The Sweet Far Thing

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“Sure of it, are you?” Fowlson flicks another button from my glove. It skitters along the cobblestones. “Oi’ve seen girls ’oo won’t buckle down given the old pick-and-mallet to the brain to cure their ills. ’Ow would you like spendin’ your days in a room there, looking out at the world through a lil window?”

The magic flares inside me, and I use all my strength to keep it down. Fowlson mustn’t know I have it. It isn’t safe.

“Give the magic to me. I’ll see it’s taken care of proper.”

“You’d use it for yourself, you mean.”

“’Ow’s our friend Kartik?”

“You should know more than I, for I’ve not seen him at all,” I lie. “He proved as disreputable as the rest of you.”

“Good ol’Kartik. When you see ’im next—if you should see ’im—tell ’im old Fowlson was askin’ after ’im.”

Kartik said the Rakshana assumed he was dead, but if Fowlson believes he is alive, then Kartik is in danger.

Suddenly, Fowlson sheaths his knife. “Looks like your carriage ’as arrived, miss. I’ll be seein’ you round. You can count on it.”

He gives me a little shove from the shadows. Oblivious to what has just taken place, Tom motions to me. “Come along, Gemma.”

The footman secures the steps.

“Yes, I’m coming,” I answer. When I turn back, Fowlson has gone, disappeared into the night, as if he’d never been beside me at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I WAKE TO SEE GRANDMAMA STANDING OVER MY BED, SMILING. “Wake up, Gemma! We’re off to the shops today!”

I rub my eyes, for I must be dreaming. But no, she’s still standing there. Smiling.

“We shall go to Castle and Sons to have a dress made. And then we shall take ourselves to Mrs. Dolling’s Sweet Shoppe.”

My grandmother wants to take me for an outing. It is fantastic! Mr. Fowlson’s threat seems no more substantial than the fog to me now. Try to frighten me, will he? I hold all the magic of the realms, and neither the Order nor the Rakshana shall know it until I’ve accomplished what I must. After all, I’ve already worked a miracle with my own family, haven’t I?

“Oh, I’ve not been to Mrs. Dolling’s in ages. So many cakes!” Grandmama blinks. “Why have I not been? It’s no matter. We shall go today and have whatever we wish and…Gemma! Why are you not dressed? We’ve so much to do!”

She does not need to ask again. I fly to gather my things, grabbing my dress so quickly that the whole of my cupboard is made a mess by my carelessness.

Grandmama and I pass the most marvelous day together. Rather than stern and fearful, she is jolly. She greets everyone—from the boy who wraps our cake to strangers in the street—with a smile and a nod. She gives a pat on the head to a shoeshine boy, who doesn’t know at all what to make of such a grandmotherly touch, as he is well past the age of eight.

“Oh, do look at those hats there, Gemma! The darling feathers! Should we see the milliner and be fitted for our own?” She veers toward the door. I hold tightly to her arm.

“Perhaps another day, Grandmama.”

Already the carriage was so laden with her purchases there was barely room for us to sit. Grandmama sent our driver back with an extra few shillings, insisting we’d take a hansom cab back to Belgravia.

“Oh, this is glorious, isn’t it? I can’t think why we shouldn’t have done this sooner!” She pats my arm. “Good day!” she calls cheerily to a milkman, who regards her warily, as if she were someone’s eccentric aunt let out of the attic. “Dear me, not terribly chatty, is he? I said, good day, sir!”

“Good day to you.” The milkman gives a careful smile and a tip of the hat but his eyes never lose their suspicion.

“Ah, much better.” Grandmama smiles. “You see? They only need a bit of encouragement to come out of their shells.”

Castle and Sons, dressmakers, lies in Regent Street, and this is where we have come to have a dress made for my debut. A harried assistant, whose hair threatens to escape from its pinnings at any moment, carries out bolts of white silk for Grandmama to scrutinize. My measurements are taken. As the tape is crossed round my bosom, the seamstress shakes her head and gives me a sympathetic smile. My goodwill vanishes rapidly. We cannot all be Gibson Girls. When every single bit of me has been measured and recorded, I join Grandmama on a divan. Bins of buttons and lace, ribbon and feathers are hastily displayed for her, and just as quickly, Grandmama sends them back. I fear I shall have the plainest dress in all of London.