UndercoverHufflepuff and The one who breathes nitrogen (are you sure that's good for you?), you guys are my heroes! Thanks a ton for the reviews :) And as for your questions – Kartik will be in this story, but about escaping the tree – you'll just have to wait and see…
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Gemma Doyle books – I am just an obsessed fan who finished the book a few weeks ago and is using this story to get over Kartik getting…uh, well… sucked into a tree. (Yeah, I know-- Awkward.) I figured that if I write a new story I could control what happens to the characters… (yay, the control is mine! See? I'm evil..)
So rest assured. No one is going to be eaten by a tree in this story.
_/_/_/
CHAPTER ONE
Dawn
November 10th, 1912.
In my dream, I am a bird.
I am flying over an expanse of land, sailing through the sky with unnatural speed. I fly effortlessly through a cloud, little droplets of moist clinging to my feathers. I fly lower, lower, until I am just grazing the tops of the buildings and trees with such grace I could only muster in dreams. I am in euphoria, drunk by the rush of the air through my lungs. But as my mind clears I see myself flying towards a building – a huge clock – and I cannot bring myself to a stop.
"Dawn!"
I bolt awake, my head banging against the branch I've been leaning on. My legs dangle underneath me, and for a second I think I am still flying. My head turns from side to side, wondering where the looming clock-tower went. But then my sense returns and I'm back on the tree I climbed onto before I fell asleep. I search for the source of the voice that called me, rubbing my forehead where I could've sworn – just seconds ago – I rammed headfirst into a clock.
"Hmm?" I loop my legs around the branch and let myself drop, only my legs holding on and keeping me from falling. My head and arms poke out of the thick leafs, and I find myself face to face with an upside-down Greta.
"Hello, Greta!" I smile with all my charm, but then I realize she's seeing me the other way up, so I frown.
She shakes her head. "I knew I'd find you here, up in your tree again."
"Oh, you know me so well, Greta," I sooth. The blood is pouring to my head.
She pinches my cheeks. "Since the day you were born, an' you looked just like this then, all red and pinched. I would've thought something would change in fifteen years."
"Sixteen," I say.
"Almost," she corrects me. "Now get yourself down here and make yourself presentable. Someone's asking for you."
I throw up my arms and catch the branch, letting my legs fall first. I land with a bit too much force on the ground and in result I loose my balance and fall backwards, on my behind.
Greta chuckles. "Still got to work on the landing, eh?"
I put on a sour face and straighten my skirt. It is so wrinkled I'm afraid I'll have to put it in an oven to iron it.
"Who's asking?"
"Some English fellow. Knocked on my door and asked if the girl next door was around. Had something strange 'bout him, I'll say."
"Ah, the English," I say. "Such strange habits. Haven't you ever wondered why they insist of having that huge clock of a tower? It's a nuisance, just asking for a bird to hit its head on it."
"I see you've no need to remember you are English, too," she mumbles.
"But really, how many birds do you think get caught between the hands?" I flatten my curls and wipe some leafs off my arms.
We walk towards my house, where I spot a man standing at the doorstep. He is wearing a black cloak and a dark cap covers half his face.
"Dawn Doyle?" He asks as I reach him. He has a thick English accent.
"The one and only," I say. "And you are?"
He looks past me, to where Greta is standing.
"Just an old friend of your mother's," he says.
Mother is at the store. "Shall I call her?"
He shakes his head, and for a second I see brown hair escaping his cap. He leans in and whispers so only I could hear, "you know of the realms, I s'ppose?"
I nod slowly. To Greta, I say, "Thank you for calling me, Greta. We'll see you at dinner, yes?"
She hesitates, but then nods and turns away towards her house. I wait until Greta is in her house before I speak again.
"Yes?"
He looks at me, his brown eyes searching. He looks middle aged, maybe half a decade older than Mother.
"I imagined you taller," he says.
So nice of him to point out my height, I think. I raise my eyebrows.
