A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(28)

I’m trembling. Mary and Sarah both had visions. I am not alone. Somewhere out there are two girls—two women—who might be able to help me. Is this what she wants me to know? A door of light. I’ve never seen such a thing—or a garden. There’s been nothing beautiful at all. What if my visions aren’t like theirs at all? Kartik told me they would put me in danger, and everything I’ve experienced seems to prove him right. Kartik, who could be watching me right now, here in these woods. But what if he’s wrong? What if he’s lying?



It’s too much for my head to hold right now. I tuck the book away again and thread in and out between enormous trees, letting my fingers trail over rough bumps on ancient bark. The ground is littered with acorn shells, dead leaves, twigs, forest life.

I reach a clearing and there in front of me is a small, glass-smooth lake. A boathouse stands sentry on the far side. A battered blue rowboat with only one oar is anchored to a tree stump. It slides out and back with the breeze, wrinkling the surface slightly. There’s no one around to see me, so I loose the boat from its mooring and climb in. The sun’s a warm kiss on my face as my head rests against the bow. I’m thinking of Mary Dowd and her beautiful visions of a door of light, a fantastical garden. If I could control my visions, I’d want most to see my mother’s face.

“I’d choose her,” I whisper, blinking back tears. Might as well cry, Gem. With my arm across my face, I sob quietly, till I’m spent and my eyes scratch when I blink. The rhythmic lapping of the water against the side of the boat makes me go limp, and soon I’m under sleep’s spell.

Dreams come. Running barefoot over forest floor in the night fog, my breath coming out in short white wisps. It’s a deer I’m chasing, its milky brown flesh peeking through trees like the taunts of a will-o’-the-wisp. But I’m getting closer. My legs picking up speed till I’m nearly flying, hands reaching out for the deer’s flank. Fingers graze the fur and it’s no longer a deer but my mother’s blue dress. It’s my mother, my mother here in this place, the grain of her dress real on my fingers. She breaks into a smile.

“Find me if you can,” she says, and runs off.

Part of her hem catches on a tree branch but she tears free. I grab the scrap of fabric, tuck it into my bodice, and chase her through misty woods to an ancient ruin of a temple, its floor scattered with the petals of lilies. I’m afraid I’ve lost her, but she beckons to me from the path. Through the mist I chase her, till we’re in the musty halls of Spence, up and around the endless stairs, down the hallway on the third floor where five class pictures hang in a row. Follow her laugh up the final flight of stairs till I’m standing, alone, at the top, in front of the closed doors to the East Wing. The air is whispering a lullaby to me . . . Come to us, come to us, come to us. Push open the door with the palm of my hand. It’s no longer a scorched ruin. The room is alive with light, golden walls and gleaming floors. My mother is gone. Instead, I see the little girl huddled over her doll.

Her eyes are large and unblinking. “They promised me my dolly.”

I want to say Sorry, I don’t understand, but the walls melt away. We’re in a land of barren trees, snow, and ice, of harsh winter. Darkness moves on the horizon. A man’s face looms. I know him. Amar, Kartik’s brother. He’s cold and lost, running from something I can’t see. And then the dark speaks to me.

“So close . . .”

I come to with a snap and for a moment, with the sun glinting off the water in sharp peaks, I’m not sure where I am. I do know that my heart is hammering away in my chest. The dream seems more real than the water licking at my fingers. And my mother. She was close enough to hold me. Why did she run? Where was she taking me?

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of low, girlish laughter coming from behind the boathouse. I’m not alone. The laugh comes again and I recognize it as Felicity’s. Everything collides in me. Longing for my mother, who slips away from me even in dreams. The layers of mystery in Mary’s diary. The shiny-slick hatred I feel for Felicity and Pippa, and all those who flit through life without a care. They’ve picked the wrong day, the wrong girl for cruel pranks. I’ll show them cruel. I could snap their slender necks like twigs.

Careful. I’m a monster. Better run for safety. Fly away on your little deer hooves.

I’m out of the rowboat quiet as feathers falling on snow, creeping around the other side of the boathouse, sticking close to the cover of bushes. It’s not me who’s going to get a fright today. Not on your life. The giggling has softened into murmuring and something else. There’s a deeper voice. Male. The Torture Twins are not alone. All the better. I’ll surprise the lot of them, let them know I won’t be their willing fool ever again.

I take two steps closer and jump out in time to see Felicity locked in an embrace with a Gypsy. She sees me and lets out a bloodcurdling scream. I scream. She screams again. And now we’re both panting while the white-shirted Gypsy takes in the skittish sight of us, startled bemusement showing in his gold-flecked eyes and in the arch of his thick, dark eyebrows.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” Felicity gasps.

“I might ask you the same question,” I say, nodding toward her companion. To be found alone with a man is shocking—a reason for a quick and necessary wedding. But to be found with a Gypsy! If I were to tell, Felicity would be ruined for life. If I were to tell.