The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)
Page 7“How was your stay with your cousins?”
Ann does not smile at all. “Tolerable.”
“And the children? Are you fond of them?” I ask, hopefully.
“Lottie locked me in a cupboard for an hour. Little Carrie kicked my leg and called me a pudding.” She wipes her nose. “That was the first day.”
“Oh.” We stand uncertainly under the glare of Spence’s infamous brass snake chandelier.
Ann lowers her voice to a whisper. “Have you managed to return to the realms?”
I shake my head, and Ann looks as if she might cry. “But we’ll try again tonight,” I say quickly.
A glimmer of a smile lights Ann’s face for a moment. “There’s hope yet,” I add.
“They don’t!” one girl protests, but in her eyes I see she wants to be proven wrong.
“Aye, they do, miss. And more creatures besides. You’d best not go out past dark. That’s their time. Stay safe in your beds and you’ll not wake to find you’ve been carried away in the company of the Others,” Brigid warns.
The girls rush to the windows to peer into the vast expanse of night, hoping for a glimpse of fairy queens and sprites. I could tell them they won’t see them there. They’d have to travel with us through the door of light to the world beyond this one to keep company with such fantastical creatures. And they might not like all that they see.
“Our Ann has returned,” I announce, parting the curtains to Felicity’s private tent. Ever the dramatic one, Felicity has cordoned off one corner of the enormous room with silk curtains. It is like a pasha’s home, and she lords over it as if it were an empire of her own.
Felicity takes in the sight of Ann’s damp, mud-caked skirt hem. “Mind the carpets.”
Ann wipes her soiled skirts, dropping crumbs of dried mud onto the floor, and Felicity sighs in irritation. “Oh, Ann, really.”
“Sorry,” Ann mumbles. She pulls her skirts close to her body and takes a seat on the floor, trying not to dirty it further. Without asking, she reaches into the open chocolate box and takes three, much to Felicity’s annoyance.
Ann puts two back. They are imprinted with her hand. Felicity sighs. “You’ve touched them now; you might as well eat them.”
Guiltily, Ann shoves all three into her mouth at once. She cannot possibly be enjoying their taste. “What do you have there?”
“This?” Felicity holds out a white card with beautiful black lettering. “I’ve received an invitation to Lady Tatterhall’s tea for a Miss Hurley. It shall have an Egyptian theme.”
“Oh,” Ann says dully. Her hand lingers over the chocolate box. “I suppose you’ve gotten one, too, Gemma.”
“Yes,” I say guiltily. I hate that Ann’s not included—it is beastly unfair—but I can’t help wishing she didn’t make me feel quite so horrid about it.
“And of course there is the ball at Yardsley Hall,” Felicity continues. “That promises to be quite grand. Did you hear about young Miss Eaton?”
I shake my head.
Ann pulls a thread on the hem of her dress. She won’t attend the Collinsworth ball or any other unless it is as chaperone to Lottie or Carrie someday. She will not have a season or dance with handsome suitors. She will not wear ostrich feathers in her hair and bow to Her Majesty. She is here at Spence as a scholarship student, sponsored by her wealthy cousins so that she might make an appropriate governess to their children.
I clear my throat. Felicity catches my eye.
“Ann,” she says, far too cheerfully. “How was your time in Kent? Is it as lovely in the spring as they say?”
“Little Carrie called me a pudding.”
Felicity tries not to laugh. “Ahem. Well, she’s only a child. You’ll have her in hand soon enough.”
“There’s a small room for me at the top of the stairs. It looks out on the stables.”
“A window. Yes, well, quite nice to have a view,” Felicity says, missing the point entirely. “Oh, what do you have there?”