Chapter 3

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"Victoria! This is Victoria Station!"

A burly, blue-uniformed conductor moves through on his way to the back of our train,

announcing that I've arrived in London at last. We're slowing to a stop. Great billowing

clouds of steam sail past the window, making everything outside seem like a dream.

In the seat across from me, my brother, Tom, is waking, straightening his black waistcoat,

checking for anything that isn't perfect. In the four years we've been apart, he has grown

very tall and a little broader in the chest, but he's still thin with a flop of fair hair that

droops fashionably into his blue eyes and makes him seem younger than twenty. "Try not

to look so dour, Gemma. It's not as if you're being sent to the stocks. Spence is a very

good school with a reputation for turning out charming young ladies."

A very good school. Charming young ladies. It is, word for word, what my grandmother

said after we'd spent two weeks at Pleasant House, her home in the English countryside.

She'd taken a long, appraising look at me, with my freckled skin and unruly mane of red

hair, my sullen face, and decided that a proper finishing school was what was needed if I

was ever to make a decent marriage. "It's a wonder you weren't sent home years ago," she

clucked. "Everyone knows the climate in India isn't good for the blood. I'm sure this is

what your mother would want."

I'd had to bite my tongue to keep from asking how she could possibly know what my

mother would want. My mother had wanted me to stay in India. I had wanted to come to

London, and now that I'm here, I couldn't be more miserable.

For three hours, as the train made its way past green, hilly pastures, and the rain slapped

wearily at the train's windows, Tom had slept. But I could see only behind me, whence I'd

come. The hot plains of India. The police asking questions: Had I seen anyone? Did my

mother have enemies? What was I doing alone on the streets? And what about the man

who'd spoken to her in the marketplace—a merchant named Amar? Did I know him?

Were he and my mother (and here they looked embarrassed and shuffled their feet while

finding a word that wouldn't seem too indelicate) "acquainted"?

How could I tell them what I'd seen? I didn't know whether to believe it myself.

Outside the train's windows, England is still in bloom. But the jostling of the passenger

car reminds me of the ship that carried us from India over rough seas. The coastline of

England taking shape before me like a warning. My mother buried deep in the cold,

unforgiving ground of England. My father staring glassy-eyed at the headstone—Virginia

Doyle, beloved wife and mother—peering through it as if he could change what had

happened through will alone. And when he couldn't, he retired to his study and the

laudanum bottle that had become his constant companion. Sometimes I'd find him, asleep

in his chair, the dogs at his feet, the brown bottle close at hand, his breath strong and

medicinally sweet. Once a large man, he'd grown thinner, whittled down by grief and

opium. And I could only stand by, helpless and mute, the cause of it all. The keeper of a

secret so terrible it made me afraid to speak, scared that it would pour out of me like

kerosene, burning everyone.

"You're brooding again," Tom says, casting a suspicious look my way.

"Sorry." Yes, I'm sorry, so sorry for everything.

Tom exhales long and hard, his voice traveling swiftly under the exhalation. "Don't be

sorry. Just stop."

"Yes, sorry," I say again without thinking. I touch the outline of my mother's amulet. It

hangs around my neck now, a remembrance of my mother and my guilt, hidden beneath

the stiff black crepe mourning dress I will wear for six months.

Through the thinning haze outside our window, I can see porters hustling alongside the

train, keeping pace, ready to place wooden steps beside the open doors for our descent to

the platform. At last our train comes to a stop in a hiss and sigh of steam.

Tom stands and stretches. "Come on, then. Let's go, before all the porters are taken."

Victoria Station takes my breath away with its busyness. Hordes of people mill about the

platform. Down at the far end of the train, the third-class passengers climb off in a thick

tumble of arms and legs. Porters hurry to carry luggage and parcels for the first-class

passengers. Newsboys hold the day's papers in the air as far as their arms will stretch,

screeching the most enticing headlines. Flower girls wander about, wearing smiles as

hard and worn as the wooden trays that hang from their delicate necks. I'm nearly

upended by a man buzzing past, his umbrella parked beneath his arm.

"Pardon me," I mutter, deeply annoyed. He takes no note of me. When I glance to the far

end of the platform, I catch sight of something odd. A black traveling cloak that sets my

heart beating faster. My mouth goes dry. It's impossible that he could be here. And yet,

I'm sure it's him disappearing behind a kiosk. I try to get closer, but it's terribly crowded.

