She comes to me, her red hair blowing in the breeze. She seems paler in skin but more vibrant in hair. Her features, which had before been so soft, were clear cut and vivid. She seemed distressed, her hands reaching out to me, her mouth moving. I try to hear what she is saying, but the breeze grows stronger, turns into a fierce wind, a gale, a storm. Rain falls, starting as a shower, almost indistinguishable from the breeze itself, but now raindrops fall like bullets, peppering my skin and dress and hair, so solid they hurt. She starts to scream, to point to something behind me, and yet I find that I am unable to look, unable to see. The storm is blurring my vision, the raindrops mixing with my tears of frustration. My dress it sodden, and the water runs in rivulets off my skin, but I hardly notice that at all. I notice my mother, standing screaming a warning out that I cannot decipher. Then the wind whips suddenly and I am cast to the floor, where I am held fast by a thousand invisible hands, over my nose, over my mouth, and suddenly I'm being dragged through time itself. I see the clouds, so fast they blur into one. I see the seasons, the leaves on trees blooming and living and falling and dying, blooming and living and falling and dying, bloomingandlivingandfallinganddying. And suddenly I'm back, on the floor of the forest, crunching leaves beneath my head and my arms and legs thrashing wildly. He is holding me down, his entire body pressed into mine so that I cannot move. His hand is still over my mouth, and as I still and my eyes open I can see the terror in his.
"Gemma, Gemma, please."
I begin to slow my breathing, which is an almost painful process. His hand retreats from my mouth, but as I prepare to start screaming, it reaches back out again and catches me by the throat. I have never been so terrified in all my life.
"You dare scream, and I will kill you right here." He pulls out a silver dagger, which glints as the autumn sunshine hits the blade. He places it slowly, deliberately, under my ribcage, angled in.
"So, Miss Doyle, do you want to call my bluff?"
The fear and concern that had flooded his eyes is now gone, only to be replaces by something cold and sharp and hard and harsh. Danger. He pushes my head back to the ground, and I whimper slightly. He does not release me; instead, he laughs quietly and digs the blade ever so slightly harder into my stomach.
"I have news concerning your mothers death, Gemma Doyle, and you better listen to it, otherwise you will die. Do you understand? You. Will. Die."
But I cannot concentrate on that, because, if I close my eyes, I can see her again, and this time she speaks to me and I can hear her.
"Find her, Gemma. Find her. Tell her I'm sorry. Oh god, please tell her I'm sorry."
He releases me when the tears form: he thinks he has hurt me more than he had meant to. He pulls me roughly to my feet, but I just collapse again. He sighs, and pulls me up into his arms, before carrying me back to the edge of the forest.
"Gemma, I will be seeing you soon. And I'm afraid that I will be carrying my knife at all times, so ... be warned." He drops me to the ground, turns, and walks off.
Dinner is uneventful: it would take a great deal to unnerve me after the events of the evening. Ann sits shyly next to me, and I fear I may have made an unwanted friend, but I am polite enough. She seems to be more amicable than earlier on, and tells me about the traditions and habits of Spence girls. I listen, nod occasionally, and smile when she makes small jokes. I find that she is rather clever: she tells me that the other girls in the class tease her for it. I learn about her too: how her favourite colour is purple and that she has always wanted a pet rabbit, and that she hates her weight. In exchange, I tell her about my life in India, and, as the meal wears on, I find that I have most of the table captivated. I am confused, at first, because I cannot believe that I am the most interesting person at the table, but it soon becomes clear that the girls know about as much about India as they do about manual labour: that is to say, very little. My stories are like foreigners to them: they regard them curiously, half disbelievingly, and become wary of me as a result. But they are equally in love with the stories, each dripping with colour and spices and life. It seems that England is perhaps the most dull and uneventful place on the earth, with the possible exception of Mrs Merrifield's home back in Bombay. By the time we have finished, I have almost everyone in the room spellbound. Of course, not Felicity. Even though Pippa seems to be casting yearning glances at my table, she remains with her friend.
"Miss Doyle, it would seem as though you have rather a knack for storytelling." A tall, thin lady approaches me. I glance up, and smile. She is very lovely, with unruly dark curls, pulled back messily into a bun. She wears glasses, and a welcoming smile. "I am Miss Moore." I mumble something about it being wonderful to meet her, and she laughs. "I am sure." She says, irony dripping from her words. "You probably find me as boring as England. I just wanted to tell you that I am a teacher here at Spence. I teach art. It will be very interesting having a new face in my classroom. Do you enjoy the subject?"
"Yes, greatly. I am not so sure if my talent reflects this, though."
She laughs again, assures me that I am probably wrong, and retreats. Ann mutters something about Miss Moore being a breath of fresh air here, the only decent teacher. I am glad she seemed to like me, and I liked her a great deal. She seemed the kind of woman who wouldn't be shocked by anything, who you always knew would listen, who you are knew would believe, who you always knew would care. I watched her back as she leaves, and I wonder if my assumptions are right.
