Free The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray

You don’t want to hire them Gypsies, missus. They’ll rob you blind.” He lowers his voice. “And what with young ladies present, mum…What could happen, well, I shouldn’t like to say.”
    I do not like Mr. Miller. His smile is an illusion. It does not match the venom of his words. Ithal says nothing in return, but I can see by the tight line of his jaw that he would like to.
    Mrs. Nightwing straightens her spine as she does when she upbraids one of us. “Mr. Miller, I trust you’ll finish this portion in time for our ball?”
    “Aye, missus,” Mr. Miller says, his eyes still on Ithal. “’Twas the rain what put us behind.”
    Mrs. Nightwing speaks to the Gypsies as she would to meddling children in need of bed. “I thank you for your concern, gentlemen. At present we have it well in hand.”
    I watch the Gypsies go, still hoping I’ll see Kartik at any moment. Mrs. Nightwing is occupied with Mr.
    Miller and I seize my chance. Palming a penny, I traipse after the Gypsies.
    “Pardon me, sir. I believe you may have dropped this,” I say, offering the shiny coin.
    The Gypsy knows I’ve invented the tale; I can see it in his suspicious smile. He looks to Ithal for guidance.
    “It is not ours,” Ithal says.
    “It could be!” I blurt out.
    The other man is intrigued. “For what?”
    “Careful, friend,” Ithal warns. “We are like dirt beneath their feet.” He flicks his glance to Felicity, who Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    does not even bother to see.
    “I only wish to know if Mr. Kartik is among your company at present.”
    Ithal folds his arms across his chest. “Why do you want to know?”
    “He had hoped for work as a driver. I happen to know of a family in need of such and thought I might inform him.” I feel shamed by my lie.
    “You see? Dirt.” Ithal glares at me. “I have not seen Mr. Kartik for some months now. Perhaps he is already in the service of a fine family and cannot come to play anymore.”
    It’s a slap of a comment, and I feel properly stung by it, but I’m more stung by the knowledge that no one has seen Kartik. I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him.
    Mrs. Nightwing corrals the girls, and I hurry back into the fold. As I do, I hear Ithal talking to the other Gypsies. “Do not be tempted by English roses. Their beauty fades, but their thorns are forever.”
    “Miss Doyle! What were you doing with those men?” Mrs. Nightwing scolds.
    “I’d a pebble in my boot. I only stopped to remove it,” I lie.
    “Scandalous,” Cecily whispers. Her whispers could be heard by the dead.
    Mrs. Nightwing takes hold of my arm. “Miss Doyle, with the others, if you please—” Her admonition is interrupted by a loud shout from one of the workers.
    “Oi! There’s somefin’ down ’ere!”
    Several of the men jump into the hole between the new turret and the old portion of the school. A lamp is called for and one is lowered. We follow Nightwing, crowding around the hole, hoping for a glimpse of whatever has been found.
    The workers discard their shovels. They whisk dirt-stained hands back and forth, clearing the clumps of drying mud away. There is indeed something beneath the ground—part of an old wall. The stone bears strange markings but they’re too faint to see. Mr. Miller frowns. “What’s that, now?”
    “Could be a woine cellar,” a man with a bushy mustache opines.
    “Or a dungeon,” another says, grinning. He smacks the boot of the smallest among them. “Oi, Charlie—be a good lad or it’s into the ’ole wif you!” He makes a sudden grab for the young man’s ankle, scaring him, and the men fall into rowdy laughter.
    Mrs. Nightwing takes the lamp and holds it over the ancient stone. She examines it from above, pursing her lips, and then, just as quickly, gives the lamp back to Mr. Miller. “Likely it is a relic from the Druids or even the Romans. They say Hannibal himself may have led his troops