Thank you so much to all you for your gracious, and merciful reviews. I do hope you excuse the several inaccuracies in this chapter (I have yet to get my hand on a borrowed copy of 'Rebel Angels.') I also hope that you've enjoyed your weekend, and will enjoy the week to come!
This night seems to be one of the longest in my life, I decide, as I sit, weary, on tetherhooks, inside what appears to be a small, desolate cell with poor lighting, and foul, dripping walls.
I dare not rest my head on anything lest the delicious pull of sleep seizes me, and I note, with an ironic smile, that before my legs, lies a trodden sheet of bronze, bearing a crusty, half-eaten loaf of bread, and a small jug of water.
I turn the bread over with one distasteful finger, hunger no longer a matter of importance as I await Gemma's arrival and mull over the necessary details of my next task: to fully convince the stubborn, and headstrong Gemma Doyle that the suspicious woman, Miss McCleethy, is, in fact, a trusted ally, and that Fowlson, the charming fellow, does not truly wish to sop her up for tomorrow's evening tea.
Quite right. Success is indeed on the horizon.
I groan outloud at my great disfortune, listening afterwards, with grim interest, at my expressed consternation resounding hard and loud against the cold, slippery stone walls.
As the recurring echoes die and fade irreversibly into a fierce, stony silence, I can slowly make out the slight rustling of robes—the warning sound of hurried feet.
There is only but a fleeting whisper of absolute quiet, until the door to my cell is wrenched open, the latch creaking with a shrill, unsettling cry. Two shadowy figures break through the cloudy haze of dust and light like a pair of fractures, and I have to screen my eyes at the sudden, piercing radiance that makes my eyes water.
Kicking aside my bronze platter, one of the men seizes me by the scruff of my neck. Through narrow eyes, I note their sinister masks.
To my surprise, it is the last thing I note with my eyes, for the next instant all light, and all color disappears as a dark, chafing material is closed tightly over my face.
There is a fair bit of walking after said assault, and on more than one or two occasions, I cannot stop myself from stumbling awkwardly at the uneven stone flooring, nearly dragging the two masked escorts down with me.
Presently, we pause.
There is a faint scraping of locks, and hinges, and the two men happily resume their unrelenting pull on my arms, tossing me down against the cold, stone floor with such gargantuan force, I am surprised that my bones do not spontaneously shatter into pieces at the contact.
Testy fingers begin to prod maliciously at my face, and with a stifled anger, I sit there, attempting to ease their task with the blindfold by quickly angling my head.
"Kartik!" Gemma's voice is a sweet relief, and she cannot help but eye me, completely bewildered. The two escorts move to leave, and as the door closes behind them with an emphathic 'click' I do not restrain myself.
"Gemma," I call out to her quickly, blinking my eyes at the new darkness, and I find her sitting anxiously behind me, her face assuming the look of just having been gagged and poisoned. "What happened to you?"
Gemma is not at all impressed by my concern.
"I would very much like to ask you the same question," She says frostily for my benefit, her eyes narrowing at my weary own, "Did they capture you too?"
"Capture? ...look, are you alright?" I ask, eager to change the subject, "I have water." Gemma gazes with feeble longing at the small jug, and I offer it to her, watching her worriedly as she sips at the opening. How do I begin to convince her?
"Gemma," I manage, but before I can utter another word, Gemma fixes me with those startlingly green eyes.
"Kartik…I…I am so very sorry about what I said the other day. I didn't mean anything by it."
Her face looks so genuine, so true—so free of momentary embarrassment, and awkwardness that I do not doubt her apology in the least.
"It is forgotten," I say, holding her repentant gaze like time, hoping to assure her, but from the way her eyes fall briefly to the floor, I know that she is not convinced.
"Kartik," She begins again, her tone completely changed, all business—all rushed and conspiratorial, "I was right about Miss McCleethy."
"Gemma, you must not fear her, she is here to help you, this much Fowlson has informed me,"
"Well then, you'll be awfully glad to know that it was Fowlson who took a poisoned rag and shoved it, easy as you please, against my mouth!"
"You must admit, you are not exactly the most agreeable person to work with," I point out, to Gemma's open-mouthed shock, "Nor are you easy to convince." Gemma positively scowls at this. It is most unbecoming on her sensible face, but somehow it makes my heart glow.
"That does not constitute the use of sedatives!" She fumes, hands folded over her forehead in a great effort to gather herself. "We've wasted enough time. Miss McCleethy is Circe, and I've no question about it. And if she is working with Fowlson, then…"
"I trust the Rakshanna." I mutter quickly, as Gemma knew I would from the quiet look on her face, and I do not know whether my words are a confident parry, or a weak ploy to convince myself.
