by Emily Larkin
“What are the dangers?” Charlotte repeated.
The pale eyelids rose. The eyes staring at her were ink-black with malevolence.
Charlotte’s mouth was suddenly dry. The hair lifted on her scalp again. It was like being in a cage with a leashed lion, knowing the creature would harm her if it could. She pushed her spectacles up her nose and raised her chin. I will not let you intimidate me into making a mistake. “What are the dangers?”
The woman’s lips parted to show sharp, glinting teeth. “If you’re pregnant, you will lose the babe.”
Charlotte almost recoiled from the gleeful malice in that smile, the gleeful malice in that voice. She controlled her flinch, and considered this answer. What is the chance of my marrying? Having children? “Are there any other dangers?”
“No.”
Charlotte eyed her guest. “Could I forget who I am and become an animal in truth?”
The woman uttered a snakelike hiss of impatience. “No. Only your outward form changes. Inside, you remain yourself.”
“Could I change form without meaning to? If I’m tired or distracted or . . . or asleep?”
“You only change if you deliberately wish it.” The woman’s lips parted in another glinting, gleeful, sharp-toothed smile. “Or if you die. Then, you return to your true form.”
Charlotte shivered. What other possible dangers were there? “Could someone make me change shape without my wishing it?”
“No.”
Charlotte stared down at the newspaper advertisements. Her heart beat fast and staccato beneath her breastbone. Emotions churned in her stomach: fear, excitement. She was aware of the woman watching her, aware of the flames roaring in the fireplace, aware of the clock ticking away the minutes until midnight.
Charlotte took a deep breath. She raised her head and met the woman’s eyes. “I choose metamorphosis.”
Chapter Four
The bookcase in the schoolroom held texts on geometry and algebra, geography and the use of globes, a battered collection of lexicons—English, French, Latin, Greek—and all six volumes of Swiffen’s Cyclopaedia.
Charlotte chose a volume of the Cyclopaedia at random and returned to her bedchamber. She turned the pages hastily, looking at the illustrations. “Too old,” she muttered under her breath, at a sketch of a bearded Menelaus. “Too young,” to a youthful Narcissus. “Too fat.” Nero.
She found the ideal illustration in the Os.
Orpheus, the sketch was titled, and the man depicted was young without being boyish, fair of face, and appeared to be in good physical shape beneath his toga. He stared from the page, his gaze steady and direct. He looked personable and intelligent, and most of all, dependable.
“Perfect,” Charlotte said. Who wouldn’t hire a man who looked like that?
She latched her door and undressed, neatly folding her clothes. Her palms were damp, her breath short, her pulse gathering speed.
Charlotte laid the Cyclopaedia on her dresser and studied the sketch again.
She inhaled a shallow breath, blew it out, rubbed her sweaty hands together, glanced at herself in the mirror—brown hair, brown eyes, bare breasts—and fixed her gaze on the sketch and said, “I wish to look like this man, Orpheus.”
An itching sensation crawled over her skin, as if a thousand millipedes marched there. The itching intensified, digging into her bones—Charlotte felt a flicker of panic—and then the itching stopped as abruptly as it had started.
She lifted her gaze from the Cyclopaedia to the mirror.
A bare-chested man stared back at her.
Shock almost made her recoil a step. Charlotte caught herself, made herself stand still, made herself meet the man’s eyes. My eyes. She touched her face in wonder, poked her cheek, felt that square chin—and saw the man in the mirror imitate her movements.
This is real. This is me.
Incredulity swelled in her chest. Incredulity, disbelief—and mounting excitement. She stepped as close as she could to the mirror and peered intently at herself. Hazel eyes. Blond hair curling back from her brow. White, even teeth. Strong throat. Adam’s apple.
Charlotte rubbed her chest. How odd to have no breasts. How odd to have blond hair growing there.
Blond hair grew at her groin, too.
Charlotte tentatively touched the unfamiliar appendage dangling there. It was soft and warm and spongy, like a finger without any bones in it. She searched for a name for the appendage, and came up with a word she’d once overheard: pego.
