This is a Continuation of The Sweet Far Thing, because...I love Kartik? Yes, we will one day make babies together. But, here it is.
April 1896
Amsterdam, New York
There is a certain speed and rhythm that is set to every city, and although I've only just arrived in New York, I can already tell that there's an abstruse theme to the place, whether it be America or not. Those residing aren't necessarily stunned by my accent, while I am puzzled by theirs and have a tad bit of trouble understanding them at first. Some of the people passing have acquired a specific roll of the tongue when they say a long vowel, which bemuses me even though I stare at them with awe. With very little, but clad in a dress that Felicity and I both agreed in London was suitable for outdoor wear, I had only an adequate sum to keep my belly full and shoulders warm at night for the next month or so.
It's comforting to know that there are some English folk wandering about the Americas. They're easily detectable amidst the bustles of feet and floods of crowds. I'd never thought I'd be grateful for my bountiful height, what with it being unnatural in England for a woman to be so lofty, but now I am able to see over the heads of some women, but not a lot. And how I've always dreamed of venturing on my own! Without Thomas to patronize me, and Father in a safe environment, I've only to worry about myself and perhaps the well-being of my grandmother in that large estate all by her lonesome. And of Felicity and Ann? Well. They may follow their path.
And that Kartik….
I have had many a strange dream since his passing. The flower I laid by the entrance to the realms in the forest was the only memorial service I felt worthy of his sacrifice, and Felicity and Ann had both joined me, but nothing could suffice. The dreams I've had are queer and incomprehensible, though rather vivid in their message. They heavily involve Kartik. It's only of one thing—one simple, and yet immensely complex thing. They wake me at night and I am often sick to my stomach, but they continue to reoccur.
My mind set in a daze, I've clumsily forgotten where I am going. Stumbling over my feet, I put a hand on a nearby wall to steady myself so I don't further trip and crumble into a mess on my first day in New York.
"Need 'elp?" a young boy asks me, extending a congenial hand, a Herringbone cap donned on his head. A boyish smile crosses his face.
His thick Cockney gives me a reassuring bout of relief. "Thank you," is all I can manage, taking his hand and straightening my knees out so they aren't so weak.
"Blimey!" he cries, his cheekbones expanding in the grin. "It's a lady!"
Astute observation, I muse to myself with out enthusiasm. Is it not accustomed here to aid a lady in need? "And golly, you're a boy!" I snap back with a pretentious rolling of my eyes. "Aren't you a precocious one."
"Indeed, ma'am," he replies, removing his cap and putting a hand on his stomach, bending at the waist into a much exaggerated bow. "You fro' Lundun?"
With a nod, I commend his keen sense of depicting a person's ethnicity, though I keep trying to sidestep him so that I am not wrapped up in insolent conversation while I need to be somewhere. "And how intelligent you are for pointing that out so. But I must be off. Splendid time meeting you." Without waiting for him to answer, I jerk my head back to the road and pick up my pace so much that I am racing down the avenue.
"Seymour's… Lionel Seymour's…" I chant to myself, glancing up at the buildings to try to identify which is the one I'm looking for. The signs, the people, the noise, all begin to regulate with each of my steps. It's a wonder I've already been able to tune them out. And ah, here it is—Seymour's. A nicer place than I'd imagined.
Bringing up my hand in a fist, I connect my knuckles with the wood of the door to make an instinctive rapping pattern. After a moment or two the door is opened. I am greeted by an elderly man with a grey hook mustache and bushy eyebrows, the top of his head balding in age. "May I assist you?"
I, the woman who usually has no troubles at all when it comes to speaking to anyone, suddenly become the when-I-talk-to-men-my-hands-get-all-clammy-and-my-throat-dries-up-and-my-tongue-gets-twisted woman I am not aware of. This change catches me by surprise, but I am able to muster something.
"My name is Gemma Doyle—I send you a telegram not too long ago about obtaining a bit of value from this firm." Of course that is the complete wrong thing to say. I am not allowed to sustain a job like a man, let alone bring income. But the poor man owns a bookshop, and I shall have no problem being surrounded by such.
"Have you the telegram?" he requests, certainly to ensure that I am not a fake. I hand two to him.
