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"Miss Bradshaw, I do hope I may have the pleasure of calling on you while you are in London," Cecily says with a newfound earnestness.
Tom pipes up. "Miss Bradshaw, you must do me the honor of attending the Christmas dance at Bethlem Hospital."
Has the spell extended to everyone? But no, I come to realize. The mere suggestion of fame and fortune casts a glamour all its own. It is rather alarming how quickly people will turn someone else's fiction into fact in order to support their own fictions of themselves. But seeing Ann's delighted face, knowing what's in her heart, I cannot help being glad for the illusion.
"I would be delighted," Ann says to one and all. She could have used the opportunity to gloat. I would have. But instead, she has proved herself worthy of royal blood.
"We should send the carriage round for Miss Doyle," Lady Denby says.
I stop her. "Please don't. I should like to stay for the rest of the opera."
"I thought you were ill," Grandmama says.
"I'm fine now." And I am. Using the magic has calmed me somewhat. I can still hear some people's thoughts, but they are not as urgent.
Felicity whispers,"What happened?"
"I shall tell you later. It is a very good story." By the time I climb into bed, the magic is nearly gone. I'm exhausted and shaky. My forehead is warm when I place my hand there. I can't be sure whether it's the magic doing this or I'm actually falling ill. I only know that I desperately need sleep.
When they come, my dreams are not restful. They're wild kaleidoscopes of madness. Felicity, Ann, and I running through tunnels lit by torches, running for our lives, the terror clear on our faces. The Caves of Sighs. The amulet twirling. Nell Hawkins's face looms before me:"Do not follow the Eastern Star, Lady Hope. They mean to kill you. That is his task."
"Who?" I murmur, but she's gone, and I'm dreaming of Pippa outlined against the red sky. Her eyes are wrong again, horrible blue-white with pinpricks of black in the center. Her hair is matted with wildflowers gone to seed. Deep shadows ring her eyes. She smiles, revealing sharp, pointed teeth, and I want to scream, oh, God in heaven, I want to scream. She offers something in both hands, something bloody and foul. The head of a goat torn from its body.
Thunder rumbles through the reddening sky. "I saved your life, Gemma. Remember that...." She blows a kiss to me. And then, swift as lightning, she grabs the goat's head and sinks her teeth into its neck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
IT IS DETERMINED BY OUR PHYSICIAN, DR. LEWIS, that I am suffering from catarrh and nothing more, and after several sneezes, I agree with his assessment. I am forced to stay in bed. Mrs. Jones brings hot tea and broth on a silver tray. And in the afternoon, Father spends an hour telling me lovely tales of India.
"So there we were, Gupta and I, traveling to Kashmir with a donkey who would not be moved for all the jewels of India. He saw that narrow mountain pass, bared his teeth at us, and simply lay down, refusing to go on. We pulled and pulled on the rope, and the more we pulled the harder he fought. I thought we were done for. It was Gupta's idea that saved us in the end."
"What did he do?" I ask, blowing my nose.
"He took off his hat, bowed to the donkey, and said, 'After you. " And the donkey moved on with us following."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You've made up that story."
Father puts his hand to his chest dramatically. "You doubt the word of your father? To the stocks with you, ungrateful child!"
This makes me laugh--and sneeze. Father pours me more tea.
"Drink up, darling. Don't want you missing Tom's dance with the lunatics this evening."
"I've heard Mr. Snow is fond of getting too familiar with his partners," I say.
"Lunatic or not, I'd have his hide if he dared," Father says, puffing out his chest and blustering like some retired naval officer. "Unless he's larger than I am. Then I'd need you to protect me, my dear."
I laugh again. He's in a happy temper today, though he's looking thin, and his hands still tremble at times.
"Your mother would have loved the idea of a dance at Bedlam, I can tell you. She did so love the unusual." Silence descends. Father fiddles with the wedding band he still wears, turning it round and round. I'm torn between speaking honestly and keeping him here. Honesty wins. "I miss her," I say.
"As do I, pet." It is quiet again for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say to close the gap between us. "I know she'd be happy to see you at Spence."
"She would?"
"Oh, yes. It was her idea. She said that should anything happen to her, I was to send you there. Strange thing for her to say, now that I think of it. Almost as if she knew . . ." He stops, looks out the window.
This is the first I've heard of my mother's wanting me to attend Spence, the school that very nearly destroyed her and the school that introduced her to her friend-turned-enemy, Sarah Rees-Toome. Circe. Before I can ask Father more about it, he's up and making his goodbyes. The liveliness has been invaded by cold truth, and he cannot stay and make friends with it.
