The Sweet Far Thing

My skin still itches with the magic. I rub my arms as if I could make it go away. I’m overcome with the shouts, the gasps, the confusion, and below that—far below—I hear the raw scratchings of wings. Something glows in the corner, near the draperies. I move closer. It’s the nymph I saw the other night, the one who broke free of the column. She hides inside a fold in the velvet.

“How…how did you get here?” I ask.

“Am I here? Do you see me? Or is it only your mind that says I am here?”

She flits above my head. I make a grab for her but come away with only air.

“Funny. What you did to that mortal.” She giggles. “I like it.”

“It wasn’t amusing,” I say. “It was awful.”

“You made her fall with your magic. You’re very powerful.”

“I didn’t mean to make her fall!”

“Miss Doyle? To whom are you speaking?” Mademoiselle LeFarge asks. I’ve drawn attention away from Cecily. They’re watching me now.

I look back but there’s nothing. Only a drapery. “I…I…”

Across the room, Miss McCleethy looks from me to Cecily and back again, an expression of alarm stealing slowly over her.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Cecily sobs. There is real fear in her eyes. “I don’t know how she did it, Mrs. Nightwing, but she did! She’s a wicked girl!”

“Wicked.” The nymph cackles in my ear.

“You be quiet!” I shout at it.

“Miss Doyle?” Mademoiselle LeFarge says. “Who…”

I do not give an answer, and I do not wait for permission. I run from the room, down the stairs, and out the door, not caring that I shall earn one hundred bad-conduct marks for it and be made to scrub the floors forevermore. I run by the startled workers trying to erase the East Wing’s past with fresh white limestone. I run till I reach the lake, where I fall into the grass. I lie curled on my side, gasping for breath, and watch the lake through long blades of grass that welcome my tears.

A shy brown mare saunters out from the cover of the trees. She puts her nose to the water but does not drink. She wanders closer and we watch each other warily, two lost things.

When she nears me, I see that it’s Freya. There’s a saddle on her strong back, and I wonder, if she was to be ridden, where is the rider?

“Hello, you,” I say. She snorts and lowers her head, restless. I stroke her nose and she allows it. “Come on,” I say, grabbing hold of her reins. “Let’s take you back home.”

The Gypsies are not usually happy to see me, but today, they blanch at my approach. The women put their hands to their mouths as if they would stop what words might leap out. One of them calls for Kartik.

“Freya, you naughty girl! We were worried about you,” he says, putting his head to the horse’s nose.

“I found her down by the lake,” I say coolly.

Kartik strokes Freya’s nose. “Where have you been, Freya? Where’s Ithal? Did you see him, Miss Doyle?”

“No,” I say. “She was alone. Lost.” A kindred spirit.

Kartik nods gravely. He takes Freya to her post and brings her oats, which she gobbles up. “Ithal went riding last night and did not return.”

Mother Elena speaks to the others in their language. The Gypsy men shift uncomfortably. A small cry goes up among the women.

“What are they saying?” I whisper to Kartik.

“They say he might be a spirit now. Mother Elena insists they must burn everything of his so that he will not come back to haunt them.”

“And do you think he’s dead?” I ask.

Kartik shrugs. “Miller’s men said they’d get their justice. We will search for him. But if he doesn’t return, the Gypsies will burn every trace of him.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I say, and head for the lake again.

Kartik follows me. “I tied the bandana into the ivy three days ago. I waited for you.”

“I’m not coming,” I say.

“Will you punish me forever?”

I stop, face him.

“I need to talk to you,” he says. There are dark circles under his eyes. “I’m having the dreams again. I’m in a desolate place. There’s a tree, tall as ten men, frightening and majestic. I see Amar and a great army of the dead. I’m fighting them as if my very soul depended upon it.”

“Stop. I don’t want to hear any more,” I say, because I’m tired. I’m half sick of shadows, I think, remembering the poem Miss Moore taught us so many months ago, “The Lady of Shalott.”