A Great and Terrible Beauty
Page 115
"Here." It's only his thumb brushing slowly across the lower edge of my lip, but it's as if time slows and the sweep of that thumb below my mouth takes forever. It is no spell that I know of, but it holds such magic, I can scarcely breathe. He pulls his hand away fast, aware of what he's done. But his touch lingers.
"My condolences," he mumbles, turning to go.
"Kartik?" He stops. He's soaked to the bone, black curls matted to his head. "There's no going back. You can tell them that."
He cocks his head to one side quizzically, and I realize he's not certain whether I mean there's no backing away from my powers or from his touch. I start to clarify but I realize I'm not certain either. And anyway, he's gone, running on strong legs to the safety of the cart I can see down the road.
When I join the others again, Felicity is staring at the new grave, crying in the rain. "She's really gone, isn't she?"
"Yes," I say, surprised at how sure I sound.
"What happened to me on the other side, with that thing?"
"I don't know."
We look down at the mourners, blotches of black in a sea of gray rain. Felicity can't bring herself to look at me. "Sometimes I see things, I think. Out of the corner of my eye, taunting me, and then it's gone. And dreams. Such horrible dreams. What if something terrible happened to me, Gemma? What if I am damaged?"
The rain is a cool kiss on my sleeve as I link my arm through hers. "We're all damaged somehow."
We've been given the day to rest and reflect, and so Mademoiselle LeFarge is surprised to see me at her classroom door. She's positively flummoxed when I hand her five neat, orderly pages of French translation.
"This is all quite good," she announces after careful inspection of my work. There's a smart new vase of flowers on her desk where the tintype of Reginald used to sit. She stacks the papers and offers them to me with her corrections noted in ink.
"Good work, Mademoiselle Doyle. I believe there's hope for you yet. Dans chaque fin, il y a un debut ."
My translation skills aren't quite up to this one. "In the end, also, is a debutante?"
Mademoiselle LeFarge shakes her head. "In every end, there is also a beginning."
The rain has stopped but it has ushered in a bracing autumn wind that pinkens my cheeks till they look freshly slapped.
October blooms in bursts of red and gold. Soon the trees will lose their cover and the world will be laid bare.
Miles from here, Pippa lies in her coffin, fading into memory, a bit of Spence legend to be whispered late at night. Did you hear about the girl who died in that very room down the hall ? I do not know if she regrets her choice. I like to think of her as I saw her last, walking confidently toward something I shan't see, I hope, for a very long time.
In a world beyond this one, that river goes on singing sweetly, enchanting us with what we want to hear, shaping what we need to see in order to keep going. In those waters, all disappointments are forgotten, our mistakes forgiven. Gazing into them, we see a strong father. A loving mother. Warm rooms where we are sheltered, adored, wanted. And the uncertainty of our futures is nothing more than the fog of breath on a windowpane.
The ground is still wet. The heels of my boots sink in, making it a rough walk, but I see the wagons of the Gypsy camp just through the trees ahead. I'm on my way to deliver a gift. Or a bribe. I'm not entirely certain of my motives just yet. The point is that I am on my way.
The package is wrapped in today's newspaper. I leave it outside Kartik's tent and slip back into the trees to wait. He comes soon enough, carrying some squab on a string. He notices the package and spins around to see who might have left it. Seeing no one, he opens it and finds my fathers gleaming cricket bat. I don't know if he'll accept it or find it insulting.
His hands run along the wood in a caress. A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of what I have come to realize is a most beautiful mouth. He picks a crab apple from the ground and tosses it into the air. The bat makes a gratifying crack as it sends the apple soaring, flying high on a lucky combination of direction and possibility. Kartik lets out a small yelp of satisfaction, and swats at the sky. I sit and watch him hit the apples, again and again, until I'm left with two thoughts: Cricket is a wonderfully forgiving game , and Next time, I must get him a ball . Forgiveness. The frail beauty of the word takes root in me as I make my way back through the woods, past the caves and the ravine, where the earth has accepted the flesh of the deer, leaving nothing but a bone or two, peeking above Kartik's makeshift grave, to prove that any of this ever happened. Soon, they'll be gone too.