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"I will sprinkle you with fairy dust, Polly. But you must keep Uncle out."
I don't understand. Why would she be so insistent on keeping her own father out? What could the admiral do that could possibly . . .
Oh, God. The full horrible understanding rises in me like a great bird, the wings of truth unfurling slowly, casting a terrible shadow.
"You cannot go to her with anything that matters."
"No. No admirals."
"Do you suppose there is some evil in people that makes others do things?"
I move into the shadows as Felicity leaves Polly's room. She stands for a moment, listening for the click of the lock. She seems so small. At the stairs, I step out, surprising her.
"Gemma! You startled me. Is your head ringing? I shall never try absinthe again, I can tell you that! Why aren't you at the party?"
"I heard what you said to Polly," I say.
Felicity's eyes are defiant. But I'm not afraid of her this time. "Indeed? What of it?" "Was there no lock on your door?" I ask.
Felicity takes a sharp breath. "I don't know what you are implying, but I think you should stop at once," she says. I place my palm on her hand, but she pulls away."Stop it!" she spits out.
"Oh, Fee, I am so sorry. ..."
She shakes her head, turns away from me so I cannot see her face."You don't know how it really is, Gemma. It's not his fault. The blame is my own. I bring it out in him. He said so."
"Felicity, it most certainly is not your fault!"
"I knew you wouldn't understand."
"I understand that he is your father."
She looks back at me, her face streaked with tears."He didn't mean it. He loves me. He said so."
Fee . . .
"That's something, isn't it? It's something." She's biting back the sobs, her hand against her mouth as if she can catch them, push them back down.
"Fathers should protect their children."
The eyes flash. The hand points. "Aren't you the fine expert on that? Tell me, Gemma, how does your father protect you in his
laudanum stupor?"
I'm too shocked to answer.
"That's the real reason he's not here tonight, isn't it? He's not ill. Stop pretending everything's fine when you know it isn't!"
"It isn't the same thing at all!"
"You're so blind. You see what you want to see." She glares at me."Do you know what it is to be powerless? Helpless? No, of course not. You're the great Gemma Doyle. You hold all the power, don't you?" We stand there, staring each other down, neither saying a word. She has no right to attack me this way. I was only trying to help. At the moment, I can only think that I never want to see Felicity again.
Without another word, I start down the stairs.
"Yes, go on. Leave. You're always coming and going. The rest of us are stuck here. Do you think he'd still love you if he knew who you are? He doesn't really care--only when it suits him."
For a moment, I do not know whether she means Simon or my father. I walk away, leaving Felicity standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs.
The ball is over. The floor is a mess. Gathering coats, yawning goodnights, the ballgoers step across the detritus on the floor--confetti, crumbs, and forgotten dance cards, the withered flower petals. Some of the gentlemen are red-nosed and tipsy. They shake Mrs. Worthington's hand with too much ardor, their voices too loud. Their wives pull them along with a polite but firm "Our carriage is waiting, Mr. Johnson." Others follow. Some leave with the flush of new love on their dreamy faces; others wear their dashed hopes and broken hearts in downcast eyes and trembling smiles.
