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“I need to talk to you,” he says. There are dark circles under his eyes. “I’m having the dreams again. I’m in a desolate place. There’s a tree, tall as ten men, frightening and majestic. I see Amar and a great army of the dead. I’m fighting them as if my very soul depended upon it.”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear any more,” I say, because I’m tired. I’m half sick of shadows, I think, remembering the poem Miss Moore taught us so many months ago, “The Lady of Shalott.”
“You’re there,” he says quietly.
“I am?”
He nods. “You’re right beside me. We’re fighting together.”
“I’m beside you?” I repeat.
“Yes,” he says.
The sun catches his face in such a way that I can see the tiny golden flecks in his eyes. He’s so earnest, and for a second, I should like to lay down my arms and kiss him.
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about,” I say, turning from him. “For that is most assuredly a dream.”
To say that Mrs. Nightwing is displeased with me is to say that Marie Antoinette received a small neck scratch. Our headmistress allots me thirty conduct marks, and in penance, I am to do her bidding for a week. She begins by having me tidy up the library, which is not the torture she imagines, for any time spent in the company of books cheers my soul. That is, when my soul can be cheered.
McCleethy enters my room without knocking and settles herself in the only chair. “You didn’t come to dinner,” she says.
“I’m not well.” I pull the blanket to my chin as if that might shield me from her prying.
“Whom were you talking to in the ballroom?”
“No one,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “I was rehearsing.”
“You said you didn’t mean to make her fall.”
She waits for me to answer. I lie upon my back and stare at a spot on the ceiling where the paint peels.
“Miss Temple’s ankle is injured. She will not perform her ballet. It’s a pity. She was quite good. Miss Doyle, you might do me the courtesy of looking at me when I am speaking to you.”
I lie on my side and look straight through her as if she were made of glass.
“You can stop pretending, Gemma. I know you have the magic still. Did you cause her fall? I am not here to punish you. But I must know the truth.”
Again I am sorely tempted to tell her everything. It might be a relief. But I know McCleethy. She lures. She entices. She says she wants the truth when what she really wants is to be proven right, to tell me where I am wrong. And I can’t trust her. I can’t trust anyone. I’ll not fail Eugenia.
I turn back to my fascination with the tear in the ceiling. I want to pick at the wound in the plaster. Rip it down to the boards and start over. Paint it another color. Make it a different ceiling entirely.
“She fell,” I say, my voice hollow.
McCleethy’s dark gaze is upon me, weighing, judging. “An accident, then?”
I swallow hard. “An accident.”
I close my eyes and feign sleep. And after what seems an impossibly long time, I hear the scrape of the chair against the floor, signaling Miss McCleethy’s departure. Her footsteps are heavy with disappointment.
I do sleep. It is fretful, with dreams of running over both black sand and fresh grass. No matter where I run, what I want is just out of reach. I wake to Felicity’s and Ann’s faces hovering mere inches from mine. It gives me a start.
“It’s time for the realms,” Felicity says. Anticipation burns in her eyes. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it, Ann?”
“Feels as if it has,” Ann agrees.
“Very well. Give me a moment.”
“What were you dreaming about?” Ann asks.
