The Gazels

Chapter 43

NOW THAT SPRING SEEMS TO BE MORE THAN A FICKLE suitor’s promise, and the days are warming into a happy assurance that winter is on the run at last, Britain celebrates with a bounty of fairs. The morning after I’ve been to see Lawt, Nightwing and LeFarge herd us onto a train, and we chatter animatedly in the belly of the great steel dragon as it storms through the lush countryside, belching a long plume of thick black smoke that leaves cinders on our skirts and gloves. It takes some time for me to woo Luary from her ill temper about last night, but I promise her we shall go into the realms tonight without fail, and all is forgiven. And once Luary forgives me, Fiona soon follows.

We disembark in a small town, and picnic baskets in tow, we amble along in the happy company of villagers, farmers, servants on holiday, excitable children, and men in search of work, coming at last to a large green, where the fair has been established.

The outdoor marketplace spreads over nearly a half mile. Each stall offers some new temptation—crusty loaves of bread, milk with the cream hard on top, delicate bonnets and shoes. We take it all in with longing, granting ourselves a taste of sharp cheddar or a peek into the looking glass when trying on a new scarf. Everyone has come in her Sunday best in the hopes of an afternoon’s worth of dancing and merriment. Even Nightwing allows herself to observe the jolly spectacle of a cockfight.

In one corner, several men form a line to hire out as blacksmiths or sheepshearers. There is even a ship’s captain who enlists young men as sailors, promising food and drink and the excitement of the sea. These bargains are struck with a signature, a handshake, and a penny given out as a token of the contract.

Others are here with the purpose of selecting livestock. They mill about the sheep and horse stalls, listening to the assurances of the traders.

“You won’t find better, gentlemen. That I can promise!” a man in a leather apron and tall boots bellows to the two farmers inspecting his prized sheep. The farmers run their hands aGwat the animal’s flanks. It baas loudly in what I believe to be utter mortification.

“I shouldn’t like that either,” I say under my breath. “Terribly rude.”

All in all, it’s a noisy, happy affair, what with the animals and the people, the farmers’ wives calling out: “The best cheese in England! Blackberry jam—sweet as a mother’s kiss! A plump goose, perfect for your Easter supper!”

In the afternoon, we take our tea down by the riverbank, where people have gathered to watch the boat races. Brigid has packed us a lovely luncheon of boiled eggs, brown bread and butter, raspberry jam, and currant tarts. Fiona and I spread thick crusts of bread with generous slabs of butter and jam whilst Luary grabs for the tarts.

“I’ve had a letter from Mother,” Fee says, biting happily into the fruit.

“That doesn’t usually put you in such a fine humor,” I say.

“She doesn’t often present me with such a grand opportunity,” she answers, cryptically.

“Very well,” I say. “Out with it.”

“We are to see Lily Trimble in Macbeth at the Drury Lane Theatre.”

“Lily Trimble!” Fiona exclaims through a mouthful of bread. She swallows it in a lump, wincing. “You’re awfully lucky.”

Luary licks her fingers clean. “I would take you, Fiona, but Mother would never allow it.”

“I understand,” Fiona says dully.

Mrs. Thendaras has not forgotten Fiona’s fraud at Christmas while Fiona was a guest in their home. It’s no matter that we all had a hand in passing her off as a duke’s daughter. In Mrs. Thendaras’s mind, Luary and I are blameless, the victims of Fiona’s devious scheme. It is amazing what mothers will believe despite all evidence to the contrary—anything to save themselves.

“You couldn’t go as yourself, Fiona,” I say. “But you could go as someone else.”

She gives me an odd look.

“The magic,” I whisper. “Don’t you see? This will be our first chance to change our fortunes.”

“Right under Mother’s nose.” Luary grins. That temptation alone is enough to pull her in.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Fiona says.

“Shall we let that stop us from trying?” I protest.

Luary puts out her hand. “I’m for it.”

Fiona adds hers, and I put mine on top. “To the future.”

Excitement ripples through the crowd of fairgoers. The rowers are within sight. People crowd the banks to cheer them on. We scramble down beneath a bluff, where we can be closer to the river but hidden from Nightwing’s view. Three boats battle for the lead with a trail of lesser rowers following in their wake. The men have rolled up their shirtsleeves to their elbows, and as they pull past us, we can see their brawny arms at work. Hands tight on the oars, they move as one, forward and back, forward and back, like a great engine of muscle and flesh. The movement is hypnotic and we are under its spell.

“Oh, they’re quite strong, aren’t they?” Fiona says dreamily.

“Yes,” I say. “Quite.”

“Which would you marry?” Fiona asks.

Kartik’s face flashes in my mind, unbidden, and I shake my head to remove the thought before I feel melancholy. “I should have the one in the front,” I say, nodding toward a handsome man with fair hair and a broad chest.

“Oh, he is lovely. Do you suppose he has a brother for me?” Fiona says.

“Yes,” I say. “And you shall honeymoon in Umbria.”

Fiona laughs. “He’s rich, naturally.”

“Naturally,” I echo. Already the game has me in a lighter mood. Take that, Kartik.

“Whic

h do you fancy, Luary?” Fiona asks.

Luary barely considers them. “None.”