MR SEYMOUR STOP I AM HOPEFUL FOR A JOB AT YOUR CURIO STOP I RESIDE IN LONDON STOP WILL BE ABLE TO GET TO NEW YORK STOP YOURS GEMMA DOYLE
I SHALL ARRIVE THERE SHORTLY STOP THANK YOU SO MUCH STOP YOURS GEMMA DOYLE
After a brief examination of the cables he welcomes me inside. The place smells of burning wood, cinnamon, and pipe tobacco. Putting the thing back into his mouth at his desk, he plugs it up with a few leaves of the tobacco and lights it aflame. A cloud of lucid grey flows from his mouth and puffs from his nostrils.
"What kind of work are you good at?" he asks.
It takes me a while to think. "Well," I begin under my breath, "what do you expect of me?"
He blatantly sets out the standards. "You must be able to read and alphabetize."
"That shall be fine."
"Very well. Have you anywhere to reside?"
"No, sir." Which is rather shameful, and I feel a heavy crimson blush rise and burn my cheeks. My emerald eyes are evasive, and I avert them to the ground, looking at my shoes before tracing the wood floor with my vision.
"So I expected, having you just come from London. There is an extra room in the upper quarters."
Having no interest in staying indoors, I begin to back toward the Dutch door. "Thank you, again, Mr. Seymour," I conclude politely. Making sure I've got the whole door and not just half of it so I don't got flying over the bottom half, I make my way back outdoors, taking in the differently scented air. London was always so misty; gloomy in their weather: the kind of weather that was usually rainy or cloudy, and the fog that loomed so near the ground was always irritating, prohibiting sight, and made the air as thick as cotton. Here, the air is much thinner and the sun is visible, shining and generating heat to warm my face. Yes, Fee and Ann would have a grand time here.
So would Kartik.
Feeling very accepted already in this fast-paced town, I do find myself to be fitting in rather well. These people seem to be the users of the same sardonic humor I sometimes let slip out, and I enjoy being alike and easily adaptable, but London. Never mind India where I was raised, but London. My second home, but the place I felt to the highest of my potential. No, Gemma. This is where you belong. In the conventional, the normal life. Leave the realms behind you. Leave your friends behind you. Leave Kartik behind you. Although that might take some time.
"Oi! Red hair!" someone screeches. Noting that I am the one in the sea of faces with the most prominent shade of strawberry I turn my head. No one seems to own up. No face matches the sound. "Oi! Gemma!" the voice finally catches the air again. Now that I am certain I am the one being addressed, I whip my head around to try to find the caller. This will drive me mad. The warmth of someone else's skin on my shoulder makes me turn again.
"Serves you right," she laughs when I gasp in shock. "You know I have the largest and loudest mouth."
"And the most gall! Felicity!" It takes quite a while to adjust to the new, picturesque view of the woman before me. No longer girls, we are ladies of pride having made our debut in front of Queen Victoria. At last she bundles me up in an embrace, and I awkwardly fold my arms around her as well.
When we pull away, the few moments of silence allow my mind to get distracted and say, "Look, Gemma! Kartik!" and I jolt my head past Felicity to see him.
"Gemma?" she asks, greatly baffled.
"Sorry," I answer directly back without skipping a heartbeat, glancing back to her. "What are you doing here? I thought you were going to Paris—weren't you the one who said you were going to make women wearing bloomers and trousers all the rage?"
With a trying roll of her eyes, she tosses a hand with the pettiest nonchalance. "Honestly, Gemma, do you not think that such glamour would not involve travel? I came to see you!"
And somehow I find that hard to believe. Felicity: the independent young woman of England coming to New York at the same time as I, just to see me? There has to be something more to this. "That may be so, but why else?"
"There has to be another reason for me wanting to see my best friend?" she inquires, insulted. Dramatic as usual, she carries a hand to her heart and glances away, stricken by the thought.
Placing my hands on my hips, I nod. "For you, Felicity—yes."
"Well," she begins unpleasantly, "in this case I would argue with you, but for your purposes, I will oblige." A grim, wry sneer passes over her face but disappears and she turns her head away from me, seemingly motioning to something to the side. From the crowd I somehow expect to see a dashing Indian boy, with dark curls and a charming smile, named Kartik, but my wish is not granted.
"Well?" I drawl, finding nothing as I dart my eyes to the left.
