The dreams were unbearable. After a long day of studying, and learning, attending rather boring classes taught by rather boring professors, sleep comes very easily, as do the dreams. They are all the same. My wonderful, sweet, courageous Kartik, sacrificing himself for me. I rush forward to object, and he kisses me softly on the lips. Then he is gone, into the bloody tree.
Suddenly, the dream changes. We are in England, on Spence property, back in the woods, where the Gypsies used to camp. He is on the other side of the grounds, and I run towards him, and he towards me. As soon as I touch him, he vanishes. Then I wake, and I cry. I cry until there are no more tears, and my face is wet and aching with fresh tears and dry ones, until my eyes are so sore I can barely blink.
I awake from a bloody awful dream, and the crying starts. I look out the little window in my small New York apartment, and it is still dark, the great city is still sleeping. Through my grief, I figure I have at least an hour or two before I should be at the University. I don't change into new clothes. I sit on my small bed, not unlike the one I had at Spence, and cry. My sweet Kartik. My sweet, sweet Kartik.
Soon, the shuddering sobs reside into small rivulets of tears, and I decide I should get ready for the droning day ahead. I wonder for the thousandth time, "Did I make the right choice?"
I change into a new dress, complete with all it's undergarments. Unlike Felicity, I am not quite ready to give up the corset, the skirts, the petticoats, no matter how unendurably they annoy me so. Unlike Spence, my University does not have a uniform, we are free to dress as we please, within modesty. Mine own dress is a light pink, embroidered with an ever lighter shade of pink in the shape of flowers. I slip my half and Kartik's half of the worn out, red bandana into the strings around my waist of the dress. I tighten my corset, but only to the point that I can breathe very freely. I wonder why I bother with it at all. Grandmama would be shocked with the scandal of it. The thought brings a coy smile to my lips. It has been four months since I came to America, and I find I am missing England. America is grand, unlike anything I have ever experienced, but it is not home. I am even missing my brother Tom, but I barely admit this even to myself. My dear Papa is still living in India, he writes to me nearly everyday. He's found Sarita, our old housekeeper, bless her heart. They live together, and she takes care of him. I'm sure Mother would approve. I'm not sure if the relationship is…romantic. Oh, Fee would be delighted with the scandalous nature of it!
I gather up my papers, I had an essay to write for English on Women's Rights, and I am rather proud of it. My professor will be appalled, as he is a man and is quite against equal rights, but his helper, a rather charming Mr. Daniels, is all for it, even helping with protests in his spare time.
I leave a note for my landlady, a Miss Fallor, telling her I've gone. It isn't customary for all land owners to do this, but Miss Fallor likes knowing where her "charges" are, even if she isn't directly responsible for them. She reminds me a bit of Mrs. Nightwing. "Lillian," I remind myself. Miss Fallor mostly rents aparments out to young University attendants, such as myself and several others. All of us being so "young" (in her eyes, she is nearly forty), she likes to know where we are, like I said, so she makes us write notes to tell her where we are going when she is not around for us to tell her directly.
I carry my canvas bag with me out the door, into morning New York, where the paperboys are already at all corners, shouting their headlines and prices of papers. There are already many people out, enough that it is a bit hard to get to the University through the surges of people.
Finally, I reach my University, and I sigh. I go to my first class, Mathematics, and very nearly tear out my hair. I do hate math.
The day goes on, and finally, I return to the apartment. Days go by fast in America, it is nearly five o'clock, and I am starving. I throw my things in my apartment, then return downstairs, only to see Miss Fallor.
"Good evenin' Miss Doyle," she says cheerfully.
"Good evening, Miss Fallor," I said, trying to match her merry tone, though failing.
Miss Fallor notices. "Aww, why the long face, luv?" she asks.
I shake my head and smile tenderly. "I am just feeling a bit down today, that is all. Thank you, Miss Fallor, but I think I'll go and get something to eat now," I say, and smile at her for real as I step out the door.
"Careful, luv! Ruffians are comin' out!" she calls out after me.
