Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

"Yes," I whisper, without turning around."That is all."

In a rustle of velvet and silk, I am through the door, trailing the scent of juniper, the silence, and a shadow of a whisper: For now . . . Miss McCleethy's rooms are in Lambeth, not far from Bethlem Royal.

"May I come in?" I ask.

She lets me in with a pretense of friendliness. "Miss Doyle. To what do I owe this surprise visit?"

"I've two questions for you. One concerns Mrs. Nightwing; the other, the Order."

"Go on," she says, settling into a chair.

"Is Mrs. Nightwing among our number?"

"No. She is simply a friend."

"But you quarreled at the Christmas party, and again in the East Wing."

"Yes, about repairing the damage to the East Wing. I argued that it was time to rebuild. But Lillian is so very frugal."

"But she accepted you as Claire McCleethy, though that is not your real name."

"I told her I had taken a new name to escape a love affair gone wrong. That is something she understands. And that is all there is to it. What is your other question?"

I cannot be sure if she is telling me the truth or not. I move on.

"Why has the Order never shared its power?" She fixes me with that unsettling glare. "It is ours to have. We've fought for it. Sacrificed and shed blood for it."

"But you've hurt others as well. You've denied them any chance to have a part of the magic, to have a say."

"I promise you they'd do the same. We look out for ourselves. This is the way of things."

"It is an ugly business," I say.

"Power is," she says without regret. "I was not happy when you left me with the Rakshana. But I understand that you thought I was Circe. It is of no consequence now. You kept Circe from the Temple and the magic. You have done well. Now we can reestablish the Order with our sisters, and--"

"I think not."I say.

Miss McCleethy's mouth wants to smile."What?"

"I am forging new alliances. Felicity. Ann. Kartik from the Rakshana. Philon of the Forest. Asha, the Untouchable."

She shakes her head."You can't be serious."

"The power must be shared."

"No. That is forbidden. We don't know if they can be trusted with the magic."

"No. We don't. We shall need to have good faith."

Miss McCleethy fumes. "Absolutely not! The Order must remain pure."

"That's worked out well, hasn't it?" I say with as much venom as I can muster.

When she sees that she is getting nowhere, Miss McCleethy changes course, speaking to me as gently as a mother soothing an anxious child. "You may try to join hands with them, but chances are, it won't work. The realms guide who shall become part of the Order. We have no power over that. That is the way it has always been."

She attempts to stroke my hair, but I break away. "Things change," I say, taking my leave. Abandoning decorum, Miss McCleethy calls after me from her window. "Do not make enemies of us, Miss Doyle. We shall not give up our power so easily."

I do not turn back to look at her. Instead, I keep my eyes straight ahead, looking for the entrance to the Underground. A framed advert on the wall extols the virtues of the coming revolution in travel. They have already begun electrifying the tracks in some stations. Soon, all trains shall run on the invisible power of that most modern invention.

It is indeed a new world.

Dinner with the Middletons is bittersweet. It is hard to keep my mind upon polite conversation over soup and peas when I've so much to do. When it is time for the men and women to retire to separate quarters, Simon spirits me away to the parlor, and no one objects.

"I shall miss your company," he says."Will you write me?"

"Yes, of course," I say.

"Did I tell you Miss Weston made a fool of herself chasing after Mr. Sharpe at a tea dance?"

I don't find the story amusing. I only feel sorry for poor Miss Weston. I feel as if I can't breathe suddenly.

Simon's concerned."Gemma, what is it?"

"Simon, would you still care for me if you discovered I was not who I say I am?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean would you still care for me, no matter what you came to know?"

"What a thing to ponder. I don't know what to say."

The answer is no. He does not need to say it.

With a sigh, Simon digs at the fire with the iron poker. Bits of the charred log fall away, revealing the angry insides. They flare orange for a moment, then quiet down again. After three tries, he gives up. "I'm afraid this fire's had it."