Charlotte turned the pego this way and that, looked underneath it and examined the plump testicles. How did one urinate?
I guess I shall find out, she thought, and sudden laughter climbed her throat.
She released the pego and surveyed herself in the mirror again, hands on hips. A fine fellow, Mister Orpheus. Taller than Miss Appleby, broad in the shoulder and chest. A strong, robust man.
This is my body now. My face.
And with the alteration to her face and body, the world had altered, too. Charlotte had a strange, unsettling sense that her boundaries had expanded a thousandfold. She felt almost dizzy, as if the floorboards had moved beneath her feet and the walls of her room pushed outwards.
No, the world hasn’t changed; I have.
She could do things she’d never been able to do, go places that had been forbidden, grab opportunities no one would ever offer a woman. How large the world was! How full of possibility.
But first, I need clothes. Breeches and shirts, waistcoats, tailcoat, boots.
Those were things she could purchase as a woman—provided she had the correct measurements.
Charlotte turned away from the dresser and rummaged in her darning basket for the tape measure.
And she didn’t just need clothes; she needed a name.
What shall I call myself?
She pondered that question while she unraveled the tape measure. Charlotte Christina Albinia Appleby becomes . . .
She glanced at the mirror, met the hazel eyes there.
Hello, Christopher Albin.
Chapter Five
October 16th, 1805
London
Marcus read the character reference again, his eyes skimming over the words—honesty, sobriety, good head for figures—to fasten on the signature at the bottom. Mr. Charles Appleby, Esq. He glanced at the young man seated across the desk from him. “And you say that Mr. Appleby is dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
Christopher Albin had an open, honest face, with a scholar’s broad brow and child’s wide gaze. His coloring was fair—blond hair, hazel eyes.
“How old are you, Mr. Albin?”
“Twenty-five, sir.”
Marcus rubbed his face. Scabs were rough on his brow and cheek. When did I start feeling so tired? He felt decades older than Albin, not a mere half dozen years.
Marcus glanced at the character reference again, at the scrawled signature of a man who was dead. “You were Mr. Appleby’s secretary for five years?”
“Yes, sir. Until his death, sir.”
In my experience, Charles Appleby had written, Mr. Albin is a competent, reliable, and efficient Secretary.
There was no way of checking the character reference; he’d have to take Albin at face value. Marcus put down the sheet of paper, steepled his hands, and studied the young man. Albin’s neckcloth was atrociously tied. It added to his appearance of youthfulness.
“What are your views on the slave trade, Mr. Albin?”
“I believe it’s wrong, sir.”
Marcus grunted. Damned right. “Can you fight?”
Albin blinked. “Fight?” He glanced down at his hands. “I guess so, sir. I’ve never tried. Why?”
Marcus tapped his steepled fingers against his chin, studying Albin. Do I want this lad as my secretary? Wouldn’t it be better to hire someone older? Tougher? Better able to defend himself in a fight?
But for all his fresh-faced youth, Albin’s shoulders and height were encouragin
g. He’d have a better chance in a fight than poor Lionel.
Marcus sighed and lowered his hands. “I’ve been having some . . . trouble lately, Mr. Albin.”
“What sort of trouble, sir?”
“Windows broken. Nightsoil left on the doorstep. Last week, I was attacked in St. James’s Park. It wasn’t random; the footpads called me by name.” Memory gave him the sound of Lionel’s wheezing, agonized breaths. His stomach tightened. “My secretary was injured. He’s at my Kent estate, recuperating, but it’s doubtful he’ll be able to write again. Among his injuries, his right arm was badly broken.”
Albin was silent for a moment, his eyes on Marcus’s face, examining the bruising, the healing cuts. “Do you think it will happen again, sir?”
“There’s a risk it will, yes.”
Albin nodded. A faint frown creased his brow. Cogs were almost visibly turning in his head.
A mood of gray fatalism descended on Marcus. This was where the last three applicants had balked. Albin was going to balk, too. And how can I blame him?
He looked down at his hands, at the bruising, the scabs across his knuckles. He flexed his fingers, feeling the scabs pull. I should have run, as Lionel wanted me to.