I smile and nod and continue on my way. More so, Miss Fallor reminds me of a healthy mixture of Brigid and Mrs. Nightwing. The headmistress in her comes out when one of us gets into things she thinks we shouldn't be into. I would see that side of her nonstop, if she knew about my past.
My expression darkens. "The past," I spit in my head. I hate my past. It's brought me nothing but trouble, the magic especially. I returned it to the land, but a rather large portion of it still lives in me. It's hard to muster, but easily unleash able at times of great emotional distress. I'm surprised I haven't flooded New York during one of my morning fits.
I'm soon at a little pub I have grown rather fond of. In England, I would be ruined if I stepped foot inside this pub. But I am no longer in England, so I push open the door proudly and step inside, where I am immediately greeted by the pub owner, a fat jolly old man by the name of Mr. Daring. "Hello, Miss Doyle!" he shouts out, and I smile.
"Hello, Mr. Daring. Having a wonderful day?" I ask. He is one of the very few people I will allow to cheer me up.
"Ah, I have. Aside from a few bonker paperboys trying to start a fight in here. I told them to take outside. 'No fights in my pub!' I said," Mr. Daring tells me.
I laughed. "Indeed," I agree.
Mr. Daring nodded, smiling, a twinkle in his eye. "Have a seat, lovely," he says to me, mentioning to the stool in front of the counter.
I sit, and notice that the pub isn't very busy just yet. But I know, that the real rush wouldn't start until six o'clock.
"What'll it be, Miss Doyle?" Mr. Daring asks me.
I ponder over the menu, a bit conflicted. The chicken cordon bleu was heavenly, but nearly ten dollars, and I didn't have that kind of money.
I smile, spying an item that would be a bit messy, an cheap. "A chicken leg please, Mr. Daring," I order, and he smiled.
"Right away," he answers, and went to prepare my food.
As I sit there, waiting, I hear the bell above the door ring, signaling an entrance. I turn to see who it is, and it's two, dirty, bedraggled children. The eldest, a boy, looks a bit younger than me, perhaps fourteen. His skin is tan and marked with mud, his curly brown hair matted and a bit greasy, his shirt barely a shirt anymore, threadbare and ragged as it is, and his trousers are covered in stains. He leads a little girl, probably of about five, with the same long, curly hair as her brother, big sad, hungry blue eyes, and no shoes. Her dress looks sustainable, a deep blue with a brown apron, and warm. This boy clearly takes better care of his little charge than he did himself, and my heart goes out to the pair.
The boy takes his sister and sits her up on a stool, then he sits on one next to her. I hear them order a loaf of bread and a bit of water for the girl, some ale for the boy. I know it was all they could afford.
I decide to do something, a smile playing on my lips as the other pub tender went to make their food. "Give them the biggest, most delicious item on the menu, and charge them nothing," I tell the man, letting the magic loose, and a look came about his face, and instead of getting the bread, he started preparing a goose. I grin, remembering something Kartik had told me. "Gemma, you could change the world,"
One gesture. One person. One moment at a time. I thought that when I allowed the rubies to appear in front of that mud lark boy.
My grin fades to a small smile. What would Kartik say if he were here now? My lovely Kartik…how I miss him.
"Here you are, Miss Doyle," Mr. Daring says, placing my chicken leg in front of me, on a plate. "Anything to drink?"
"No, thank you Mr. Daring," I respond, smiling, as a bit tentatively into my meat. It is very good, just the right combination of white meat and dark meat, breading, and just a little grease. I am eating it with my hands. Grandmama would be appalled.
Then, the childrens' goose comes out. The little girl eyes it hungrily, expecting it to go past her and her brother to someone else.
When the man places the tray in front of the children, and says "On the house," the look in their eyes might be just enough to drive my nightmares away tonight.
I hope you liked it. Don't worry, Karmma will come into play soon. In the next few chapters, remember, I still need to think of a whole lot of freaky stuff to happen, suggestions are very very welcome!
