The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray Page A

fault always mine?
    “We spoke of Mrs. Sheridan’s flowers,” I say evenly.
    “Well, nothing wrong in that,” my grandmother says, reassuring herself. “No, nothing at all.”
    By late evening of my last night in London, my misery has reached operatic proportions. Grandmama takes to her bed early, “exhausted” by the day’s events. Tom is to dine at the Athenaeum at the behest of Lord Denby.
    “When I return, I shall be a great man,” he says, admiring himself in the mirror over the mantel. He has a new top hat, and it makes him look like a well-heeled scarecrow.
    “I shall practice my genuflecting whilst you are away,” I respond.
    Tom turns to me with a sneer. “I’d send you to a nunnery, but even those saintly women haven’t the patience for your petulance. But please don’t see me out,” he says, striding for the door with a spring in his step. “I shouldn’t want to interrupt your sulking by the fireside.”
    “You needn’t worry,” I say, turning back to the fire with a sigh. “You shan’t.”
    My season has not even begun and already I feel a failure. It’s as if I’ve inherited a skin I cannot quite fit, and so I walk about constantly pulling and tugging, pinning and pruning, trying desperately to fill it out, hoping that no one will look at me struggling and say, “That one there—she’s a fraud. Look how she doesn’t suit at all.”
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    If only I could get into the realms. Oh, what is happening there? Why can’t I get in? What has become of the magic? Where are my visions? To think I once feared them. Now the power I cursed is the only thing I long for.
    Not the only thing. But I’ve no power over Kartik, either.
    I stare into the fire, watching the fat orange flames jumping about, demanding attention. Deep inside each one, a thin blue soul burns pure and hot, devouring every bit of tinder to keep the fire going.
    The mantel clock ticks off the seconds; the steady sound lulls me into drowsiness. Sleep comes and I am lost to dreaming.
    I’m enveloped by a thick mist. Before me is an enormous ash tree, its twisted arms reaching up toward a vanished sun. A voice calls to me.
    Come to me….
    My pulse quickens, but I can see no one.
    You’re the only one who can save us, save the realms. You must come to me….
    “Can’t get in,” I murmur.
    There is another way—a secret door. Trust in the magic. Let it lead you there.
    “I have no magic anymore….”
    You’re wrong. Your power is extraordinary. It builds within you and wants release. Unleash your power. That’s what they fear, what you must not fear. I can help you, but you must come to me.
    Open the door….
    The scene shifts. I am inside the Caves of Sighs before the well of eternity. Below the icy surface of the water lies Miss Moore, her dark hair spreading out like Kali’s. She floats beneath her glass prison, lovely as Ophelia, frightening as a storm cloud. I feel a shudder across the very marrow of my bones.
    “You’re dead,” I gasp. “I killed you.”
    Her eyes snap open. “You’re wrong, Gemma. I live.”
    I wake with a start to find myself still in the chair, the mantel clock showing half past eleven. I feel odd, feverish. Strands of hair hang limp by my mouth, and my blood pumps ferociously. I feel as if I’ve been visited by a ghost.
    It was only a dream, Gemma. Let it alone. Felicity’s right—Circe’s dead, and if her blood is on your hands, you’ve nothing to feel shamed about. But I cannot stop shivering. And what of the other part of the dream? A door. What I wouldn’t give for a way back into the realms, to the magic. I’d not be frightened of it this time. I’d cherish it.
    Hot tears spring to my eyes. I’m useless. I can’t enter the realms. I can’t help my friends or my father. I can’t find Kartik. I can’t even be merry at a garden party. I’ve no place. I poke at the dying fire, but it Generated by ABC