The Sweet Far Thing

“If you be sacrificed in the Winterlands, the magic falls to them, and all is lost. Do not leave the chapel!”



It’s too late. Abandoning my lamp and the hymnal, I bolt for the door. I throw my body against it and it flies open. Night’s army has come with a vengeance. I can barely see my way, and I curse myself for leaving the lamp. The dogs have not ceased their barking.



I rush down the path, taking very little care. A tree slaps me in the face and I look round. I gasp for breath. Something is moving in the trees. Two men step out from behind a large fir, and I scream. It takes me a moment to recognize them—Tambley and Johnny, Mr. Miller’s missing men.



“You frightened me to death,” I sputter. My heart thumps as quickly as a rabbit’s.



“Sorry, miss,” Johnny says, his voice calm.



“We didn’t mean no ’arm,” young Tambley adds. There is something odd about them. They seem as inconsequential as dust, two shimmers of men, and when they step forward into a stream of moonlight, I could swear I see their bones glowing beneath their skin.



“You’ve given us all quite a scare,” I say, moving back. “They said you’d gone.”



“Gone?” Johnny repeats without seeming to understand.



The trees shake with the fluttering of birds’ wings. Several crows perch on the branches, watching silently. A grim voice inside speaks its fear to me: Hide, Gemma.



“You should report to Mr. Miller straightaway. He’s worried about you.”



My hand strays out, searching for the trunk of a tree. A sound comes from my right. I slide my eyes toward the sound and there is Johnny. He was before me a second ago. How could he possibly…?



Tambley points a finger at me. His bones seem to shine under the surface of his skin, which is as pallid as a fish at the bottom of a pond.



“We’re back now,” he says. “For you.”



The birds raise a clamor with their chilling caws. Johnny’s hand grips my cape. I slip the clasp and let the cape drop in his fingers. I waste no time. I turn and scramble for the path. I run hard and fast the way I have just come, for they block the way to Spence. The wind rises behind me, bringing the sounds of cackles and whispers, rat scratchings, and the flapping of wings. The crows’ cries are like the screeches of hell. For all I know, I am screaming with them.



The chapel wavers before me, shaking along with my ragged breath. Whatever is behind me is gaining fast, and now I hear horses as well, horses that seem suddenly to have come out of thin air. I slam hard into the chapel doors. I tug but they will not open. The dirt of the path whirls and eddies around me.



Dogs. I hear dogs barking, and they are near. And just like that, the dirt on the path settles. The sound of horses and birds fades to a throb and then nothing. Torches flicker and smoke in the woods. The Gypsies have come—some on horseback, some on foot.



“Gemma!” Kartik’s voice.



“I saw…I saw…” I put a hand to my stomach. I cannot talk. Can’t breathe.



“Here,” he says, taking my arm to steady me. “What did you see?”



Several gulps of air and my voice returns. “Men…in the woods. Miller’s men—the ones who disappeared.”



“You’re certain?” Kartik asks.



“Yes.”



Immediately the Gypsies fan out. The dogs sniff the ground, confused.



“Mrs. Nightwing sent me to the chapel for a hymnal,” I explain.



“Alone?” Kartik’s eyebrows arch.



I nod. “In the chapel…the windows came alive,” I whisper. “They warned me not to go into the woods!”



“The windows warned you,” Kartik repeats slowly, and I am aware that I sound mad. For all I know, I am.



“The angel, the one with the gorgon’s head…it came alive, warned me. ‘The woods be not safe.’ And that’s not all. He said something about a sacrifice—‘If you be sacrificed in the Winterlands, the magic falls to them, and all is lost.’”



Kartik chews his lips, thinking. “Are you certain it wasn’t a vision?”



“I don’t think it was. And then, on the path, I saw those men, and they seemed like specters. They said they had come for me.”



A sudden, startled cry rings out from the Gypsy camp. It’s followed by more shouts.



“Stay here!” Kartik instructs.



There isn’t a prayer that I will stay here alone. I’m right on his heels. With each footfall, the angel’s voice rumbles through me: The woods be not safe. The camp is in chaos—screams, curses, men’s shouts. There are no spirits here. It is Mr. Miller and his men. They pull the women from the tents and ransack the wagons, stuffing their pockets with whatever they find. When the women try to protect what is theirs, Mr. Miller’s men threaten them with torches. One woman rushes a slightly built thug, beating him with her fists until she is struck across the face by another.