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“Kartik!” I call, but he’s fighting me. “Kartik, stop!”
He comes back to himself, releasing me. “I’m sorry. I have these dreams,” he says, breathing heavily. “Such awful dreams.”
“What sorts of dreams?” I still feel the imprint of his hands on my arms.
He rakes shaking fingers through his hair. “I see Amar on a white horse, but he’s not as I remember him. He’s like some horrible cursed creature. I try to run after him, but he’s always just ahead. The mist thickens, and I lose him. When the mist parts, I’m in a cold, bleak land—a terrible, beautiful place. An army of lost souls comes out of the mist. They’re looking to me, and I’m so very powerful. More powerful than I could have imagined.”
He wipes an arm across his brow.
“And is that all?”
“I…” He steals a quick glance. “I see your face.”
“Me? I’m there?”
He nods.
“Well…what happens next?”
He doesn’t look at me. “You die.”
Gooseflesh rises on my arms. “How?”
“I…” He stops. “I don’t know.”
The breeze coming off the lake gives me another shiver. “They’re only dreams.”
“I believe in dreams,” he answers.
I take hold of his hands, not caring if it’s too bold. “Kartik, why don’t you come into the realms with me and look for Amar yourself? Then you would know for certain and perhaps the dreams would go away.”
“But what if they’re right?” He slips his hands from mine. “No. As soon as I have paid my debt to the Gypsies for their aid, I’ll be on my way to Bristol and the HMS Orlando.”
I stand. “So you won’t even try to fight?” I say, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.
Kartik stares straight ahead. “Make the alliance without me, Gemma. You’ll be fine on your own.”
“I’m tired of being on my own.”
Wiping away tears, I march into the woods. Just past the Gypsy camp, I see Mother Elena heaving a pail toward Spence.
“What are you doing?” I demand. I yank the pail away, and the dark liquid in it sloshes against the sides. “What is this?”
“The mark has to be made in blood,” she says. “For protection.”
“You’re the one who painted the East Wing. Why?”
“Without protection, they’ll come,” she says.
“Who will come?”
“The damned.” She grabs for the pail and I hold it out of her reach.
“I’ll not spend another morning scrubbing,” I say.
Mother Elena tightens her shawl about her. “Two ways! The seal is broken. Why would Eugenia allow it? She knows—she knows!”
The whole ghastly night rises in me like a battered dog who’ll take no more taunting. “Eugenia Spence is dead. She’s been dead for twenty-five years. You’re not to do this again, Mother Elena, or I shall tell Mrs. Nightwing it was you, and you’ll be banished from these woods forever. Do you want that?”
