Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

"Come with us . . . ," they whisper.

I open one eye, then the other. There they are, those three ghostly girls. They seem so lost, so sad, with their pallid skin, the dark

shadows carved into their cheeks.

"We've something to show you. . . ."

One of them puts her hand on my shoulder. I stiffen and feel myself falling into the vision. I don't know where we are. A castle of some sort, a great ruined fortress of stone. Deep green moss grows up the side of it. Bright laughter floats out, and through the tall, arched windows, I can see flashes of white. They're girls playing. Not just any girls--the girls in white. But how lovely they look, so fresh and alive and merry!

"Catch me if you can!" one shouts, and my heart aches, for that was the game my mother played with me as a child. The other two girls jump out from behind a wall, startling her. They laugh at this. "Eleanor!" all three call out. "Where are you? It's time! We shall have the power--she's promised."

They run toward the cliff 's edge; the sea churns below. The girls step across rocks, outlined by the gray sky like Greek statues come to life. They're laughing, so happy, so happy.

"Come, don't dawdle!" they shout merrily to the fourth girl. I can't see her very well. But I see the woman in the dark green cloak coming fast, can see her long, wide sleeves catching the wind. The woman takes the hand of the girl who lags behind.

"Is it time?" the others shout.

"Yes," the woman in the green cloak shouts back. Holding the girl's hand fast in hers, she closes her eyes and raises both their hands toward the sea. She's muttering something. No-- she's summoning something! Terror rises in me like nausea, making me gag. It's coming up from the sea, and she's calling it! The girls scream in terror. But the woman in green does not open her eyes. She does not stop.

Why are they showing me this? I want to get away! Must get away from that thing, from their terror. I'm back in my room. The girls hover near. Their pointed boots move across the floor--scrape, scrape, scrape, I think I shall go mad from it.

"Why?" I gasp, trying not to vomit."Why?"

"She lies . . . ."they whisper. "Don't trust her. . . don't trust her. . . don't trust her. . ."

"Who?" I pant, but they are gone. The pressure leaves me. I'm struggling for breath, my eyes teary, my nose running. I can't bear these horrible visions. And I don't understand them. Don't trust whom? Why shouldn't I trust her?

But there was something different about this vision, a detail I remember now. Something about the woman's hand. She wore a ring of some kind, something unusual. It takes me a moment on the floor to regain my senses. And then I think I know what it was.

The ring on the woman's hand was in the shape of two intertwined snakes.

I've seen that ring before--in the case beneath Miss McCleethy's bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY

"GEMMA, DONT PLAY WITH YOUR HAIR SO," GRANDMAMA tuts from her perch beside me in our carriage.

"Oh," I say. I've been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I haven't noticed I've been twirling a tiny tendril of hair round and round my finger. All day long, I've been lost, thinking of last night's vision and what it means. A woman adorned with a snake ring. Miss McCleethy has a snake ring. But what connection could she have to that cloaked woman or to the girls? These visions make no sense. Who are these girls, and why do they need my help? What are they trying to show me?

I must push these thoughts away for now. I've a party to attend, and the thought of facing the formidable Lady Denby is more frightening than any vision I could conjure.

I count three additional carriages when we arrive at Simon's house, which is a magnificent picture of brick and light. Across the lane, Hyde Park is a dark smudge, lost in the incandescent haze of the gaslights that cast us in foggy halos, making us seem brighter than we are, heaven's borrowed things. Kartik takes my hand, helping me down. I step on the front of my gown, tumbling against him. He catches me round the waist, and for a second, I'm in his embrace.

"Steady there, Miss Doyle," he says, helping me to my feet. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Kartik."

"Old Potts never would have made such a catch, I daresay," Father teases Tom. I look back to see Kartik gazing at me in my blue gown and velvet coat as if I were someone altogether different, a stranger to him.

Father takes my arm and walks me to the door. Clean-shaven, in white tie and gloves, he is almost the father I remember.

"You look very handsome, Papa," I say.