The Gazels

Chapter 71

ann pipes up. “brigid said that jesus himself may have walked these hills with his cousin, joseph of arimathea, and that the gnostics were also drawn to this place.”

“what are gnostics?” elizabeth titters.

“a mystical sect of early christians, more pagan than christian, really,” miss mccleethy answers. “i’ve heard that story, too, miss bradshaw. many britons believe that camelot itself may have been erected in this region, and that merlin chose the spot because the land held such enchantment within it.”

“how could the land be enchanted?” felicity asks. her mouth is far too full, and mccleethy gives her a hard look.

“miss worthington, we are not savages, if you please,” she chides, handing felicity a napkin. “many of the ancients did believe that there were sites that held extraordinary power. that is why they worshipped there.”

“does that mean that if i stand in the center of stonehenge, i could become as powerful as king arthur?” cecily asks with a laugh.

“no, i rather think it was not meant to be given to everyone indiscriminately but governed carefully by those who know best,” she says, pointedly. “for when we read about magic in fairy stories or tales of myth, we read time and again that it is subject to strict laws, else chaos follows. look out there. what do you see?” miss mccleethy waves her hand toward the green horizon.

“hills,” ann offers. “roads.”

“flowers and shrubs,” cecily adds. she

looks to miss mccleethy as if there might be a prize for the right answer.

“what we can see is proof. proof that man can conquer nature, that chaos can be turned back. you see evidence of the importance of order, of law. for conquer chaos we must. and if we see it in ourselves, we must root it out and replace it with steadfast discipline.”

can we really conquer chaos so easily? if that were so, i should be able to prune the pandemonium of my own soul into something neat and tidy rather than this maze of wants and needs and misgivings that has me forever feeling as if i cannot fit into the landscape of things.

“but aren’t many gardens beautiful because they are imperfect?” i say, glancing at mccleethy. “aren’t the strange, new flowers that arise by mistake or misadventure as pleasing as the well-tended and planned?”

elizabeth purses her lips. “are we speaking of art?”

miss mccleethy smiles broadly. “ah, a perfect segue to the topic at hand. look at the art of the masters and you will see that their work has been created according to strict rules: here we have line and light and a color scheme.” she holds my gaze as if she has me in checkmate. “art cannot be created without order.”

“what of the impressionists in paris, then? it is not ordered so much as felt with the brush, it seems,” felicity says, eating cake with her fingers.

“there are always rebels and radicals, i suppose,” mccleethy allows. “those who live on the fringes of society. but what do they contribute to the society itself? they reap its rewards without experiencing its costs. no. i submit that the loyal, hardworking citizens who push aside their own selfish desires for the good of the whole are the backbone of the world. what if we all decided to run off and live freely without thought or care for society’s rules? our civilization would crumble. there is a joy in duty and a security in knowing one’s place. this is the english way. it is the only way.”

“quite so, miss mccleethy,” cecily says. but really, what would i expect from her?

i know that is to be the end of the discussion, but i can’t let it go. “but without the rebels and radicals, there would be no change, no one to push back. there would be no progress.”

Miss McCleethy shakes her head thoughtfully. “True progress can only happen when there is safety first.”

“What if safety…is only an illusion?” I say, thinking aloud. “What if there is no such thing?”

“Then we fall.” Miss McCleethy squeezes what’s left of her cake, and it falls to bits. “Chaos.”

I take a small bite of my cake. “What if that is only the beginning of something new? What if, once we let go, we are freed?”

“Would you take that chance, Miss Carmen?” Miss McCleethy holds my gaze till I’m forced to look away.

“What are we talking about?” Elizabeth clucks.

“Miss McCleethy, the ground is so hard. Couldn’t we return to Raftel now?” Martha complains.

“Yes, very well. Miss Worthington, I leave you in charge. Girls, follow her lead.” Miss McCleethy places the crumbles of cake into a napkin and ties it up neatly. “Order. That is the key. Miss Carmen, I’ll need your help to gather our things.”

Felicity and I exchange glances. She draws her finger across her throat like a blade, and I make a note to tell her later how very witty I find her. Miss McCleethy takes a bouquet of wildflowers and bids me follow her farther into the graveyard. It is a steep climb to the very top of the hill. The wind blows hard here. It pulls tendrils of her hair free so that they whip wildly about her face, lessening its severity. From here I can see the girls tripping through the trees in a merry line, Ann bringing up the rear. In the distance, Raftel rises from the land as if it were a part of it, as if it has always existed, like the trees or the hedgerows or the distant Thames.

Miss McCleethy lays the flowers at the base of a simple headstone. Eugenia Raftel, Beloved Sister. May 6, 1812–June 21, 1871.

“I did not know there was a gravestone for Mrs. Raftel.”

“It is how she would have wanted to be remembered—simply, without ceremony.”

“What was she like?” I ask.

“Eugenia? She had a quick mind and a skilled grasp of the magic. In her time, she was the most powerful of the Order. Kind but firm. She believed that the rules must be followed without exception, for to deviate in any way was to court disaster. This school was her life’s work. I learned a great deal from her. She was my mentor. I loved her dearly.”

She wipes her hands free of dirt and pulls on her gloves.

“I am sorry for your loss,” I say. “I’m sorry that my mother…”

Miss McCleethy buttons her cape with quick fingers. “Chaos killed her, Miss Carmen. Two girls stepping outside the rules took our beloved teacher away. Remember that.”

