by Teri Brown
The woman circles the fountain impatiently, her head swiveling this way and that. She pushes the hood of her cloak back and the moonlight glints off of Lillian’s blond hair.
I breathe a sigh of relief in spite of the cramping in my legs. I’m so intent on Lillian that I nearly miss the person passing five feet from my position.
My heart leaps in my chest and I still, not even daring to breathe.
It’s a woman. I hear her skirts swish as she passes, but a wide-brimmed picture hat obscures her face. The scent of something floral wafts up toward me. I frown as I recognize the scent. I try to remember where I’ve smelled it before, but am distracted as Lillian turns and hurries to meet her.
The two stand for several minutes. I can hear the rise and fall of their voices, but they’re too far away for me to hear what they’re saying. Maybe if I jumped down from the base of the statue I would be able to hear better?
I carefully make my way past several other stone figures so I’m further out of the two women’s line of vision. Holding my breath, I ease my way down and drop the last three feet to the ground. I land on a small rock and my foot rolls out from underneath me. A sharp pain slices through my ankle as I fall heavily to the ground and bite back a cry.
Then a dog barks.
My head whips sideways, but they don’t see me. Ignoring the pain in my ankle, I swiftly move to the opposite side of the statue, my heart beating wildly.
I stand, frozen, waiting to be discovered, but after a moment of silence the rise and fall of voices continues. I creep back to where I was.
As I peer out at the women, my suspicion is confirmed when I see a small white dog poking about on the grass at their feet.
Penny.
Why would Lillian and Mrs. Tremaine be meeting in secret in the dead of night? How would a French-German governess know an Australian opera singer?
Is this the proof I need that Lillian is Velvet? It’s not like I can waltz up to them and ask.
Since I can’t get any closer, I decide not to push my luck. Staying out of sight, I hurry back toward the palace. I slow my steps as I near the guard, not wanting to look as if I’m running from someone. He tips his cap and holds out his palm.
I roll my eyes as I hand him a few coins.
He smiles. “I hope it was worth it.”
“Me too,” I say as he holds the door open for me.
“This has been an unusually lucrative night for me.”
I pause on the threshold. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “Just a lot of coming and going.”
“Really?” I keep my voice casual. “You’ve been busy, then. Who’s been coming and going?”
He puts his palm back out and my eyes narrow as I dig out another coin.
He takes the money and shrugs. “The other governess, for one, and one of the prince’s private guards went out right after you did. Oddly enough, that friend of the duchess, Fräulein Baum, decided she needed to take the back way out, too.”
“And they all paid you?” I ask, my mind spinning. I put my hand on the doorjamb to steady myself. Could someone suspect me?
“All except the guard. I don’t take gifts from the guards.”
“Smart man,” I murmur before heading up to my room. The last thing I want is for one of them to come back and catch me coming into the palace. Right now my room seems like the only safe place in the entire world.
Then I remember the man going through my things and it doesn’t seem so safe anymore. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe I’ll be sharper if I don’t feel safe anywhere. I’m a spy. Safety of any kind is just an illusion.
Once I return to my room, I get ready for bed, my thoughts floating about in my mind like tattered bits of paper. I know why Lillian is out and about, but what about Marissa and the guard? Could it have been Maxwell?
After tilting the chair against my door for added protection, I crawl into bed, remembering that I’m going sightseeing with Maxwell tomorrow after school is done for the day. Maybe I can find a way to ask him what he did tonight without being obvious. Because the last thing I want is to make one of the prince’s private guards suspicious of me.
If anything, the schoolroom is even more tense than it had been the day before, which makes me think that the authorities still don’t know who the assassin is. I wonder if Maxwell will still be able to take me sightseeing.
Lillian is tired and pensive, and she uncharacteristically snaps at the children several times.
The note is tucked in the pocket of my own sweater. I’d planned on slipping it back in her pocket, but Lillian kept hers on all morning. So I pretended to pick it up on our way back into the schoolroom after break. “Excuse me, I think you just dropped this.” I hold the note out to her and she snatches it out of my hand, her face mottling.