After dinner we have a little more time to spare. Ann makes for the great hall again, clutching her book, but I tell her I feel tired after the activities of the day, and I make my way back to the bedroom. I pass a couple of the younger girls on the stairs, who are yawning and stumbling into one another. I feel a wave of loneliness overcome me, and, as I close my door, I sit in front of the mirror and weep. I weep for my mother, my poor darling mother, her unseeing eyes fixed on something distant and dead. I weep for my father, left widowed and broken hearted, sitting solitary in his study and nursing the laudanum until it sends him into a cotton wool floating feathers drifting dreams sweet slumber. And I weep for myself, for finding myself here at this gloomy school in gloomy England, with my mother dead and my father ill and my brother cold. I weep for the vision of my mother screaming and crying and pointing, and I weep for her voice inside my head begging for someone's forgiveness. I weep for my helplessness, my hopelessness, my utter lack control over anything anymore. I weep because of the terror that I bottled up inside myself through dinner that now comes out in folds and floods and leaves my body curiously empty and hollow.
I look up, my eyes twinkling with the remnants of tears, and that is when I see him, sitting on the floor behind the changing screen. I gasp, for he is looking directly at me, with a peculiar expression on his face. He sees this, and stands suddenly, moving forwards towards me. I step back, terrified, and, tumble over onto my bed. He advances, undeterred by my whimpers of fear, and I back into the darkest corner of all England as he towers over me. I try to step, but quick as a cat, he is upon me, his hand over my mouth. He is straddling me, his dagger out and ready at my neck. His hand pushes me down into the blankets, and as much as I squirm and struggle he is unmovable.
"I told you I would be seeing you soon, Miss Doyle." He sits on my hips, pinning me down, and his eyes bore into mine as he leans down, further and further, until I can feel the whisper of his breath on my neck.
"Do you promise not to make a sound?"
Feeling helpless, I nod, and he seems satisfied. He jumps off of me gracefully, landing directly between me and the door. I am trapped, and he knows it.
"Miss Doyle, what did she say to you?"
His question catches me off guard. I am light-headed, and I find it a struggle to sit up. He is back, pulling me into a sitting position, and repeats his question.
"How do you know? How ... who are you? How do you know my name? How did you know my mother?"
He smirks, presses the knife close to my body once again. "I am asking the questions, Gemma."
"She said... she said to find someone and tell her that she was sorry."
"That was it?"
I nod.
He sits back, gazing pensively at me for a second.
"Gemma, I knew your mother because I am part of an organisation that ... your mother was not as she seemed. You had a..." Here he stops, shakes his head. "That is for her to tell you."
"What was that shadow, that blackness, that almost got my mother?"
"That is what I was trying to protect her from."
The rage bubbles up inside of me and I find I am powerless to stop it spilling out. "Well, you didn't do a very good job, did you? She's dead!"
"You think I don't know that?" His voice breaks, and I wonder if he feels regret. Feels remorse. I gaze upon him, and I find that I am seeing him for the first time. He has darkened skin, an olive colour, and I wonder if he is from India. His glossy hair falls in curls around his ears, down his neck. His eyes are huge and black, achingly hard and meltingly soft at the same time. I notice, a curious feeling growing in my chest, that he is handsome.
"Are you Indian?"
He glances up at my question, but then shakes his head. "Not originally, no. I have lived there a long while, protecting your mother. But I am from the gypsy camp in the forest. That is how I know her."
This confuses me, as I did not think my mother had any connection with this place. Perhaps I am wrong.
"Gemma, your mother made a huge mistake. One she has been paying for ever since. She was never able to undo her wrong, and I am afraid that the responsibility has now passed down to you."
I think for a moment, wondering what my mother could ever have done. She was perfect.
"I don't want this responsibility. I have no obligation towards it. Or you."
He laughs bitterly. "I am afraid it is yours, whether you want it or not. There is something about you, something special. I do not know what it is, but ... your mother made it very clear that you had a path that you had to travel. You have to fix something. She spoke of wonderful things, marvellous things. The realms, true freedom, things we could never know here. Something had happened there that she had never forgiven herself for. You have to go and mend them. That is the first step."
He spoke quickly, but I understood none of it. My mother had always seemed magical in my eyes, but she had been so sensible and practical and calm. She listened to the Indians as they spoke of their magic, but I knew that she never really believed any of it. She was the one who convinced me that there was no monster under my bed or witch in my wardrobe. She lived here, in this world. She believed that there were no others. She didn't believe in any such thing. I know she didn't.
"I'm afraid she did, Gemma." My head twitches as he says this. I hadn't been speaking out loud.
"That doesn't mean that I can't hear you."
I stare at him in fear, and try to clear my mind. Pathetically, my mind races out of control, thinking wild things, marvellous things. I think that he is handsome. His head glances towards me at this and he smiles slightly.
"Thank you."
I force my mind to think that I hate him. He flinches slightly and says softly, "I never meant to hurt you, Gemma."
"Then what was the bloody dagger for?"
He raises his eyebrows at my language, and smirks infuriatingly once again. "It was for protection."
"Mine or yours?"
"Both."
We sit silent for a few minutes longer. I clear my mind and try to consider what he has told me, but my mind keeps wandering.
"How can you do that? See inside my mind?"
"It is a skill I learned through a lot of practise and even more dedication." He turns towards me. "I can block it out, if you would prefer."
"I would indeed."
My mind feels deliciously calm and empty. He is gone, at least from there.
"Your mother had one more message for you." He looks towards me and I ask, "Which was?"
"The key is in the silver."
My blood runs cold, and he silently leaves.