Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2) Page 89

"No. Rakshana are forbidden to marry. It is a distraction from our purpose."

"Oh. I see."

Kartik takes another dosa and slices it into neat, even pieces. "Once you've sworn an oath to the Rakshana, you are committed for life. There is no leaving. Amar knew this. He honored his duty."

"Was he very high in the ranks?"

A cloud passes over Kartik's still face. "No. But he might have been, if. . ."

If he had lived. If he hadn't died trying to protect my mother, trying to protect me.

Kartik pushes away his plate. He is all business again. "What was it you needed to tell me?"

"I think Miss McCleethy is Circe," I say. I tell him about the anagram and following her to Bedlam, about my mother's newspaper clippings and the strange visit with Nell. "Miss Hawkins said that Circe tried to enter the realms through her but they couldn't do it. Nell could only see it in her mind. And when she couldn't . . ." "When she couldn't?"

"I don't know. I've seen glimpses of it in my visions," I say. Kartik gives me a warning look, as I knew he would. "I know what you are about to say, but I keep seeing these three girls in white who were friends of Miss Hawkins's. It is the same vision, but a little clearer each time. The girls, the sea, and a woman in a green cloak. Circe. And then ... I don't know. Something terrible happens. But I can never see that part."

Kartik drums his thumb softly against the table. "Did she tell you where to find the Temple?"

"No," I say."She keeps repeating something about seeing the true path."

"I know you are fond of Miss Hawkins, but you must remember that her mind is not reliable."

"A bit like the magic and the realms just now,'' I say, playing with my gloves. "I don't know where to begin. It feels impossible. I'm to find something that doesn't seem to exist, and the closest I've gotten is a lunatic at Bedlam who keeps nattering on about 'stick to the path; follow the path. " I would be overjoyed to stick to a bloody path if I knew where it was."

Kartik's mouth hangs open. Too late I realize I've cursed.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry," I say, horrified.

"You bloody well should be," Kartik says. He breaks out with a boom of a laugh. I shush him, and soon we're both grinning like hyenas. An old man at another table shakes his head at us, certain we must be mad.

"I am sorry," I say."It's just that I am so vexed."

Kartik points to my damaged amulet. "I can see that. What happened here?"

"Oh," I say, removing it. "That wasn't me. That was Miss Hawkins. The first time I visited her, she pulled it from my neck. I thought she meant to do me in. But she held it in front of her like this," I say, demonstrating. Kartik frowns. "Like a weapon?" He takes the amulet from me and swipes at the air with it, as if it were a dagger. In the amber light of the tavern's lanterns, the metal glows golden warm.

"No. She cradled it like this." I take it back and move it in my hands as Nell had done."She kept peering at the back of it as if she were looking for something."

Kartik sits up."Do that again."

I move it back and forth once more. "What? What are you thinking?"

Kartik slumps down into the chair. "I don't know. It's just that what you're doing rather reminds me of a compass."

A compass! I pull the lantern close and hold the amulet beside its flickering light.

"Do you see anything?" Kartik asks, moving his chair so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of him, smell the air--a mix of chimney soot and spice--in his hair. It is a good smell, an anchoring smell.

"Nothing," I say. There are no markings that I can see. No directions.

Kartik leans back."Well, it was a good thought."

"Hold on," I say, still looking at the amulet. "What if we can only see it in the realms?"

"Will you try it?"

"As soon as I can," I say.

"Good show, Miss Doyle," Kartik says, smiling broadly."Let's get you home before I'm out of a job."

We leave the tavern and travel the two twisting streets back to where we've left our carriage. But when we come to that street, the little boy is no longer there. Instead, there are three men in the same cut of black suit. Two carry sticks that look as if they could do us harm. The third sits in the carriage, an open newspaper in front of his face. The street, which only a half hour ago was teeming with people, is deserted. Kartik puts a hand out to slow my approach. The men see him and whistle. The man in the carriage folds his paper neatly. It's the man with the scar, the one who's been trailing me since I arrived in London.