"Who are you?" I ask, in what I hope is my most demeaning voice. Not that a small sixteen year old girl can be of any threat to him.
"I told you, a friend. Have you ever entered the realms?"
He has been here only two minutes and already he's hit my two weak points. "No."
He nods. "Good."
And then he's already going, not waiting for my reply. I try to call after him but he is gone, disappearing behind a group of houses.
I stand where I am for a moment, and then I am off running towards our store. My feet hit the pavement lightly as I run, and I let my head rise and my curls fly about my face.
I love running. I love to feel the air rushing to my face. I love the way it makes my breath short, the exhilaration it sends through my body. I can outrun everyone I know. For as long as I've known myself I've been running. From what, I don't know.
I reach our store and open the glass doors. It is a small, cozy store painted in pale yellow and orange. At the counter there is a display of Indian food, all made by Mother and me. I look around. The place is empty apart from us.
"Mother?"
She is sitting behind the counter, a book in her lap, but I can tell she is not reading. Her green eyes I inherited burn a hole in the book's page and her golden red hair hangs loosely around her face.
She looks up from her book. "Yes, love?"
"The strangest thing just happened," I say, and I tell her about the man.
When I am finished she raises her eyebrows, wondering. "A friend? I don't know who he could be."
"Perhaps the Order sent him to guarantee you are not teaching me to enter the realms?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No, I am in correspondence with the Order. They know I will only allow you to enter the realms when you are sixteen."
Until I am sixteen – that is how it has always been. All my life I've been waiting for the day when I'll turn sixteen, when I'll finally be able to see the realms and its magic I heard so much about. Ever since I remember myself the knowledge of the realms pulsed in my veins. I do not recall the first time Mother told me of the realms. It is part of me, that knowledge, just like the magic is part of my mother. Over the years I heard more and more of Mother's adventures, of her friends and of the Order and the Rakshana. I've been there when Mother worked hard to put the Order back together again, when she made new alliances and new rules. I've listened to her speak of her meetings with the realms' creatures after every time she entered the realms. I've watched her learn from the past to change the present, and I've watched how she slowly built a new future.
One of the new rules is that girls shall not be allowed to enter the realms until they are sixteen. So I've watched how my mother went into her room and entered the realms without me, night after night. Once she would enter almost every night, though gradually it became every week, and now it is maybe twice a month. But there is one day she always enters the realms, every year – November tenth. Today.
"Never it matter, Mother," I say. "I have promised Greta we will have supper with her, and we shall be late if we don't hurry."
She gives me a smile, but her brow is furrowed, thinking of an explanation.
"Someone knows of the realms, and he's from England. But why is he here? I think I shall ask Mrs. Nightwing when we go to England."
England. So much power to one word that fills me with exhilaration and dread. We are to leave New York and go to England at the end of this month. I had agreed to this, wanted this, yet the thought of it makes me apprehensive. I know some part of Mother longs for England and for her friends there; and some part of me longs to be there, too. That is where it has all started. I want to see it for myself, to find my destiny there.
But England is different, I know. In England I will be a Miss Doyle, my mother – who has taken her name and uses it as a married name – will be Mrs. Doyle, sister of the honorable Dr. Doyle. I will have to fit into the tight corset of the society there. I will have to have manners and etiquette; I will have to learn to be a lady. And that, dear God, is what scares me the most.
_/_/_/
Greta's cooking, as always, is delicious.
We eat supper and talk of my studies, of Greta's new deliveries and our plans for England.
"I'll say, that babe really wanted to come out," Greta says. "But don't worry, Dawn, not as much as you. I've never seen a baby as anxious to come out as you were."
"Always so impatient," Mother says, rolling her eyes.
We both know what she means. The only thing that ever stood between us was the realms. I have been angry with her, at times, because she wouldn't let me accompany her to the realms. It was my impatience that leaded to our arguments.