"I see..." Gemma appears disappointed with what my answer undoubtedly reveals, clouds passing over the jade of her eyes as she realizes with a slight wince that she cannot hope to convince me.
"This is a waste of time," A voice echoes, sharp and ringing, behind me, and the floor is swathed in a deep green material. It is the McCleethy woman, her delicate mouth curved ominously at the edges; disdainful eyes scowling beneath the lids.
It is my cue, and I retreat from Gemma's side, my task in persuading her a decided failure. I walk past the door in which I had entered to see a sneering Fowlson there, prepared to either flay me or spare me. I do not know which, and with good judgment, do not dare ask. He seems too engrossed at the hopeless struggle that is Miss McCleethy and Gemma to even note my sorry presence.
Inside the small room, I can make out Gemma's indignant voice, reverberating off the damp walls with both audacity and defiance. I cannot help but admire her fiercely for it, for even against Fowlson, the little defiance I can muster would surely fit inside one iota.
"Come, novitiate," Fowlson suddenly demands of me, and I am once again dragged into the loathsome little room.
It is Gemma, green eyes burning with all the fire of a million embers. She advances fast towards me, heels positively clacking against the cold, stone floor.
"What was your true task?" The accusatory glow of her eyes hits me like so many daggers.
"I was to help you find the Temple," I croak, shrinking miserably under her admonishing glare. Gemma is not satisfied.
"Your true task."
Dear Lord, she knows. She knows, and she is not happy with me. I have betrayed her in only one of the most horrible, most exceptionally wicked ways to betray a dear friend, and she shan't ever forgive me for it.
Fowlson notices me falter.
"Becareful, brother," And there's the temptation again, lying ever so low, simmering beneath the mad rush of my veins.
"That was my only task." I murmur softly, without so much as a player's conviction, and Gemma is merciless.
"Liar," She spits out, and it reaches my ears in all the harsh, verbal forms of 'Scoundrel' and 'Coward.'
I dare to cast her a brief, despairing look, but the dark expression on her face burns me, and I avert my glance just as quickly.
"Let us go," She says determinedly, as though now that I have deceived her, even cooperating with the Rakshanna is a pleasurable endurance.
Miss McCleethy gives a slight, perfunctory nod at this, and moves purposefully to take Gemma's right arm. She is only too happy, to tuck it gently beneath her own. Fowlson too appears, to my wide-eyed horror, just a tiny step away from breaking into song.
From behind me, I discern Jackson, and a dozen or so of the lower Rakshanna flock like moths to a flame towards this latest, most agreeable development, lights aglow within their eyes.
I feel almost out of place, still stung by Gemma's furious reaction, when all of a sudden the dear girl gives a dizzying moan worthy of a forced applause. She falls dramatically to her feet, her fingers trying to catch hold of something strapped smartly to her ankles, something sharp—The Megh Sembara.
"For Pity's sake!" Miss McCleethy is all sharp eyes, and dour frowns again, kicking at Gemma's side.
"Fetch the salts!" Fowlson barks impatiently at the perplexed minions that surround him, and disorder and chaos erupts through the narrow, stone halls in dramatic echoes of 'Quickly!' 'We are so close!'
I struggle against the busy throng with readily jabbing elbows, stopping short at Gemma's crumpled figure. I hook my arm through hers in uncertainty, and from the way I raise her up to her feet with remarkable ease, I can tell that she is still very much awake.
"She is only feigning it!" Miss McCleethy cries at Fowlson, almost pouting in her dismay, and before Jackson can even so much as shove a crucible of salt beneath Gemma's nose, Gemma pushes me with all the virile strength of an ox, and thrusts the Megh Sembara viciously at their faces.
My back hits the wall with a tremendous thud, and I am shocked that I do not slide, dead and no longer moving, against its slick, wet surface.
"You cannot hope to escape, Miss Doyle," Fowlson implies this with a roguish, triumphant smile, "You do not the way out."
Gemma appears hesitant, unsure, and I know that Fowlson is disastrously correct in his assessment. With a faint show of vulnerability, Gemma desperately seeks my weary eyes in the darkness...
I shoot my glance quickly towards a pair of bolted doors to the left of the long, narrow hall, and Gemma's eyes quickly follow.
Dropping the blade instantly to her side, Gemma seizes my hand boldly, and pulls me hard with her, and like a shot, we are both running listlessly to our only possible chance of escape.
