A Great and Terrible Beauty

"Have to my whole life has been that."



"It could change"



She shakes her head. "I'm not a fighter. Not like you." In the winter-brittle grass, she finds a small handful of shriveled berries, no bigger than seeds. They rest in her palm like coins.



My throat aches. "But if you eat them"



"What was it Miss Moore said? There are no safe choices. Only different ones." She takes a last look at the river, and her hand flies to her mouth. There's a moment when it's so quiet that I can hear the ragged edges of my breathing. And then color flows beneath her skin, the hair curling into ringlets, the cheeks a vibrant rose. She's radiant. All around me, the land is coming alive again in a ripple of blooms and golden leaves. On the horizon, a new pink sky is born. And the knight stands waiting, her glove in his hand.



The warm breeze has pushed the boat to our shore. This is a time for goodbyes. But I've had too many goodbyes of late, a lifetime of them to come, so I say nothing. She smiles. I return the smile. That's all that's needed. She steps into the boat and lets it carry her across the river. When she reaches the other side, the knight helps her out, into the sweet green grass. Beneath the silver arch of the garden's gate, Mother Elena's little girl, Carolina, watches too. But soon she realizes this is not the one she's waiting for and she drifts out of sight, cradling her doll in her arms.



When I return, I find Felicity perched outside Pippa's room, her back pressed up against the wall. She throws her arms around me, sobbing. Down the hall, Brigid sniffles as she places a sheet over a mirror. Ann comes from Pippa's room, red-eyed , nose running.



"Pippa" She breaks down. But she doesn't have to finish it.



I already know that Pippa is gone.



The morning we bury Pippa, it rains. A cold October rain that turns the clump of dirt in my hand into mud. When it's my turn at the graveside, the dirt slips through my fingers onto Pippa's burnished coffin, where it makes the lightest of sounds. All morning, Spence has been a well-oiled machine of activity. Everyone doing her bit, quietly and efficiently. It's strange how deliberate people are after a death. All the indecision suddenly vanishes into clear, defined moments--changing the linens, choosing a dress or a hymn, the washing up, the muttering of prayers. All the small, simple, conscious acts of living a sudden defense against the dying we do every day.



The girls of first class have been allowed to travel the thirty miles to the Crosses' country home for the funeral, Mrs. Cross has insisted that Pippa be buried with her sapphire engagement ring, which, no doubt, pains Mr. Bumble greatly. He spends the entire funeral checking his pocket watch and grimacing. In deep, resonant tones, the vicar tells us of Pippa's beauty and her unfailing goodness. I don't know this flat placard of a girl. I wish I could stand and give a full account of herthe Pippa who could be vain and selfish and in love with her romantic illusions; the Pippa who was also brave and determined and generous. And even if I told them all this, it still wouldn't be a full measure of her. You can never really know someone completely. That's why it's the most terrifying thing in the world, reallytaking someone on faith, hoping they'll take you on faith too. It's such a precarious balance, it's a wonder we do it at all. And yet



The vicar gives a final blessing. There's nothing left but for the gravediggers to begin their work. They fix their caps on their heads and bite into the mud with their shovels, burying a girl who was my friend. All the while, I can feel him watching me from the trees. When I turn to look, he's there, his black cloak peeking out. As soon as Mrs. Nightwing is occupied with comforting the Crosses, I sneak away to Kartik in his hiding spot behind a large marble seraph.



"I'm sorry," he says. It's simple and direct, with none of the nonsense about God calling home an angel too young and who are we to question his mysterious ways. Rain beats against my umbrella in a steady rhythm.



"I let her go," I say, haltingly, glad at last of the chance to make a confession of sorts. "I suppose I could have tried harder to stop her. But I didn't." Kartik lets me get it out. Will he tell the Rakshana what I have done? Not that it matters. I've already made my decision. The realms are my responsibility now. Somewhere out there, Circe waits, and I've got an Order to put together again, mistakes to remedy, many things to master in time.



Kartik is silent. There's nothing but the constancy of the rain in answer. Finally, he turns to me. "You've got dirt on your face."



I swipe haphazardly at my cheeks with the back of my hand. He shakes his head to let me know that I haven't removed it." Where?" I ask.