We talk of everything, Mother and I. Well, almost everything. There is one topic I know not to approach, for I see the pain in her eyes when I ask her about it, and I don't want to cause her any harm. It is an unspoken boundary we mustn't cross. Yet sometimes, she could just be looking into the sky and then start talking about him, saying words that don't make sense to me but mean the world to her.
"So… Ten more days," Greta says.
I feel a pang of sadness and guilt. Greta has been delivering people new life, granting them with a new light and hope, when she has never gotten one of her own. She lives alone in her house; a house that is too big even for her plump size. I feel horrible for leaving her. I will miss her dearly.
"Yes," Mother says quietly.
This is followed by such an intense silence that even the rustling of the leafs outside could be heard.
"Greta, I—" Mother starts.
"There is no need, Gemma. Let's not talk of it now, shall we?"
"Thank you, for everything." She takes Greta's hand in hers. "I must go, see you tomorrow."
She rises and turns to exits the room. I know where she is going, but Greta could never possibly guess. She nods, "Take care, Gemma."
"I will," she says and leaves.
Greta and I are left alone in the room. She pours herself a cup of tea and offers me some, even though she knows the answer.
"No thank you. I don't care for bile, tasteless tea." I say, stating the usual answer.
"Oh, but you could add sugar," she says and hands me a sugar bowl. I hesitate but then take a cup of tea, adding two full spoons of sugar to the boiling essence. I sip the top of my tea. It is pretty good, and it makes my throat warm.
"See?" Greta says, taking a sip of her own tea. "Isn't it such a shame never to try things when you could just add sugar to make it taste better?"
I nod. We sit in silence sipping our tea.
"Greta," I start, "what will you do when we leave, who will you make all your delicious food for?" I say it as a joke, but as it comes out I realize how true it is. Greta smiles sadly.
"Oh, there are always new babies being born, old babies leaving. There will always be someone in need of my food. That is the way of the world." She says and I suspect that we're really not talking about food.
"Or," I say, "you could just eat it all yourself."
She pats her round stomach and a laugh escapes her throat. "Ah, Dawn Doyle."
"The one and only," I say.
"Yes, the one and only. I will miss you, Dawn Doyle."
"I will miss you too, Greta."
She gazes out the window, where a steady drop of early November rain has started.
"I have known you since the day you were born, Dawn. And you know what I thought when I pulled that little head of yours out?" she asks.
"What?"
"I was thinkin'--'why, this one is going to make a difference'. Do you know how I knew?"
I shake my head.
"You were so anxious to come out, so anxious to live. Nothing could change your mind."
I look into her eyes, those two pools of blue water. "You're right," I say, and I know we are talking not about the past, but about the future; about what is going to happen in ten days. Nothing is going to make me change my mind about going.
"Promise me two things, Dawn. When you go to England, no matter how many dresses they force you to wear, and how many fancy words you need to use, don't ever forget from where you come from."
"I promise. Don't worry, I won't forget America."
"No, not America; don't forget where you really come from, who you really are." She says, and I suddenly wonder how much she really knows about us, if she had ever guessed.
"I won't," I promise.
"Good," she nods.
"And the second thing?" I ask.
"Don't ever enjoy the food there more than you enjoy mine, understood?"
"I won't," I say, "I never will."
_/_/_/
I lay awake in my bed. I can hear the pounding of the rain on our little house. It is a steady, never-ending rhythm. I think of what awaits me in England. I've only been there once, when I was four, for my uncle's wedding. I remember traveling in the sea, and I can recall vaguely the outline of the houses there. But more than anything I remember Mother's face when she embraced my brother, how she said to him; "how did you get that poor girl to marry you?" with a toying grin. I chuckle. I've heard many stories of Uncle Tom's arrogance and quest to seek a wife with a personal fortune. At the end that was what he had gotten, and there was no one more surprised – and happy – than my mother about it.
We are to spend the holidays with Uncle Tom and my three cousins, but also with someone else who will come to visit. I know who she is, and it makes me giddy with anticipation. Felicity Worthington.
