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We lie back in the grass and let the sun warm our winter-weary faces, which is a form of magic in itself.
“I wish it could be like this always,” Ann says, sighing.
“Perhaps it can,” I say.
We lie close together, holding hands, and watch the clouds, those happy ladies in their billowing skirts, as they dance and curtsy and become something else entirely.
In the afternoon, the business in the marketplace has begun to dwindle, and several of the exhibitors have packed their goods. It’s time for dancing and entertainment. Jugglers thrill children with gravity-defying acts. Men flirt with servant girls enjoying that rare day off from their labors. A troupe of mummers presents a pageant about Saint George. With their cork-reddened faces and tunics, they’re a merry, boisterous sight. As it’s near Easter, a morality play is staged at the far end of the green, near the hiring stalls. Nightwing takes us to see it, and we stand among the crowd, watching as a pilgrim makes his progress through his soul’s darkest hours and on into morning.
From the corner of my eye, I spy Kartik at the ship captain’s stall, and my stomach does a small flip.
“Felicity,” I whisper, tugging on her sleeve. “I’ve just spied Kartik. I must speak with him. If Nightwing or LeFarge looks for me, tell them I’ve gone to see the cockfights.”
“But—”
“Please?”
Felicity nods. “Be quick about it.”
Swift as a hare, I slip through the crowd, catching Kartik just as he shakes hands with the captain, sealing their bargain. My heart sinks.
“Excuse me, sir. Might I have a word?” I say.
My familiarity draws the consternation of a few farmers’ wives, who must wonder what business a well-brought-up girl could have with an Indian.
I glance toward the captain. “Are you going to sea?”
He nods. “The HMS Orlando. It leaves from Bristol in six weeks’ time, and I shall be on it.”
“But…a sailor? You told me you didn’t care for the sea,” I say, a sudden lump forming in my throat at the memory of the first night we spoke in the chapel.
“If the sea is all there is, it will suffice.” From his pocket Kartik takes a worn red bandana, the one we used as a silent communiqué before. I would place it in my bedroom window if I needed to speak with him, and he would tie it in the ivy nestled below if he needed me. He presses it to his neck.
“Kartik, what has happened?” I whisper. “When I left you in London, you pledged your loyalty to me and to the alliance.”
“That person doesn’t exist any longer,” he answers, his eyes darkening.
“Has this anything to do with the Rakshana? What of all your talk of destiny and—”
“I no longer believe in destiny,” Kartik says, his voice shaking. “And if you recall, I am also not a member in good standing of the Rakshana. I am a man without a place, and the sea will suit me fine.”
“Why do you not come with me into the realms?”
His voice is barely a whisper. “I’ll not see the realms. Not ever.”
“But why not?”
He won’t look at me. “I have my reasons.”
“Then tell me what they are.”
“They are my reasons, and mine alone.” He rips the bandana in two and places half in my hand. “Here, take it. Something to remember me by.”
I stare at the crumpled ball of fabric. I should like to throw it at him and walk away in triumph. Instead, I clutch it tightly, hating myself for this weakness.
“You shall make a fine sailor,” I say sharply.
It is nearly sundown when we return to Spence, laden with parcels from the fair. Mr. Miller’s men are quitting for the day. Dirty and damp with sweat, they load their tools onto a wagon and wash up in the buckets of water the scullery maid has left for them. Brigid offers them cool lemonade, and they drink it in greedy gulps. Mrs. Nightwing inspects the day’s work with the foreman.
