The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

“I tell you, I saw it,” I mumble. I’m still searching the streets for signs of the carriage and the lady. They are nowhere to be seen, and I can’t be certain I saw them at all. But one thing I am certain of: That was Miss McCleethy in the vision. Whoever this lady was, she knew my teacher.

Father rescues me from exile in my room, asking me to join him in the small study on the second floor. It is filled with his books and papers, his maps of distant places where he has traveled on various adventures. Only three photographs sit on his desk—a small daguerreotype of Mother on their wedding day, another of Thomas and me as children, and a grainy photograph of Father and an Indian man making camp on a hunting expedition, their faces grim and determined.

Father looks up from his birding journal, in which he has made a new entry. His fingers are stained with ink. “What is this I hear about carriage drivers gone amok in the streets of London?”

“I see Grandmama could not wait to share the news,” I say, sullenly.

“She was quite concerned about you.”

Do I tell him? What would he say if I did? “I was mistaken. In the fog, it was difficult to see.”

“In the Himalayas, men have been known to lose their way when the clouds roll in. A man might find himself disoriented and see things that are not there.”

I sit at Father’s feet. I’ve not done this since I was a little girl, but I have need of comfort just now. He pats my shoulder gently as he tends to his journal.

“Was that photograph on your desk taken in the Himalayas?”

“No. It was a hunting expedition near Lucknow,” he offers without further explanation.

I gaze at the photograph of my mother, searching for some of me in her face.

“What did you know about Mother before you married her?”

Father winks. “I knew she was foolish enough to say yes to my suit.”

“Did you know her family? Or where she lived before?” I press.

“Her family died in a fire. That is what she said. She didn’t wish to discuss so unpleasant a memory, and I never insisted.”

That is the way of my family. We do not talk about the unpleasant. It does not exist. And if it pokes its ugly head out of its hole, we cover it quickly and walk away.

“She could have had secrets, then.”

“Mmmm?”

“She could have had secrets.”

Father packs tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “All women have their secrets.”

I keep my cheek against the comfort of his leg. “So it is possible that she could have led a secret life. Perhaps she was a circus clown. Or a pirate.” I swallow hard. “Or a sorceress.”

“Oh, I say, I rather like that one!” Father puffs on his pipe. The smoke lends the room a hazy sweetness.

“Yes,” I continue, feeling bolder. “A sorceress who could enter a secret world. She had great power—so great that she passed it on to me, her only daughter.”

Father cups my cheek. “She did, indeed.”

My heart beats faster. I could tell him. I could tell him everything. “Father…”

Father coughs and coughs. “Blasted tobacco,” he says, searching for his handkerchief.

Our housekeeper enters, bringing Father a brandy without having to be asked.

“Ah, Mrs. Jones,” Father says, taking a soothing sip. “Like an angel of mercy, you appear.”

“Would you care for your supper now, sir?” she asks.

Father did not dine with us this evening. He claimed not to be hungry. But he is so thin, I hope he’ll take something.

“A bowl of soup will do nicely, I should think.”

“Very good, sir. Miss Doyle, your grandmother asks that you keep her company in the sitting room.”

“Thank you,” I say, my heart falling. I don’t want to face her yet.

Mrs. Jones leaves the room noiselessly, as servants do, as if even her skirts should not dare to make a sound lest they bring notice to the one wearing them.

Father looks up from his journal, his face ruddy from his coughing fit. “Gemma, was there something else you wanted to tell me, pet?”

I have a power, Father—an enormous power that I do not begin to understand. It is a blessing and a curse. And I fear if you knew it, I would never be your pet again.

“No, there was nothing,” I say.

“Ah. Well. Off you go, then. Wouldn’t want to keep your grandmama waiting tonight.”

He bends his head in concentration over his birds, his maps, his notes on the constellations—things that can be observed and recorded and understood.