The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 218

“Here now! Unhand me at once!” he insists, but he’s a bit too groggy to struggle.

“Thomas,” I say, removing my gloves, “this will hurt you far more than it will hurt me.”

“What?” he says.

I give him a good, clean punch to the mouth, and Tom is unconscious.

“You’re a hard one,” Fowlson says to me, propping my brother up in the carriage.

I settle my skirts over my legs properly and pull my glove neatly over my aching hand. “You’ve never taken a carriage ride with my brother when he is in such a state, Mr. Fowlson. Trust me, you will thank me for it.”

When Tom has recovered his senses—what sense he has, that is—we sit near the embankment. The streetlamps cast pools of light onto the Thames; they run like wet paint. Tom’s a mess: His collar sticks out like a broken bone, and the front of his shirt is spotted with his blood. He holds a wet handkerchief to his bruised face while stealing glances at me. Each time I meet his gaze, he looks quickly away. I could call on my magic to help me here, to blot all traces of this evening and my powers from his mind, but I decide against it. I’m tired of running. Of hiding who I am to make others happy. Let him know the truth of me, and if it’s too much, at least I shall know.

Tom moves his jaw gingerly. “Ow.”

“Is it broken?” I ask.

“Nuh, jus huhts,” he says, putting the handkerchief to his bloody bottom lip and wincing.

“Don’t you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Tal’ abou’ wha’?” He glances at me like a frightened animal.

“What just happened.”

He removes the handkerchief. “What is there to discuss? I was given ether, taken to a secret hideaway, bound, and threatened with death. Then my sister, the debutante, who is supposedly away at school learning to curtsy and embroider and order mussels in French, unleashed a force the likes of which I’ve never seen and which cannot be explained by any rational mind or laws of science. I shall commit myself come morning.” He stares out at the murky river that snakes through the heart of London. “It was real, all of it. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say.

“And you’re not going to, em…” He makes a hand motion like waving a wand, which I suppose stands for “unleash magical forces that frighten me.”

“Not at present,” I say.

He winces. “Can you make this pain in my head go away?”

“Sorry,” I lie.

He puts the wet cloth to his cheek and sighs. “How long have you been…like this?” he asks.

“Are you sure you want to hear it—all of it? Are you ready for the truth?” I ask.

Tom considers for a moment, and when he answers, his voice is sure. “Yes.”

“It all began last year on my birthday, the day Mother died, but I suppose, in truth, it began much earlier than that….”

I tell him about my powers, the Order, the realms and the Winterlands. The only thing I don’t divulge is the truth about Mother killing little Carolina. I don’t know why. Perhaps I sense he’s not ready to know that just yet. Maybe he never will be. People can live with only so much honesty. And sometimes, people can surprise you. I talk to my brother as I never have before, trusting in him, letting the river listen to my confessions on its path toward the sea.

“It’s extraordinary,” he says at last. He stares at the ground. “So they really did want you, not me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s no matter. I rather hated their port,” he says, trying to cover the injury to his pride.

“There is a place that would have you if you would have them,” I remind him. “It may not be your first choice, but they are sound men who share your interests, and you may come to like them best over time.” Then, changing the subject, I say, “Tom, there is something I must know. Do you think that I could have brought Father’s illness on, when I tried to make him see…with the magic…”

“Gemma, he has consumption, brought on by his grief and his vices. It’s not your doing.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Don’t misunderstand me—you are quite vexing.” He touches his tender jaw. “And you hit like a man. But you didn’t cause his illness. That is his doing.”

Farther down the river, a ship’s horn makes a mournful cry. It’s plaintive and familiar, a howl in the night for what one has lost and can’t get back.