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"No. That is forbidden. We don't know if they can be trusted with the magic."
"No. We don't. We shall need to have good faith."
Miss McCleethy fumes. "Absolutely not! The Order must remain pure."
"That's worked out well, hasn't it?" I say with as much venom as I can muster.
When she sees that she is getting nowhere, Miss McCleethy changes course, speaking to me as gently as a mother soothing an anxious child. "You may try to join hands with them, but chances are, it won't work. The realms guide who shall become part of the Order. We have no power over that. That is the way it has always been."
She attempts to stroke my hair, but I break away. "Things change," I say, taking my leave. Abandoning decorum, Miss McCleethy calls after me from her window. "Do not make enemies of us, Miss Doyle. We shall not give up our power so easily."
I do not turn back to look at her. Instead, I keep my eyes straight ahead, looking for the entrance to the Underground. A framed advert on the wall extols the virtues of the coming revolution in travel. They have already begun electrifying the tracks in some stations. Soon, all trains shall run on the invisible power of that most modern invention.
It is indeed a new world.
Dinner with the Middletons is bittersweet. It is hard to keep my mind upon polite conversation over soup and peas when I've so much to do. When it is time for the men and women to retire to separate quarters, Simon spirits me away to the parlor, and no one objects.
"I shall miss your company," he says."Will you write me?"
"Yes, of course," I say.
"Did I tell you Miss Weston made a fool of herself chasing after Mr. Sharpe at a tea dance?"
I don't find the story amusing. I only feel sorry for poor Miss Weston. I feel as if I can't breathe suddenly.
Simon's concerned."Gemma, what is it?"
"Simon, would you still care for me if you discovered I was not who I say I am?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean would you still care for me, no matter what you came to know?"
"What a thing to ponder. I don't know what to say."
The answer is no. He does not need to say it.
With a sigh, Simon digs at the fire with the iron poker. Bits of the charred log fall away, revealing the angry insides. They flare orange for a moment, then quiet down again. After three tries, he gives up. "I'm afraid this fire's had it."
I can see a few embers remaining."No, I think not. If . . ."
He sighs, and it says everything.
"Pay me no mind," I say, swallowing hard."I'm tired."
"Yes," he latches onto that excuse."Still recovering. You'll put this all behind you soon enough and everything will be like it was."
Nothing will be as it was. It is already changed. I am changed.
The maid knocks. "Begging your pardon, sir. Lady Denby asked for you."
"Very good. Miss Doyle--Gemma, will you excuse me? I won't be long."
When I'm alone, I take the poker and strike at the smoldering logs again and again till one catches and a small fire blazes to life. He quit too soon. It only needed a bit more tending. The stillness of the room closes in around me. The carefully grouped furnishings. The portraits looking down with passive eyes. The tall clock measuring the time I have left. Through the open doors, I can see Simon and his family, smiling, content, not a care in the world. Everything is theirs-- not for the taking but for the having. They do not know hunger or fear or doubt. They do not have to fight for what they want. It is simply there, waiting, and they walk into it. My heart aches. I would so very much like to wrap myself in the warm blanket of them. But I have seen too much to live in that blanket.
I leave the pearl brooch on the mantel, grab my coat before the maid can give it to me, and walk out into the cold dusk. Simon will not come after me. He is not the sort. He'll marry a girl who is not me and who will not find the brooch heavy in the slightest.
The air is crisp and biting. The lamplighter ambles up the street with his long stick. Behind him the lights burn. Across Park Lane, Hyde Park rolls out, the shroud of winter covering its eventual spring. And beyond that, Buckingham Palace stands, governed by a woman.
