“Now you must come, for with this new capital I shall be able to champion even you. No doubt I shall hardly have time to see you between invitations, and yet I will, I must.… Do come.
“Your loving sister, Helen.”
Worry, empathy, irritation, all snaked through Jane’s core and made heavy her heart. She folded up the letter and slipped it into the bottom of her trunk.
“We’ll play a game,” said Jane. She was sitting across the room from Dorie, keeping a watchful eye for any uncharacteristic signs of anger. She was also still thinking of herself as a calm pool of water, because if nothing else, it reminded her not to let her temper carry her from normal-cursed Jane into orange-tongues-of-fire Jane. It seemed as though the imagery was helping with Dorie—the girl was not reacting to Jane’s anger the way Cook had been. Although that could be due to Dorie’s strange fey talent. It was so hard to tell.
“I like games,” said Dorie. She was speaking more this week, Jane noticed, answering with short sentences rather than nods and shakes of the head. Jane wondered if it was increased confidence, or comfort, or merely practice in listening to people hold conversations—maybe the chattering party guests were good for something after all.
“I’m going to throw a ball at you,” Jane said. “I want you to bat it away from you, just using your fey talent. Shall we give it a go?” In her mind this “game” was defense, but she wasn’t about to explain that to Dorie.
Dorie nodded, then remembered her voice and added: “Yes, please.”
Jane scrunched a cloth napkin into a ball and wrapped it with a length of string. She tossed it across the room toward Dorie’s lap, where it fell on her knee, bounced, and rolled away.
Dorie examined where the ball had come to a halt, then hefted it into the air. It glowed a faint blue. She let go, and it fell to the floor again.
“Now try doing that quicker,” said Jane. “When I throw the ball, grab it from the air.” She retrieved the balled-up napkin, tossed it again, and again Dorie missed it.
“Again,” Jane said. “Lash out at it.”
Dorie tried to obey, but what she seized was her Mother doll that lay on the bed, near the arc of the napkin ball. Glowing blue with streaks of orange, the doll slipped off the bed and thumped to the floor.
It was either a problem of dexterity or a problem of being out of practice. Or both. Just as catching a ball with your hands was a learned skill, so was catching a napkin with your mind. Dorie had built towers the first week Jane was there, before she got the tar, but that was a process of raising each piece and stacking it. Jane was certain Dorie could do this—but it was different.
“Let’s drop the throwing part of it for now,” said Jane, after several more attempts resulted in utter failure. She paced over to the window, thinking.
Below she could see the hired servants setting up chairs and gay canopies for a tea party on the back lawn. She wondered if the fine ladies would be nervous so close to the forest. They “cared nothing for the war,” but surely here in the war-torn country it would strike home. Jane scanned the trees, as she always did, but she saw no tall dark form, saw no blue flickering lights. Just yellow and white ruffled swathes of silk, casting dark rectangles on the green lawn. Near the patio, two men were setting up a maypole. April was almost through, and that meant May Day, the last day of the Great War five years ago, the day the fey vanished. Of course the guests would enjoy the dancing and drinking aspect of the war holiday—would expect some sort of celebration. They just wouldn’t think about what it meant.
Jane turned and sighed. She was a lovely blue pond, who cared nothing about picnics on the lawn or thoughtless city-born guests. She picked up the Mother doll and held it in front of her. “Try pushing this away.”
Dorie fidgeted, frustrated, considering. Behind the obscuring layers of veil, Jane could not see the minute changes in expression she usually relied on, usually watched like a hawk.
Yet it was odd—half-blind, she seemed to have a better sense of Dorie’s mood shifts than she ever had before. Perhaps it was that she had grown close to the girl; perhaps she was picking up on body position, breaths, sighs—because she was sensing Dorie’s flickering changes, pinpointing her mute emotions with a sense that seemed eerily spot-on.
“If you work hard now, you can go to the tea party later on,” said Jane. The mandatory event made for good bartering.
Jane felt Dorie make the decision to try. She looked up at the doll.
Jane held the doll’s waist, readying for a small wobbly pressure as Dorie tried this new trick. “Just push it away.”
Dorie bit her lip, concentrating.
Blue light gathered on the doll in Jane’s hands, bathing its porcelain face in fey glow.
The Mother doll exploded in Jane’s hands.
Dorie’s face went to utter shock, then crumpled. She ran to Jane, flung herself into Jane’s arms, and Jane, as shocked by that as by anything, enfolded her in her embrace and stroked the fuzzy curls.
“There, there,” Jane said. “There, there.” She tugged her veil out from under Dorie’s fierce hug, freeing her neck. Despite the extra warmth of the cotton swathing her face, cold shivers ran up and down her spine.
What had she unleashed?
Jane backed out of Dorie’s room with an apronful of porcelain shards. Dorie had sobbed herself to sleep. In between sobs she had said once, quite clearly, “Put the gloves back on.” Jane held the girl close and did not comply.
A swish of black skirts on the right—Nina’s back, turning, closing her bedroom door. Jane turned to the left, pretending not to see, hoping to move quickly on noiseless feet, but the broken porcelain clinked in her apron, and anyway, Nina was ever too aware of who might be around her.
A black satin arm snaked through Jane’s bent one and Jane could not free herself without dropping the porcelain shards.
“Let me guess,” said Nina, nodding at the swathing white veil. “You’re a new widow with a fear of sunstroke.” She eyed the apron filled with pink shards and two unbroken blue glass eyes. “And you’ve dropped your husband’s urn. Pity about his blindness.”
A blue lake, a calm blue lake where no fire could burn.
“You’ll take me to Edward’s studio now, won’t you?” Though the words were a petitioner’s, submissive, the amused drawl belied that. “He truly is expecting me this time.” Nina produced a small calling card from her décolletage, one of Mr. Rochart’s. In black spiky ink he had written “3:00” on the back. As if in response, the grandfather clock far below began to peal the hour.
“That could be any day, any place,” Jane said, but only because Nina expected her to put up a fight. She wasn’t the guardian of his studio, and it wasn’t up to her to decide whom he should entertain there. She continued down the hall, leading them around the maze of stairs and turns into the abandoned wing.
“It was three a.m., and he wrote it in my rooms while lying blissfully on the chaise…,” parried Nina, but her words trailed off. She fell uncharacteristically silent as they went up the dark stairs.
Though Nina’s face was its usual mask of arrogance—haughty tilt of brow, sneer in the lips—somehow Jane knew, she knew that Nina was frightened.
They rounded the section where the stairs curved back and the hidden mirror startled them with their shadowy figures rushing in. Nina tightened her grip on Jane’s arm but calmly she said, “I can’t stand fey architecture.”