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“I know you’ve seen the priestess. What did she tell you?” Amar asks. His teeth are jagged points.
“You’ll never know,” I manage to say.
Amar’s eyes waver, and for just a moment, they are as brown as Kartik’s. “Tell my brother to remember his heart in all things. That is where his honor and his destiny will be found. Tell him.”
And then, quickly, they revert to that terrifying black abyss circled in red. “We’ll have you yet. Beware the birth of May.”
My breath comes out in quick white puffs, my fear joined with the cold.
“Let me out!” I scream.
Suddenly, the mouth of the cave is visible again, and I paddle for it with all my might, leaving Amar and those pale, blind creatures far behind. The tree is forgotten. I want only to return safely to the Borderlands.
I stagger into the blue forest, breathing hard, and am relieved to see the lights of the castle bleeding out its windows, dispelling the gloom. I’m also relieved to hear my friends’ laughter, for I should like to join it now.
There’s a small rumble of thunder, and when I look behind me at the Winterlands sky, it is drenched in red.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
IT IS A TEDIOUS SORT OF DAY AT SPENCE. WE SPEND THE whole of our French lesson conjugating verbs. Frankly, I do not care whether it is I have dined on snails or I shall dine on snails, as I do not intend ever to allow a snail past my lips and so the entire lesson is moot. We repeat the steps of the quadrille until I could perform them in my sleep; we practice our sums so that we might manage the household books someday and be assets to our husbands. Under Miss McCleethy’s direction, we sketch one another in profile; Elizabeth protests that I’ve given her a nose as big as a house when, in truth, I’ve been far too kind. But when it comes to art, everyone is a critic, and there you have it.
When the teachers are not around, the girls fall into excited chatter about their approaching debuts. They’ve stacks of invitations—those tempting promises of romance, elaborate feasts, and new gowns engraved in neat script upon fine cream-colored cards. I should be thinking of my own debut. But I’m far too distracted. That time seems to exist in another world, and I cannot see my way clear to it just now.
Rather than take tea with the others and listen to talk of this party or that ball, I excuse myself on the pretense of practicing my curtsy, and comb the school’s nooks and crannies, hoping I might find the dagger Wilhelmina Wyatt stole or additional clues to its whereabouts. Unfortunately, I discover nothing but dust, empty drawers, and overstuffed cupboards, and the rather unfortunate surprise of an unwrapped toffee gone to goo, which even after three soapings still coats my fingers in a nasty stickiness. I’m at a loss, especially now that Miss Wyatt won’t show herself to me in visions or dreams. It’s as if she’s toying with me, and I recall Dr. Van Ripple’s comment about her enjoying her little cruelties. It casts doubts on her trustworthiness.
I’m just about to give up and return to the others when I spy Kartik’s bandana in the ivy. I reach down and pluck it free. There’s a note attached: I’ve arranged it. Meet me in the laundry. Midnight. Bring five pounds. Dress sensibly.
Tonight. I shall have to thank him for giving me such short notice. Still, it is arranged, and if I can speak with a representative of the Rakshana about saving my brother, I’ll go whenever called.
Felicity’s not happy about my plans. She expects another visit to the realms, and she’s sure Pip won’t forgive her absence—but she understands that I must help Tom. She even offers me the use of her fencing foil in case I need to stab anyone. I assure her that won’t be necessary, and I hope I am correct in this assumption.
Just before midnight, I ready myself for my meeting with Kartik in the laundry. He has said to dress sensibly, and as we will travel through London’s streets at night, I decide there is only one possible solution.
With the magic at hand, I give myself trousers, a shirt, a waistcoat, and a coat. I shorten my hair and am astonished to see myself like this—all eyes and freckles. I make a good boy, perhaps a prettier one than I am a girl. A cloth cap completes the illusion.
The laundry house is dark when I enter. I don’t see or hear a thing, and I wonder if Kartik has come after all.
“You’re late,” he says, stepping out from behind a beam.
“It is good to see you as well,” I snap.
“The note distinctly said midnight. If we’re to make London in time, we must leave now. Have you the money?”
I hold up my coin purse and give it a jingle. “Five pounds, as requested. Why do I need it?”
“Information is costly,” he answers. He takes in the sight of my trousers. “Sensible.” His gaze travels up. He turns away. “Button your coat.”
My bosom swells slightly under the shirt. That part of me has not been disguised. Embarrassed, I button the coat.
“Here,” Kartik says, wrapping his scarf around my neck. The ends hang down, obscuring the front of me.
He leads me to the hitching post where Freya waits. Kartik pats her nose, soothing her. He swings into the saddle and offers his hand, then pulls me up behind him. We take off with a start. I put my arms around his waist and he does not object.
We ride for what seems an eternity—my backside aches—and at last the lights of London glimmer in the distance. Just short of the city, we dismount, and Kartik leaves Freya hitched to a tree with assurances to her that we will return. He feeds her a carrot and we join the pulse of London nightlife. The streets are not as quiet as I would think. It is as if the city itself has sneaked out of doors while its counterpart, the ordinary day city, sleeps. This is a different London, a London more daring and unknown.
Kartik secures a cab and raps on the roof to signal the driver. With Kartik sitting beside me, the cab feels quite close. His hands rest rigidly on his thighs. I push myself into the corner.
A TEDIOUS SORT OF DAY AT SPENCE. WE SPEND THE whole of our French lesson conjugating verbs. Frankly, I do not care whether it is I have dined on snails or I shall dine on snails, as I do not intend ever to allow a snail past my lips and so the entire lesson is moot. We repeat the steps of the quadrille until I could perform them in my sleep; we practice our sums so that we might manage the household books someday and be assets to our husbands. Under Miss McCleethy’s direction, we sketch one another in profile; Elizabeth protests that I’ve given her a nose as big as a house when, in truth, I’ve been far too kind. But when it comes to art, everyone is a critic, and there you have it.
