The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 201

“This is not a battle you can win, Gemma. It belongs to me. I’m going to the Winterlands to finish what I started. But I will remember you to Eugenia Spence.”

“I’ll kill you,” I whisper. Once more I try to call the magic, and once more my head swims with visions. Circe draws the dagger from its sheath, and for a moment, I know she will kill me with it. “Thank you for this,” she whispers.

Circe lets me go and I fall to the floor, shaking. She crouches beside me, and her eyes are warm, her smile sad. “There are times when I wish I could go back and change the course of my life. Make different choices. If I had, perhaps you and I would have met as wholly different people in another life.” She strokes my hair softly and I am unable to shy away from her touch. I cannot say whether it’s the magic or my need at work. “But the past cannot be changed, and we carry our choices with us, forward, into the unknown. We can only move on. Do you remember that I told you that at Spence? It seems forever ago, doesn’t it?”

In the corners of the cave, I still see my father and the others. They look on with disapproval. They break into bits that become a nest of snakes.

“I should be careful with the magic, if I were you, Gemma. For you and I have shared it. It has changed—the realms have changed—and there is no telling what you might conjure now.” Circe kisses me sweetly on the cheek. “Goodbye, dear Gemma. Don’t be foolish and come after me. It won’t end well.”

She waves her hand over me, and I’m plunged into cold darkness. I vaguely feel myself staggering past Asha and into the poppy fields, my body on fire and my mind not my own. Everything I see is like a pantomime shadow made upon a wall. Amar on his white horse, a line of wraiths behind him with their capes of screaming souls. I lurch away from that image only to fall into Simon’s arms. “Dance with me, Gemma,” he insists, and I’m twirled till I’m dizzy and desperate to be let go. I struggle free, and there is Pippa holding the dead rabbit in her hands, blood smeared on her mouth.

At the stones near the secret door, I watch in horror as every last one of those honored women disappears, and the empty monuments are overgrown with weeds. I return to the party, swaying into the masked revelers. I don’t feel right. There’s too much magic.

“I hear your thoughts,” I whisper to the guests, and their masks cannot hide their confusion, their disdain.

A crow flies through the open window, and as quick as a blink, it transforms into the tall mummer who entertained us on the lawn. I blink and see the kohled eyes and the flower-inked flesh of a Poppy Warrior. He grins at me, vanishing into the crowd.

I run desperately after him, spilling one woman’s punch on her dress. “Sorry,” I mumble. I see him. Chain mail. Tunic. A mask of black feathers. He takes the arm of a lady and leads her away from the ballroom and into the great room, where I lose them both. They are not among the fairies, imps, and birds of prey assembled here.

The column pulses with life. One of the beasties trapped there breaks free and lights upon Cecily’s shoulder. I see her eyes flutter as the thing licks her neck.

“Get away!” I shout, charging her.

“You’re the most appalling girl!” Cecily huffs.

Up on the ceiling, the shiny winged creature puts a finger to her lips. I blink twice, but she is still there.

“It’s not real! None of it! She’s done this to me!” I hear my laugh—a great big witch’s cackle—and it terrifies me. I reach for the dagger and remember that it is gone.

“She took it,” I say.

“Shhh,” the fairy says, and warmth floods through me. I feel as though I have drunk honeyed wine. My head is heavy. The guests’ words are long velvet strings of sound too plush to hear. I am attuned only to the scratchy whispers of the tiny creatures. Their voices are as sharp as flint against stone, each word a spark.

“Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice…”

“Leave me alone!” I shout, and the revelers stare at this girl who has lost her mind.

“’Eard you’re ’avin’ a bit o’ trouble tonight, miss,” Fowlson says. My brother, Lord Denby, Grandmama, McCleethy and Nightwing, Brigid—they are all with him, worry in their faces. Or hatred. It is so hard to tell just now.

“I’m fine,” I protest.

Wasn’t I warned? She is a deceiver. Wilhelmina feared her—and she didn’t fear much. Beware the birth of May.

Brigid puts a hand to my forehead. “Poor dear, burning up.”

“Where’s Father?” I say, wild.