There’s a moment, a hardening behind his eyes, where I think he will disagree with me, force me to go with his plan. And he could. I’m in his home, under his protection. Lord Downpike’s words whisper mockingly: Is he taking good care of you?
And then, to my surprise, Finn nods. “But I insist on staying the night with you so that if anything goes wrong, I can wake you immediately.”
I beam, flush with victory, and then suddenly cold with second thoughts. Perhaps this was a battle best left unwon. As I watch Finn preparing the spell, I nearly stop him several times. But no. I will not run and hide any more than I must.
When all is said and done, the process is anticlimactic. He writes the symbols on the mirror, drops the powder onto it, and then sets it by my bed.
Eleanor sits up with a start. “Spirits below, I fell asleep. Magic is so dull. Now, if you two think I will sit in a chair and chaperone, you’re quite wrong. I’ll leave your door open and mine as well, but I am far too tired for gossip, so please do nothing interesting.” She kisses my cheek and then stumbles out of the room, still half asleep.
I sit on the edge of my bed, nervously eyeing the mirror. “Do you think it worked?”
Finn nods, but the smile on his face is betrayed by the line between his eyebrows. He hovers beside me and nods at the bed. “It would help if you went back to sleep.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” I climb back under the covers and lie down, feeling awkward and exposed. Finn sits in the chair next to the bed, watching me.
“I will never get to sleep like this.” I scowl at him, but the truth is I’m terrified. My hand aches with remembered pain, and I don’t think I can face it happening another time. I remember hiding in Eleanor’s armoire with Finn, how much I wanted to lean against him and let him hold me.
He has made a concession tonight. I can do the same.
I scoot over, leaving enough room for a Finn-sized body. I give him a look.
His eyebrows disappear beneath his golden hair. “Beg pardon?”
“I promise not to take advantage of you.” I try for a lighthearted laugh, but it falls flat. I switch to honesty. “I only want you beside me. I need to know—to feel—I’m not alone when I face him.”
He smiles, and I am relieved that it’s gentle and soft, a safe smile. He eases himself onto the bed, lying flat on his back, not touching me. I close the distance and lift his arm over me, resting my head on his shoulder. His hand comes down lightly on the curve of my waist.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I feel safer than I have in weeks.
“Don’t think I provide this service for just anyone,” he whispers back.
It doesn’t take long until I find myself on the black sand beach. I’m aware this time, none of the odd dream-forgetfulness of before, and my gut reaction is panic. But no. I am in control. I change my dress from the awful red one into one of my plain skirts and tops. The skirt has a pocket, and I push my hand into it.
I smile.
Lord Downpike is waiting for me at the table. I take my time and stroll toward him. A flicker of confusion shifts his face into something else, but it settles before I can process what it was.
“Do sit,” he says with his sharp smile.
I return it with one of my own, pull the knife out of my pocket, and slam it onto his hand, pinning it to the table. His wings spasm then disappear, and he looks down at his hand with shock and pain before bowing his head. I expect him to wail with anguish, but he looks up at me with a wry smile. “Very clever.”
“I’m a clever girl.”
“But it’s not enough, is it? It will never be enough. You can be as clever as the sun is bright. You can best all your peers in school. You can try and try and it—you—will never be enough. How does that feel, little rabbit? Knowing you will never truly be in control, never truly have power, simply because of who you are?”
“I think you underestimate me,” I say, but it comes out more timid than I want.
“I think you know I’m right. This isn’t your world, and it never will be.”
I look around at the beach. We’re in my dream. “Actually, right now this is entirely my world.” I pull a large meat cleaver out of my skirts. “You should leave.”
He laughs, hand still pinned to the table and then gives me a look I can only describe as . . . affectionate. “Well done.”
And then he is gone, and the dream is just a dream.
Twenty-nine
Dearest Mama,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am sorry not to have written sooner, but I was not sure what to say, nor did I want to have to tell you unless I was certain that it could not be avoided.