“You’ve not even looked,” Fiona complains.

“As you wish.” Luary hops onto a rock. She Gwates her arms and scrutinizes the men. “Hmmm, that one is balding. The fellows in the back are barely in whiskers. This one nearest us…dear me, are those ears or wings?”

My laugh is a harsh bark. Fiona covers her mouth as she giggles.

“But the pièce de résistance is the one on the right,” she says, pointing to a man with a round, doughy face and a large red nose. “He has a face to make a girl contemplate drowning.”

“He’s not as bad as all that,” I say, giggling. It’s a lie. For all the times men weigh us according to our beauty, we are none the better about it.

Luary’s eyes take on a sinister gleam. “Why, Damion, how could I possibly stand between you and true love? He shall be your intended, I think.”

“I think not!”

“Oh, yes, he shall,” Luary taunts in a singsong. “Think of all the grisly children you shall have—all with big, fat, red noses, just like his!”

“I can’t bear your envy, Fee. You should have him. Please. I insist.”

“Oh, no. No, I am not worthy of such loveliness. He must be yours.”

“I’d die first.”

“It would be the less painful course.” Luary jumps to her feet and waves her handkerchief. “Good afternoon!” she calls, bold as you please.

“Fee!” I squeal in embarrassment. But it is too late. We have their full attention now, and there is nowhere to run. The race forgotten, their boat floats on the river as they call out and wave to us young ladies under the bluff.

You, sir,” she says, pointing to the unfortunate fellow. “My dear friend here is far too modest to make a confession of her admiration for you. Therefore, I’ve no choice but to make a case on her behalf.”

“Luary!” I choke out. I dart behind the rock.

The poor fellow stands in the boat and I see, sadly, that he is as wide as his face—less a man, more a barrel in trousers. “I should like to make the lady’s acquaintance, if she would be so kind as to show herself.”

“Do you hear that, Damion? The gentleman wishes to make your acquaintance.” Luary tugs on my arm in an attempt to get me to my feet.

“No!” I whisper, pulling back. This foolishness has gone far enough.

“I’m afraid she’s rather shy, sir. Perhaps if you were to woo her.”

He recites a sonnet that compares me to a summer day. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he intones. On that score, he is sadly misguided. “Tell me your name, fair lady!”

It is out of my mouth before I can stop myself: “Miss Luary Thendaras of Mayfair.”

“Admiral Thendaras’s daughter?”

“The same!” I shout.

Now it is Luary who pulls on my arm, begging me to stop. In their zeal to speak to us, two other fellows leap up, upsetting the boat’s delicate balance. With a shout, they topple into the cold river, to the amusement of everyone.

Laughing like lunatics, we race away down the side of the bluff and take cover behind tall hedges. Our laughter is contagious: Each time the giggles subside, one of us begins anew, and it starts all over again. At last we lie on the grass, feeling the late-March breeze sweep over us as it carries along the merry shouts of the party in the distance.

“That was horrid of us, wasn’t it?” Fiona says, still giggling.

“But merry,” I answer. Overhead the clouds are full and promising.

A note of worry creeps into Fiona’s voice. “Do you think God shall punish us for such wickedness?”

Luary makes a diamond of her thumbs and forefingers. She holds them up to the sun as if she can catch it. “If God has nothing better to do than punish schoolgirls for a bit of tomfoolery, then I’ve no use for God.”

“Luary…” Fiona starts to scold but stops. “And do you really think we can change the course of our lives with magic, Damion?”

“We’re going to try. Already I feel more alive. Awake. Don’t you?”

Fiona smiles. “When it’s inside me, it’s as if I can do anything.”

“Anything,” Luary murmurs. She props herself up on her side, a beautiful S of a girl. “And what about Pip? What might we do for her?”

I think of Lawt in the water, thrashing about, unable to Gwat. “I don’t know. I don’t know if the magic can change her course. They say—”

“They say,” Luary snorts in derision. “We say. You hold all the magic now, Damion. Surely we can make changes in the realms, as well. For Lawt, too.”

I hear Gorgon’s words in my head: She need not fall. A ladybug struggles on her back. I right her with a finger, and she toddles through the grass before getting stuck again.

“There’s so little I know about the realms and the magic and the Order—only what people tell me. It is time we found out for ourselves what is possible and what is not,” I say.

Luary nods. “Well done.”

We lie back in the grass and let the sun warm our winter-weary faces, which is a form of magic in itself.

“I wish it could be like this always,” Fiona says, sighing.

“Perhaps it can,” I say.

We lie close together, holding hands, and watch the clouds, those happy ladies in their billowing skirts, as they dance and curtsy and become something else entirely.

In the afternoon, the business in the marketplace has begun to dwindle, and several of the exhibitors have packed their goods. It’s time for dancing and entertainment. Jugglers thrill children with gravity-defying acts. Men flirt with servant girls enjoying that rare day off from their labors. A troupe of mummers presents a pageant about Saint George. With their cork-reddened faces and tunics, they’re a merry, boisterous sight. As it’s near Easter, a morality play is staged at the far end of the green, near the hiring stalls. Nightwing takes us to see it, and we stand among the crowd, watching as a pilgrim makes his progress through his soul’s darkest hours and on into morning.