It is when I am returning to the school, trying not to notice the tears pooling in my eyes and stumbling like lost little children down my cheeks, when the vision hits. Oh, and what force, what intensity, what strength. I try to resist, instinctively, and then remember my newfound knowledge and relax, floating desperately along the stream, but it is not enough. The vision is buffeting me about. Breathing is not an option. I stagger against a tree, hoping in vain to be able to get close enough to the school to scream for help. Yes. I wasn't thinking straight. Of course I wasn't thinking straight.
It was as though a hand had covered my mouth, my eyes, my ears, even the delicate curves of my nostrils, for suddenly the pressure is gone, and I am floating, suspended somewhere in times where there is no sound or sight or smell or taste. I cannot speak, but this does not matter, for who in the world is there to speak to?
My limbs are weightless and yet heavy. I cannot move them. And then it comes. Strangely bubbling, how I would imagine a pan sounds when it boils over. A clamouring, desperate rabble that rises and rises in volume until I can barely think. They scream and moan and sob my name – "Gemma, Gemma, help us, please," -, intermingled with the low, hoarse rattle of the injured and wail of the bereaved. So much sadness, terror, anger, despair, desperation. I am drowning in the Pandora's box of humanity. I cannot see them, cannot move, cannot feel them clinging like dirt to the end of my fingertips. All I can do is listen to their terrible pain and pray that this kills me quickly, for I cannot bear it any longer.
And then something clutches my hand and says – just says, no shouting or crying or swearing, simply says – "No." and I am back.
A worried gypsy stands over me. In his hand are a couple of dead rabbits, hanging limp and thin from his fingernails. His thick, dark eyebrows are foreign, speckled eyes betray his concern. He takes in my appearance swiftly, my muddied chemise, straining corset and wild eyes, and utters something in a thick, clumsy language that I cannot understand. Shaking his head, he stands, and then pronounces each English word as if it pains him.
"You are of the having fits?"
"Y-yes."
"You are friend of Felicity? Felicity speaks often of her friend with fits."
Pippa. Felicity has a gypsy, as do I, and she speaks with him of Pippa.
"I'm so sorry. I merely couldn't breathe up at the school, my room is terribly stuffy, and so I thought I would come down to the lake and try to ... cool myself."
I speak too fast for his simple grasp of the language. He frowns and shakes his head.
"I was very hot in school. The lake is cold. I came to swim."
"Ah. Water. Where are your clothes?"
His worried, puckered forehead and blunt question makes me smile.
"Up at the school. I was too hot. But I cannot remove my corset – my corset", and here I gesture to the hateful garment, "Because it is too tight."
He misunderstands, goes round to my back and begins plucking ineffectually at the laces. I gasp and jump away, my cheeking flushing crimson. Under the soft protection of night, they are secret. He simply frowns – again – and begins to talk in Romanian, as if to reassure himself that he is not the mad one. I try to smile, murmur, "I am alright", when he bellows "Kartik!" into the undergrowth. Jesus Christ.
"No, no!" I stammer, aware that the gypsy camp is all too near and there is no way the shout would not have woken him. The lungs on this man are quite something.
"I leave you with Kartik. He speak good English. Not me. I am just poacher. Sorry."
I have to thank him, even though at present I want to do no more than rip his silly frowning head from his shoulders. I am desperate for him to retreat, so I can slip off out of the forest and not have to confront Kartik. But he seems determined to wait with me until Kartik arrives. We are not brought up to expect such gentlemanly behaviour from gypsies, and it throws me. He settles himself on a tree stump, glancing over at me all too often. His gaze is soft and golden, gentle and unassuming. Certainly not the type I would have expected Felicity to toy with, but perhaps she revels in the gentle safety of his quiet hands.
It was not his voice that dragged me back from the multitudes. That voice was young and sweet, and the hand soft and small. I do not have time to ponder this new mystery. I do not have the energy.
Kartik can be seen through the trees. I tense, holding my breath instinctively. This will, undoubtedly be awkward. He will be cutting and calm, anger controlled so well. Too well. He will gaze at me with distaste; mutter something sounding polite but meant to hurt.
Emerging from the foliage, he is rumpled and bleary, his shirt creased and his curls sleepy. He blinks a couple of times, squints, opens his eyes wide and allows the surprise and the ... the 'something else' to flood them fully, and then he closes them, and when he reopens them, they are blank and flat.
"What is it, Ithal?"
He can see perfectly well what it is. It is me. But Ithal mutters to him in a low voice, shooting worried looks in my direction. Kartik nods, places a hand on Ithal's shoulder and thanks him, and the gypsy fades away into the events of this absolutely ridiculous night.
"Well, Miss Doyle, you certainly know how to cause a scene."
"Terribly sorry to have disturbed you, sir."
"Sir?" he smirks in disbelief. "Come now, Miss Doyle, you never show respect. Don't indulge me."
The words sting tears into the backs of my eyes, but I will not blink. "Believe me, I wouldn't."
"Tut-tut, Miss Doyle. Remember: grace, charm and beauty." He singsongs the motto in a posh, society voice. He is mocking me. I am itching to swear at him, curse and let fly with insults, but he would revel in my misbehaviour and taunt me till I wept tears of blood. I-can-not-win. None of us can. We are women.
"That cut is looking ... vivid." He pronounces the word with great relish, and I hate him.
"Yes. Unfortunately some bloody idiot earlier handled it quite roughly, and now it shall probably scar, which will be delightful. Of course, as to be expected with such a hideous facial disfigurement, I shall never marry, and end up an old spinster. With cats."
He laughs out loud into the night then, and I am flooded with affection for the way his eyes soften and glitter and the smooth curve of his full lips. He really is astonishingly beautiful.
"Schoolgirls can be so melodramatic." This is more crude, vulgar and obvious a jibe. It hurts just as much, and I am filed with the longing, the intense desire to cause pain. As much as I can. Pure pain and hatred.
"Yes. Well, it is rather past my schoolgirl bedtime, and I do have a responsibility for my schoolgirl studies tomorrow, so I must be schoolgirling off now."
He smiles again, and reaches for my hand. I am transfixed. Is he going to apologise? Beg forgiveness? Mercy?
No. He takes my hand, drops to his knee in a parody of a bow, and kisses the thin skin that stretches across my light bones. The warmth of his lips lingers. It is all I can do not to burst into tears.
"Goodnight, Miss Doyle." He does not watch for me to depart, but instead turns and heads off into the darkness.
He would not even speak my name.