Relieving a sigh of frustration, she takes me by the shoulders and turns me. "Gosh, you are a bit weak in the eyes, aren't you, Gemma." Weak indeed. I can't see but a foot in front of me, the rest of my sight covered in people. Kartik, Kartik, Kartik, my mind chants. Kartik, where are you, Kartik? Come along, Felicity, this is a very lame practical joke—and quite the foolery you've pulled.
"All right, that's enough," I mutter as she snickers innocently. "Just tell me."
"That boy was staring at you." Her snickers morph into a hysterical giggling fit, and at last, just because I know now what I am looking for, I see the boy that helped me to my feet. "He does rather resemble a certain someone."
My eyes grow wide and a heavy blush rises to my cheeks and fills my face like paint on a canvas. "And just what makes you think he was certain and special?" I bark.
"Oh, come off it, Gemma. It was perfectly clear to both Ann and myself that you took him rather fetish." That devilish smirk of triumph and power elongates along her face. "I should say I would've liked to get to know him further. He seemed very interesting, and if our Gemma was so enthralled and enamored by him…."
I shoot my eyes at Felicity, the fire in them curious. "Why on Earth would you want to? He was cynical, he was spontaneous, he was…" Charming, captivating, alluring… my mind finishes.
"'Methinks lady doth protest too much!'" she recites with a chuckle. "Perhaps he held key information to entering the realms to begin with. We could've—should've—asked him."
"I can't quite easily believe that—he was rather dismal when it came to talking of such things," I swallow the last bit of my sentence. The thought of the boy brings a syrupy feeling to my stomach, coating it, until it rises to my chest. The simple thought of Kartik made my palms clammy and throat close up, but somehow I wouldn't pass up the chance to see him. Putting my head down so far that my chin touches my collarbones, I sigh, "It's too late now, anyways."
Tossing her head back, she groans. "Ugh—you're so desolate, Gemma Doyle!" she exclaims, taking me by the wrist. "Come along. We've the rest of New York to see! Trolley! Driver!"
Every season has a distinct smell. The summer scent is usually of humidity and flowers wet with dew, while winter is crisp and bitter, leaving the inside of the nostrils feeling very cold and airy after inhaling. But this is spring, which is the center of the year: the hardest smell to depict. In London, spring would come and go rather quickly, and I'd never have the time to think about how it smelled, but still it was common knowledge to know just that. It would smell like the breaking of a new era; sprouts of leaves and the rations of snow still melting into the ground. Here, I'm lucky enough if I don't get a whiff of the person standing next to me in the bookshop.
And in the dark, lying alone on the mattress with my face up, I lace my fingers together and put my hands behind my head—the ideal stargazing position. Since the death of my mother, I don't believe so much in the stars, nor the power they are sometimes believed to hold, like spirits of those passed. Destiny is also something more adrift, but somehow in my subconscious I find I have acquired a few scruples from Kartik: fate is unreal, but we can change, rearrange, and control our lives with what we believe.
It's ironic how we both ended up.
Felicity, having left for Paris once more, I assume is on seas as I glance out the window to my left, seeing very little of the stars themselves, though the moon is ever omnipresent. My mind cannot seem to ever get off of Kartik now—it is either the reason that I wish for his return much too badly, or I loathed him so much that I cannot help but how I would've loved to connect my knuckles with his jaw once or twice for his mediocrity. Or could it be excellence? How can I possibly be thinking of him so complexly, when he was such a simple thing to begin with?
A certain Indian proverb I had learned when living there returns. Where love reigns the impossible may be attained. The impossible had been attained in the realms, when he gave up his life. My mind still juggling each possible theory and morality, by some means I am stuck on the saying and its trueness.
The interesting dreams I've had with him in it have also been reoccurring. And with each progressing dream, they become more and more interesting. And each time I wake up, I'm drenched with perspiration. Now insomnia seems like a fine option for tonight, this day being the day most filled with thoughts of him. Perhaps I shan't go to sleep, and merely daydream for hours about him. Yes, that seems very nice.
Though around and hour past midnight, I can't keep up with that vow.
The terror and impulsiveness makes tears roll down from my eyes. Yes, to always be awake would be lovely. To escape from these dreams I've had so many times before—but still, with each one coming, I have the same fears—would finally make for a peaceful night's sleep.
