"She'll never stop," Nell's raspy voice scrapes through the silence."Never. Never. Never."
"Then we must stop her ourselves," I say. "Please. Please help me."
"It's you she wants, you she's always wanted," she slurs."She'll make me tell her where to find the Temple, just as she made me tell her where to find you."
"What do you mean?"
A sound pricks at my ears. Footsteps in the hall, coming closer. I'm up at the door, peeking out. Someone comes. Someone in a deep green cloak. She stops to check each room in the gallery. I close the door gently.
"Nell," I say, my heart racing."We've got to hide."
"Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet . . . frightened her away, frightened her away."
"Shhh, Nell. You've got to be quiet. Here, quickly, under the bed."
Nell is a small girl, but weighed down by the drug, she is hard to maneuver. We fall to the floor together in a heap. With effort, I manage to push her under the bed, then follow her. The footsteps stop at Nell's door. I've got my hand over her mouth as the door opens. I don't know what I fear more, that Nell will suddenly speak out and reveal our hiding spot or that the pounding of my heart will announce us.
There's a whisper in the dark."Nell?"
Nell goes rigid against me.
The whisper comes again."Nell, darling, are you here?"
The hem of her green cloak comes into view. Beneath it, I can see the delicate lacings of polished, buffed boots. I feel certain I could see my own fear reflected in the high shine of them. Those boots come closer. I hold my breath; keep my hand on Nell's open mouth, where the saliva pools in my palm.
Beside me, Nell's so quiet I fear she may be dead. The boots turn away from us, and the door closes with a click. I scuttle out from under the bed and pull Nell out after. Nell clasps her hand on my wrist. Her eyelids flutter; her lips tighten into a grimace that lets only four words escape.
"See what I see. . . ."
We're falling hard and fast into a vision. But it is not my vision. It is Nell's. I see what she sees, feel what she feels. We're running through the realms. Grass licks at our ankles. But it's happening too fast. Nell's mind is a jumble, and I can't make sense of what I'm seeing. Roses pushing up through a wall. Red clay on skin. The woman in green, holding fast to Nell's hand by a deep, clear well.
And I am falling backward into that water.
I can't breathe. I'm choking. I fall out of the vision to find Nell's hand clamped around my throat. Her eyes are closed. She doesn't see me, doesn't seem to know what she is doing. Frantic, I pull at her hand, but it doesn't budge.
"Nell," I croak."Nell . . . please."
She releases me, and I fall to the floor, gasping for air, my head aching from her sudden brutality. Nell has faded into her madness again, but her face is slick with tears.
"Don't hesitate, Lady Hope. Set me free."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
TODAY IS CHRISTMAS EVE. ACROSS LONDON, THE shops and taverns are filled with people in high spirits, the streets bustling with this one carrying home a fragrant tree or that one selecting a fat goose for supper. I should be filled with the Christmas spirit and the urge to spread goodwill to my fellow man and woman. Instead, I am contemplating the puzzle that Nell Hawkins has left me to put together.
Go where no one will, where it is forbidden, o fer hope. Go where the dark hides a mirror of water. Face your fear and bind the magic fast to you. It makes no sense. Stick to the path. They will lead you astray with false promises. Who? What false promises? The entire thing is a riddle wrapped inside another and another. I have the amulet to guide me. But I do not know where to find the Temple, and without that I have nothing. It vexes me till I want to pitch my washbowl across the room.
To make matters worse, Father is not home. He did not come home from his club last night. I am the only one who seems concerned about this. Grandmama is busy barking orders at the servants for our Christmas dinner. The kitchen is a flurry of cooks tending to puddings and gravies and pheasant with apples.
"He wasn't here for breakfast?" I ask.
"No," Grandmama says, pushing past me to yell at the cook. "I think we shall omit the soup course. No one bothers with it, anyway."
"But what if he's hurt?" I ask.
"Gemma, please! Mrs. Jones--the red silk will suffice, I should think."
Christmas Eve dinner comes and goes, and still there is no Father. The three of us set about opening our gifts in the parlor, pretending that there is nothing amiss.
