“Yes, tomorrow,” I say. “I shall go as Joan of Arc.”
“Fitting.” Kartik examines an apple, pushing at a bruise with his thumb. “I assume there will be many gentlemen in attendance. English gentlemen.”
“I’m sure there will be many people in attendance,” I answer carefully.
He bites into the fruit. I pull a leaf from a tree and tear it into small strips. The awkward silence stretches.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last.
“You needn’t apologize. I lied to you.”
I perch near him. The distance between us isn’t much and yet it feels vast.
“Come to the ball,” I say softly.
Kartik laughs. “You’re joking.”
“No, not at all. It is a masked ball. Who shall know?”
Kartik pulls back his sleeve, revealing the warm brown of his skin. “And no one shall notice this, I suppose? An Indian amongst the English?” He bites into his apple with a hard crunch.
“An Indian prince,” I say. “And you shall have an invitation. I shall give you one.”
“If I cannot go as myself, I shall not go,” he says.
“You may think on it. If you have a change of heart, place the cloth in its spot, and I shall meet you tomorrow in the laundry at half past six.”
Kartik squints up at the sun. He shakes his head. “That is your world, not mine.”
“What if…” I swallow hard. “What if I should like you in my world?”
Kartik bites into his apple again, looks out at the rolling hills of the peaceful countryside. “I don’t believe I belong there.”
“Neither do I,” I say, laughing, but two tears escape, and I have to grab them quickly with my fingers. The magic tingles in them, a temptation: You could make him stay.
I will it into silence.
“Then come into the realms with me,” I say instead. “We could look for Amar together. We—”
“No. I don’t want to know what Amar has become. I want to remember him as he was before.” He puts the apple back into his lunch pail. “I’ve given it much thought these past few days, and I think it best for me to travel on to the Orlando. There’s nothing for me here.”
“Kartik…,” I start, but what can I say, after all? “You must do what you feel is best.”
“I’ll remember you in India,” he says. “I’ll offer a prayer for your family at the Ganges.”
“Thank you.” There’s a lump in my throat that will not go away.
He gatheres his pail. “Good day, Miss Doyle.”
“Good day, Kartik.”
He shakes my hand and walks down the hill. I’m alone in the cemetery.
“This is what it’s come to,” I say, pressing the backs of my hands to my eyes. “Only the dead want my company.”
My knees are the first to go. The force of my vision is so violent, I sink to the ground, clutching my stomach. My muscles are taut. The sky seems to tear in two; the clouds are limned in red.
God. Can’t breathe. Can’t…
Wilhelmina Wyatt stands among the headstones, her face contorted with fury. She grabs hold of my hair and drags me toward the graves. I kick and fight, but she’s strong. When we reach Eugenia Spence’s grave, she gives me a hard shove, and I fall, watching in horror as the ground closes over me.
“No, no, no!” I scrabble at the sides of the grave with my fingernails, crying, desperate. “Let me out!”
The earth falls away, and I am standing on the heath in the Winterlands before the Tree of All Souls. I see Eugenia’s frightened eyes. “Save us…,” she pleads.
I kick for all I’m worth. The grave collapses, and I cover my eyes as the dirt rains down on me.
It is silent. I hear…girls playing. Laughter. I take down my hands and open one eye. I’m on my back in the cemetery. The breeze brings the sounds of a croquet game on the back lawn. There is dirt on my boots and my skirts where I’ve been writhing. Wilhelmina is gone. I am alone. Eugenia Spence’s grave is whole. The violet I dropped is there, and all I can do is sob—out of fright and frustration.
On rubbery legs, I weave through the gravestones. The crows descend like black raindrops. They light on the headstones. I put my hands to my ears to silence their hideous caws but they crawl under my skin like a poison.
I stagger down the hill and sit, crying softly, hugging my knees to my chest. If I hadn’t kicked my way out of that grave…
Or was I even there?
