A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(46)

Kartik says nothing. As quickly as he came upon us, he’s gone, running through the woods.

“Next time,” Felicity says, moving to help Pippa, “we will put his eyes out.”



The room is dark, but I know she’s awake. There’s none of her snoring.

“Ann, are you awake?” She doesn’t answer, but I’m not giving up. “I know you are, so you might as well respond.” Silence. “I won’t give up until you do.” Outside, an owl announces that he is near.

“Why do you do that to yourself? Cut yourself the way you do?”

There’s no answer for a good long minute, and I think that perhaps she has fallen asleep after all, but then it comes. Her voice, so soft I have to strain in the dark to hear it, to hear the faint cry she’s holding back.

“I don’t know. Sometimes, I feel nothing, and I’m so afraid. Afraid I’ll stop feeling anything at all. I’ll just slip away inside myself.” There’s a cough and a sniffling sound. “I just need to feel something.”

The owl makes his call in the night again, waiting to see if anyone is at home.

“No more doing that,” I say. “Promise me?”

More sniffles. “All right.”

It feels as if I should do something here. Put my arm around her. Offer a hug. I don’t know what to do that wouldn’t horrify and embarrass us both.

“If you don’t, I’ll be forced to confiscate your needlepoint, and where would you be without the satisfaction of finishing your little Dutch girl and windmill in seven different colors of thread, hmmm?”

She gives a weak gurgle of a laugh, and I’m relieved.

“Gemma?” she says after a moment has passed.

“Hmmm?”

“You won’t tell, will you?”

“No.”

More secrets. How did I end up keeping so many? Satisfied, Ann shifts in her bed and the familiar snoring begins. I stare at a patch of wall, willing sleep to come, listening to the owl cry into a night that never answers.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


“I KNOW YOU DON’T BELIEVE ANYTHING HAPPENED last night, but I think we should try to contact the other world again,” Felicity whispers to me. We’re standing in the middle of the cavernous ballroom waiting for Mrs. Nightwing to begin our dance instruction. Above us, four chandeliers drip crystals whose light cuts dazzling squares into the marble floors below.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I say, choking back my panic.

“Why not? Are your feelings hurt that you didn’t feel what the rest of us did?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snort, a sound that seems to accompany my lies, which is most unfortunate. I’m on the road to becoming a snorting fool these days.

“What, then?”

“I happen to find it dull. That’s all.”

“Dull?” Felicity’s mouth hangs open. “You call that dull? Dull is what we’re going to experience in a moment.”

Pippa is standing with Cecily and her crowd, desperately trying to get Felicity’s attention. “Fee, come stand over here with us. Mrs. Nightwing’s about to pair us off.”

Each time I start to like Pippa, she does something like this to make me despise her again. “It’s so nice to be loved,” I mutter under my breath.

Felicity looks over at the fashionable crowd and turns her back on them, rather obviously and deliberately. Pippa’s face falls. I can’t help gloating just a little bit.

“Ladies, may I have your attention, please?” Mrs. Nightwing’s voice booms across the room. “Today we are going to practice our waltzing. Remember: posture is paramount. You must pretend your spine is on a string pulled by God himself.”

“Makes it sound as if we’re God’s puppets,” Ann mumbles.

“We are, if you believe Reverend Waite and Mrs. Nightwing,” Felicity says with a wink.

“Is there something you wish to share with us all, Miss Worthington?”

“No, Mrs. Nightwing. Forgive me.”

Mrs. Nightwing takes a moment, letting us squirm under her scrutiny. “Miss Worthington, you shall partner with Miss Bradshaw. Miss Temple with Miss Poole, and Miss Cross, you will please partner with Miss Doyle.”

Of all the luck. Pippa lets out a petulant sigh and stands sullenly in front of me, throwing a glance to Felicity, who shrugs.

“Don’t look to me. It’s not my fault,” I say.

“You lead. I want to be the woman,” Pippa snaps.

“We shall take turns leading and being led. Everyone shall have a chance,” Mrs. Nightwing says wearily. “Now then, ladies. Arms held high. Do not let your elbows droop. Posture, always posture. Many a lady’s chances of securing a good marriage prospect have rested on her perfect carriage.”

“Especially if it’s a private carriage attached to a good deal of money,” Felicity jokes.

“Miss Worthington . . . ,” Mrs. Nightwing warns.

Felicity straightens like Cleopatra’s Needle. Satisfied, the headmistress cranks the arm of the Victrola and drops the needle onto a phonograph disc. The measured bars of a waltz fill the room.

“And one, two, three, one, two, three. Feel the music! Miss Doyle! Watch your feet! Small, ladylike steps. You are a gazelle, not an elephant. Ladies, hold yourselves erect! You’ll never find a husband looking down on the floor!”