My head feels light, so I turn over and close my eyes again to shake the feeling with a little doze, but not too heavy of one. Only as I do so, whether it is illusion or reality, Kartik is at my side, his body parallel to mine. Silent, I blink rapidly to make sure my eyes do not swindle me. And when I try to speak, nothing is emitted from my mouth. I can feel my throat try desperately to make sound, but nothing comes out. The face of Kartik does not flinch. He must either realize my troubles and does not react, or he is a figment of my imagination. I have a tendency to let my imagination run a ways, especially while asleep or in the realms, but I am not in the realms, and the sleep is questionable.
I thought I was safe from this torture in New York, but I deceived myself. Trying to shout again, my throat aching with each attempt, and soon I give up. It's no use. He can't hear me. He only continues to stare at me. When I reach for him, his hand melts beneath my fingers. He's like a cold wisp of the wintry air, and instead of the warmth I used to inhale when I was around him, I get that cold chill once more up my spine.
Tears begin to well and my blood boils. It's either fury or disappointment, but it's unclear. It's my mind again, playing nasty tricks on me and trying to make me remember the past. I know when it's a dream.
His face still unreadable with apathy, he reaches a hand to my cheek and I feel the fingertips gingerly brush. He utters my name only a few times, and as I think my tears will collide with his fingers, they slip under, as if he is some transparent, airy figure. I dry my tears on my own with the back of my hand. I can't remember much after that.
My first full day in New York has been pleasant so far, until Felicity makes a grand entrance into the bookshop and intruding on my work shelving written materials. "Why, Gemma," she complains in her whining voice, "why must we sit in this drafty old store when we could be out in the open, enjoying ourselves?" She pouts out her bottom lip, her eyes wide and sad, looking very much like a small puppy.
"For the seventh time, Fee, I've got things to do here," I reiterate, masking the irritation in my voice through my clenched teeth.
"Oh, but…Gemma." She changes to her sweetest and most loveable tone. "This is America!"
"I daresay it's no different than London—just stranger people." Stealing a glance out the window and seeing a few girls trying out bloomers, I mumble, "Much stranger people."
Taking her defeat, Felicity sighs heavily and plops herself in a nearby chair, swinging her legs over the armrest, leaning her elbow over the back. "Well, if we must stay cooped up in here," she abruptly leaps to another subject, "have you had any more dreams? Visions? Anything? May we enter the realms once more?"
This setback will come as a shock to the both of us—I myself have yet to comprehend it all. "I can't. None of us can. Not for years to come." She won't settle for this, and I add, "We've made alliance, the Winterlands are no longer dismal, and we've lost a good man there. I can't."
"That's poppycock, you cad!" she snaps angrily, jumping to her feet and approaching me so close that we are nose to nose. Putting my fingertips to her shoulder, I push her back.
"I know it's hard to understand, but please try. Try to understand where I'm coming from."
"And where are you coming from, Gemma Doyle? Have you lost your mind?"
"You don't understand the pain I would feel should I return."
She doesn't waste a second to reply. "The realms are our second home! We made friends there, and there I will be able to remember Pippa!"
"You mean the one who tried to kill me?" I snarl threateningly. "The one who took the life of a valuable mentor and teacher? The one you kissed just before she schemed against us? That Pippa? Oh, yes, that Pippa! You want to honor and remember that Pippa, Felicity—you're making a mistake, and turning your back on me."
Words are barely a warning for Felicity Worthington, but these seem to pierce her like I've never seen her hurt in my life. "You…you take that back!" she screams through the tremble in her chin. As if unable to hold herself back after I refuse to abide to her request, she gives me a good clout to my cheek. It stings at first, then burns. "Take it back, Gemma Doyle!" It's quite clear I shan't, and she turns away, folding her arms and scowling like a child. "Kartik wasn't much of a sacrifice anyways…" she grumbles under her breath.
Her comeback enrages me and I twirl her back around. "How dare you!" I retort. "Just because I say the truth and it hurts doesn't mean you have to target the one person who did understand me."
"And I didn't? I was there for you, Gemma, even when you went to the realms without me and Ann. Even when you fell to the deception of Simon Middleton's charm, I was there. And you feel Kartik—that Indian scum who never did as much as risk your life with the Rakshana—was your confidante?"
