Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2) Page 80

"I can hear his thoughts," I say.

They're dubious, but they follow me down into the thick fog. The man sings a mournful song about a bonnie lass lost forever as he puts the last of the stones in his pocket and moves to the edge of the rocking boat.

"You were right!" Ann gasps.

"Who goes there?" the man shouts.

"I've an idea," I whisper to my friends."Follow me."

We push through the fog, and the man nearly topples backward at the sight of three girls floating toward him.

"You mustn't do such a desperate act," I say in a quavering voice that I hope sounds otherworldly.

The man falls to his knees, his eyes wide. "Wh-what are you?"

"We are the ghosts of Christmas, and woe to any man who does not heed our warnings," I wail.

Felicity moans and turns a flip for good measure. Ann stares at her openmouthed, but I, for one, am impressed by her quick thinking and her acrobatics.

"What is your warning?" the old man squeaks.

"If you should persist in this dreadful course, a terrible curse shall befall you," I say.

"And your family," Felicity intones.

"And their families," Ann adds, which I think is a bit much, but there's no taking it back.

It works. The man removes stones from his pocket so quickly I fear he'll turn over the boat. "Thank you!" he says. "Yes, thank you, I'm sure." Satisfied, we fly away home, laughing at our resourcefulness and feeling quite smug indeed about saving a man's life. When we reach the elegant houses of Mayfair once again, I'm drawn to Simon's house. It would be an easy thing to fly close and perhaps hear his thoughts. For a moment, I hover, moving closer to him, but at the last moment, I change course, following Felicity and Ann into

the sitting room again, where the tea is now cold.

"That was thrilling!" Felicity says, taking a seat.

"Yes," Ann says."I wonder why Fee and I weren't able to hear his thoughts as well. "'

"I don't know," I say.

A little girl in immaculate dress and pinafore steals in. She can't be more than eight years old. Her fair hair has been pulled back at the crown with a fat white ribbon. Her eyes are the same blue-gray as Felicity's. In fact, she looks a good deal like Felicity.

"What do you want?" Felicity snaps.

A governess steps in. "I'm sorry, Miss Worthington. Miss Polly seems to have lost her doll. I've told her she must take greater care with her things."

So this is little Polly. I pity her for living with Felicity.

"Here it is," Felicity says, finding the doll under the Persian carpet."Wait. Let me be certain she's all right."

Felicity makes a show of playing nursemaid to the doll, which makes Polly giggle, but when she closes her eyes and puts her hands over the doll, I feel the tug on the magic that we've brought back.

"Felicity!" I say, breaking her concentration.

She hands the doll to Polly. "There now, Polly. All better. Now you've got someone to look after you."

"What did you do?" I ask, when Polly's gone to the nursery with her governess.

"Oh, don't look at me that way! The doll's arm was broken. I only fixed it," Felicity huffs. "You wouldn't do anything to harm her, would you?"

"No," Felicity says coolly."I wouldn't."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE MOMENT I WAKE, I DASH OFF A LETTER TO THE headmistress of St. Victoria's School for Girls asking when Miss McCleethy was in their employ. I have Emily post it before the ink is completely dry.

As it is Thursday, Miss Moore takes us to the gallery as promised. We travel by omnibus through the London streets. It is glorious to sit at the top, the bracing wind in our faces, peering down at the people milling about on the streets and at the horses pulling carts filled with wares. It is less than a week until Christmas, and the weather has turned much colder. Overhead, the clouds are heavy with the coming snow. Their white underbellies sit on the chimney tops, swallowing them whole before moving on to the next and the next, resting each time as if they have such a long way to go.

"Our stop is nigh, ladies," Miss Moore calls out over the street noise. The wind has picked up so that she has to secure her hat with one hand. With careful steps, we descend the staircase that leads to the bottom of the omnibus, where a smartly uniformed conductor takes our hands and helps us into the street.

"Gracious me," Miss Moore says, adjusting her hair beneath her hat."I thought I should blow away entirely."