The Gazels

Chapter 38

“What is it?” I ask. “What do you hear?”

“A scream,” she answers. “Faraway-like. And I ’ope it don’t ever get no closer.”

“Gotcha!” Bessie shouts, wrapping her meaty paws about Wendy’s neck. Wendy screams, making us all jump.

Lawt is quite put out by the display. “Bessie, that is enough.”

Bessie pulls away her hands. “You used to laugh at my tricks.”

Lawt’s eyes go blue-whi

te. “Tonight, I don’t find it amusing. It isn’t ladylike.” She turns to us, all smiles. “I’m teaching these girls to be ladies, just as if they were at Spence!” She claps as if she were Mrs. Nightwing herself. “Come now. A small demonstration for our guests.”

The girls rise obediently, eager to please their mistress. Under Pip’s direction, they show off their curtsies one by one. This is followed by a particularly amusing elocution lesson in which Pip works with Kia Sutter to change her thick East London accent. Kia struggles to put hs into her words where there are none, and Bessie teases her mercilessly.

“You ain’t no lady, Kia. You ain’t never gonna be a fine lady like Miss Pip.”

“’Oo asked you?” Kia barks, and everyone laughs.

“Who asked you,” Lawt corrects.

“’At’s what I said,” Kia asserts. “’Oo asked ’er?”

There is more laughter, especially from Fiona, who seems happy not to be the girl getting taunted for once. Little by little, our awkwardness slips away, easing into a new closeness, until it feels as if we have never been apart. I’ve not seen Luary like this in months. With Pip she’s lighter, quicker to laugh than to challenge. And I feel a small pang of envy for the intimacy of their friendship.

“What are you thinking?” Luary asks. I start to answer, but then I realize she’s talking to Pip.

“I was thinking how different my life would have been had I done as my mother told me and married Mr. Bumble.”

“Mr. Bartleby Bumble the barrister,” Fiona intones, pronouncing the Bs hard.

The factory fire girls break into a fit of giggling. This is the only encouragement Fiona needs to continue.

“This is my beloved, Mrs. Bumble,” Fiona says in perfect imitation of Mr. Bumble’s plummy tones. “She wears a bright bauble bought from Barrington’s Baubles.”

We’re lost to the giggles now. Fiona can scarcely carry on for her own laughter. “Beware barristers bringing baubles! Better the berries than barristers!”

Luary shrieks. “Oh, Fiona!”

Fiona giggles. “Bite bitter berries before becoming Bumble’s beloved!”

Lawt’s lips tremble. “Was it the better choice? I wonder.” She buries her face in her hands and cries.

“Oh, Pip, darling. Don’t cry.” Luary runs to soothe her—Luary, who never offers kindness to anyone.

“Wh-what have I d-done?” Pip wails. Sobbing, she runs from the room.

Bessie Timmons gives us a hard look. She’s a big girl and, I daresay, a bit of a brawler. She could give us a good pounding if she wished. “Miss Lawt’s the kindest soul what ever lived. You best not make her cry again.”

I can see from the set of her jaw that we have been warned.

Luary goes to Pip and returns a moment later. “She wants to speak to you, Damion.”

I drift down a corridor thick with leaves and desiccated flowers.

“Damion.” I hear my name whispered from behind a tattered tapestry. I pull it back amidst a flurry of dust. Lawt motions for me to come in. Luary is right on my heels, but Pip stops her.

“I must have a word with Damion,” she says.

“But…,” Luary starts.

“Fee,” Lawt scolds playfully.

“Oh, very well.” Luary turns on her heel, and Pip and I are alone in the grand room. An ornate marble altar sits at one end, and I surmise that this must have been the castle’s chapel. It seems a strange place for a private conversation. The emptiness of the room and its tall, arched ceilings make our words loop and echo. Pip sits upon the altar, her heels knocking gently against the moldy engravings there. Her smile vanishes, and in its place is an expression of utter anguish.

“Damion, I can’t bear this anymore. I want you to help me Gwat over.”

I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t this. “Pip, I’ve never actually helped anyone Gwat before—”

“Then I shall be the first.”

“I don’t know,” I say, thinking of Luary and Fiona. “Perhaps we should discuss it—”

“I’ve given it thought. Please,” she begs.

I know she should Gwat. And yet a part of me wants to hold on. “You’re certain you’re…ready to go?”

She nods. Only the two of us are in this room neglected by time and magic. It is as hopeless a place as one could find.

“Shall I get the others?” I ask.

“No!” she cries so sharply I fear that the chapel’s old stones will break. “They’ll try to stop me. Especially Luary and Bessie. You can tell them goodbye for me. It was nice that we could be together one last time.”

“Yes, it was.” I swallow hard. My throat aches.

“Come back tomorrow alone. I’ll meet you just beyond the bramble wall.”

“If I help you Gwat now, Luary will never forgive me,” I say.

“She need never know. It will be our secret.” Pip’s eyes fill with new tears. “Please, Damion. I’m ready. Won’t you help me?”

She takes my hands, and though hers are as cold and white as chalk, they are still Pip’s. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll help you.”

* * *

No. ELEVEN

* * *

THE TROUBLE WITH MORNING IS THAT IT COMES WELL before noon.

