A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(95)

“Miss Moore?”

She buttons a glove at the wrist, stretches her fingers into it. “Miss Doyle, what brings you here? Aren’t you missing out on valuable socializing?”

“Miss Moore,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. “I’m so sorry.”

She gives a wan smile. “Yes, I believe you are.”

“I wish . . .” I stop, trying not to cry.

“I’d give you my handkerchief, but I believe you’re already in possession of it.”

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, remembering the one she loaned me after Pippa’s seizure. “Forgive me.”

“Only if you forgive yourself.”

I nod. There’s a knock at the door. Miss Moore doesn’t wait for Brigid. She opens the door wide, directs the driver to her trunk, and watches as he loads it onto the carriage.

“Miss Moore . . .”

“Hester.”

“Hester,” I say, feeling guilty for the luxury of her first name. “Where will you go?”

“I should like to travel for a bit, I think. Then I shall take a flat somewhere in London and offer my services as a tutor.”

The driver is ready. Miss Moore nods to him. When she turns to me, her voice is halting, but her grip on my hands is sure.

“Gemma . . . should you ever need anything . . .” She stops, searching for words, it seems. “What I mean to say is, you seem a breed apart from the other girls. I think perhaps your destiny does not lie in tea dances and proper place settings. Whatever path you should decide to follow in life, I do hope I shall continue to be a part of it, and that you shall feel free to call on me.”

A shiver travels up my arm. I am so very grateful for Miss Moore. I do not deserve her kindness.

“Will you do that?” she asks.

“Yes.” I hear myself agreeing.

Head held high, she releases my hands and sails through the door toward the carriage. Halfway there, she calls back. “You’ll have to find a way to make those still lifes interesting.”

With that, she steps into the carriage and raps twice. The horses whinny into action, trotting toward the gate, kicking up dirt as they go. I watch the carriage getting smaller in the distance till it turns a corner and folds quickly into the night and Miss Moore is gone.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


AT HALF-PAST TEN, MRS. NIGHTWING MAKES HER rounds to ensure that all her tender chickens are accounted for—lying safely in bed, far away from any wolves. When the downstairs clock gongs midnight, there’s a scratching at our door by Pippa and Felicity, letting us know that it’s safe to come out for one last evening together.

“How will we get out?” I ask. “She’s locked the doors.”

Felicity dangles a key. “It seems that Molly the upstairs maid owed me a favor after I caught her with the stable boy. Now, get dressed.”



The caves welcome us one last time. The nights have grown colder, and we huddle together for warmth over the last of our candles. When they realize that I won’t take them into the realms, they’re furious with me.

“But why won’t you take us?” Pippa cries.

“I’ve told you. I don’t feel well.”

I have no intention of going back through the shimmering door. Instead, I shall master French. Perfect my posture. Learn how to curtsy and draw clever pictures. I shall be what they want me to be—safe. And nothing bad will ever happen again. It’s possible to pretend I’m someone other than who I am, and if I pretend long enough, I can believe it. My mother did.

Pippa kneels at my feet and puts her head in my lap like a child. “Please, Gemma? Darling, darling Gemma. I’ll let you wear my lace gloves. I’ll let you keep them!”

“No!” My shout slaps at the cave’s walls.

Pippa plops onto the ground to sulk. “Fee, you talk to her. I’m doing no good.”

Felicity is surprisingly cool. “It would seem Gemma won’t be moved this evening.”

“Now what shall we do?” Pippa whines.

“There’s still some whiskey left. Here, have a little.” Felicity pulls the half-empty bottle from its hiding place inside a rocky crevice. “This will change your mind.” After two quick swallows, she dangles the bottle in front of me. I get up and move to another rock. “Are you still cross about Miss Moore?”

“Among other things.” I’m cross that we let her down so terribly. I’m cross that my mother is a liar and a murderer. That my father is an addict. That Kartik despises me. That everything I touch seems to go wrong.

“Fine,” Felicity says. “Go off and sulk, then. Who wants a drink?”

How can I tell them what I know? I don’t even want to know it. I wish I could make it all go away, just go back to that first day in the realms when everything seemed possible again. Felicity keeps passing the bottle, and soon, they’re all flushed and glassy-eyed, noses running a bit from the sudden warmth of the whiskey in their blood. Felicity twirls around the cave, reciting poetry.

“But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

For often thro’ the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot . . .”