A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(92)

She puts a hand to her mouth, paces. “Then the realms have been left unguarded. Circe’s creature could already have been here and corrupted one of us. Gemma, how could you?”

“I might ask you the same,” I say, walking away.

“Where are you going?” she asks me.

“Back,” I say.

“Gemma. Gemma!”

I pass out of the garden. The huntress surprises me. I hadn’t even heard her coming up behind me, her bow and arrow at the ready.

“The deer is close. Will you hunt with me?”

“Another time,” I mumble through lips still thick with crying.

She bends to pick some berries, pops one in her mouth. She dangles them before me like a pendulum. “Care for a berry?”

She knows I can’t eat the fruit. So why is she offering it to me?

“No, thank you,” I say, walking on a bit more quickly.

As if I haven’t moved, she is in front of me, the berries in her outstretched hand. “Are you certain? They are delicious.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something isn’t right.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go now,” I say, but I can hear the thin scraping of a voice behind me as I’m hurrying through the green velvet of the grass by the river.

“At last . . . at last . . .”



Ann stands over my bed in the dark. “Gemma? Are you awake?”

I keep my eyes closed and hope she can’t tell that I’m still crying.

Felicity and Pippa shake me till I’m forced to turn over and face them.

“Let’s go,” Felicity whispers. “The caves await, fair lady.”

“I don’t feel well.” I roll over and study the tiny cracks in the wall again.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” Pippa says, nudging me with her boot.

I say nothing, just focus on my spot on the wall.

“Whatever’s the matter with her?” Pippa sniffs.

“I told you not to eat the liver,” Ann says.

“Well,” Felicity sighs after a while, “I hope you recover. But don’t expect to get off quite so easily tomorrow night.”

I have no intention of stepping through into the realms. Not tomorrow. Not ever. The door of my room closes, taking the last of the light with it, and the cracks all fade into nothing.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


MR. BUMBLE IS NOT QUITE THE EASY MARK WE’VE MADE him out to be. He’s gone to the Crosses, told them everything. The Crosses are horrified that they’ve lost control over the one thing that should always be in their control—their daughter. Their collateral. They’ve assured Mr. Bumble that it’s all some youthful folly invented by a girl nervous about her wedding day. After all, how could a girl as lovely as Pippa be anything other than the very picture of health? Mr. Bumble accepts their explanation in full, for they are the parents and we are merely silly girls. The whole episode has caused a scene at Spence, however. And so the four of us are assembled in Mrs. Nightwing’s office, under the reproachful eyes of the peacock-tail wallpaper, listening to accusations and blame, watching helplessly as our freedom unravels thread by thread.

Tomorrow, Pippa will leave with her parents, and she will be married to Mr. Bumble by the week’s end. Hasty preparations have begun. Order will be restored. Pride upheld. Who cares about one girl’s lifelong happiness in the face of such important matters as maintaining appearances?

She stares into her lap, biting hard at her bottom lip, completely beaten, while Mrs. Nightwing works to soothe her parents and fiancé. Mrs. Nightwing rings a bell on a long rope—the one that leads to the kitchen—and moments later, Brigid appears, huffing and puffing from the race up the stairs.

“Brigid, please show Mr. Cross and Mr. Bumble to the library and offer them a glass of our best port.”

This pleases the men. They’re all smug smiles and puffed chests.

“I do hope you’ll accept this with a full apology and my assurance that there’ll be no further unpleasantness.” Mrs. Nightwing gives Mr. Bumble a sideways glance.

Mr. Cross waves the idea away. “No great harm done, fortunately.”

Mr. Bumble crinkles his mustache as if choosing a cigar. “I’m a reasonable man. But you should keep a much tighter rein on these girls. They shouldn’t be left to their own decisions. It’s not healthy.”

I close my eyes and imagine Mr. Bumble careening headfirst down the long staircase and snapping his neck before he can sip that port. The great irony is that we told him the truth. And now we’ll be punished for it.

“You’re quite right. I shall follow your advice to the letter, Mr. Bumble,” Mrs. Nightwing says in a rare capitulation. She’s appeasing him, but he’s far too pompous to realize that.

The men leave with Brigid. Mrs. Cross stands and adjusts her gloves, pulling them tighter on her hands, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Come along, Pippa. We must have you measured for your wedding dress. I think a duchesse satin will be nice.”

Pippa’s quivering lip gives way to a quiet, desperate wail. “Please, Mother! Please don’t make me marry him.”

Mrs. Cross’s mouth tightens into an ugly, flat line that lets the words escape in a hiss. “You are shaming this family.”