such haste to complete the East Wing?” I ask Felicity.

Cecily overhears and is compelled to give her opinion. “It’s not a moment too soon, if you ask me. It’s a disgrace they’ve let it go so long.”

“I hear it’s only now they’ve secured the funds,” Elizabeth reports.

“No, no, no!” Mrs. Nightwing strides toward the masons with purpose, as if they were her charges. “I’ve told you—these stones must be placed in order, here and here.”

She points to an outline made in chalk.

“Begging your pardon, missus, but what does it matter? She’s goin’ up sturdy and strong.”

“It is a restoration,” she sniffs as if speaking to a simpleton. “The plans are to be followed exactly, without deviation.”

A worker calls down from atop the turret’s third floor. “’Ere comes the rain, sir!”

A splat hits my cheek in warning. A rhythm of drops follows. They splatter across my page, turning my sketch of the East Wing into rivulets of charcoal. The men look to the sky with upturned palms as if asking it for mercy, and the sky answers: No quarter.

Quickly, the men scamper down the turret’s side and race to cover their tools and save them from rust. With sketch pads held over our heads, we girls dash through the trees like frightened geese, squawking and squealing at the indignity of such a soaking. Brigid waves us in, her arms a promise of safety and a warm fire. Felicity pulls me behind a tree.

“Fee! The rain!” I protest.

“Ann returns this evening. We could try to enter the realms.”

“And what if I can’t make the door appear?”

“You only need to put your mind to it,” she insists.

“Do you think I didn’t put my mind to it last week or last month or the time before that?” The rain is coming down harder now. “Perhaps I am to be punished. For what I did to Nell and Miss Moore.”

“Miss Moore!” Felicity spits. “Circe—that’s her name. She was a murderer. Gemma, she killed your mother and countless other girls to get to you and your power, and she would surely have destroyed you had you not dispatched her first.”

I want to believe that this is true, that I did right to imprison Miss Moore in the realms forever. I want to believe that binding the magic to myself was the only way to save it. I want to believe that Kartik is alive and well and making his way to me here at Spence, that in these woods at any moment I shall see him wearing a smile meant only for me. But these days, I’m not certain of anything.

“I don’t know that she’s dead,” I mumble.

“She’s dead and good riddance to her.” Life is ever so much simpler in Fee’s world. And for once, I wish I could crawl into the solid lines of it and live without question. “I have to know what happened to Pippa. Tonight we’ll try again. Look at me.”

She turns my face to hers so that I cannot avoid her eyes. “Promise.”

“I promise,” I say, and I hope she cannot see my doubt turning to fear.

CHAPTER THREE

THE RAIN HAS LOOSED ITS WRATH IN FULL. IT SOAKS THE sleeping rose garden and the lawn, the yellow green of the leaves struggling to be born. It has also found my friend Ann Bradshaw. She stands in the foyer in a plain brown wool coat and a drab hat dotted with droplets. Her small suitcase rests at her feet. She has spent the week with her cousins in Kent. Come May, when Felicity and I make our debuts, Ann will go to work for them as governess to their two children. Our only hope for changing her prospects was to enter the realms and attempt to bind the magic to all of us. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot enter the realms. And without the realms, I cannot make the magic flare to life. Not since Christmas have I seen that enchanted world, though in these past few months I have tried dozens of times to get back. There have been moments when I’ve felt a spark, but it is short-lived, no more consequential than a single drop of rain in a drought. Day by day, our hopes dim, and our futures seem as fixed as the stars.

“Welcome home,” I say, helping Ann out of her wet coat.

“Thank you.” Her nose runs, and her hair, the color of a field mouse’s fur, slips loose of its moorings. Long, thin strands of it hang over her blue eyes and plaster themselves to her full cheeks.