"What are you doing?" Tom asks as I strain against the tide of the crowd.

"Just looking," I say, hoping he can't read the fear in my voice. A man rounds the corner

of the kiosk, carrying a bundle of newspapers on his shoulder. His coat, thin and black

and several sizes too big, hangs on him like a loose cape. I nearly laugh with relief. You

see, Gemma? You're imagining things. Leave it alone.

"Well, if you're going to look around, see if you can find us a porter. I don't know where

the devil they've all got to so fast."

A scrawny newsboy happens by and offers to fetch us a hansom cab for twopence. He

struggles to carry the trunk filled with my few worldly belongings: a handful of dresses,

my mother's social diary, a red sari, a white carved elephant from India, and my father's

treasured cricket bat, a reminder of him in happier days.

Tom helps me into the carriage and the driver pulls away from the great, sprawling lady

that is Victoria Station, clip-clopping toward the heart of London. The air is gloomy, alive

with the smoke from the gaslights that line London's streets. The foggy grayness makes it

seem like dusk, though it's only four o'clock in the afternoon. Anything could creep up

behind you on such shadowy streets. I don't know why I think of this, but I do, and I

immediately push the thought away.

The needle-thin spires of Parliament peek up over the dusky outlines of chimneys. In the

streets, several sweat-drenched men dig deep trenches in the cobblestones.

"What are they doing?"

"Putting in lines for electric lights," Tom answers, coughing into a white handkerchief

with his initials stitched on a corner in a distinguished black script. "Soon, this choking

gaslight will be a thing of the past."

On the streets, vendors hawk their wares from carts, each with his own distinctive cry—

knives sharpened, fish to buy, get your apples—apples here! Milkmaids deliver the last of

the day's milk. In a strange way, it all reminds me of India. There are tempting storefronts

offering everything one can imagine—tea, linens, china, and beautiful dresses copied

from the best fashions of Paris. A sign hanging from a second-story window announces

that there are offices to let, inquire within. Bicycles whiz past the many hansom cabs on

the streets. I brace myself in case the horse spooks to see them, but the mare pulling us

seems completely uninterested. She's seen it all before, even if I haven't.

An omnibus crowded with passengers sails past us, drawn by a team of magnificent

horses. A cluster of ladies sits perched in the seats above the omnibus, their parasols open

to shield them from the elements. A long strip of wood advertising Pears' soap

ingeniously hides their ankles from view, for modesty's sake. It's an extraordinary sight

and I can't help wishing we could just keep riding through London's streets, breathing in

the dust of history that I've only seen in photographs. Men in dark suits and bowler hats

step out of offices, marching confidently home after a day's work. I can see the white

dome of St. Paul's Cathedral rising above the sooty rooftops. A posted bill promises a

production of Macbeth starring the American actress Lily Trimble. She's ravishing, with

her auburn hair loose and wild, a red gown cut daringly low on her bosom. I wonder if

the girls at Spence will be as lovely and sophisticated.

"Lily Trimble is quite beautiful, isn't she?" I say by way of trying to make pleasant small

talk with Tom, a seemingly impossible task.

"An actress," Tom sneers. "What sort of way is that for a woman to live, without a solid

home, husband, children? Running about like she's her own lord and master. She'll

certainly never be accepted in society as a proper lady."

And that's what comes of small talk.

Part of me wants to give Tom a swift kick for his arrogance. I'm afraid to say that another

part of me is dying to know what men look for in a woman. My brother might be

pompous, but he knows certain things that could prove useful to me.

"I see," I say in an offhand way as if I want to know what makes a nice garden. I am

controlled. Courteous. Ladylike. "And what does make a proper lady?"

He looks as if he should have a pipe in his mouth as he says, "A man wants a woman who

will make life easy for him. She should be attractive, well groomed, knowledgeable in

music, painting, and running a house, but above all, she should keep his name above

scandal and never call attention to herself."

He must be joking. Give him a minute, and he'll laugh, say it was just a lark, but his smug

smile stays firmly in place. I am not about to take this insult in stride. "Mother was

Father's equal," I say coolly. "He didn't expect her to walk behind him like some pining

imbecile."

