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I already know that Pippa is gone.
The morning we bury Pippa, it rains. A cold October rain that turns the clump of dirt in my hand into mud. When it's my turn at the graveside, the dirt slips through my fingers onto Pippa's burnished coffin, where it makes the lightest of sounds. All morning, Spence has been a well-oiled machine of activity. Everyone doing her bit, quietly and efficiently. It's strange how deliberate people are after a death. All the indecision suddenly vanishes into clear, defined moments--changing the linens, choosing a dress or a hymn, the washing up, the muttering of prayers. All the small, simple, conscious acts of living a sudden defense against the dying we do every day.
The girls of first class have been allowed to travel the thirty miles to the Crosses' country home for the funeral, Mrs. Cross has insisted that Pippa be buried with her sapphire engagement ring, which, no doubt, pains Mr. Bumble greatly. He spends the entire funeral checking his pocket watch and grimacing. In deep, resonant tones, the vicar tells us of Pippa's beauty and her unfailing goodness. I don't know this flat placard of a girl. I wish I could stand and give a full account of herthe Pippa who could be vain and selfish and in love with her romantic illusions; the Pippa who was also brave and determined and generous. And even if I told them all this, it still wouldn't be a full measure of her. You can never really know someone completely. That's why it's the most terrifying thing in the world, reallytaking someone on faith, hoping they'll take you on faith too. It's such a precarious balance, it's a wonder we do it at all. And yet
The vicar gives a final blessing. There's nothing left but for the gravediggers to begin their work. They fix their caps on their heads and bite into the mud with their shovels, burying a girl who was my friend. All the while, I can feel him watching me from the trees. When I turn to look, he's there, his black cloak peeking out. As soon as Mrs. Nightwing is occupied with comforting the Crosses, I sneak away to Kartik in his hiding spot behind a large marble seraph.
"I'm sorry," he says. It's simple and direct, with none of the nonsense about God calling home an angel too young and who are we to question his mysterious ways. Rain beats against my umbrella in a steady rhythm.
"I let her go," I say, haltingly, glad at last of the chance to make a confession of sorts. "I suppose I could have tried harder to stop her. But I didn't." Kartik lets me get it out. Will he tell the Rakshana what I have done? Not that it matters. I've already made my decision. The realms are my responsibility now. Somewhere out there, Circe waits, and I've got an Order to put together again, mistakes to remedy, many things to master in time.
Kartik is silent. There's nothing but the constancy of the rain in answer. Finally, he turns to me. "You've got dirt on your face."
I swipe haphazardly at my cheeks with the back of my hand. He shakes his head to let me know that I haven't removed it." Where?" I ask.
"Here." It's only his thumb brushing slowly across the lower edge of my lip, but it's as if time slows and the sweep of that thumb below my mouth takes forever. It is no spell that I know of, but it holds such magic, I can scarcely breathe. He pulls his hand away fast, aware of what he's done. But his touch lingers.
"My condolences," he mumbles, turning to go.
"Kartik?" He stops. He's soaked to the bone, black curls matted to his head. "There's no going back. You can tell them that."
He cocks his head to one side quizzically, and I realize he's not certain whether I mean there's no backing away from my powers or from his touch. I start to clarify but I realize I'm not certain either. And anyway, he's gone, running on strong legs to the safety of the cart I can see down the road.
When I join the others again, Felicity is staring at the new grave, crying in the rain. "She's really gone, isn't she?"
"Yes," I say, surprised at how sure I sound.
"What happened to me on the other side, with that thing?"
"I don't know."
We look down at the mourners, blotches of black in a sea of gray rain. Felicity can't bring herself to look at me. "Sometimes I see things, I think. Out of the corner of my eye, taunting me, and then it's gone. And dreams. Such horrible dreams. What if something terrible happened to me, Gemma? What if I am damaged?"
The rain is a cool kiss on my sleeve as I link my arm through hers. "We're all damaged somehow."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
We've been given the day to rest and reflect, and so Mademoiselle LeFarge is surprised to see me at her classroom door. She's positively flummoxed when I hand her five neat, orderly pages of French translation.
"This is all quite good," she announces after careful inspection of my work. There's a smart new vase of flowers on her desk where the tintype of Reginald used to sit. She stacks the papers and offers them to me with her corrections noted in ink.
"Good work, Mademoiselle Doyle. I believe there's hope for you yet. Dans chaque fin, il y a un debut ."
My translation skills aren't quite up to this one. "In the end, also, is a debutante?"
Mademoiselle LeFarge shakes her head. "In every end, there is also a beginning."
The rain has stopped but it has ushered in a bracing autumn wind that pinkens my cheeks till they look freshly slapped.
October blooms in bursts of red and gold. Soon the trees will lose their cover and the world will be laid bare.
Miles from here, Pippa lies in her coffin, fading into memory, a bit of Spence legend to be whispered late at night. Did you hear about the girl who died in that very room down the hall ? I do not know if she regrets her choice. I like to think of her as I saw her last, walking confidently toward something I shan't see, I hope, for a very long time.
In a world beyond this one, that river goes on singing sweetly, enchanting us with what we want to hear, shaping what we need to see in order to keep going. In those waters, all disappointments are forgotten, our mistakes forgiven. Gazing into them, we see a strong father. A loving mother. Warm rooms where we are sheltered, adored, wanted. And the uncertainty of our futures is nothing more than the fog of breath on a windowpane.
The ground is still wet. The heels of my boots sink in, making it a rough walk, but I see the wagons of the Gypsy camp just through the trees ahead. I'm on my way to deliver a gift. Or a bribe. I'm not entirely certain of my motives just yet. The point is that I am on my way.
The package is wrapped in today's newspaper. I leave it outside Kartik's tent and slip back into the trees to wait. He comes soon enough, carrying some squab on a string. He notices the package and spins around to see who might have left it. Seeing no one, he opens it and finds my fathers gleaming cricket bat. I don't know if he'll accept it or find it insulting.