Perhaps we both have had our faults in this folding out, but at least I was not associating with a murderer. Pippa was corrupted from the moment she was deemed to the realms after her death. Kartik went for a noble cause. I shall never hold anything against him. Not even the dreams.
Though I must admit her answer to my spat has me at a loss for words. I can't come back with anything harsher, and to start spewing out nonsense would also make this worse.
"You're right in some aspect, I suppose," I relent with a sigh. "And I never did apologize for going to the realms without you and Ann." She waits patiently with her arms crossed. "I'm sorry."
"Think nothing of it, Gem. I've long forgiven you. I just wanted to hear you say it. And besides—he was rather handsome. I could see your devilish eye exchanges once in a while. I can see why you had a fixation with him."
"I resent that," I laugh, though we both know the truth from the heart-melting kiss just before he gave himself up for the rest of us in the battles in the realms. Oh, how quickly atmospheres are swayed with her adaptable moods. "A dream once in a while," the fib rolls off my tongue without my knowledge until it's spoken, "but we hadn't a fixation." Of course that is a blatant lie. I've dreamed many times, even while Kartik was alive, of us together, and we kissed many times, so saying we hadn't a fixation is in fact a lie.
Giving me a nudge, she goes on. "Well this is New York now, Gemma. It is a place for new fixations."
But I don't want a "new fixation." I want my old one.
"Yes," I emit morosely. "I suppose so."
Kartik, before he sacrificed himself for us, had promised himself to me. And I to him. To betray him in such a way would completely demoralize my trust in myself and my ability to keep promises. It would disgrace Kartik's name in loyalty and motivation. I can't find someone new. I want my Kartik.
"Are you almost finished in here?" Felicity whines. To add to her pathetic pleas, she chides, "You're always in here."
"I've been here but a day and a half," I remind her with a shift of my eyes. The day and a half that have been filled with more than half a dozen dreams and visions of Kartik and me—mostly together. "Relax."
At last her nagging gets the best of the situation, and she convinces Seymour to pardon me for a portion of the day to get to know my new livelihood and environment in America. On the way, Felicity announces that she is only to be in the States for not even a fortnight to pass. In fact, just half of that she has to spare. The rest of the next two months she plans to spend on a ship boarded for Paris, her original destination from Spence. Her leaving doesn't excite me—truthfully, I am rather disappointed. I will once again return to my life of solitude, stacking and shelving novels for an elderly man likely to die within a few short years, having only my dreams for company. At least, that's what I envision. It's not like I am hoping for a lonely life, but it seems the most practical, realistic, and promising. Besides. If I do only have my dreams, I will be with Kartik, and no one to tell me otherwise. That, at least, shall be a thrill.
When I return to the shop, I am alone. Felicity has gone back to her own housing, and I doubt I shall ever see her again. We've said our goodbyes, (of which she initiated) so I assume it was our last. Now with her gone, with could be either a benefit or disadvantage, I may try to enter the realms by myself. And perhaps…if I am lucky…I will see Kartik.
Night approaches with its habitual, easy reoccurrence. After Mr. Seymour bids me goodnight and I no longer see the flicker of the candle in the silhouette of his doorway, I lock up the front and back doors, adjusting my own lamp with a slight turn to dim it. Once the room is nearly invisible from to the human eye from the darkness, I, not very dexterously, collide with a bookcase as I try to make my way to the middle of the room to have the whole space to work whatever magic I still posses. I was told to use it wisely, for now that the magic has been bound to the realms and alliances have been formed, each time I use it, I lose it so very quickly.
Try to relax, I knit my fingers together in a weave before placing them in front of me and emit a heavy sigh of tranquility. Inhaling, I let the air flow deeply into the pit of my lungs before I dare to let it back out. I'm not sure if I am ready to return to the realms. Will I feel empty because no one will be there to greet me, or will I be fulfilled because I have gone back to the place I once felt so loved and at home? The unknowns taunt me for a moment or two until I dismiss them with a certain air of boldness and lay my hands at my sides.
