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"If you should persist in this dreadful course, a terrible curse shall befall you," I say.
"And your family," Felicity intones.
"And their families," Ann adds, which I think is a bit much, but there's no taking it back.
It works. The man removes stones from his pocket so quickly I fear he'll turn over the boat. "Thank you!" he says. "Yes, thank you, I'm sure." Satisfied, we fly away home, laughing at our resourcefulness and feeling quite smug indeed about saving a man's life. When we reach the elegant houses of Mayfair once again, I'm drawn to Simon's house. It would be an easy thing to fly close and perhaps hear his thoughts. For a moment, I hover, moving closer to him, but at the last moment, I change course, following Felicity and Ann into
the sitting room again, where the tea is now cold.
"That was thrilling!" Felicity says, taking a seat.
"Yes," Ann says."I wonder why Fee and I weren't able to hear his thoughts as well. "'
"I don't know," I say.
A little girl in immaculate dress and pinafore steals in. She can't be more than eight years old. Her fair hair has been pulled back at the crown with a fat white ribbon. Her eyes are the same blue-gray as Felicity's. In fact, she looks a good deal like Felicity.
"What do you want?" Felicity snaps.
A governess steps in. "I'm sorry, Miss Worthington. Miss Polly seems to have lost her doll. I've told her she must take greater care with her things."
So this is little Polly. I pity her for living with Felicity.
"Here it is," Felicity says, finding the doll under the Persian carpet."Wait. Let me be certain she's all right."
Felicity makes a show of playing nursemaid to the doll, which makes Polly giggle, but when she closes her eyes and puts her hands over the doll, I feel the tug on the magic that we've brought back.
"Felicity!" I say, breaking her concentration.
She hands the doll to Polly. "There now, Polly. All better. Now you've got someone to look after you."
"What did you do?" I ask, when Polly's gone to the nursery with her governess.
"Oh, don't look at me that way! The doll's arm was broken. I only fixed it," Felicity huffs. "You wouldn't do anything to harm her, would you?"
"No," Felicity says coolly."I wouldn't."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE MOMENT I WAKE, I DASH OFF A LETTER TO THE headmistress of St. Victoria's School for Girls asking when Miss McCleethy was in their employ. I have Emily post it before the ink is completely dry.
As it is Thursday, Miss Moore takes us to the gallery as promised. We travel by omnibus through the London streets. It is glorious to sit at the top, the bracing wind in our faces, peering down at the people milling about on the streets and at the horses pulling carts filled with wares. It is less than a week until Christmas, and the weather has turned much colder. Overhead, the clouds are heavy with the coming snow. Their white underbellies sit on the chimney tops, swallowing them whole before moving on to the next and the next, resting each time as if they have such a long way to go.
"Our stop is nigh, ladies," Miss Moore calls out over the street noise. The wind has picked up so that she has to secure her hat with one hand. With careful steps, we descend the staircase that leads to the bottom of the omnibus, where a smartly uniformed conductor takes our hands and helps us into the street.
"Gracious me," Miss Moore says, adjusting her hair beneath her hat."I thought I should blow away entirely."
The gallery is housed in a former gentlemen's club. Many people have come out today. We move from floor to floor in their close company, taking in each exquisite painting. Miss Moore leads us down a hall devoted to the works of lesser-known artists. There are quiet portraits of pensive maidens, fiery scenes of war at sea, and pastoral landscapes that make me want to run barefoot through them. I find that I am drawn to a large painting in the corner. In it, an army of angels are joined in battle. Below them lies a lush garden and a lone tree, and a great number of people turned away, moaning. Below that is a vast wasteland of black rock bathed in a fiery orange glow. A golden city sits in the clouds far above. In the center, two angels are locked in combat, arms entwined till I cannot tell where one stops and the other begins. It is as if without this struggle to keep them aloft, they might both pitch into the void.
"Did you find something you like?" Miss Moore asks, suddenly by my side.
"I cannot say," I answer."It's . . . disturbing." "Good art often is. What do you find disturbing about this painting?"
I take in the vibrant hues of the oils, the reds and oranges of the fire; the whites and pale grays of the angels' wings; the variations of the flesh tones that make muscles seem to come alive, straining for victory.
"It seems rather desperate, as if there's too much at stake."
Miss Moore leans forward to read the brass plate beneath the painting. "Artist unknown. Circa 1801. A Host of Rebel Angels." She quotes what sounds like poetry. '' 'To reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n. " John Milton. Paradise Lost, Book One. Have you ever read it?"
