A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(43)

“I want to marry my true love. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it.”

Pippa looks so small suddenly, sitting there among her strewn petals, that I’ve almost forgotten how angry I am. I’ve never been able to hold a grudge anyway.

Felicity tilts Pippa’s chin upward with a finger. “And you will. Now, let’s call this meeting to order. Pip, why don’t you administer the sacrament?”

She brings out the whiskey again. I groan inwardly. But when it comes my way, I take my poison and find it’s not so bad if you take small sips. This time, I drink only till I feel warm and light, not beyond.

“We must have a reading from the diary of our sister, Mary Dowd. Gemma, will you do the honors this evening?” With a bow Felicity hands the diary to me. I clear my throat and begin:

“March 21, 1871

“Today we stood among the Runes of the Oracle. Under Eugenia’s guidance, we touched our fingers to them for an instant, receiving the magic. The sensation was overpowering. It was as if we could feel each other’s very thoughts, as if we were one and the same.”

Felicity raises an eyebrow. “Sounds naughty. Mary and Sarah are probably Sapphists.”

“What on earth is a Sapphist?” Pippa is already bored. She’s twirling the ends of her black ringlets round her ungloved finger, trying to achieve a more perfect curl.

“Must I tell you everything?” Felicity scoffs.

I have no idea what a Sapphist is either, but I’m not about to ask now.

“From the Greek Sappho, a lady poet who enjoyed the love of other women.”

Pippa stops twirling. “Whatever is the matter with that?”

Felicity lowers her head and gives Pippa a baleful look. “Sapphists prefer the love of women to men.”

I understand fully now, as does Ann, I gather, by the way she nervously straightens her skirts with her hands, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Pippa squints at Felicity as if she might read the meaning in her forehead, but slowly, a blush creeps up her neck into her cheeks and she’s gasping. “Oh, my heavens, you can’t honestly mean that . . . that they . . . like husband and wife . . . ?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Pippa is stunned into silence. The red does not fade from her face and neck. I’m embarrassed too, but I don’t want them to know it. “May I please continue?”

“The Gypsies came back today to make camp. When we saw the smoke from their fire, Sarah and I hurried to see Mother Elena.”

“Mother Elena!” Ann gasps.

“That lunatic with the ragged head scarf?” Pippa wrinkles her nose in distaste.

“Shhh! Go on,” Felicity says.

“She welcomed us warmly with herb tea and tales of her travels. We gave sweets to Carolina, who devoured them. To Mother we gave five pence. And then she promised to read the cards for us, as she has before. But no sooner had Mother placed Sarah’s cards in the familiar cross pattern than she stopped and shuffled them into a pile again. ‘The cards have a bad temper today,’ she said with a little smile, but in truth she seemed taken by a sense of foreboding. She asked to see my palm, snaking her sharp fingernail along the pathways of my hand. ‘You are on a dark journey,’ she said, dropping my hand like a hot stone. ‘I cannot see the outcome.’ Then, most abruptly, she asked us to leave as she needed to make her way through the camp to be sure things were well settled.”

Ann is peering over my arm, trying to read ahead. I pull the book away and end up dropping it, scattering the pages.

“Bravo, my lady Grace!” Felicity applauds.

Ann helps me cluster the papers together in my arms. She can’t stand having anything out of order. A patch of wrist is exposed. I can see the red cross-hatching of welts there, fresh and angry. This is no accident. She’s doing it to herself. She sees me looking and pulls hard at her sleeves, covering her secret.

“Come now,” Felicity chides. “What more will the diary of Mary Dowd reveal to us tonight?”

I grab a page. “Here we go,” I say. It’s not the same page, but that hardly matters to them.

“April 1, 1871

“Sarah came to me in tears. ‘Mary, Mary, I cannot find the door. The power is leaving me.’

“‘You are overwrought, Sarah. That is all. Try again tomorrow.’

“‘No, no,’ she wailed. ‘I have tried for hours now. I tell you it is gone.’

“My heart was gripped with an icy cold. ‘Sarah, come. I’ll help you find it.’

“She turned on me with such fury that I scarcely recognized her as my friend. ‘Don’t you understand? I must do it myself or it’s not real. I cannot ride along on your powers, Mary.’ She began to cry then. ‘Oh, Mary, Mary, I cannot bear to think that I will never again touch the runes or feel their magic flowing through me. I cannot bear to think that I will be only ordinary Sarah from now on.’

“For the rest of the evening I could not rest or eat at all. Eugenia saw my misery and bade me sit with her in her own room. She says it is often that way—a girl’s power flares, then fades. The power must be nurtured deep in the soul, else it’s nothing more than grasping. Oh, diary, she confided that Sarah’s power is such, fleeting and unanchored. She says that the realms make the decision about who shall rise in the Order and learn all the ancient mysteries and who must stay behind. Eugenia patted my hand and confessed that the power is great in me, but I am lost to think of going forward without my dearest friend and sister.