She takes my hands, and though hers are as cold and white as chalk, they are still Pip’s. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll help you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE TROUBLE WITH MORNING IS THAT IT COMES WELL before noon.
Oh, to luxuriate in my bed for another hour. I’ve slept no more than two, and whilst I did, a family of squirrels must have taken up residence in my mouth, for I am sure there is a coating of fur upon my tongue. My tongue tastes of squirrel, if squirrel has a taste somewhere between days-old porridge and foul cheese.
“Gemma!” Ann pushes me. She’s smartly turned out in her proper Spence uniform of white blouse, white skirt, and boots. How did she manage that? “You’re late!”
I lie on my back. The morning light hurts my eyes, so I close them again. “Does your mouth taste of squirrel?”
She makes a face. “Squirrel? No, of course not.”
“Woodchuck, then?”
“Will you get up?”
I rub my eyes and will my feet to the cold, unwelcoming floor. Even it is not ready to wake. I moan in protest.
“I’ve laid out your clothing for you.” And so she has, just like a clever, good little girl. My skirt and blouse are stacked neatly across the foot of my bed. “I thought you’d rather find your stockings for yourself.” She blushes as she says this. Poor Ann. How is it she can enjoy bloodthirsty tales of all manner of carnage yet nearly faint at the notion of bare shins? I step behind the dressing screen for modesty’s sake—Ann’s, that is—and dress quickly.
“Gemma, wasn’t it so marvelous to be in the realms once again, to feel the magic?”
The night comes back to me—the discovery of the door, the joy of being there again, the magic. Yet my conversation with Gorgon about the alliance and my duties there has left a shroud upon my soul. So much is expected of me and so quickly. And I cannot shake the apprehension I feel about helping Pippa. I’ve not helped a soul, let alone a friend, cross the river before. And if I fail, I dare not guess at the outcome.
“Yes, marvelous,” I say, fastening buttons.
“You don’t seem very happy about it,” Ann says.
I steady myself. At last we’ve regained entry into the realms. I can’t allow worries about Philon and the forest folk to take this happiness from me. And as for helping Pippa, it isn’t a choice, or something to discuss or debate with Felicity or Ann. It is the only honorable thing a friend can do. And now that the magic is back…
I step from behind the screen and take Ann’s hands. “Perhaps there is a new beginning for us,” I tell her. “Perhaps being a governess isn’t your destiny at all.”
Ann allows herself a miserly smile. “But, Gemma,” she says, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, “I’ve only a little magic left. It’s very weak. Have you…?”
I can feel it inside me, a giddy wakefulness that has me attuned to everything, as if I’ve had several cups of strong black tea. I close my eyes, feeling what Ann does. Hope with an undercurrent of envy. I see her as she would like to see herself: beautiful, admired, singing on a stage bathed in gaslight.
A subtle change comes over Ann. I cannot say what exactly; I know only that I see her differently. Her nose, which is usually red and runny, is not. Her hair is shinier, and her eyes seem somehow bluer. Ann regards herself in the mirror. She smiles at what she sees.
“It’s only the beginning,” I promise.
Outside our room, girls rush for the stairs in a stampede, and I do wonder if we are ever able to get anywhere without running like bulls. Someone bangs on our door and pushes it open without waiting for a response. It’s Martha.
“Here you are!” she trills. She tosses two frilly white nothings at Ann, who balks and throws them at me.
“What is this?” I ask, holding up a pair of what appear to be bloomers.
“For riding, of course!” Martha squeals. “Haven’t you heard?”
“No, we haven’t,” I say, hoping my irritation is evident.
“There is to be no French instruction this morning. Inspector Kent has come and brought us bicycles! There are three of them. The inspector’s waiting out front to teach us all! Bicycles! The darling!” Then she’s off running down the hall.
“Have you ever ridden before?” Ann asks.
“Never,” I say, eyeing the ridiculous bloomers and wondering which shall be more humiliating—the riding or the costume.
The other girls have gathered in front of Spence when Felicity and I arrive. We’re outfitted in the latest fashion for bicycling—long bloomers, a blouse with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and straw hats encircled with ribbon. The bloomers make me feel like a large duck. But at least I’m not as skittish as Elizabeth, who can barely walk for blushing.