A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(53)

After bringing Brigid more tea and promising to go straight to bed, we detour into the great hall. The other girls have all trundled off to bed. Two maids tend quietly to their duties in the large room, turning down the lamps till the white of their aprons is all we can see of them, and then they, too, are gone. The fires are fading to a glow. They flicker and smoke, casting shadows that seem to make the marble columns come alive.

“We’ve been reading the diary of a dead girl.” Felicity shudders. “There’s something terribly creepy about that.”

“Do you suppose,” Ann says, “that any of what Mary wrote could be true? The supernatural part?”

With a loud crack, the fireplace gives off a sudden spark, making us jump.

“We need to see Mother Elena,” Felicity announces.

No. Absolutely not. Let’s draw the curtains and stay in, warm and safe, away from the uncertain woods.

“Do you mean go to the Gypsy camp? Tonight? By ourselves?” Ann says. I can’t tell whether she’s panicked or thrilled by this prospect.

“Yes, tonight. You know how the Gypsies are—they never stay for long. By tomorrow, they could be gone for the winter. It has to be tonight.”

“What about . . .” I almost say Ithal’s name, but stop myself. Felicity’s eyes are a warning.

“What about what?” Ann asks, puzzled.

“The men,” I say, speaking deliberately to Felicity. “There are men in the camp. How will we make certain we’re safe?”

“The men,” Ann repeats solemnly. Men. How one small word could have so much current running through it . . .

Felicity matches my tone, sending me her coded message. “I’m sure we can handle the men. You know how those Gypsies make up all sorts of lies. We’ll just laugh along with them.”

“I don’t think we should go,” Ann says. “Not without an escort.”

“Oh, I agree,” Felicity mocks. “Why don’t you go in right now and ask Brigid to accompany us on a midnight run to the Gypsies? I’m sure she’d be most obliging.”

“I’m quite serious.”

“Stay here, then!” Ann immediately bites at a ragged fingernail and Felicity puts an arm around her. “Look, there are three of us. We shall be each other’s chaperones. And protectors if need be. Though I suspect any fears of being ravished are just wishful thinking on both your parts.”

“Ann, I believe we’ve been insulted,” I say, putting my arm around her too. There’s an excitement in the air I can almost taste, a sense of purpose I’ve never felt before. And I want more of it. “Are you saying we’re not ravish-worthy?”

Felicity grins so widely, her whole face comes to life. “Let’s find out.”





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


WE MUST WALK HALF A LEAGUE OVER BRAMBLES THAT scratch and cut our legs to get to the Gypsy camp. The nights are turning colder now. The damp air is raw. It hurts my lungs on the way in and it comes out of my mouth in short white puffs of mist. By the time we reach the edge of the camp, take in the tents and the campfire, the large, wooden wagons and the men playing boxy violins, my side aches from the effort. There are three large dogs sitting on the ground. How we’ll get past them, I don’t know.

“Now what?” Ann whispers between gulps for air.

The women are off in their own tents. A few children mill about. Five young men sit drinking around the fire, trading stories in a tongue we can’t understand. One of the men tells a joke. His friends clap and laugh. The sound, low and guttural, creeps into my insides in a way that makes me feel like running for safety—or running till I’m caught. To face what, I’m uncertain. My mind doesn’t reach that far. It’s all enough to set my heart to hammering.

One of the men is Ithal. In the firelight, his strange gold eyes dance. I catch Felicity’s eye, nod in his direction to show he’s there.

Ann catches on, looks around, scared. “What is it?”

“A change of plans. We’ll have to come back tomorrow, during the day.”

Ann objects. “But you said . . .”

I turn to leave but my foot breaks a twig with a loud crack. The dogs bark wildly. Ithal is up with his dagger, alert as any feral thing is. Using their native tongue, he shushes his friends. Now they, too, are coiled, ready to strike.

“Bravo,” Felicity snaps.

“Don’t blame me. Take it up with the forest,” I say through gritted teeth.

Ithal holds up a finger to his comrades. He calls out in English. “Who’s there?”

“We’re done for,” Ann whispers, petrified.

“Not quite,” Felicity says. She stands up straight and steps out from behind the tree while we try to pull her back down.

“What are you doing?” Ann says in a loud, panicked whisper.

Felicity ignores us. She walks out toward them, an apparition in white and blue velvet, her head held high as they stare in awe at her, the goddess. I don’t yet know what power feels like. But this is surely what it looks like, and I think I’m beginning to understand why those ancient women had to hide in caves. Why our parents and teachers and suitors want us to behave properly and predictably. It’s not that they want to protect us; it’s that they fear us.