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She turns my face to hers so that I cannot avoid her eyes. “Promise.”
“I promise,” I say, and I hope she cannot see my doubt turning to fear.
CHAPTER THREE
THE RAIN HAS LOOSED ITS WRATH IN FULL. IT SOAKS THE sleeping rose garden and the lawn, the yellow green of the leaves struggling to be born. It has also found my friend Ann Bradshaw. She stands in the foyer in a plain brown wool coat and a drab hat dotted with droplets. Her small suitcase rests at her feet. She has spent the week with her cousins in Kent. Come May, when Felicity and I make our debuts, Ann will go to work for them as governess to their two children. Our only hope for changing her prospects was to enter the realms and attempt to bind the magic to all of us. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot enter the realms. And without the realms, I cannot make the magic flare to life. Not since Christmas have I seen that enchanted world, though in these past few months I have tried dozens of times to get back. There have been moments when I’ve felt a spark, but it is short-lived, no more consequential than a single drop of rain in a drought. Day by day, our hopes dim, and our futures seem as fixed as the stars.
“Welcome home,” I say, helping Ann out of her wet coat.
“Thank you.” Her nose runs, and her hair, the color of a field mouse’s fur, slips loose of its moorings. Long, thin strands of it hang over her blue eyes and plaster themselves to her full cheeks.
“How was your stay with your cousins?”
Ann does not smile at all. “Tolerable.”
“And the children? Are you fond of them?” I ask, hopefully.
“Lottie locked me in a cupboard for an hour. Little Carrie kicked my leg and called me a pudding.” She wipes her nose. “That was the first day.”
“Oh.” We stand uncertainly under the glare of Spence’s infamous brass snake chandelier.
Ann lowers her voice to a whisper. “Have you managed to return to the realms?”
I shake my head, and Ann looks as if she might cry. “But we’ll try again tonight,” I say quickly.
A glimmer of a smile lights Ann’s face for a moment. “There’s hope yet,” I add.
Without a word, Ann follows me to the great hall, past the roaring fires and the ornately carved columns, the girls playing whist. Brigid thrills a small circle of younger girls with tales of fairies and pixies she swears live in the woods behind Spence.
“They don’t!” one girl protests, but in her eyes I see she wants to be proven wrong.
“Aye, they do, miss. And more creatures besides. You’d best not go out past dark. That’s their time. Stay safe in your beds and you’ll not wake to find you’ve been carried away in the company of the Others,” Brigid warns.
The girls rush to the windows to peer into the vast expanse of night, hoping for a glimpse of fairy queens and sprites. I could tell them they won’t see them there. They’d have to travel with us through the door of light to the world beyond this one to keep company with such fantastical creatures. And they might not like all that they see.
“Our Ann has returned,” I announce, parting the curtains to Felicity’s private tent. Ever the dramatic one, Felicity has cordoned off one corner of the enormous room with silk curtains. It is like a pasha’s home, and she lords over it as if it were an empire of her own.
Felicity takes in the sight of Ann’s damp, mud-caked skirt hem. “Mind the carpets.”
Ann wipes her soiled skirts, dropping crumbs of dried mud onto the floor, and Felicity sighs in irritation. “Oh, Ann, really.”
“Sorry,” Ann mumbles. She pulls her skirts close to her body and takes a seat on the floor, trying not to dirty it further. Without asking, she reaches into the open chocolate box and takes three, much to Felicity’s annoyance.
“You needn’t take them all,” Fee grumbles.
Ann puts two back. They are imprinted with her hand. Felicity sighs. “You’ve touched them now; you might as well eat them.”
Guiltily, Ann shoves all three into her mouth at once. She cannot possibly be enjoying their taste. “What do you have there?”
“This?” Felicity holds out a white card with beautiful black lettering. “I’ve received an invitation to Lady Tatterhall’s tea for a Miss Hurley. It shall have an Egyptian theme.”
“Oh,” Ann says dully. Her hand lingers over the chocolate box. “I suppose you’ve gotten one, too, Gemma.”
“Yes,” I say guiltily. I hate that Ann’s not included—it is beastly unfair—but I can’t help wishing she didn’t make me feel quite so horrid about it.
“And of course there is the ball at Yardsley Hall,” Felicity continues. “That promises to be quite grand. Did you hear about young Miss Eaton?”
I shake my head.