“Why are you being targeted, sir?”
Marcus looked up. “I don’t know. It could be political. Or personal.” The admission brought a sour taste to his mouth. Do I have so many enemies? “One of your tasks will be to help me find who’s responsible.”
Albin nodded, but said nothing. His gaze turned to the carpet. His frown deepened, furrowing between blond eyebrows. He was thinking, weighing things up. Deciding he doesn’t want to risk his neck for me.
Albin looked up and met Marcus’s eyes. “I’ll take the position.”
Surprise held Marcus stunned for a second, and then optimism surged through him. “You will?” He found that he was smiling, that he was leaning forward across his desk. He held out his hand to Albin. “You won’t regret it.”
* * *
Charlotte returned the handshake. She tried to squeeze back with a grip as strong and manly as the earl’s.
Cosgrove released her hand and sat back in his chair. The fleeting smile vanished, leaving his face grim once more.
Charlotte stared at him. Her employer.
Cosgrove was a tall man, with a face that was almost harsh—strong jaw, strong cheekbones, strong blade of a nose. His hair was coal-black, his eyes dark gray. A striking man, despite the signs of violence on his face: half-healed cuts veering across his brow and right cheek, bruises dark around one eye.
Charlotte gave herself a mental shake. You’re a man now, and a man wouldn’t think about what Cosgrove looks like.
“Let’s start with a list of my enemies.” The earl pushed a sheet of paper towards her, and his inkwell and quill.
Charlotte pulled her chair closer to the desk, dipped the quill in ink, and sat with her hand poised over the paper. For a brief, dizzying moment, her fingers were too large, too long, wrong. She shook her head fractionally, dispelling the notion. “How many are there, sir?”
Cosgrove gave a humorless laugh. “How many? Half a dozen that I can think of.”
Half a dozen enemies? Charlotte kept her face carefully neutral. “Who are they, sir?”
“Lord Brashdon and his set. Sir Roderick Hyde. Keynes.”
The names were vaguely familiar. Hadn’t her uncle spoken of them? “Anti-abolitionists?”
“Yes.” She heard contempt in Cosgrove’s voice, saw it in the curl of his upper lip. “Men who place profit above human life.”
“And you are an abolitionist, sir.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
Charlotte wrote down the first name. Lord Brashdon. She watched her fingers wield the quill—large, blunt-tipped, male—and the dizzying sense of wrongness came again: her hand was too large, the quill too small.
The letters came out lopsided and awkward, like a child learning to write.
Charlotte exhaled sharply through her nose. Don’t think about it.
She wrote the next two names without watching her hand. Sir Roderick Hyde. Keynes.
There. That was much better.
Alongside the names, she wrote: Political enemies. Anti-abolitionists. “Who else, sir?”
“My heir. Phillip Langford.”
He counted his heir among his enemies? Charlotte tried to keep her eyebrows from lifting. Phillip Langford, she wrote. Heir. “Yes, sir?”
“Gerald Monkwood. The brother of my late wife.”
Charlotte glanced up.
“I’m a widower.” Cosgrove said the words stiffly, as if they fitted uncomfortably in his mouth. “Monkwood blames me for Lavinia’s death.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Cosgrove made a twisting movement of his lips, silent negation of her sympathy. Charlotte looked down at the paper again. Gerald Monkwood, she wrote. Brother-in-law. Had the marriage been an unhappy one? Was that what that brief grimace implied? She glanced up. “Anyone else, sir?”
Cosgrove didn’t immediately answer. He looked down at his hands, as if studying the fading bruises. He spread his fingers, clenched them, looked up. “Sir Barnaby Ware.”
“And he is?”
Hard lines pinched on either side of Cosgrove’s mouth. “He was a friend of mine—until he had an affair with my wife.”
Charlotte wrote the name silently. Sir Barnaby Ware. Ex-friend. Adulterer. She glanced at the earl. He looked like a man who had everything: wealth, a title, an attractive face, a strong body. A man in his prime. A man who led a charmed and privileged life.
Except that perhaps his life wasn’t as charmed as it appeared from the outside.
