The Sweet Far Thing

A hush has fallen over the table. The guests are enthralled with Father’s story, and Father is delighted to have an audience. Playing the charming raconteur is what he does best.

“I must tell you that it was the longest moment of my life. No one dared move. No one dared draw a breath. And all the while, Gemma played on, taking no notice until the great cat was upon her. She stood and faced him. They stared at one another as if each wondered what to make of the other, as if they sensed a kindred spirit. At last, Gemma placed her sword upon the ground. ‘Dear tiger,’ she said. ‘You may pass if you are peaceful.’ The tiger looked at the sword and back at Gemma, and without a sound, it passed on, disappearing into the jungle.”

The guests chuckle in relief. They congratulate my father on his tale told. I’m so very proud of him at this moment.

“And what of your wife, Mr. Doyle? Surely she heard the screaming?” one of the ladies asks.

My father’s face falls a bit. “Fortunately, my dear wife was tending to the hospital’s charity ward as she so often did.”

“She must have been a pious and kind soul,” the woman says sympathetically.

“Indeed. Not a bad word could be said about Mrs. Doyle. Every heart softened at her name. Every home welcomed her with open arms. Her reputation was above reproach.”

“How lucky you are to have had such a mother,” a lady to my right says.

“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile. “Very lucky.”

“She was tending to the sick,” my father tells them. “Cholera had broken out, you see. ‘Mr. Doyle,’ she said, ‘I cannot sit idly by while they suffer. I must go to them.’ Every day she went, her prayer book in hand. She read to them, mopped their feverish brows, until she took ill herself.”

It has the air of one of his well-told tales, but though those may be embellished, none of this is true. My mother was many things: strong yet vain, loving at times and ruthless at others. But she was not this confection—a self-sacrificing saint who looked after her family and the sick without question or complaint. I look at Father to see if anything betrays him, but no, he believes it, every word. He has made himself believe it.

“What a kind and noble soul,” the woman in the tiara says, patting Grandmama’s hand. “The very picture of a lady.”

“Not a harsh word could be said about my mother,” Tom says, neatly echoing Father.

Forget your pain. It was what I said when I took Father’s hand in the drawing room yesterday, what I repeated again tonight. But I didn’t mean this. I must be more careful. Yet what bothers me isn’t the power of the magic or how, to a person, they’ve all accepted it as truth. No, what unsettles me most is how much I want to believe it too.

The carriages are brought round, signaling the end of our evening. We congregate outside the club. Father, Tom, and Dr. Hamilton are deep in conversation. Grandmama has taken a tour of the club with some of the wives and hasn’t returned yet. I’ve wandered down to see the garden when I’m pulled into the shadows.

“Luv’ly evenin’, innit?”

The thug’s hat is low on his forehead, but I know that voice as well as the angry red scar marring the side of his face. Mr. Fowlson, the Rakshana’s loyal guard dog.

“Don’t scream,” he advises, taking my arm. “I just want a word on behalf of my employers.”

“What do you want?”

“Awww, coy is it?” His smile turns to a hard scowl. “The magic. We know you’ve bound it to yourself. We want it.”

“I gave it to the Order. They’re in possession of it now.”

“Now, now, you tellin’ fibs again?” His breath smells of ale and cod.

“How do you know I’m not telling you the truth?”

“I know more than you fink, luv,” he whispers.

The steel of his blade gleams in the chilly night. I look over at Father talking happily with Dr. Hamilton. He is very like the father I’ve missed. I would do nothing to upset that fragile peace.

“What do you want from me?”

“I’ve told you. We want the magic.”

“And I’ve told you. I don’t have it.”

Fowlson rubs the flat of the blade along my arm, sending a dangerous tickle through my skin.

“’Ave it your way. You’re not the only one wot can play games.” He glances toward my father and Tom. “Good to see your father out and about. And your brother. I hear ’e wants to make a name for himself in the worst way. Old Tom. Good old Tom.” Fowlson flicks a button from my glove with the point of his knife. “Maybe I should ’ave a lil chat wif ’im about wot his sister gets up to when ’e’s not payin’ attention. A word in his ear, and ’e could have you thrown in Bedlam.”