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Mrs. Jones leaves the room noiselessly, as servants do, as if even her skirts should not dare to make a sound lest they bring notice to the one wearing them.
Father looks up from his journal, his face ruddy from his coughing fit. “Gemma, was there something else you wanted to tell me, pet?”
I have a power, Father—an enormous power that I do not begin to understand. It is a blessing and a curse. And I fear if you knew it, I would never be your pet again.
“No, there was nothing,” I say.
“Ah. Well. Off you go, then. Wouldn’t want to keep your grandmama waiting tonight.”
He bends his head in concentration over his birds, his maps, his notes on the constellations—things that can be observed and recorded and understood.
And when I leave the room, he scarcely takes notice.
Grandmama sits in her chair, her fingers busy with her needlework, while I try to make a house of cards.
“I was very upset with your behavior this afternoon, Gemma. What if you had been seen by someone we know? There is your reputation—and ours—to think of.”
I drop a card onto the square I’ve built. “Isn’t there more to be concerned about than what others think of us?”
“A woman’s reputation is her worth,” Grandmama explains.
“It’s a small way to live.” I drop a queen of hearts on top. The card walls shiver and collapse under the new weight.
“I don’t know why I bother,” she sniffs. Her stitching picks up new, furious speed. When she can’t bring me to heel with scolding, she bends me into shape with guilt.
I try arranging the cards again, perfecting my balancing act.
“Stay,” I whisper. I place the last card on top and wait.
“Is that all you have to occupy your time? Card houses?” Grandmama sneers.
I sigh, and the tiny gust of breath tears down my work. The cards flutter into a messy pile. I’m in no humor for this. The afternoon’s events were upsetting enough, and if I cannot have comfort, I should like some peace. A little magic can remove her disappointment and my own.
“You’ll forget everything that happened today after we left the dressmaker’s shop, Grandmama. I am your beloved granddaughter, and we are happy, all of us…,” I intone.
Grandmama looks helplessly at the needlework in her lap. “I…I’ve forgotten my stitch.”
“Here, I’ll help you,” I say, guiding her hands till she picks it up again.
“Ah, me. Thank you, Gemma. You are such a comfort to me. What would I do without you?”
Grandmama smiles, and I do my best to return it, though somewhere deep inside I wonder if I have traded one life of lies for another.
A terrible knocking has me awake and not at all happy about it. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I creep downstairs. It’s Tom who is making such a racket. He’s returned in a lively mood; in fact, he enters the drawing room singing. It is an unnatural occurrence, like watching a dog ride a bicycle.
“Gemma!” he says happily. “You’re awake!”
“Yes, well, it would prove difficult to sleep through this cacophony.”
“I am sorry.” He bows and comes up too quickly, stumbling into a small table and knocking over a vase of flowers. The water spills onto Grandmama’s precious Persian carpet. Tom tries to rescue the vase but it only spins away from him.
“Tom, what are you doing?”
“This poor vessel is not well. It requires my care.”
“It is not a patient,” I say, taking it from him.
He shrugs. “It’s still not well.”