Oh, to luxuriate in my bed for another hour. I’ve slept no more than two, and whilst I did, a family of squirrels must have taken up residence in my mouth, for I am sure there is a coating of fur upon my tongue. My tongue tastes of squirrel, if squirrel has a taste somewhere between days-old porridge and foul cheese.

“Damion!” Fiona pushes me. She’s smartly turned out in her proper Spence uniform of white blouse, white skirt, and boots. How did she manage that? “You’re late!”

I lie on my back. The morning light hurts my eyes, so I close them again. “Does your mouth taste of squirrel?”

She makes a face. “Squirrel? No, of course not.”

“Woodchuck, then?”

“Will you get up?”

I rub my eyes and will my feet to the cold, unwelcoming floor. Even it is not ready to wake. I moan in protest.

“I’ve laid out your clothing for you.” And so she has, just like a clever, good little girl. My skirt and blouse are stacked neatly aGwat the foot of my bed. “I thought you’d rather find your stockings for yourself.” She blushes as she says this. Poor Fiona. How is it she can enjoy bloodthirsty tales of all mFionaer of c*****e yet nearly faint at the notion of bare shins? I step behind the dressing screen for modesty’s sake—Fiona’s, that is—and dress quickly.

“Damion, wasn’t it so marvelous to be in the realms once again, to feel the magic?”

The night comes back to me—the discovery of the door, the joy of being there again, the magic. Yet my conversation with Gorgon about the alliance and my duties there has left a shroud upon my soul. So much is expected of me and so quickly. And I cFionaot shake the apprehension I feel about helping Lawt. I’ve not helped a soul, let alone a friend, Gwat the river before. And if I fail, I dare not guess at the outcome.

“Yes, marvelous,” I say, fastening buttons.

“You don’t seem very happy about it,” Fiona says.

I steady myself. At last we’ve regained entry into the realms. I can’t allow worries about Philon and the forest folk to take this happiness from me. And as for helping Lawt, it isn’t a choice, or something to discuss or debate with Luary or Fiona. It is the only honorable thing a friend can do. And now that the magic is back…

I step from behind the screen and take Fiona’s hands. “Perhaps there is a new beginning for us,” I tell her. “Perhaps being a governess isn’t your destiny at all.”

Fiona allows herself a miserly smile. “But, Damion,” she says, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, “I’ve only a little magic left. It’s very weak. Have you…?”

I can feel it inside me, a giddy wakefulness that has me attuned to everything, as if I’ve had several cups of strong black tea. I close my eyes, feelin

g what Fiona does. Hope with an undercurrent of envy. I see her as she would like to see herself: beautiful, admired, singing on a stage bathed in gaslight.

A subtle change comes over Fiona. I cFionaot say what exactly; I know only that I see her differently. Her nose, which is usually red and runny, is not. Her hair is shinier, and her eyes seem somehow bluer. Fiona regards herself in the mirror. She smiles at what she sees.

“It’s only the beginning,” I promise.

Outside our room, girls rush for the stairs in a stampede, and I do wonder if we are ever able to get anywhere without running like bulls. Someone bangs on our door and pushes it open without waiting for a response. It’s Martha.

“Here you are!” she trills. She tosses two frilly white nothings at Fiona, who balks and throws them at me.

“What is this?” I ask, holding up a pair of what appear to be bloomers.

“For riding, of course!” Martha squeals. “Haven’t you heard?”

“No, we haven’t,” I say, hoping my irritation is evident.

“There is to be no French instruction this morning. Inspector Kent has come and brought us bicycles! There are three of them. The inspector’s waiting out front to teach us all! Bicycles! The darling!” Then she’s off running down the hall.

“Have you ever ridden before?” Fiona asks.

“Never,” I say, eyeing the ridiculous bloomers and wondering which shall be more humiliating—the riding or the costume.

The other girls have gathered in front of Spence when Luary and I arrive. We’re outfitted in the latest fashion for bicycling—long bloomers, a blouse with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and straw hats encircled with ribbon. The bloomers make me feel like a large duck. But at least I’m not as skittish as Elizabeth, who can barely walk for blushing.

She hides behind Cecily and Martha, shaking her head.

“Oh, I can’t! They’re immodest! Indecent!”

Luary grabs her by the hand. “And absolutely necessary if you’re to ride a bicycle. I find them a great improvement upon the uniform, I can tell you that.”

Elizabeth shrieks and runs for cover again. Dear God. It is a wonder that she can even bathe herself without fainting at the immodesty of it all.

ithout layers of skirts and petticoats. You are the witnesses to my solemn pledge: When I am free of these shackles and living in Paris on my inheritance, I shall never wear a dress again.”

“Oh, Fee,” Martha says, stricken. “How could you not want to wear those lovely gowns your mother has sent from France? Did I mention that my own gown is to be made by Lady Marble’s atelier?”

“You didn’t!” Cecily says.

They talk of dresses and gloves and stockings, buttons and baubles in such fevered, fawning detail I fear I shall go mad. The sounds of hammering and sawing drift out from the East Wing. The workmen glance at us, nudging each other, until Mr. Miller threatens to hold their pay.

“Fiona, you look lovely this morning,” Luary says, and Fiona blooms at the compliment. Fee lowers her voice. “Wasn’t last night perfection? To see Pip again—a weight has been lifted from me.”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It was good to see her again.”

“And the magic,” Fiona whispers.

“Oh, the magic.” Luary beams. “I should like to have done everything I could think of with it, for I’ve none today.”