I almost don't remember exactly how to go about getting back into the realms. I know there is supposed to be a door of light, but my recollections also tell me that I once had a very difficult time acquiring it in my vision. "What an odd sensation," I remark inwardly, though my face is expressionless. My emotions drive me, especially the stronger ones, to be determined in this simple quest. And how simple it may be; I can barely gather my thoughts back after I have begun to see imagery of the realms once explored. And how I long to see them again, not just in my memories. Memories are not acceptable enough for me anymore. I've become rather intolerant with memories—the things that I see over and over again, and I've memorized them over and over again. Somewhere in my memories, though, I know there is something hidden that can only be surfaced if I once again visit the realms.
And so I shall, not merely because I hate the irritation of knowing that I am aware of something subconsciously and am not able to bring it forward to my consciousness, but because that memory I know is something specific: something that I can't bear to live without. Something that I have to remember.
"All right, old girl—steady there. That's a girl." The quiet whispers that are nearly inaudible barely reach my ears for my own self to hear them as my throat chokes it out in an airy breath. To reach the door of light, I must picture the realms—focus on what I want and how I am to arrive there. So I picture and think of Kartik, the first thing that comes to my mind. I force a dry chuckle from my throat. I wet my lips. All right.
To suppress the temptations is impossible, and these are like no other. I don't care if I lose all my magic doing this. I can't stand being here knowing that there is another world that is easily accessible to me, the other world that I call my second home. At last I relent to all the feelings and sensations and thrust the magic fully upon me, letting it glide from my fingertips. I feel them warm and tingle, like pinheads on my skin.
When I exhale, my mouth rounded though the corners slide up into a smile, my breath is not cold from the air on Earth, but warm from the vast sum of magic whirling inside of me and being exported through that air. At first I see nothing. A few colors spark here and there, and the times I can capture them are miniscule, and I begin to feel disappointed. Have I failed? Can I not bring back the door? Such thoughts make the magic wind down, and my spirits fall with surprising weight and speed. I can't do it anymore.
This is what I have feared. The inability is too much of a strike to my heart to go on any longer. Opening my eyes, I hear the clock strike, and I realize I've been standing for over an hour already. My knees are locked but they are weak, and shake as the magic is no longer present. My stomach turns and yanks me forward with the jerk—the magic isn't gone, simply invisible: there, but undetectable. I grin. If I close my eyes…. I do. The feelings return. My heart sinks with shock to the pit of my stomach. I find it's hard to breathe. The silhouette of light in the shape of a door returns to me. I am completely succumbed to it. Daringly, my eyes flutter open, but I don't see the creeping shadows of bookcases in Mr. Seymour's shop. No, my eyes remain on the door and I run to it, and just like that, I am in the realms once more.
How much they've changed. And how much they've remained the same. With the Temple and castle in ruins, I imagine Pippa and the factory girls are still buried underneath the rubble and debris. Her deception was easily detectable, so I don't feel half as sorry as I know I should—it's a shame Fee couldn't see that.
The first name I call out is, "Kartik?" although I don't expect a reply. He's dead. He gave himself up for me. My blood was shed on these grounds, but he had a greater heart than even I, and put himself in my place. No sense in standing still, though, and I press on.
Even the Winterlands are beginning to green, I think to myself, cumbersome in my strides, as if I'm treading on this land for the first time, just discovering it—in this case, rediscovering—and I awkwardly move. Since the place is silent as the grave, I naturally assume that no one has returned yet. Pity…I had wanted to reacquaint myself with the friendships I once knew.
I feel a grin begin to spread, and reaching up to the back of my head, I remove my hair tie. The curls of red, each of their own, untangled but tousled, grace down my back and shoulders, as if to protect me. I dispatch the hair tie with a light toss of my wrist. The spot near the river still looks like the most suitable spot for sitting and having a daydream or two. I may even sleep while I am here. After all, time moves slower here. It's a never ending sequence. God, how I miss this.
Indulging myself, I lie down just at that spot, putting my hands over my middle and bending a knee to make for a very casual, lackadaisical position. It doesn't last very long when I begin to hear a voice. Voices again. I have begun to fear them, for whenever I used to hear them, they never delivered anything pleasant. Instead, all they were able to produce was conjectures of my doomed fate. Expecting something sinister, as usual, I am gaily surprised when I hear a warm inflection in the voice. Bringing myself to a stand, I don't turn my head, still wary.
"Gemma?"