I hear the door to my room creek open. Mother – she's back from the realms. I turn my head towards her.
"Mother, could you come here for a moment?"
She sits on my bed and strokes my hair, and even though it makes me feel small again, I like it. I wish I could spend eternity lying here, with Mother stroking me and keeping me safe.
"Remember how we used to sit like this and I would tell you bedtime stories when you couldn't fall asleep?" She asks.
I nod. "Yes, and sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night from a bad dream, and then you would always tell me it was only a dream."
"And then you would say that it wasn't a dream, it was real. I had so many sleepless nights trying to convince you that your dreams weren't really happening."
I smile sheepishly. "Sorry."
She ruffles my hair. "That's what mothers are for."
"Mother, do you believe in dreams?"
"Yes; no – maybe. The border between dream and reality is sometimes so thin that one doesn't know what to believe anymore. "
"I believe in dreams."
"I know you do," she says quietly.
"Tell me about Felicity Worthington," I ask.
In the dark I see the outline of her faint smile. I have heard so much of Mother's friends, yet I can never get enough.
"Felicity is the bravest person I know. She was broken time after time, and yet she still kept going. She didn't give up until she found what she was seeking for. Oh, but she was such a rule-breaker! She was the gossip of the day, causing scandal after scandal with her own charming talent. Have I told you of the time she came up with the idea to make Ann a long lost niece of a rich Duke?"
"Yes."
"Ah, Ann. I miss her dearly, too," she sighs.
"Do you think we'll be able to se her in London?"
"I hope so. She is scheduled to perform there around the holidays, but with Ann, you never know where she could be."
I have seen Ann perform in a musical once, when she came to perform in New York. I remember being dazzled by her voice, the sweet and humble thing that holds so much magic. She is not world-wide famous, but Mother says she has fulfilled her long time dream, and when I've seen her, she seemed content.
"Ann, sweet Ann," she says. "We called her the clever one. I watched her defeat her fears and stand up for herself. I was there when she learned to love herself the way she was. She was never as beautiful as Pippa, but she had a beauty of her own."
"Pippa Cross," I say quietly.
There is a distant fog in her eyes. "Pippa… Beautiful Pippa. Always having to live up to her family's expectations, always having others control her course of life. She made a choice, she took hold of her life for the first time, and then… Then we lost her to the realms. The lust for power was too great for her and she became someone else, only the power of her love keeping her from disappearing completely. She wasn't ready for the power."
"Am I ready?" I ask.
She moves a stray curl away from my eyes. "Yes, you are."
I nod. I hold the pendant she gave me a year ago close to my chest.
"And what about you?" I ask.
"Me?"
"Yes, what about Gemma Doyle, the last part of the puzzle?"
Her eyes gaze upwards, thinking. "Gemma Doyle… She was the mysterious one. Many knew her in different ways— Lady Hope, Most High, Priestess… But to tell the truth, she was just herself, just Gemma. Sometimes she didn't even know who she was."
"I know who she is," I say quietly. "She is my mother, and I love her very much."
"Yes, I am. " She says and smiles.
"And what about me," I ask. "Who am I?"
"You are Dawn Doyle. You are the beginning of a new day; you have a whole future to change and shine your light upon. You are my daughter, and I love you more than anything in the world."
I embrace her. Her hair covers my face and I inhale the scent of her, savoring the moment. Times are changing, I know. I cannot let go the feeling of dread that creeps up through my throat, the feeling that nothing is ever going to be the same after England.
"Sweet dreams, Dawn," she says and kisses my forehead.
"Sweet dreams," I say.
_/_/_/
Tadam! So, how do you like Dawn? I tried to make her voice different from Gemma's. How bout her name, do you like it?
Anyways, did anyone of you notice it was Karik's birthday? And when Dawn says she believes in dreams it's like what Kartik always said in TSFT.
Tell me what you think! (Pretty pretty please?)
