Kartik’s smile fades, and I am sorry for my uncivil tongue.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not,” I say with a harsh slap of a laugh.
“I don’t blame you for it.”
I swallow hard. “I wondered if the Rakshana had…if you were…”
“Dead?”
I nod.
“It would seem not.” He lifts his head and I note the dark circles beneath his eyes.
“Are you well? Have you eaten?” I ask.
“Please don’t worry on my account.” He leans in and for one giddy moment I think he means to kiss me. “And the realms? What news of them? Have you returned the magic and formed the alliance? Are the realms secure?”
He only wants to know about the realms. My stomach’s as heavy as if I’d swallowed lead. “I have it well in hand.”
“And…have you seen my brother in your realms? Have you seen Amar?” he asks a bit desperately.
“No, I haven’t,” I say, softening. “So…you were not able to come sooner?”
He looks away. “I chose not to come.”
“I—I don’t understand,” I say when I find words again.
His shoves his hands into his pockets. “I think it would be best if we parted ways. You have your path, and I have mine. It would seem that our fates are no longer intertwined.”
I blink to keep the tears at bay. Don’t cry, for heaven’s sake, Gemma. “B-but you said you wished to be part of the alliance. To join hands with me—with us—”
“I’ve had a change of heart.” He is so cold I wonder that he has a heart to change. What has happened?
“Gem-ma!” Felicity calls from beyond the hill. “It’s Elizabeth’s turn!”
“They’re waiting for you. Here, I shall help you with that,” he says, reaching for the bicycle.
I pull it away. “Thank you, but I don’t require your help. It isn’t your fate.”
Pushing the bicycle ahead of me, I run quickly to the road so that he cannot see how deeply he has wounded me.
I excuse myself from the bicycling under the pretense of tending to my knee. Mademoiselle LeFarge offers to help me, but I promise her I shall repair straight to Brigid and bandages. Instead, I slip through the woods toward the boathouse, where I can take refuge and nurse my deeper wounds in private. The small lake reflects the slow migration of pilgrim clouds.
“Carolina! Carolina!”
An old Gypsy woman, Mother Elena, searches the woods. She wears her silvery hair wrapped in a bright blue kerchief. Several necklaces hang to her chest. Every spring, when the Gypsies come around, Mother Elena is with them. It was her daughter, Carolina, whom my mother and Sarah led to the East Wing to sacrifice to the Winterlands. The loss of her beloved daughter was more than Mother Elena could bear; her mind frayed and now she is more a haunt than a woman. I’ve not seen her since the Gypsies returned this time. She hasn’t ventured far from their camp, and I’m surprised to see how frail she is.
“Have you seen my little girl, my Carolina?” she asks.
“No,” I say weakly.
“Carolina, love, do not play with me so,” Mother Elena says, looking behind a large tree as if she were merely involved in a game of hide-and-seek. “Will you help me find her?”
“Yes,” I say, though it makes my heart ache to join her folly.
“She’s mischievous,” Mother Elena says. “And a good hider. Carolina!”
“Carolina!” I call halfheartedly. I peek behind bushes and peer into the trees, pretending to look for a girl killed long ago.
“Keep looking,” Mother Elena instructs.
“Yes,” I lie, shame reddening my neck, “I’ll do that.”
The moment Mother Elena is out of sight, I steal into the boathouse, exhaling in relief. I shall wait here until the old woman goes back to the camp. Dust motes shimmer in the cracks of weak sunlight. I can hear the hammering of the workers and the hopeful call of a mother searching for the daughter who will not be found. I know what happened to little Carolina. I know that the child was murdered, nearly sacrificed to the Winterlands creatures twenty-five years ago. I know the horrible truth of that night, and I wish I didn’t.
An oar propped haphazardly against a wall slides toward me. I feel the smooth weight of the wood in my hands as my body is seized by a sensation I have not had in months—that of a vision taking hold. Every muscle contracts. I squeeze the oar tightly as my eyelids flutter and the sound of my blood grows as loud as war drums in my ears. And then I am under, whooshing through light as if I alone am awake inside a dream. Images rush past and blend into one another as in a turning kaleidoscope. I see the lady in lavender writing furiously by lantern light, her hair plastered to her face with sweat. Sounds—a mournful cry. Shouts. Birds.