I have left the school. Circumstances rendered me unable to attend classes, and though it breaks my heart to have my months of hard work and studying count for naught, rest assured that I am continuing my studies on my own in a more rigorous structure than my professors instituted.
I know that you were against the idea of me attending school here. I had hoped to prove you wrong by excelling there and
I am sorry, the ink on this page seems to be running. What I mean to say is, I am grateful for all of the love and support you have given me, even when we did not agree. I hope to make you proud. I am staying at a new address, which is enclosed, at the home of a dear friend. Eleanor, who was recently ill, is staying with us as well and we spend our evenings in happy companionship.
The world is a much more complicated place than I used to think. I am trying to find my place in it. I miss you very much and wish you were here to chide me on my clothing choices and help me know what to do.
Your loving daughter,
Jessamin
P.S. I am delighted to tell you that Jacabo and Ma’ati, a lovely girl from the island, were married. They have found employment at the country estate of a wealthy lord and are happily settling in. Please congratulate his mother for me.
“Dashingly handsome,” Finn says.
“Beg pardon?” I blow on the paper to hasten the drying of the ink.
“You forgot ‘dashingly handsome.’ Dear friend is nice but hardly covers the extent of my qualities.”
Eleanor looks up from her own letter writing. “How did she describe me? Because I have always preferred my eyes to be referred to as the ‘color of a storm-tossed sea.’ If either of you were wondering.”
“You did not fare much better. In fact, I think I am ahead. I am a ‘dear friend,’ and you are merely ‘recently ill.’”
I push the letter aside and face him. “Reading private correspondence is in poor taste, Lord Ackerly.”
“Unless it is terribly interesting,” Eleanor says, “which Jessamin’s letters are not. Mine, however, are lurid tales of my near-death experience and subsequent sequestering against my will in the home of the mysterious and brooding Lord Ackerly. I fear I may have given you a tragic past and a deadly secret or two.”
“Are we staying in a decaying Gothic abbey?” I ask.
“Naturally. When I’m finished, there won’t be a person in all the city who isn’t writhing with jealousy over the heart-pounding drama of my life.” She pauses, tapping her pen thoughtfully against her chin. “I don’t suppose you have a cousin? I could very much use a romantic foil.”
Finn shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Alas. As long as I’m not the friend who meets a tragic end that brings you two together forever through shared grief.” Her line meets dead silence, and a sly grin splits her face. “Oh wait, I nearly was.”
“Horrible girl.” I tug her ear as I walk past. She yawns, though she has only been awake a couple of hours. She writes more letters than anyone I know, and it seems to exhaust her.
I, however, am well-rested. Several times Finn has asked after my dreams, which have remained free from cameos by Lord Downpike for the last two nights. I think he is not one to pursue something when he no longer has every advantage. I suspect Finn’s inquiries have more to do with the fact that he no longer has an excuse to stay in my room at night.
Perhaps I could make up more bad dreams.
No. I need to get some air. I need to do something—anything—away from here. Even three days trapped inside has been too many. Finn is in and out all the time, making appearances at various social engagements, keeping up connections, trying to keep the scales tipped toward peace, but Eleanor and I are utterly homebound.
It reminds me of a game all the children on the island played: Fox and Rabbits. There was a free area, the rabbit hole, where you could hide and be safe from the prowling child playing the fox. I never used it, no matter how many times I was caught. I loathed, even then, to pretend at hiding rather than running free and taking my chances.
I pick up today’s newspaper and leave the library and its perpetual sunshine. I am in the mood for a bit of drab gray. The washroom suits my craving for privacy and I sit in a chair next to the window, idly scanning the paper.
An article referencing Melei catches my eye. I frown, skimming, and then read the whole thing start to finish. It is written by none other than my father, a fanciful and horridly false account of the glorious era Alben colonization has ushered in for the poor, downtrodden, dirt-ridden natives.
