The Sweet Far Thing

She smiles brightly. The smile turns to a laugh. The form changes, shifts, becomes entirely new, and I’m staring at Neela. She giggles into her long, stemlike fingers.



“Gemma, dear.” It is my mother’s voice coming from that nasty little creature.



“Why did you do that?” I shout.



“Because I can,” she says.



“Don’t you dare do it again,” I snap.



“Or what?” Neela taunts.



My fingers tingle with the itch of magic. In seconds, it rushes through me like a swollen river and my entire body shakes with its majestic force.



“Gemma!” Fee puts steadying arms around me. I can’t hold it back. I must let it out. My hand lights on her shoulder, and the magic flows into Felicity with no warning, no control. Changes ripple through her: She’s a queen, a Valkyrie, a warrior in chain mail. She falls onto all fours in the soft grass, gasping for breath.



“Fee! Are you all right?” I rush to her side but don’t touch her. I’m afraid to.



“Yes,” she manages to say in a thin voice as one last change comes over her and she is herself again.



I can hear Neela laughing behind me. “It’s too much for you, Priestess. You’re in over your head. Better to let someone more skilled wield it. I would be happy to relieve you of your burden.”



“Fee,” I say, ignoring Neela. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t control it.”



Ann helps Felicity to her feet. Felicity puts a hand to her stomach as if she has been punched. “So much change so fast,” she says weakly. “I wasn’t prepared.”



“I am sorry,” I say, and this time, I put Felicity’s arm across my shoulder to steady her. Neela cackles as we stumble toward Gorgon.



“Priestess!” the creature calls out. When I turn, she wears my form. “Tell me: How will you fight when you cannot even see?”



“How are you feeling now, Fee?” I ask as we wind through the earthen passageway with its faint heartbeat of light.



“Better. Look!” She transforms into a warrior maiden. Her armor gleams. “Shall I wear this as my new Spence uniform?”



“I think not.”



We go through the door and onto the lawn. My senses are heightened. Someone is there. I put my finger to my lips for quiet.



“What is it?” Ann whispers.



I creep over to the East Wing. A figure slips away into the shadows, and dread fills me. We may have been seen.



“Whoever it was is gone now,” I say. “But let’s get to bed before we’re well and truly caught.”



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN



THE NEXT MORNING, AT A MOST DISAGREEABLE HOUR, Mrs. Nightwing summons the lot of us to the great hall. Girls stumble in with their uniforms poorly buttoned and their braids half plaited in haste. Many rub sleep from their eyes. But we don’t dare yawn. Mrs. Nightwing would not ask us here this early for tea and kisses. There is an air of reproach; something terrible is at hand, and I fear that we were seen last night.



“I hope it’s nothing to do with the masked ball in our honor.” Elizabeth frets, and Cecily shushes her.



At five minutes past the hour, Mrs. Nightwing bustles into the room wearing a grim expression that puts the starch in our spines. She takes a position before us, her hands behind her back, her chin up, and her eyes as sharp as a fox’s.



“A very serious offense has occurred, one that shall not be tolerated,” our headmistress says. “Do you know of what I speak?”



We shake our heads, offer apprehensive nos. I am nearly ill with panic.



Mrs. Nightwing lets her imperious gaze fall upon us. “The stones of the East Wing have been violated,” she says, enunciating each word. “They’ve been painted with strange markings—in blood.”



The gasps catch from girl to girl like a brush fire. There is a sense of both horror and ecstasy: the East Wing! Blood! A secret crime! It will give us something to gossip about for a week at least.



“Quiet, please!” Mrs. Nightwing barks. “Has anyone any knowledge of this crime? If you shield another through your silence, you do her no service.”



I think of last night, the figure in the dark. But I can’t very well tell Mrs. Nightwing about it, else I’d have to explain what I was doing out of my bed.



“Will no one step forward?” Mrs. Nightwing presses. We are silent. “Very well. If there is no admission, all will be punished. You will spend the morning with pail and brush, scrubbing till the stones gleam again.”



“Oh, but, Mrs. Nightwing,” Martha cries above the hum of anguished murmurs, “must we really wash…blood?”