Rebel Angels - Page 110/158

"Just one more. Right as rain. Then we'll go. . . ."

Chin takes the watch fob and pockets it. He passes the pipe to Father.

"Don't give him any more," I plead.

I try to take the pipe, but Father wrests it from my hand and gives me a hard shove in the bargain. Kartik helps me to my feet.

"Chin, the light. There's a good man. . . ."

Chin lowers the candle to the pipe. My father draws in the smoke. His eyes flutter and a tear escapes, making a slow track down his unshaven cheek."Leave me, pet."

I can't stand another moment. With every bit of strength I've got, I push the woman off Father and pull him to his feet. The two of us stumble backward. Chin laughs to watch us, as if it were a night of cockfighting or some other sport. Kartik takes my father's other arm and together we maneuver him through the throngs of opium eaters. I am so ashamed that he should see my father in this state. I want to cry but am afraid if I did I would never stop.

We stumble on the stairs but somehow manage to make it to our carriage without further incident. The boys have been true to their word. The crowd has grown to about twenty children, who all clamber out of the seats and down from Ginger's back. The cold night air, an assault earlier, is a balm after the wretched opium fumes. I breathe in greedy gulps as Kartik and I help Father into the carriage. Tom's trousers catch in the door, tearing along the seam. And with that, I too rip apart. Everything I've held back--disappointment, loneliness, fear, and the crushing sadness of it all-- comes rushing out in a torrent of tears.

"Gemma?"

"Don't . . . look . . . at . . . me," I sob, turning my face toward the cold steel of the carriage. "It is all ... so . . . horrible . . . and it's . . . my fault."

"It is not your fault."

"Yes, yes, it is! If I hadn't been who I am, Mother wouldn't have died. He never would have been like this! I ruined his happiness! And . . ."I stop.

"And . . . ?"

"I used the magic to try to cure him." I'm afraid Kartik will be angry, but he doesn't say anything. "I couldn't bear to see him suffer so. What is the good of all this power if I can do nothing with it?"

This brings a fresh wave of tears. To my great surprise, Kartik wipes them away with his hand. "Meraa mitra yahaan aalye," he murmurs.

I understand only a little Hindi, enough to know what he has said: Come here, my friend.

"I've never known a braver girl," he says. He lets me lean against the carriage for a moment till my tears stop, and my body feels as it always does after a good cry--calm and clean. Across the Thames, the deep chimes of Big Ben sing two o'clock.

Kartik helps me into the seat next to my sleeping father.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle."

When we reach home, the lamps are lit, which is an ominous sign. Tom is waiting in the parlor. There's no way to hide what has happened.

"Gemma, where have you been at such an hour? Why are you dressed in my clothing? And what have you done to my best trousers?"

Kartik moves into the room, supporting Father as best he can.

"Father!" Tom says, taking in his semi-clothed, drugged state."What has happened?"

My words rush out in a terrified torrent. "We found him in an opium den. He'd been there for two days. Kartik wanted you but I didn't want to scandalize you at the club and so I--I--I . . ."

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Jones arrives, her night bonnet still on her head.

"Is anything the matter, sir?" she asks.

"Mr. Doyle has taken ill," Tom says.

Mrs. Jones's eyes say she knows it's a lie, but she immediately springs into action."I'll fetch tea at once, sir. Should I send for the doctor?"

"No! Just the tea, thank you," Tom barks. He gives Kartik a hard look."I can manage from here."

"Yes, sir," Kartik says. For a moment, I don't know whether to go to my brother or Kartik. In the end, I help Tom and Mrs. Jones

get my father to bed. I change out of Tom's clothes, scrub myself of the soot of East London, and dress in my own nightclothes. I find Tom sitting in the parlor, staring into the fire. He takes the twigs that are too small to be of any good, snaps them in half, and feeds them methodically into the angry flames.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I didn't know what else to do," I say. I wait for him to tell me how I've disgraced the family and that I shall never leave this house again.

Another twig lights. It screams in the fire and hisses down to cinder. I haven't any idea what to say.