Tom's smile falls away. "Exactly. And look where it's gotten us." It's quiet again. Outside

the cab's windows, London rolls by and Tom turns his head toward it. For the first rime,

I can see his pain, see it in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, over and over, and

I understand what it costs him to hide it all. But I don't know how to build a bridge across

this awkward silence, so we ride on, watching everything, seeing little, saying nothing.

"Gemma…" Tom's voice breaks and he stops for a moment. He's fighting whatever it is

that's boiling up inside him. "That day with Mother… why the devil did you run away?

What were you thinking?"

My voice is a whisper. "I don't know." For the truth, it's very little comfort.

"The illogic of women."

"Yes," I say, not because I agree but because I want to give him something, anything. I

say it because I want him to forgive me. And perhaps then I could begin to forgive

myself. Perhaps.

"Did you know that"—his jaw clenches on the word—"man they found murdered with

her?"

"No," I whisper.

"Sarita said you were hysterical when she and the police found you. Going on about some

Indian boy and a vision of a… a thing of some sort." He pauses, rubs his palms over the

knees of his pants. He's still not looking at me.

My hands shake in my lap. I could tell him. I could tell him what I've kept locked tight

inside. Right now, with that lock of hair falling in his eyes, he's the brother I've missed,

the one who once brought me stones from the sea, told me they were rajah's jewels. I

want to tell him that I'm afraid I'm going mad by degrees and that nothing seems entirely

real to me anymore. I want to tell him about the vision, have him pat me on the head in

that irritating way and dismiss it with a perfectly logical doctor's explanation. I want to

ask him if it's possible that a girl can be born unlovable, or does she just become that

way? I want to tell him everything and have him understand.

Tom clears his throat. "What I mean to say is, did something happen to you? Did he… are

you quite all right?"

My words pull each other back down into a deep, dark silence. "You want to know if I'm

still chaste."

"If you want to put it so plainly, yes."

Now I see that it was ridiculous of me to think he wanted to know what really happened.

He's only concerned that I haven't shamed the family somehow. "Yes, I am, as you put it,

quite all right." I could laugh, it's such a lie—I am most certainly not all right. But it

works as I know it will. That's what living in their world is—a big lie. An illusion where

everyone looks the other way and pretends that nothing unpleasant exists at all, no

goblins of the dark, no ghosts of the soul.

Tom straightens his shoulders, relieved. "Right. Well, then." The human moment has

passed and he is all control again. "Gemma, Mother's murder is a blight on this family. It

would be scandalous if the true facts were known." He stares at me. "Mother died of

cholera," he says emphatically, as if even he believes the lie now. "I know you disagree,

but as your brother, I'm telling you that the less said, the better. It's for your own

protection."

He's all fact and no feeling. It will serve him well as a doctor someday. I know that what

he's telling me is true, but I can't help hating him for it. "Are you sure it's my protection

you're worried about?"

His jaw tightens again. "I'll overlook that last comment. If you won't think of me, of

yourself, then think of Father. He's not well, Gemma. You can see that. The circumstances

of Mother's death have undone him." He fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt. "You may as

well know that Father got into some very bad habits in India. Sharing the hookah with the

Indians might have made him a popular businessman, one of them in their eyes, but it

didn't help his constitution much. He's always been fond of his pleasures. His escapes."

Father sometimes came home late and spent from his day. I remembered Mother and the

servants helping him to bed on more than one occasion. Still, it hurts to hear this. I hate

Tom for telling me. "Then why do you keep getting him the laudanum?"

"There's nothing wrong with laudanum. It's medicinal," he sniffs.

"In moderation…"

"Father's no addict. Not Father," he says, as if he means to convince a jury. "He'll be fine

now that he's back in England. Just remember what I've told you. Can you at least

promise me that much? Please?"

"Yes, fine," I say, feeling dead inside. They don't know what they're in for at Spence,

getting me, a ghost of a girl who'll nod and smile and take her tea but who isn't really

here.

The driver calls down to us. "Sir, we'll be needin' to pass through the East, if you want to

draw the curtains."

"What does he mean?" I ask.

"We have to go through the East End. Whitechapel? Oh, for heaven's sake, the slums,

Gemma," he says, loosening the curtains on the sides of his windows to block out the

poverty and filth.