“In closing, I would posit that, given the vast benefits seen in every aspect of life on this primitive island, the effects of an Alben system of government and oversight cannot be overestimated. Consider the colonies a case study. If such a savage people can be so improved, the patriotic Alben cannot help but envision what our impact could be on civilized countries’ fertile grounds.”
Practically blind with fury, I storm back into the library and throw the newspaper onto the table. “Have you seen this?” I remember now the girl in my class referencing his newspaper articles. I’d never bothered to look them up.
Eleanor glances down and then goes back to her letter. “Oh, that? He’s written a whole series on it. Terribly dull. Read the Society section instead.”
Finn picks up the paper and reads the article, the frown line deepening between his eyebrows. “A series?”
“Hmm?” Eleanor sets down her pen. “Yes. Most of the time he picks a specific negative aspect of native culture that the colonization was able to correct, and then compares it to a continental country and what could be done to improve their social systems or methods of government. I only know because Uncle insists on reading them aloud to Lady Agatha and then asking her opinion, which is always the same: ‘I think I will order a new hat.’”
I pace in a rage. “Of all the self-righteous, culture-blind, arrogant twaddle! I have half a mind to go to his office and box his ears!”
“Jessa.” Finn’s voice is soft, lacking all of my indignation.
“What?”
“I think we ought to call on your father.”
Eleanor drops her pen, leaning in eagerly. “To ask his permission? I have a list of requirements for the colors you may use at the wedding. My complexion ought to be taken into account. It’s only fair.”
“For spirits’ sake, Eleanor, I would not give my father the honor of asking his permission for anything. We’re going to box his ears! Yes?”
Finn doesn’t smile. “I’m concerned about the tone of these articles. I would like to ask your father about them.”
“I can think of any number of things I would rather do on my first trip from the house, but if it gets me out, I suppose it is enough.” The idea of going back to the school fills my chest with an ache. It was often awful, but it gave me purpose. I don’t like being caged, don’t like the sense that by sitting here being safe, we still are doing nothing to remove ourselves from Downpike’s claws.
Finn takes his cane and puts on a hat. It emphasizes the dark curves of his brow, the line of his chin, and I suppose that being locked in a house near him has not been all bad. Indeed, I think it a good thing Eleanor is here as a nontraditional chaperone. Finn catches my look and a secret smile pulls his lips.
I glance to the side, trying to hide my own smile, trying not to think about his collarbone hidden just under his shirt.
“I would also like to state for the record that I am happy to be godmother to your children, but they must address me as Miss Eleanor. None of those silly nicknames.”
“I don’t know what you are on about,” I say.
“Oh, please. Get out of here and into some fresh air before you two spontaneously combust.”
“Would you like to come?” Finn asks.
“No, unlike the pacing wonder that is Jessamin, I am content to sit inside all day, reading and writing letters and napping. I’m quite suited to a life of protective custody. Besides, Ernest might call later.”
We leave her with a promise to bring back a surprise, which she dictates should be fresh flowers, but not daisies or mums. Finn chooses a door that opens from the long, dark hall to a narrow alley crossing a street filled with vendors.
“How many doors do you have?” I ask.
“Right now, fifteen. Several are permanent, the others rotate.”
I nod, trying to remember the specific combination of symbols and elements needed to create a door between areas. I know I read it in one of his books.
“You’re talking to yourself,” he says. “Are you nervous?”
“To see my father? Goodness, no. I’m working out a puzzle. Hush.”
He’s quiet, watchful as we merge into the crowds of people traversing the sidewalk, men and women shouting and competing for attention over their wares. I feel safe here, far safer than I ever did at the symphony or gala. It’s easy to be invisible among so many people. Even I don’t stand out with my skin and hair amidst so many other transplants converging on this street. It smells of fish and wheat, and for some reason things feel easier here. Maybe because everyone is on equal terms. No one haggling has enough money. There are no manners, no formality. A woman has a baby at her breast, sitting on the steps to a money-exchanging house. A man and his girl lean against a lamppost, finding a private moment amidst such a public place to share a passionate kiss.