Gemma Doyle 03 - The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray

Author:Libba Bray
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: & Magic, Europe, Young adult fiction, Magic, England - Social life and customs - 19th century, Children: Young Adult (Gr. 7-9), Juvenile Fiction, Bedtime & Dreams, Fantasy & Magic, General, Science Fiction, Horror & Ghost Stories, Fantasy, Supernatural, Boarding schools, Schools, England, People & Places, Fiction, School & Education, Children's Books - Young Adult Fiction
ISBN: 9780440237778
Publisher: New York : Delacorte Press, c2007.
Published: 2009-04-26T21:00:00+00:00

The rest of the journey out of the Winterlands is a dream of which I remember little. My arms are scratched, and I cannot recall how they have come to be this way. My lips are bruised, and I wet them with my tongue, feeling small cracks in the skin. When we step across the mist-shrouded threshold of the Borderlands, I ache with a desire to turn back. The strange twilight beauty of the Borderlands no longer excites. I can feel it in the others as well, can see it in their backward glances. We step over the vines that slither from the Winterlands. They stretch their arms, reaching closer and closer to the castle.

Bessie speaks as if in a daze. “It’s like it knew me. Really knew me. I saw m’self and I were a proper lady—not pretend, but respected.”

“No fear,” Felicity murmurs, stretching her arms overhead. “No lies.”

Pippa twirls around, faster and faster, till she falls down laughing. “It all makes sense now. I understand everything.”

Gorgon is waiting for us in the river. I try to avoid her, but she sees me slipping behind a tall wall of flowers.

“Most High, I have been looking for you.”

“Well, you have found me, it seems.”

Her eyes narrow, and I wonder if she can smell the forbidden on my skin like another’s sweat. The other girls run wild. They wear a new fierceness that brings a gleam to their eyes and a flush to their cheeks. Felicity laughs and it sounds like a call to arms. I want to go to them, to relive our experience in the Winterlands, not suffer under the watchful eye of Gorgon.

“What is it?” I call.

“Come closer,” that syrupy voice demands.

I stand on the grass a good ten feet from where Gorgon sits on the river. She turns her head and takes in the sight of me—hair a ruin, arms scratched, skirt torn. The snakes dance hypnotically. “You have been, I see,” Gorgon says.

“And what if I have?” I answer, defiant. “I had to see for myself, Gorgon. How could I possibly govern without knowing? The Tree of All Souls exists, and its power is immense!”

The snakes round her face writhe and hiss. “Promise me you will not return to that place until you have made the alliance. Most High, your power—”

“Is that all I am—the magic? No one sees who I am. They see what they want to see, what I can do for them. Who I am, how I feel doesn’t matter a bloody bit!” I’ve started to cry, which I hate. I turn my head away till the tears subside, and when I face Gorgon again, I am a different girl, one who will not be told what to do or where to go.

“You may go now, Gorgon. Our conversation has ended.”

For once the proud warrior seems unsure, and I’m glad of it. “Most High…”

“Our conversation has ended,” I repeat. “If I want to speak with you, I shall find you.”

On the grass, a merry game has sprung up.

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