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“I was only surprised…,” I start, but the lie dies on my tongue.
“And anyway, you’re the one acting strangely, Gemma. Cavorting with Circe. Seeing things that aren’t there. You’re the one who’s not right!” She gives the water one final splash and the droplets arc neatly over the river and land back on me.
“I—I just think it best if we go into the realms together,” I say. “For now.”
Felicity looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re no longer in charge.”
“Come on, Gemma,” Ann entreats. “Let’s have a go round the maypole. Leave it for now.”
She takes Felicity’s hand and they run for the maypole. They weave in and out, laughing, and I wish I could forget everything and join them. But I can’t. I can only hope that I will sort this out in time. I make my way past the lake and up the hill to the old cemetery. The jutting headstones welcome me, for I am suitably grave.
I lay one of Felicity’s violets at Eugenia Spence’s stone. Beloved sister. “I don’t suppose you know where to find the dagger,” I say to the slab. The wind answers by blowing the posy away. “Thought not.”
“Talking to headstones?” It’s Kartik. He carries a small lunch in a pail. A shaft of sunlight halos his face and for a moment I am taken with how beautiful he is—and how truly happy I am to see him. “You only need worry if they answer,” he says. “I’ll go if—”
“No, stay,” I say. “I’d like that.”
He sits on a grave whose markings are nearly gone with time and nods toward the maids beating carpets in a fury. “There is a masked ball, I hear.”
“Yes, tomorrow,” I say. “I shall go as Joan of Arc.”
“Fitting.” Kartik examines an apple, pushing at a bruise with his thumb. “I assume there will be many gentlemen in attendance. English gentlemen.”
“I’m sure there will be many people in attendance,” I answer carefully.
He bites into the fruit. I pull a leaf from a tree and tear it into small strips. The awkward silence stretches.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last.
“You needn’t apologize. I lied to you.”
I perch near him. The distance between us isn’t much and yet it feels vast.
“Come to the ball,” I say softly.
Kartik laughs. “You’re joking.”
“No, not at all. It is a masked ball. Who shall know?”
Kartik pulls back his sleeve, revealing the warm brown of his skin. “And no one shall notice this, I suppose? An Indian amongst the English?” He bites into his apple with a hard crunch.
“An Indian prince,” I say. “And you shall have an invitation. I shall give you one.”
“If I cannot go as myself, I shall not go,” he says.
“You may think on it. If you have a change of heart, place the cloth in its spot, and I shall meet you tomorrow in the laundry at half past six.”
Kartik squints up at the sun. He shakes his head. “That is your world, not mine.”
“What if…” I swallow hard. “What if I should like you in my world?”
Kartik bites into his apple again, looks out at the rolling hills of the peaceful countryside. “I don’t believe I belong there.”
“Neither do I,” I say, laughing, but two tears escape, and I have to grab them quickly with my fingers. The magic tingles in them, a temptation: You could make him stay.
I will it into silence.
“Then come into the realms with me,” I say instead. “We could look for Amar together. We—”