"I've seen slums in India," I say, leaving my curtains in place. The carriage bumps its way

along the cobblestones through grimy, narrow streets. Dozens of dirty, thin children

clamber about, staring at us in our fine carriage. My heart sinks to see their bony, sootsmeared

faces. Several women huddle together under a gaslight, sewing. It makes sense

for them to use the city's light and not waste their own precious candles for this thankless

work. The smell in the streets—a mix of refuse, horse droppings, urine, and despair—is

truly awful, and I'm afraid I might gag. Loud music and yelling spill out onto the street

from a tavern. A drunken couple tumbles out after. The woman has hair the color of a

sunset and a harsh, painted face. They're arguing with our driver, holding us here.

"What's the matter now?" Tom raps against the hood of the carriage to spur the driver on.

But the lady is really giving the driver what for. We might be here all night. The drunken

man leers at me, winks, makes an extremely rude gesture involving his index fingers.

Disgusted, I turn away and look down an empty alley. Tom's leaning out his window. I

hear him, condescending and impatient, trying to reason with the couple in the street.

But something's gone wrong. His voice grows muffled, like sounds heard through a shell

held to the ear. And then all I can hear is my blood quickening, thumping hard against my

veins. A tremendous pressure seizes me, knocking the air from my lungs.

It's happening again.

I want to cry out to Tom, but I can't, and then I'm under, falling through that tunnel of

color and light again as the alley bends and flickers. And just as quickly, I'm floating out

of the carriage, stepping lightly into the darkened alley with its shimmering edges.

There's a small girl of eight or so sitting in the straw-covered dirt, playing with a rag of a

doll. Her face is dirty, but otherwise, she seems out of place here, in her pink hair ribbon

and starched white pinafore that's a size too big for her. She sings a snippet of song,

something I recognize faintly as being an old English folk tune. When I approach she

looks up.

"Isn't my dolly lovely?"

"You can see me?" I ask.

She nods and goes back to combing her filthy fingers through the doll's hair. "She's

looking for you."

"Who?"

"Mary."

"Mary? Mary who?"

"She sent me to find you. But we have to be careful. It's looking for you, too."

The air shifts, bringing a damp chill with it. I'm shaking uncontrollably. "Who are you?"

Behind the little girl, I sense movement in the murky dark. I blink to clear my eyes but

it's no trick—the shadows are moving. Quick as liquid silver the dark rises and takes its

hideous shape, the gleaming bone of its skeletal face, the hollow, black holes where eyes

should be. The hair a tangle of snakes. The mouth opens and the rasping moan escapes.

"Come to us, my pretty, pretty…"

"Run." The word is a choked whisper on my tongue. The thing is growing, slithering ever

closer. The howls and moans inside it making every cell in my body go ice-cold. A

scream inches its way up my throat. If I let it out, I'll never stop.

Heart pounding hard against my ribs, I say again, stronger, "Run!"

The thing hesitates, pulls back. It sniffs at the air, as if tracking a scent. The little girl

turns her flat brown eyes to me. "Too late," she says, just as the creature turns its

unseeing eyes toward me. The decaying lips spread apart, revealing teeth like spikes.

Dear God, the thing is grinning at me. It opens wide that horrible mouth and screeches—

a sound that loosens my tongue at last.

"No!" In an instant I'm back inside the carriage and leaning out the window, yelling at the

couple. "Get out of the bloody way—now!" I shout, snapping at the horse's rump with my

shawl. The mare whinnies and lurches, sending the couple rushing for the safety of the

tavern.

The driver steadies the horse as Tom pulls me down into my seat. "Gemma! Whatever

has possessed you?"

"I…" In the alley, I look for the thing and don't find it. It's just an alley, with dull light

and several dirty children trying to steal a hat from a smaller boy, their laughter bouncing

off stables and crumbling hovels. The scene passes behind us into the night.

"I say, Gemma, are you all right?" Tom is truly concerned.

I'm going mad, Tom. Help me.

"I was simply in a hurry." The sound coming out of my mouth is a cross between a laugh

and a howl, like the sound a madwoman would make.

Tom eyes me as if I'm some rare disease he's helpless to treat. "For pity's sake! Get hold

of yourself. And please try to watch your language at Spence. I don't want to have to

collect you only hours after I've deposited you there."

"Yes, Tom," I say as the carriage jostles back to life on the cobblestones, leading us away

from London and shadows.