"Gemma! The blade!"
Grasping my barely coherent words, Gemma slips the hilt of the blade under the lock and raises it, breaking the ingeniously fashioned piece of metal apart. The wooden doors fly open like boards to send gusts of London's coldest air whipping about our fearful faces, and both Gemma and I race frantically to the light, Fowlson and Miss McCleethy impossibly hot on our heels.
I lead Gemma far into a vacant alley, whose end leads fast into London's busy streets. I fear I have to leave her.
"Quick, Gemma," I say, almost out of breath, "I have to go back," Gemma's eyes are wide and full of worry, almost pleading with mine.
"You can't go back, Kartik! You can't ever go back." I have never seen Gemma so frightened, and I realize, with a cold stab of terror, that what she says is true. Without waiting for a definite answer, Gemma casually loops her arm in mine, and states, "Come, we are going for a walk."
The two of us work at once to seem very preoccupied and haughty, as though we have several expectant people to see, and a great many places to go. We occasionally avoid the bumping shoulders, and the more occasional stepping feet. I feel ridiculously guilty as Gemma continues to act perfectly pleasant with me, as though I were a friend, and not someone who had just dealt her a fierce, and underhanded stab in the back.
"I wasn't going to do it you know," I say quietly, knowing this is scarcely consolation if it passes for consolation at all, "I would have let you get away." Gemma's face is an advert for propriety, as she says between smiles, "Just walk please."
We've passed the worst of the streets, when Gemma suddenly stiffens, her hand a block of ice on mine.
"What is it?" I ask, alarmed, and she sputters, "It is Simon. I can't let him see."
Feeling strangely piqued, I retort, "Well we can't very well go this way then, can we!"
I tug at Gemma's arm and we are at a sidewalk, lined with a great queue of carriages and distinguished-looking, mustachioed coachmen. I go up to the closest one I see, and wrench the door open, hardly noticing the huffy woman who was about to board it as I take Gemma's trembling hand in mine and help her inside the carriage. The woman and her husband are outraged.
"If you please sir, this was our carriage!" The man harrumphs pretentiously, and I see Mr. Middleton and his son draw dangerously closer.
"I am very sorry, but the Duchess of Kent has a rather important meeting to attend to, and if it wouldn't be much trouble..." The pair refuse to be placated.
"Much trouble? We've gone to a bit of trouble trying to secure this cab, now please tell your mistress to leave at once," I wince at my little success, and to my dismay, Mr. Middleton approaches, a hatefully diplomatic expression stretched over the great lines of his face. "I say, what's going on here?"
The husband looks absurdly relieved at the fateful emergence of someone he deems to be of reason, and tips his hat to him.
"This Indian man has stolen our coach, and his mistress is inside, absolutely refusing to return to us,"
Simon Middleton stares at me with purpose.
"Father, isn't that the former coachmen of the Doyles?" It is only with a great deal of restraint, and my newly salvaged friendship with Gemma, that keeps me from bludgeoning the bastard altogether.
"Why yes, I do believe it is!" Mr. Middleton exclaims with a fair bit of surprise, and with a daring step closer, he addresses me with terse eyes.
"Now there, you best return the coach to this man and his wife, and secure one for yourself—" The rest of his sentence is a but a troubling noise in my ears as I see Fowlson and Miss McCleethy less than five feet away from me, exultant smiles on their dear faces. There was no time to lose.
With a resolve that was not my own, I jump off the coach and start moving wildly, dallying about the door of the coach like a madman. This elicits a great chorus of gasps, including a particularly loud one from Miss McCleethy, and quickly, as though my life depended on it, I slap the horse's hind.
My aim is true.
The horse lets out an ear-piercing whinny, and starts down the street in loud, stupendous gallops.
The constables have been summoned.
I smile.
Seizing a blade from my belt, I grab an unsuspecting Simon in a great whirl of arms, and he is caught under my unbreakable hold, the point of my blade almost meeting the skin of his neck. The constables stop short, white creeping to the eager flush of their faces. Simon tries to struggle, but the moment my blade grazes his neck, he goes absolutely still.
"Release my son this instant!" Mr. Middleton demands hysterically of me, anger betraying his voice as he eyes his son with a look that nearly splits my heart. Nearly.
"As you wish dear sir!" I chirrup, and with an almighty push, I release Simon, running quickly before they've had a chance to stop me.
Over my shoulder, I see that Simon's body has sent the constables careening over backwards, creating a sort of domino effect with the rest of the crowd.
Somehow, I find a strange pleasure in this.