“What if I told you my mother came to me today in a vision?”
“I don’t believe you,” Kartik says, but his face drains of color.
“She left me this.” I pull out the fabric I’ve kept tucked near my heart. He stares at it. “I saw your brother there, too.”
“You saw Amar?”
“Yes. He was in some sort of frozen wasteland—”
His voice is quiet but harsh. “Stop it.”
“Do you know that place? Is that where my mother is?”
“I said stop it!”
“But what if they’re trying to reach me through these visions? Why else would she leave me this?” I hold out the blue silk.
“This proves nothing!” he says, holding my arms tightly. “Listen to me: That was not my brother or your mother you saw, understand? It was just an illusion. You must put it out of your mind.”
Put it out of my mind? It’s the only thing I’m living for. “I think she was trying to tell me something.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not real.”
“How do you know that?”
His words are sharp and deliberate. “Because this is what Circe and the Order do—they’ll use any trickery they have to get what they want. Your mother and my brother are dead. They killed them to get to you. Remember that the next time you are tempted by those visions, Miss Doyle.” There’s pity in his eyes. It’s harder to bear than his hatred. “The realms must stay closed, Miss Doyle. For all our sakes.”
I’m responsible for their deaths. He’s all but said it out loud. He won’t help me. There’s no use trying. The muffled drone of girls drifts up from below. They’ll be coming up any moment. But there’s one thing more I need to know.
“What about Mary Dowd?” I say, waiting to see what he knows about her.
“Who is Mary Dowd?” he says, distracted by the soft thud of feet on stairs. He doesn’t know. Whoever he works for, they don’t trust him with everything.
“My friend. You did ask me if I had any friends, didn’t you?”
“So I did.” There are footsteps on the landing. He pushes me aside and like a cat, he’s over the sill and out through the window. I can see the knotted rope he’s secured to the wall through a loop in a small railing. It’s nestled into a thick patch of ivy, making it hard to see if you’re not looking for it. Clever, but not infallible. And neither is he.
Closing the window behind him, I put my mouth up to the windowpane, watch my breath fog it over with each quiet word. “You may give the Rakshana a message for me, Kartik the messenger. That was my mother in the woods today. And I’m going to find her whether you help me or not.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE NEXT AFTERNOON IS BLUSTERY AND GRAY, BUT MISS Moore still makes good on her promise to take us to the caves. It’s a solid hike through the trees, beyond the boathouse and the lake, and along a deep ravine. Ann trips on the slope’s crumbling wall and nearly tumbles into it.
“Careful,” Miss Moore says. “This ravine’s a bit tricky. Seems to come out of nowhere and then you’re falling and breaking your neck.”
We cross the ravine, walking over a small bridge into a spot where the trees open to form a small circular clearing. I catch my breath. It’s the same spot where the little girl took me, where I found Mary Dowd’s diary. The caves are in front of us, tucked beneath a ledge overgrown with vines that tickle our arms as we thread our way through them into the velvety blackness. Miss Moore lights the lanterns we’ve brought and the cave walls dance in the sudden brightness. Generations of rain have smoothed the stone to such a high sheen in some places that I catch a fractured glimpse of myself on its uneven surface—an eye, a mouth, another eye, a composite of ill-fitting pieces.
“Here we are.” Miss Moore’s deep, melodic voice bounces against the craggy bumps and smooth planes of the cave. “The pictographs are just over here, on this wall.”
She follows her light into a large, open area. We all bring our lanterns and the drawings come to startling life, a treasure revealed.
“Rather crude, aren’t they?” Ann says, examining a rough outline of a serpent. I think instantly of her tidy quilt with no wrinkles, no loose ends.
“They’re primitive, Ann. The people in these caves were drawing with whatever was available to them—sharp rocks, makeshift knives, a bit of clay paint or dye. Sometimes even blood.”
“How revolting!” It’s Pippa, of course. Even in the dark, I can practically feel her pert little nose wrinkling in distaste.
Felicity laughs and takes on the tone of a fashionable lady. “Darling, the Bryn-Joneses have just done the most marvelous thing in their parlor with human blood. We simply must have ours done straightaway!”
“I think it’s disgusting,” Pippa says, though I suspect she’s more put out by Felicity and me sharing a joke than any mention of blood.
“Blood was used for a sacred drawing, to pay tribute to a goddess whose influence was being sought. Here.” Miss Moore points to a faint red etching of what looks like a bow and arrow. “This is one for Diana, the Roman goddess of the moon and the hunt. She was a protector of girls. Of chastity.”
At this, Felicity gives me a sharp nudge in the ribs. We all cough and shuffle our feet to hide our embarrassment. Miss Moore soldiers on.
“The quite remarkable thing about this cave is that there are depictions of all sorts of goddesses here. It isn’t just the Pagan or Roman but the Norse, the Germanic, the Celtic. Most likely, this was a place known to travelers who heard they could practice their magic in safety here.”
“Magic?” Elizabeth asks. “They were witches?”
“Not as we’ve come to think of witches. They would have been mystics and healers, women who worked with herbs and delivered babies. But it would have made them suspect. Women who have power are always feared,” she says sadly. I wonder how Miss Moore came to be here, teaching us how to draw pretty pictures instead of living out in the world. She’s not unattractive. Her face is warm, her smile quick, and her figure slim. The brooch at her neck has several rubies in it, which suggests that she’s not without means.
“I think they are extraordinary,” Felicity says, moving her lantern closer to the wall. Her fingers trail over a rough silhouette of what appears to be a crow woman flanked by two other women who’ve been partially rubbed away by time.
“Ugh, that’s rather nasty,” Cecily says. Shadows flicker across her face, and for a moment, I can imagine what she’ll look like as an old woman—sort of pinched and thin with a large nose.
Miss Moore peers at the drawing. “That particular lady is probably related to the Morrigan.”
“The what?” Pippa asks, batting her lashes and smiling in a way that will undoubtedly make men promise the earth.
“The Morrigan. An ancient Celtic goddess of war and death. She was greatly feared. Some said she could be seen washing the clothes of those who were about to die in battle, and afterward, she flew across the battlefields, taking the skulls of the dead with her in her fury.”
Cecily shudders. “Why would anyone want to worship her?”
“Don’t you have any warrior spirit, Miss Temple?” Miss Moore asks.
Cecily is aghast. “I certainly hope not. How . . . unattractive.”
“What makes it so?”
“Well.” Cecily is clearly uncomfortable. “It’s like . . . being a man, isn’t it? A woman should never show anything so unseemly.”
“But without that spark of anger, without destruction, there can be no rebirth. The Morrigan was also associated with strength, independence, and fertility. She was the keeper of the soul till it could be regenerated. Or so they say.”
“Who are these women here?” Ann points a pudgy finger at the worn drawings.
“The Morrigan was a threefold goddess, often seen as a beautiful maiden, the great mother, and the bloodthirsty crone. She could change shape at will. Quite fascinating, really.”