The Sweet Far Thing

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



“Admiral Worthington’s daughter?”



“The same!” I shout.



Now it is Felicity 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?” Ann says, still giggling.



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



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



Felicity 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.”



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



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



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



“Anything,” Felicity 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 Pippa in the water, thrashing about, unable to cross. “I don’t know. I don’t know if the magic can change her course. They say—”



“They say,” Felicity snorts in derision. “We say. You hold all the magic now, Gemma. Surely we can make changes in the realms, as well. For Pippa, 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.



Felicity 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,” Ann 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.



From the corner of my eye, I spy Kartik at the ship captain’s stall, and my stomach does a small flip.



“Felicity,” I whisper, tugging on her sleeve. “I’ve just spied Kartik. I must speak with him. If Nightwing or LeFarge looks for me, tell them I’ve gone to see the cockfights.”



“But—”



“Please?”



Felicity nods. “Be quick about it.”



Swift as a hare, I slip through the crowd, catching Kartik just as he shakes hands with the captain, sealing their bargain. My heart sinks.



“Excuse me, sir. Might I have a word?” I say.



My familiarity draws the consternation of a few farmers’ wives, who must wonder what business a well-brought-up girl could have with an Indian.



I glance toward the captain. “Are you going to sea?”



He nods. “The HMS Orlando. It leaves from Bristol in six weeks’ time, and I shall be on it.”



“But…a sailor? You told me you didn’t care for the sea,” I say, a sudden lump forming in my throat at the memory of the first night we spoke in the chapel.