She glanced back at the list, reading the six names. Brashdon and Hyde and Keynes. Langford. Monkwood. Ware. “Where would you like to start, sir?”
“With Monkwood. Tomorrow.”
She looked up. “Because you think he’s the most obvious, sir?”
“He’s been the most vocal of my detractors.” Cosgrove rubbed his brow. He looked weary and battered, slumped in the chair, his right eye shadowed by bruises, his forehead and cheek scored by half-healed cuts. A man who’d been beaten too many times. And then—as if to prove how wrong her imaginings were—the earl pushed vigorously to his feet and strode across to a mahogany bookcase. “You’ll also help me with my speeches. I’ll write them, but I shall expect you to check them for me.”
“Speeches?”
“To the Upper House.” Cosgrove opened the bookcase’s glazed doors. “About abolition of the slave trade.”
Charlotte glanced around the room. Uncle Neville described abolitionists as mean little men trying to drag the nation down into ruin. They resent our wealth, he liked to proclaim, his face flushed with brandy. They want to bring us all down to their level of destitution. Cosgrove clearly wasn’t destitute. The study was spacious, the furnishings handsome: the thick Aubusson carpet, the two desks with their cabriole legs and gleaming marquetry, the winged leather armchairs beside the fire, the cabinets and bookcases lining the walls, the heavy brocade curtains.
Her gaze returned to Cosgrove. His clothes had the austere elegance that spoke of a master tailor.
No. Not destitute.
“We lost the last vote—but by God we’ll win the next one.”
Charlotte believed him. The determination on Cosgrove’s face, in his voice, was the sort that won wars. Agamemnon would have looked thus—grim, implacable—when he contemplated the walls of Troy.
“Here.” Cosgrove held a sheaf of handwritten papers out to her. Behind him, tall windows framed a view of Grosvenor Square, now fading into dusk.
Charlotte stood and took them. “What are they, sir?”
“My last three speeches. And this.” A book was thrust at her. “An essay on the slave trade.”
“By you, sir?”
“No.” Cosgrove closed the bookcase. “Take them back to your lodgings. Read them. It will give
you a better understanding of the issue.”
* * *
Charlotte read the speeches huddled in bed in a nest of musty blankets. She’d pawned her mother’s jet necklace and brooch in Halstead, but the fare to London and clothes for Christopher Albin had consumed most of those shillings. There’d been barely enough left for a few nights’ accommodation in one of the poorer lodging houses.
But once I’m paid, I’ll be able to afford a room with a fireplace.
Excitement stirred in her belly. She was making her own way in the world now, she was independent, she was earning good money.
Charlotte wriggled numb toes and glanced around the bedroom. It was scarcely larger than a cupboard, with a bare wooden floor and one grimy, cracked window. Mold and water stains crept down the walls, the bedding reeked of tallow candles and fried onions, the horsehair mattress was lumpy and sagging, but she wouldn’t swap this bedroom for her old one at Westcote Hall. Or swap her old life for this one.
Excitement twisted in her stomach again, like a snake tying itself in knots. She was no longer Charlotte Appleby. She had a new face, a new body, a new name—and a career that was better than any she could have as a woman. No poorly paid governess or schoolmistress, but secretary to an earl!
Memory gave her a glimpse of Lord Cosgrove—the strong-boned face, the gray eyes, the cuts and bruises. His admission echoed in her head: Last week I was attacked in St. James’s Park. My secretary was injured.
Charlotte put the speeches aside. Working for Cosgrove might not be the wisest choice, but the wages he offered were astonishingly generous. Far more than she’d dared hope to earn. A few years in his service and she’d have a comfortable sum saved.
She shrugged inwardly. If she was attacked, she could use her Faerie gift. Turn into a bird and fly away.
Charlotte scratched the prickly stubble on her cheeks, and picked up the book Cosgrove had given her, a slender volume with the title and author’s name stamped into the calfskin cover: An Essay on the Slavery and Commerce of the Human Species, Particularly the African, translated from a Latin dissertation, by Thomas Clarkson.
