“Dear Mademoiselle LeFarge,” I say, taking her hands.
“Miss Doyle? What—”
She is silenced by magic.
“You want to take Felicity, Ann, and me to the Egyptian Hall tomorrow afternoon. You’re desperate to take us. It will be…edifying. I promise,” I intone.
There’s a knock, and I break the contact with LeFarge just in time to see Miss McCleethy at the door.
“Gemma, you should be in bed,” Miss McCleethy says.
“Y-yes, I was j-just going,” I stammer. My hands shake. The magic has been stirred inside me now, and it wants out. I try desperately to keep it under control.
Mademoiselle LeFarge brandishes the leaflet above her head like a letter from a beloved suitor. “Isn’t this marvelous? A magic-lantern show at the Egyptian Hall tomorrow. I shall ask Mrs. Nightwing’s permission to take the girls. It promises to be most edifying.”
“A magic-lantern show?” Miss McCleethy laughs. “I hardly think—”
“See for yourself—the Wolfson brothers!” She shoves the advert at Miss McCleethy. “Miss Doyle brought it to my attention, and I am very glad she did. I shall speak to Mrs. Nightwing straightaway. Do excuse me.”
McCleethy and I are left alone.
“I’ll go on to bed.”
“Just a moment,” she says as I try to slip past her. “Are you ill, Miss Doyle?”
“N-no,” I croak. I don’t dare look at her. Can she tell? Can she read it in my face? Smell it on me like a perfume?
“This is rather sudden. I wonder how she came to be so excited about this.”
“Mademoiselle LeFarge l-loves that sort of thing.” I barely manage to say it. Sweat beads on my forehead. The magic wants out. I shall go mad trying to rein it in.
For the longest moment of my life, neither of us says a word. At last, McCleethy breaks the silence. “Very well. If it is so ‘edifying’ perhaps I shall come, too.”
Bloody hell.
Finally released from McCleethy’s stare, I stagger to my room, nearly retching from the power I’ve held back. I throw open the window and crouch on the sill, letting the soft rain pelt my upturned face, but it’s no use. The magic’s calling me.
Fly, it bids.
I stand on the narrow sill, holding tightly to the frame, my body bowing out. And then I let go. My arms transform into the shiny blue-black wings of a raven, and I’m soaring high above Spence. It is exhilarating. I could live inside this power forever.
I loop past the workers’ camp; the men play cards and box. Far down the road, a troupe of mummers wander, drunk, passing a whiskey bottle among them. I dart over to the Gypsy camp, where Ithal keeps watch and Mother Elena sleeps fitfully in her tent, mumbling a name that is lost to dreams.
There’s a light in the boathouse, and I know who’s there. I land, as softly as snow, and shake off my raven form. Through the grimy window, I see him with his lantern and his book. Will I have what I want?
I push through the door, and Kartik takes in the sight of me—face flushed, hair a ruin. “Gemma? What has happened?”
“You’re dreaming,” I say, and his eyelids flutter under my persuasion. When he opens his eyes again, he is in that twilight land between waking and sleep.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” I ask.
His voice is faraway. “I’m a danger to you.”
“Well, I am tired of the safe. Kiss me,” I say. I take a step forward. “Please.”
He is across the floor in two strides, and the force of his kiss steals my breath. His hands are in my hair, my head bent back, his lips on my throat, everywhere at once.
It’s only magic, not real. No, don’t think about that. Think only of the kiss. There is only this. Only this. Kiss.
His tongue slips inside my mouth—a surprise—and I pull away, frightened. But he draws me to him in another kiss, hungrier this time. He makes small explorations with the tip of his tongue. His hand slides down the length of my torso and back up; he cups my breast and moans. I can scarcely catch my breath. I no longer feel in control of this power or my emotions.
“S-stop!” I say. He releases me, and it is all I can do not to pull him back. “Sleep now.”
He settles to the floor and closes his eyes.
“Only pleasant dreams,” I say.
I slip from the boathouse, my fingers touching my kiss-swollen lips. And despite all the power I hold, I cannot possibly keep a satisfied grin from blooming there.
When we reach the Borderlands, the factory girls call out their familiar Whoo-oot. We answer in kind, and they appear, like magic, from the trees and brush. Mae’s and Bessie’s skirts are stained with dark red streaks.