I swallow my shame, but my red cheeks do not go unnoticed.

“I am sorry,” she says. “That was too hard of me. I confess that when I discovered it was Mary’s daughter who was the key to the realms, I was disappointed. That the one whose misadventure led to Eugenia’s death could have birthed our salvation…” She shakes her head. “It seemed fate had played a cruel joke.”

“I am not so bad as all that,” I protest.

“It is one thing to prepare for greatness. It is another entirely to have it thrust upon you. I feared your mother’s blood would lead you to make perilous choices…” She looks toward Raftel, where the men hammer away, fleshing out the ruined East Wing. “And you’ve still not been able to enter the realms or recover the Temple’s magic?”

“I’m afraid not.” I study Eugenia Raftel’s headstone, hoping Miss McCleethy doesn’t notice the lie bringing a blush to my cheek.

“I wonder why I have such trouble believing that,” she says.

“And is there no other way of entering the realms?” I ask, changing the subject.

“None that I know of,” Miss McCleethy says. She passes a hand over my hair, securing one of my wayward curls behind my ear. “We shall have to be patient. I’m sure your powers will return.”

“Unless the realms haven’t chosen me to continue,” I remind her.

She smirks. “I rather doubt that, Miss Carmen. Come, let’s gather our things.”

She leads the way back to our picnic spot, and I follow.

I free the curl she’s tucked so neatly; it hangs wild and loose. “Miss McCleethy, if the magic were to spark inside me…and if I were able to enter the realms again…would the Order join with the tribes of the realms in an alliance?”

Her eyes flash. “Do you mean join with those who have been committed to our destruction for centuries?”

“But if things have changed—”

“No, Miss Carmen. Some things will never change. We have been persecuted for our beliefs and our power both in the realms and out. We will not cede it so easily. Our mission is to bind the magic to the Temple, to rebuild the runes, and return the realms to the way they were before this terrible tragedy destroyed our security.”

“Were they ever truly secure? Doesn’t seem it.”

“Of course they were. And they might be again if we go back to the way it was.”

“But we can’t go back. We can only go forward,” I say, surprised to hear Miss Moore’s words coming out of my mouth.

Miss McCleethy lets out a rueful laugh. “How could it have come to this? Your mother nearly destroyed us, and now you’ve come along to nail the coffin shut. Help me with this basket, please.”

When I hand her the lemonade glass, we collide, and the glass fractures into pieces too small to put back together.

“I’m sorry,” I say, gathering them into a pile.

“You make a mess of the simplest things, Miss Carmen. Leave me. I’ll see to it myself.”

I stomp away, weaving dangerously through the aged tombstones bearing inscriptions to those who are beloved only once they are gone.

A mutiny is in progress at the East Wing when I return. Felicity runs to me and pulls me into the cluster of girls watching it unfold from the safety of the trees. The men have abandoned the building. They stand together, hats on, arms folded across their chests, while Mr. Homk barks orders, his face red.

“I’m the foreman here, and I say we’ve a job to finish or there’s no pay for the lot of you! Now, back to work!”

The men shuffle their feet. They fidget with their hats. One spits in the grass. A tall man with the build of a boxer steps forward. He glances anxiously at his mates.

“Don’t feel right, sir.”

Mr. Homk cups his hand to his ear and frowns. “What’s that?”

“Me and the men been talkin’. Sumfin’ don’t feel right ’bout this place.”

“What don’t feel right is not having pay in your pocket!” Mr. Homk shouts.

“Where’s Tambley gone to, then? And Johnny goin’ off last night, not comin’ back this mornin’?” another man shouts. He seems more frightened than angry. “They joos up and gone wifout a word and you don’ fink what there’s a bit o’the strange about it?”

“It’s talk like this what probably scared ’em off. And good riddance to them. Cowards. If you ask me, we need to clear the woods of them filthy Gyps. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a hand in this. Comin’ into our country and takin’ a proper Englishman’s job? Will you let them put their curses on us without a fight?”

“Your men drink. That is their curse.” Ithal swaggers down the hill trailing a dozen Gypsies in his wake, as well as Kartik. My heart beats a little faster. The Gypsies are far outnumbered by Homk’s men.

Homk staggers up the hill at a run. He takes a swing at Ithal, who dodges and weaves like an expert boxer. The two men fall into fighting with both sides egging them on. Ithal catches Mr. Homk hard on the jaw. He reels from it. Kartik keeps his hand near the dagger in his boot.

“Here now! Stop this fuss!” Brigid yells.

The whole of the school empties to see the men fighting. New blows are thrown. Everyone has a hand in it now.

“How is it none of yer lot is missing?” one of Mr. Homk’s men shouts.

“That is not proof,” Ithal says, dodging a fist.

“P

roof enuf for me!” another man growls. He jumps onto Ithal’s back, tearing at his shirt like an animal. Kartik pulls him off. The man grabs for him, and quick as a flash, Kartik’s leg swings under the man, robbing him of his balance. The lawn erupts into chaos.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Felicity says, eyes flashing.

Mrs. Nightwing has come. She strides across the lawn like Queen Victoria reprimanding her guard. “This will not do, Mr. Homk! This will not do at all!”

Mother Grima stumbles into the clearing. She calls to the men to stop. She’s weak and leans against a tree for support. “It is this place! It took my Carolina! Call for Eugenia—ask her to stop this.”

“Mad as a hatter,” someone mutters.