"Cecily," I intone, placing my hand on her rigid arm. "You will not say another word against Ann. You will believe everything we say, and what's more, you will treat Ann as if she were the Queen herself.
"Ann," I say, smoothing her hair away from her worried face. "You've no reason to fret. You deserve to be here. You are loved."
The man having the affair with his wife's sister stands near. I cannot resist. I slap him hard across the cheek. It is oddly satisfying. "You, sir, are a scoundrel. You will reform yourself immediately and devote yourself to the happiness of your wife."
Simon. How strange to see him standing at attention, those blue eyes open but not seeing. Very gently, I remove my glove and stroke the side of his jaw. The skin there is smooth, freshly shaven. My hand smells of his barber's balm. It will be my secret.
I pull on my glove and close my eyes, willing it all to be so. "Begin again," I say. The world swings into action as if there's been no pause. The husband feels the sting of my slap. Simon puts his fingers to his jaw as if remembering a dream. Cecily's smug expression hasn't changed, and I hold my breath, hoping the magic has found its purpose as she opens her mouth. Miss Bradshaw is the most. . .
". . . charitable, dear girl in the whole of Spence," Cecily announces. "In fact, it is her modesty that prevented her from telling us about her royal blood. She is as good a girl as one could ever hope to meet."
I don't know who looks more thunderstruck--Ann or Felicity.
"Miss Bradshaw, I do hope I may have the pleasure of calling on you while you are in London," Cecily says with a newfound earnestness.
Tom pipes up. "Miss Bradshaw, you must do me the honor of attending the Christmas dance at Bethlem Hospital."
Has the spell extended to everyone? But no, I come to realize. The mere suggestion of fame and fortune casts a glamour all its own. It is rather alarming how quickly people will turn someone else's fiction into fact in order to support their own fictions of themselves. But seeing Ann's delighted face, knowing what's in her heart, I cannot help being glad for the illusion.
"I would be delighted," Ann says to one and all. She could have used the opportunity to gloat. I would have. But instead, she has proved herself worthy of royal blood.
"We should send the carriage round for Miss Doyle," Lady Denby says.
I stop her. "Please don't. I should like to stay for the rest of the opera."
"I thought you were ill," Grandmama says.
"I'm fine now." And I am. Using the magic has calmed me somewhat. I can still hear some people's thoughts, but they are not as urgent.
Felicity whispers,"What happened?"
"I shall tell you later. It is a very good story." By the time I climb into bed, the magic is nearly gone. I'm exhausted and shaky. My forehead is warm when I place my hand there. I can't be sure whether it's the magic doing this or I'm actually falling ill. I only know that I desperately need sleep.
When they come, my dreams are not restful. They're wild kaleidoscopes of madness. Felicity, Ann, and I running through tunnels lit by torches, running for our lives, the terror clear on our faces. The Caves of Sighs. The amulet twirling. Nell Hawkins's face looms before me:"Do not follow the Eastern Star, Lady Hope. They mean to kill you. That is his task."
"Who?" I murmur, but she's gone, and I'm dreaming of Pippa outlined against the red sky. Her eyes are wrong again, horrible blue-white with pinpricks of black in the center. Her hair is matted with wildflowers gone to seed. Deep shadows ring her eyes. She smiles, revealing sharp, pointed teeth, and I want to scream, oh, God in heaven, I want to scream. She offers something in both hands, something bloody and foul. The head of a goat torn from its body.
Thunder rumbles through the reddening sky. "I saved your life, Gemma. Remember that...." She blows a kiss to me. And then, swift as lightning, she grabs the goat's head and sinks her teeth into its neck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
IT IS DETERMINED BY OUR PHYSICIAN, DR. LEWIS, that I am suffering from catarrh and nothing more, and after several sneezes, I agree with his assessment. I am forced to stay in bed. Mrs. Jones brings hot tea and broth on a silver tray. And in the afternoon, Father spends an hour telling me lovely tales of India.
"So there we were, Gupta and I, traveling to Kashmir with a donkey who would not be moved for all the jewels of India. He saw that narrow mountain pass, bared his teeth at us, and simply lay down, refusing to go on. We pulled and pulled on the rope, and the more we pulled the harder he fought. I thought we were done for. It was Gupta's idea that saved us in the end."