A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(40)

Pippa takes the candle and says solemnly, “To find true love.”

“This is silly,” Ann says, trying to pass the candle to Felicity, who refuses it.

“Your heart’s desire, Ann,” she says.

Ann won’t look at any of us when she says, “To be beautiful.”

Felicity’s grip on the candle is strong, her voice determined. “I wish to be too powerful to ignore.”

Suddenly, the candle is in my hand, hot wax trickling over the sides and searing my skin before cooling into a waxy clump on my wrist. What is my heart’s desire? They want the truth, but the most truthful answer I can give is that I don’t know my own heart any better than I know theirs.

“To understand myself.”

This seems to satisfy, for Felicity intones, “O great goddesses on these walls, grant us our heart’s desires.” A breeze blows through the mouth of the cave, snuffing out the candle, making us all gasp.

“I think they heard us,” I whisper.

Pippa puts her hands to her mouth. “It’s a sign.”

Felicity passes the bottle one last time and we drink. “It seems the goddesses have answered us. To our new life. Drink up. The first meeting of the Order has come to a close. Let’s get back while our candles hold.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


I AM POSITIVELY DEAD DURING MADEMOISELLE LeFarge’s French class the next morning. The aftereffects of whiskey are the devil himself. There isn’t a moment when my head doesn’t pound, and breakfast—dry toast with marmalade—sits precariously on the sea of my stomach.

I will never, ever drink whiskey again. From now on, it’s strictly sherry.

Pippa looks as washed out as I do. Ann seems fine—though I suspect she pretended to drink more than she did, a lesson I might heed next time. Except for the half-moon shadows under her eyes, Felicity doesn’t seem any worse for the long evening.

Elizabeth takes in the rumpled sight of me and scowls. “Whatever is the matter with her?” she says, trying to cozy up to Felicity and Pippa again. I wonder if they’ll take the bait, if last night’s friendship will be forgotten and Ann and I will find ourselves on the outside looking in once more.

“I’m afraid we cannot divulge any of the secrets of our Order,” Felicity says, giving me a furtive glance.

Elizabeth sulks and whispers to Martha, who nods. Cecily is not giving up easily, though.

“Fee, don’t be cross,” she says, oozing sweetness. “I’ve gotten new writing papers from the stationer’s. Shall we write letters home tonight in your sitting area?”

“I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged,” Felicity answers, crisp as can be.

“So that’s how it is, then?” Cecily purses her thin lips. She would make the perfect vicar’s wife, with that deadly combination of self-righteousness mixed with an unforgiving streak. I’d enjoy her comeuppance a bit more if I weren’t feeling so completely wretched. A belch escapes me, much to everyone’s horror, but I feel much better.

Martha waves a hand in front of her nose. “You smell like a distillery.”

Cecily’s head is up at this. She and Felicity lock eyes—Felicity looking grim as a small, unfriendly smile pulls at the corners of Cecily’s lips. Mademoiselle LeFarge barges into the room, spouting French phrases that make my poor head spin. She assigns us fifteen sentences to translate into our books. Cecily folds her hands on her desk.

“Mademoiselle LeFarge—”

“En Fran?ais!”

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but I believe Miss Doyle isn’t feeling well.” She gives Felicity a victorious look as Mademoiselle calls me to her desk for closer scrutiny.

“You do seem a bit peaked, Miss Doyle.” She sniffs the air and speaks to me in a low, stern voice. “Miss Doyle, have you been drinking spirits?”

Behind me, the scratch of pen on paper slows to a crawl. I don’t know what’s more palpable—the whiskey leaking from my pores or the smell of panic in the room.

“No, Mademoiselle. Too much marmalade at breakfast,” I say with a half-smile. “It’s my weakness.”

She sniffs again, as if trying to convince herself that her nose has failed her. “Well, you may be seated.”

Shakily, I take my chair, looking up only briefly to see Felicity grinning from ear to ear. Cecily looks as if she could happily choke me in my sleep. Discreetly, Felicity passes me a note. I thought you were done for.

I scribble back, I did, too. I feel like the devil himself. How is your head? Pippa sees the surreptitious handing off of folded paper. She cranes her neck to see what’s being written and whether it could possibly be about her. Felicity shields the content of the note with the wall of her hand. Reluctantly, Pippa goes back to her lessons but not without first glaring at me with those violet eyes.

Swiftly, Felicity passes the note again just before Mademoiselle LeFarge looks up. “What’s going on back there?”

“Nothing,” Felicity and I say together, proving beyond a doubt that something is indeed going on.

“I shall not be repeating today’s lesson, so I sincerely hope that you are not taking frivolously the matter of writing it all down.”

“Oui, Mademoiselle,” Felicity says, all French charm and smiles.