A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(39)

“Ann, don’t tell me you don’t know what men and women do when they’re together. Shall I show you?” Felicity slithers off the rock and drags herself along the ground with her hands, leaning close to Ann, who recoils, her back against the cave wall.

“No, thank you,” she whispers.

Felicity holds her gaze for a moment, then licks Ann’s cheek in one long stroke. Horrified, Ann wipes at herself. Felicity only laughs and falls back against a low rock, stretching her arms over her head. Her full breasts strain at the bodice of her gown. She stares at a point beyond our heads. “I’m going to have many men.” She says this matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather, but she has to know she’s being scandalous.

Pippa doesn’t know whether to gasp or giggle so she does both. “Felicity, that’s shocking!”

Felicity smells blood. She’s on the scent of our discomfort and won’t let go. “I am. Hordes of men! Members of Parliament and stable boys. Moors and Irishmen. Disgraced dukes! Kings!”

Pippa has her hands over her ears. “No!” she screams. “Don’t tell me any more!” But she’s laughing, too. She loves Felicity’s brazenness.

Felicity is up, dancing, throwing herself around like a whirling dervish. “I’m going to have presidents and captains of industry! Actors and Gypsies! Poets and artists and men who will die just to touch the hem of my dress!”

“You forgot princes!” Ann shouts, giving a small, guilty smile.

“Princes!” Felicity shouts with glee. She takes Ann’s hands, dances her around in circles, Felicity’s blond hair whipping at the air.

Pippa is up, joining the circle. “And troubadours!”

“And troubadours who sing about the sapphires of my eyes!”

I’m joining them, caught up in the swirl of it all. “Don’t forget jugglers and acrobats and admirals!”

Felicity stops. Her voice is cold. “No. No admirals.”

“I’m sorry, Felicity. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say, straightening my dress while Pippa and Ann stare awkwardly at their feet. The silence is raw electricity between us all—one touch, one wrong word and we’ll burn up. The bottle is in Felicity’s hand. She takes a long, hard draw on it, doubles over from the force of the whiskey and rakes the back of her pale hand across her lips, dark with drink.

“Let’s have a ritual, shall we?”

“Wh-wh-what sort of r-r-ritual?” Ann doesn’t realize that she’s taken a few steps away from us, toward the yawning mouth of the cave.

“I know—we could make up an oath!” Pippa is rather pleased with herself.

“It needs to be more binding than that,” Felicity says, her eyes faraway. “Promises can be forgotten. Let’s do a blood ritual. We need something sharp.” Her eyes fall even with my amulet, which is hanging free. “That would do nicely, I think.”

Instinctively, my hand goes to it. “What are you going to do?”

Felicity exhales, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I’m going to eviscerate you and leave your organs on a pike in the yard as a warning to those who wear large jewelry.”

“It was my mother’s,” I say. Everyone is looking at me, waiting. Finally, I bow to the silent pressure and hand over the necklace.

“Merci.” Felicity curtsies. With one quick motion she brings down the edge of the moon and slices into the pad of her finger. Blood bubbles up instantly.

“Here,” she says, streaking her blood across both of my cheeks. “We’ll mark one another. Form a pact.”

She passes the necklace to Pippa, who makes a face. “I can’t believe you want me to do this. It’s so animalistic. I hate the sight of blood.”

“Fine. I’ll do it for you, then. Shut your eyes.” Felicity breaks Pippa’s skin and Pippa screams as if she’s been mortally wounded. “Good heavens, you’re still breathing, aren’t you? Don’t be such a ninny.” Using Pippa’s fingers, she streaks the blood over Ann’s ruddy cheeks. In return, Ann wipes her bloody fingers on Pippa’s porcelain skin.

“Please hurry. I’m going to be sick. I can feel it,” Pippa whimpers.

Finally, it’s my turn. The sharp point of the moon hovers over my finger. I’m remembering a snippet of a dream—a storm, I think, and my mother screaming, my hand gaping open, wounded.

“Go on, then,” Felicity urges. “Don’t tell me I’ll have to do you, too.”

“No,” I say, and plunge the point into my finger. Pain shoots up my arm, forcing a hiss from my lips. The small crack bleeds quickly. My finger stings as I drag it softly over Felicity’s china-white cheekbones.

“There,” she says, looking around at us, newly christened in the candlelight. “Put your hands out.” She sticks out her hand and we lay our palms over hers. “We swear loyalty to each other, to keep secret the rites of our Order, to taste freedom and let no one betray us. No one.” She looks at me when she says this. “This is our sanctuary. And as long as we’re here, we will speak only truth. Swear it.”

“We swear.”

Felicity moves a candle into the center. “Let each girl tell her heart’s desire over this candle and make it so.”