Her smile falls. “You know.”
Some part of me has been holding out hope that I’m mistaken and that she’ll laugh, tell me it’s a silly mistake, explain it all away. The truth is a blow.
“No one came to you, told you all those things about me. You knew. You were a member of the Order all along. Everything you’ve told me is a fabrication.”
Her voice is surprisingly soft. “No. Not everything.”
I’m blinking back tears. “You lied to me.”
“Only to protect you.”
“That’s another lie.” I feel such hate; I’m nearly sick with it. “How could you?”
“It was all so very long ago, Gemma.”
“And that excuses everything? You led that little girl into the East Wing. You killed her!”
“Yes. And I spent every day of my life atoning for it.” A bird sings a hollow evening song from a branch. “Everyone assumed I had died, and in a way, I had. Mary Dowd was gone and in her place was Virginia. I made a new life for myself, with your father, and then Tom and you.”
The tears fall hot and wet on my cheeks. She tries to take my hand, but I step away.
“Oh, Gemma, how could I tell you what I’d done? That’s the curse of mothers, you know. We’re never prepared for how much we love our children, for how much we wish we could protect them by being perfect.” She blinks fast, trying not to cry. “I thought I could start again. That it was all forgotten and I was free. But I wasn’t.” Her voice is tinged with bitterness. “Slowly, I began to realize that you were different. That the long-dead power of the Order and the realms was starting again in you. I was afraid of that. I didn’t want you to have that burden. I thought by saying nothing I could protect you until perhaps it would pass and fade into legend again. No more. But I was wrong, of course. We can’t escape destiny. And then it was too late, and Circe found me before I’d had a chance to tell you everything.”
“She didn’t die in the fire.”
“No. I thought she had until a year ago, when Amar came to me, told me she was using her link to the creature to find us all. She’d heard that one of us was a portal to the realms again. She just didn’t know who.” She smiles at me, but her smile is pained.
My tears stop. Anger rises like a new building, shiny-hard and attractive, a place I want to live in forever.
“Fine. You’ve completed your soul’s task. You’ve told me the truth,” I say, spitting out the last word. “Why don’t you go on and leave me alone, then?”
“My soul’s task is in your hands,” she says softly in that voice that once sang me to sleep, told me I was lovely when I wasn’t. “It’s your choice.”
“What could I possibly do for you now?”
“Forgive me.”
The sobs I’ve been holding in check come spilling out. “You want me to forgive you?”
“It’s the only way I can be at rest.”
“What about me? Do you think I’ll ever be at rest again with what I know?”
Her hand touches my cheek. I recoil. “I’m sorry, Gemma. But we can’t live in the light all of the time. You have to take whatever light you can hold into the dark with you.”
I can’t think of anything to say. I never asked for any of this, and I’ve never felt more alone in my life. I want to hurt her.
“You were wrong about the runes. We’ve used the magic twice and nothing has happened.”
Her eyes blaze. “You what? I told you not to. It isn’t safe, Gemma.”
“How do I know that isn’t another one of your lies? Why should I believe anything you say?”
She puts a hand to her mouth, paces. “Then the realms have been left unguarded. Circe’s creature could already have been here and corrupted one of us. Gemma, how could you?”
“I might ask you the same,” I say, walking away.
“Where are you going?” she asks me.
“Back,” I say.
“Gemma. Gemma!”
I pass out of the garden. The huntress surprises me. I hadn’t even heard her coming up behind me, her bow and arrow at the ready.
“The deer is close. Will you hunt with me?”
“Another time,” I mumble through lips still thick with crying.
She bends to pick some berries, pops one in her mouth. She dangles them before me like a pendulum. “Care for a berry?”
She knows I can’t eat the fruit. So why is she offering it to me?
“No, thank you,” I say, walking on a bit more quickly.
As if I haven’t moved, she is in front of me, the berries in her outstretched hand. “Are you certain? They are delicious.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something isn’t right.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go now,” I say, but I can hear the thin scraping of a voice behind me as I’m hurrying through the green velvet of the grass by the river.
“At last . . . at last . . .”
Ann stands over my bed in the dark. “Gemma? Are you awake?”
I keep my eyes closed and hope she can’t tell that I’m still crying.
Felicity and Pippa shake me till I’m forced to turn over and face them.
“Let’s go,” Felicity whispers. “The caves await, fair lady.”
“I don’t feel well.” I roll over and study the tiny cracks in the wall again.
“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” Pippa says, nudging me with her boot.
I say nothing, just focus on my spot on the wall.
“Whatever’s the matter with her?” Pippa sniffs.
“I told you not to eat the liver,” Ann says.
“Well,” Felicity sighs after a while, “I hope you recover. But don’t expect to get off quite so easily tomorrow night.”
I have no intention of stepping through into the realms. Not tomorrow. Not ever. The door of my room closes, taking the last of the light with it, and the cracks all fade into nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MR. BUMBLE IS NOT QUITE THE EASY MARK WE’VE MADE him out to be. He’s gone to the Crosses, told them everything. The Crosses are horrified that they’ve lost control over the one thing that should always be in their control—their daughter. Their collateral. They’ve assured Mr. Bumble that it’s all some youthful folly invented by a girl nervous about her wedding day. After all, how could a girl as lovely as Pippa be anything other than the very picture of health? Mr. Bumble accepts their explanation in full, for they are the parents and we are merely silly girls. The whole episode has caused a scene at Spence, however. And so the four of us are assembled in Mrs. Nightwing’s office, under the reproachful eyes of the peacock-tail wallpaper, listening to accusations and blame, watching helplessly as our freedom unravels thread by thread.
Tomorrow, Pippa will leave with her parents, and she will be married to Mr. Bumble by the week’s end. Hasty preparations have begun. Order will be restored. Pride upheld. Who cares about one girl’s lifelong happiness in the face of such important matters as maintaining appearances?
She stares into her lap, biting hard at her bottom lip, completely beaten, while Mrs. Nightwing works to soothe her parents and fiancé. Mrs. Nightwing rings a bell on a long rope—the one that leads to the kitchen—and moments later, Brigid appears, huffing and puffing from the race up the stairs.
“Brigid, please show Mr. Cross and Mr. Bumble to the library and offer them a glass of our best port.”
This pleases the men. They’re all smug smiles and puffed chests.
“I do hope you’ll accept this with a full apology and my assurance that there’ll be no further unpleasantness.” Mrs. Nightwing gives Mr. Bumble a sideways glance.
Mr. Cross waves the idea away. “No great harm done, fortunately.”
Mr. Bumble crinkles his mustache as if choosing a cigar. “I’m a reasonable man. But you should keep a much tighter rein on these girls. They shouldn’t be left to their own decisions. It’s not healthy.”
I close my eyes and imagine Mr. Bumble careening headfirst down the long staircase and snapping his neck before he can sip that port. The great irony is that we told him the truth. And now we’ll be punished for it.