The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 82

The shopgirl shows Grandmama the most exquisite dress I have ever seen. A small sigh escapes me. It has a corsage of silk roses along one shoulder and short, high sleeves adorned with bows. The skirt is embroidered with delicate rose beads, and the train—which appears to be miles long—is trimmed with a beautiful fluted ruffle. It is the gown of a princess, and I long to have one like it.

Grandmama runs a hand over the beaded silk. “What do you think, Gemma?” Grandmama has never asked my opinion on any matter ever.

“I think it is the loveliest dress I have ever seen,” I answer.

“It is, isn’t it? Yes, we shall have this one made.”

I could kiss her.

“Thank you, Grandmama.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure it will be far too dear,” she grumbles. “But we are only girls once.”

When we step out into the London murk, it is five o’clock, and already the sky is darkening and the streets are thick with gas fog that makes me cough. I don’t care. I am a new girl who shall wear silk roses and carry a fan of ostrich feathers. And we shall buy cakes from the confectionary. Let the choking gas lamps do their worst!

At the corner, Grandmama and I cross the street, heading for Mrs. Dolling’s Sweet Shoppe, and that is when the world goes topsy-turvy. My skin warms. A sweat breaks upon my brow. And the magic flows through my veins like a swollen river. I am flooded by thoughts, wounds, desires, secrets. Every private longing invades my soul.

“…the long days without end. He loved me once…”

“…a beautiful home we’ll make with a lovely garden in the front…”

Can’t think. Breathe. Make it stop. I…

“…fancy a tumble with the likes of you…”

My head turns but I can’t tell which direction the offense comes from—there are too many to fight.

“…I shall offer my proposal this evening and be made the happiest of men…”

“…my poor little baby laid to rest, and do they know I am dying inside, too…”

“…a new dress with a bonnet to match…”

Please stop. I can’t. I can’t breathe. I…

Everything around me slows to a crawl. Beside me, Grandmama’s foot hovers above the street midstep. On the curb, an organ-grinder moves the bellows of his instrument with excruciating slowness. One note takes an eternity, and matched to the slow toll of Big Ben’s bells, the melody has the air of a funeral march. The wheels of wagons and carriages, the ladies and gentlemen, the liniment vendor hawking his miracle cure—they are like dreamy figures in a pantomime.

“Grandmama?” I say, but she cannot hear me.

I see quick movement from the corner of my eye. The lady in the lavender dress marches toward me; her eyes flash with anger. She grabs my wrist tightly, and my skin burns in her rough grasp.

“Wh-what do you want?” I say.

She thrusts out her arm, pulling up her sleeve to expose her flesh. Words etch themselves into her skin: Why do you ignore me?

The cold metal taste of fear lies on my tongue. “I’m not ignoring you, but I don’t understand what—”

She pulls me hard into the street.

“Wait,” I say, struggling. “Where are you taking me?”

She places her hands over my eyes, and I am joined to her in a vision. It’s quick, too quick. The footlights of the music hall stage. The illusionist. The lady writing upon the slate: The Tree of All Souls lives. The key holds the truth. A woman in a tea shop. She turns her head and smiles. Miss McCleethy.

I hear the quick gallop of horses on cobblestone. The vision lady’s head snaps up, and she looks about wildly. A black carriage drawn by four sleek horses breaks out of the London gloom and barrels swiftly down the street. Black curtains blow out its windows.

“Stop!” I scream, but the horses pick up speed. The carriage is nearly upon us. We shall be trampled.

“Let me go!” I scream, and the lady dissolves into leaves and blows away. The carriage passes through me as if I were made of air and disappears into the fog. The world snaps back into place, and I’m squarely in the road, between wagons and hansoms trying to navigate around me. A footman shouts at me to get out of the street.

Grandmama looks up, horrified. “Gemma Doyle! What are you doing?”

I stagger to her. “Did you not see it?” I gasp. “A carriage came out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly.”

Grandmama’s dismay fights with the magic inside her. “Now we shan’t have our sweets.” She pouts.