The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 96

“We’d like to see the exhibits,” I say. “May we?”

“Certainly. I should like to see them as well.”

“Well done,” Felicity growls. “She’ll not leave our sides.”

“I said I was thinking, didn’t I?”

“I’ve seen many exhibitions here,” an older woman says to her companion. “When I was a girl, my father brought me to see the famous Tom Thumb. He stood no taller than my waist, and I was but a child.”

“Tom Thumb!” Ann exclaims. “How marvelous!”

“This hall has housed many an extraordinary exhibition,” McCleethy lectures. “In 1816, Napoleon’s carriage was on display, and later, the wonders of the tomb of Seti the First were shown.”

“Oh, what else?” Ann draws McCleethy into a conversation like a clever girl, and I’ve a moment to think. What would draw McCleethy from our sides? A raging lion with canines bared? No, they’d probably greet each other as fellow predators. Blast! What would threaten the unthreatenable McCleethy?

My lips twist into a wicked grin. An old friend, that’s what we need. I start to summon my power, and stop. What if I am too overcome by the magic? It is so unpredictable. And she said she would know if I employed it.

There is only one way to find out, I suppose.

I draw in a deep breath and try to calm myself. The voices of McCleethy and my friends, the calls of the exhibitors, and the noise of the crowd fade to murmurs. My fingers itch, and the tingling travels the length of my arms toward my heart. Steady, Gemma. Set your mind to your purpose. Within seconds, Fowlson appears in the crowd, for I’ve conjured him—or the illusion of him, at least.

“Miss McCleethy, it would seem you are wanted,” I say quietly, nodding toward the imaginary Fowlson.

Shock registers on McCleethy’s face as the horrible man crooks a finger to beckon her. I do my best to remain impassive. Breathe in, breathe out. Simplest thing in the world, really.

“How dare he…” Miss McCleethy glowers. “Ladies, I’m afraid I shall have to take you back to Mademoiselle LeFarge for a moment.”

“Miss McCleethy, can’t we wait here? Please? We won’t move at all,” Felicity pleads.

“Fowlson” makes his way toward the back of the hall. “Yes, yes, all right, but behave yourselves,” McCleethy snaps. “I won’t be a moment.”

“What just happened?” Felicity asks as our teacher hurries away.

My smile is as big as life as I tell them what I’ve done. “Now we know McCleethy is a liar. She can’t tell when I’ve drawn on the magic, for I just did, and she didn’t suspect a thing.”

“I knew it!” Felicity exults.

“Right, look about, eyes sharp,” I command. “Dr. Van Ripple is a tall, thin man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.”

Watched by the eyes of indifferent gods, we wander the hall, searching for the man I’ve seen in my visions, the one I hope can shed light on the curious messages I’ve received.

“Would you care to see the Book of the Dead?” a red-nosed gentleman asks. His wife sits behind him, arranging books on a table. The book in his hands has an engraving of a god with a jackal’s head.

“Book of the Dead?” Ann asks. Her face lights up at the mere mention.

Smelling a mark, the man opens the book, flipping through its pages so quickly that we see snow. “The Book of the Dead. With this sacred tome, the ancient Egyptians mummified their dead and prepared them for the afterlife. Some say they could even call the dead from their graves.”

Felicity’s brow furrows. “Does it mention gorgons or water nymphs? Does it say how to defeat the creatures of the Winterlands?”

The man laughs uncomfortably. “Course not, miss.”

“Well, then it isn’t much use, is it?”

A man in a turban offers to tell our fortunes for two shillings.

“Wouldn’t you like to know your fortune, Gemma?” Ann asks, and I know she’d like me to loan her the money for it. “After all, what if he tells you that you will marry a handsome stranger?”

“What if he tells me I shall die alone surrounded by many cats and a collection of ceramic dolls? That isn’t our purpose here,” I remind her as she purses her lips.

Felicity hurries to us. “You must see this!”

We scurry to a corner where a burly man with a walrus mustache has a small booth. A handful of ladies gather there. “Step up, don’t be shy,” the man calls merrily. “Mr. Brinley Smith, photographer, at your service.” Photographs. I cannot understand in the least why Felicity should find this exciting or why she’d squander valuable time on it.