Yes?
"Gemma Doyle?"
I am she.
"Gemma, it is you."
Yes. And who are you? My curiosity winning over my unapparent quality of better judgment, I spin myself around to see who is so persistently addressing me. The dashing young man standing before me, ebony ringlets framing his squared chin and high cheekbones, voice made of velvet ringing in my ears. My jaw drops open and my eyes pop open so that I believe they take up half of my face.
"Close your mouth, Gemma, you quite resemble a guppy."
Obeying, I still stare at him wordlessly. When I finally realize that it's not my imagination (as it sometimes tends to be; Grandmamma did always say I have a rampant imagination), my face breaks into a broad, gleaming beam. "How lovely," I remark. "You leave me for six months and when we finally meet again, I am compared to a fish. Well, Kartik. Did you miss me?"
That laugh. That smile. The chuckle doesn't last, but the elongated grin makes my knees weak and I want to collapse. How cruel he can be when he's not even trying.
"Shouldn't you like to find that out on your own?" he teases in return.
"Kartik," I say plainly, shaking my head slightly. "How have you escaped the Tree?" My brain finally prompts a question to get me out of my indecent staring.
His shoulders rise and drop in a shrug fairly quickly. "I suppose I was called upon." He smirks.
And you were. Dear God, you were. "I had to come back," I say, tiny in mind and soul. "To bear the burden I left with—knowing that you went instead of me—I just couldn't. Kartik, why did you do it?"
"Hadn't I already explained this to you?" Though his words might seem exasperated, his voice is soft and understanding, his gesture is calming me as he puts a hand on the side of my shoulder, fingertips only gingerly brushing there. "There is no reason to repeat myself." With one finger, he moves a shorter curl out of my eyes. "Oh, Gemma, I didn't mean to make your eyes teary. Please, don't cry."
"I'm not crying," I stifle as I wipe my eyes dry, letting not one droplet get farther than my lashes. What a pathetic liar I am. "Fine. Do not tell me. Make me suffer, Kartik." Hoping that somehow my passive attitude will get him to flourish, I take a step away and put my back to him.
"Oh, Gemma," he laughs heartily now. "You're so full of fire." He turns me back around and our eyes meet, mine no longer of anger or fury, his still soft and gentle.
It was easy to know before how we had promised ourselves to each other, silently—but we both knew. Heart beating irregularly, I lean upward and bestow a small peck on his lips, hoping I'm not kissing a spirit, that I will feel his body and not oblivion. "Oh, come now, Gemma," he says, "you can do better than that."
I don't know how long I stood there, sighing in rapture, sighing in his arms, and when our legs began to ache, we sat down. I don't remember what time it was when I finally had to say my goodbyes and return. I don't remember how hot I was being that close to him. I don't recall how many tears I cried when I finally did return and knew that that was probably the final time I would see him. I don't know how much magic I had left, if any, after that trip. I don't really remember…anything. And that is the part that pains me so.
Being covered by so many sheets only causes discomfort as I lie in bed above Mr. Seymour's shop, thinking of Kartik, and how I would've liked to spend more time with him. Why didn't I? Why did I leave so soon? You brainless fool, you, Gemma!
Because it wasn't to be. He's dead, for heaven's sake. You were lucky enough to have seen him after his death. Still I cannot sleep. Nothing will calm my mind. Nothing. Nothing will put my worries and thoughts to rest. I suppose…I am just that type of person.
A small sneer twists my mouth a tiny bit upward. Sitting up, I lean on my arms as they rest on the windowsill of the one to the left of my bed. It's probably best not to dwell on the things that I cannot change, but I could have changed them; somehow altered the way things turned out. And now nothing can be done about it. My magic is depleting (most likely entirely gone by now), thus resulting in the loss of the accessibility to the realms. The realms were part of me, part of my life, and now that they are gone, I have only Earth. But Earth will never, ever be up to par. My experiences in the realms are irreplaceable. My friends are irreplaceable. Kartik was irreplaceable.
All of that. Gone.
I feel my heart break—no, shatter—into a million pieces and melt all the way to my feet and out my toes. So much for my heart. It was filled with wonderful times, places, people, and now it's only grandeur. I shed more tears for a while before I fall asleep on the windowsill, emptied, and changed.