“Be careful she doesn’t get bored with you next. It’s a long way to fall.”
Mrs. Nightwing counts loudly over the music, correcting our steps, our posture, our every thought before we even have it. Pippa is moving me across the floor and I wonder if Kartik ever imagines what it would be like to hold her in his arms. Pippa has no idea of the effect she has on men, and I wish I could experience having that power just once. How I’d love to get away from here and be someone else for a while in a place where no one knows or expects certain things from me.
What happens next is not my fault. At least, I don’t mean to do it. The need to run has somehow taken over. The familiar tingling is back, pulling me down deep before I can get control of it. But it’s different this time. I’m not simply falling, I’m moving! I’m stepping across a shimmering threshold into a misty forest. Suspended there for a moment, between two worlds, I catch sight of Pippa’s face. It’s pale. Confused. Scared. And I realize she’s coming too.
Dear God, what’s happening? Where am I? How did she get here? I’ve got to stop it, can’t let her fall with me.
I close my eyes and fight against the overwhelming tide of my vision with everything I’ve got. But it’s not enough to keep me from seeing small flashes. Dark on the horizon. Splashing. And the sound of Pippa’s strangled, watery scream.
We’re back. I’m panting hard, still holding Pippa’s hand in a death grip. Did she see anything? Does she know my secret now? She’s not talking. Her eyes roll up into her head. The whites of them a fluttering of wings.
“Pippa?” My voice has enough panic in it to alert Mrs. Nightwing. She runs toward us as Pippa’s whole body stiffens. Her arm knocks me hard in the mouth as it flies back toward her chest. I can taste blood on my lip, all coppery hot. With a high keening sound, Pippa falls to the floor, her body writhing and jerking in what seems like agony.
Pippa is dying. What have I done to her?
Mrs. Nightwing grabs Pippa’s shoulders, pins her to the floor. “Ann, bring me a wooden spoon from the kitchen! Cecily, Elizabeth, fetch one of the teachers at once! Go—now!” To me she barks, “Hold her head still.”
Pippa’s head thrashes in my hands. Pippa, I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me.
“Help me turn her,” Mrs. Nightwing says. “She mustn’t bite her tongue.”
With effort, we turn her on her side. For a dainty creature, she is surprisingly solid. Brigid pushes into the ballroom and lets out with a cry.
Mrs. Nightwing barks out orders like a decorated commander. “Brigid! Send for Dr. Thomas at once! Miss Moore, if you would, please.” Brigid scurries out as Miss Moore rushes in, spoon in hand. She shoves it into Pippa’s gurgling mouth as if she means to choke her with it.
“What are you doing?” I scream. “She can’t breathe!” I wrestle with the spoon, trying to pull it out, but Miss Moore stays my hand.
“The spoon will keep her from biting off her tongue.”
I want to believe her, but the way Pippa is thrashing on the floor, it’s hard to imagine we can do anything to help. And then the violent tremors subside. She closes her eyes and goes still as death.
“Is she . . . ?” But I can’t finish what I’m whispering. I don’t want to know the answer.
Mrs. Nightwing struggles to her feet. “Miss Moore, would you check on the progress with Dr. Thomas, please?”
Miss Moore nods and marches toward the open door, admonishing the girls peering inside at us to get away. Mrs. Nightwing places her shawl over Pippa. There on the floor, she looks exactly like a sleeping princess from a fairy tale.
I don’t even realize I’m murmuring to her softly. “I’m sorry, Pippa, I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Nightwing regards me curiously. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Miss Doyle, but this is not your doing. Pippa suffers from epilepsy. She has suffered a fit.”
“Epilepsy?” Cecily repeats, making the word sound like leprosy or syphilis.
“Yes, Miss Temple. And now I must ask that you never repeat a word of this. It must be forgotten. If I should hear gossip about this, I shall give the girls responsible thirty conduct marks each and take away all privileges. Do I make myself clear?”
We nod silently.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Ann asks.
Mrs. Nightwing dabs at her brow with a handkerchief. “You could say a prayer.”
Dusk falls softly. Early shadows leak through the tall windows, robbing the rooms slowly of their color. I have no appetite for dinner, nor do I join the others in Felicity’s scarf-draped sanctuary. Instead, I find myself wandering till I’m just outside Pippa’s room. I knock quietly. Miss Moore answers. Behind her, Pippa is lying on the bed, beautiful and still.
“How is she?”
“Sleeping,” Miss Moore answers. “Come. No use standing in the hall.” The door is opened wide. She lets me take the chair by the bed and pulls another over for herself. It’s a small, kind gesture, and for some reason, it adds to my sadness. If she knew what I’d done to Pippa, what a liar I am, she wouldn’t want to be so nice to me.
Pippa is breathing deeply, seemingly untroubled. I’m afraid to sleep myself. Afraid I’ll see Pippa’s terrified face as she toppled into my bloody stupid vision. The fear and guilt have me exhausted. Too tired to keep the tears back, I bury my face in my hands and weep, for Pippa, my mother, my father, everything.
Miss Moore’s arm slips around my shoulders. “Shhh, don’t worry. Pippa will be fine in a day or two.”
I nod and cry harder.
“Somehow I think these tears aren’t all for Pippa.”
“I’m a horrid girl, Miss Moore. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“There now, what’s this nonsense?” she murmurs.
“It’s true. I’m not at all a good person. If it weren’t for me, my mother would still be alive.”
“Your mother died of cholera. That wasn’t your doing.”
The truth has been bottled up inside me for so long that it comes pouring out, spilling everywhere. “No, she didn’t. She was murdered. I ran away from her and she came after me and was murdered. I killed her with my unkindness. It’s all my fault, all of it.” My sobs are great gasping hiccups. Miss Moore still holds me in her sure arms, which remind me so much of my mother’s right now, I can barely stand it. Eventually, I’m completely cried out, my face a swollen balloon. Miss Moore hands me her handkerchief, bids me blow my nose. I’m five again. No matter how much I think I’ve matured, I always end up back at five when I cry.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to give back the white lace handkerchief.
“You hold on to it,” she says diplomatically, eyeing the limp, disgusting thing in my hand. “Miss Doyle—Gemma—I want you to listen to me. You did not kill your mother. We are all unkind from time to time. We all do things we desperately wish we could undo. Those regrets just become part of who we are, along with everything else. To spend time trying to change that, well, it’s like chasing clouds.”
New tears trickle down my cheeks. Miss Moore brings the hand with the handkerchief in it to my face.
“Will she really be all right?” I say, looking at Pippa.
“Yes. Though I think it takes a toll on her to have to keep such a secret.”
“Why does it have to be a secret?”
Miss Moore takes a moment to tuck Pippa’s blanket under her chin. “If it were known, she would be unmarriageable. It is considered a flaw in the blood, like madness. No man would want a woman with such an affliction.”
I remember Pippa’s strange comment in the caves about being married before it was too late. Now I understand.
“It’s so unfair.”
“Yes, yes, it is, but that is the way of the world.”
We sit for a moment watching Pippa breathe, watching the blankets rise and fall with a comforting rhythm.
“Miss Moore . . .” I stop.
“Here in private you may call me Hester.”
“Hester,” I say. The name feels forbidden on my tongue. “Those stories you told us about the Order. Do you suppose any of it could be true?”