“Where did that come from? I was looking for it.” She looks at me and then shakes her head. “Never mind. Thank you.”
I watch her closely. Could she really be Velvet? So far the evidence is all circumstantial—the secretive conversation with the young man, the coded note that she doesn’t want anyone to see, her interest in chemistry, and her meeting with an Australian foreigner in the middle of the night. But none of that makes her Velvet. I remember that Miss Tickford told me there might be other plots in the palace and I needed to be careful not to stumble upon one. Kaiser Wilhelm has his enemies and has been called on more than once to abdicate the throne. Even though Prince Wilhelm is considered a playboy, there are many Germans who would rather see a womanizer on the throne than a blowhard like his father. The tension between them and their different takes on politics is well known. And as Lillian told me, there’s infighting among the royal siblings. Perhaps she is involved in one of those plots? It would make sense that Mrs. Tremaine would like to see her lover on the throne. She could be trying to enlist Lillian’s help.
I need to update LDB. Perhaps they can give me some guidance on what my next move should be.
Before I get ready for my outing with Maxwell that afternoon, I take out my LDB codebook and compose a short note.
Have possible evidence that L is Velvet. How should I proceed?
Even though I’m just going with Maxwell to obtain more information and drop off the note, I take special care with my appearance. Looking over my limited wardrobe, I choose a stylish gray gabardine walking suit with pleats in the front of the skirt and tortoiseshell buttons on the cuffs of the jacket. I brush my hair until my curls encircle my head like a halo and pin on a walking hat with a taffeta brim and a plaid crown. Looking at myself in the mirror, I can’t help but smile at how smart I look.
“Well, hello there, Sophia Thérèse,” I say to my reflection. “How nice to see you.”
I tuck the note in the inside pocket of my coat and head toward the servants’ lounge, where I’m to meet Maxwell. Thankful that the gossips seem to be otherwise occupied, I take a seat at the table to wait.
Several minutes later, Maxwell comes in looking harried and rumpled, his cap askew.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he apologizes. “My duties kept me longer than I’d expected.” His eyes look bruised, as if he hasn’t slept since the incident in the ballroom.
Sympathy pangs in my chest. “I can imagine. We can reschedule if you need to,” I say, even though I desperately need to get out of the palace.
He shakes his head. “No. I really need the outing. Things have been a bit crazy. . . .” His voice trails off and he looks at me, the expression on his face unaccountably sad. “Are you sure you still want to go? I mean, I’ll understand if you changed your mind after what happened.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know we’re both thinking about the man and the gun.
“I haven’t,” I reassure him. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”
The relief on his face bruises my heart and I take the arm he holds out. I hate that I’m using him, but what is spying but using people? In the past few days I’ve used Lillian, Mathilde and the oth
er maids, and now Maxwell, who has been nothing but nice to me. I fidget a bit, guilt gnawing at my insides.
It’s all a bit morally confusing, really.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
He sort of nods and shakes his head at the same time. “We still don’t know who the man was. I’m glad you made it back to your room safely. I was worried.”
My breath catches. He killed a man coming to assassinate a member of the royal family and he’s still been worried about me? “I was fine. I was more concerned about you. Does anyone know who his target was?”
He shakes his head and then takes a deep breath. “It’s clear and bright outside, even though it’s pretty cold. Let’s just try to enjoy ourselves and forget about all that. I’ve done nothing but think about it since it happened and I could use the reprieve.”
His dark eyes are pleading, and I think of all I’ve been through the past few weeks. I could use a break, too. Even if it’s short-lived. I turn to him with a smile. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
He squeezes my arm. “How was your day?”
“Good. They let us go out for a bit, earlier. It’s fun to watch the children interact, but it’s difficult to relax while making sure they don’t hurt one another or themselves.”
As we walk through the palace, I realize that I never got a full tour of the inside. “Do you think you could show me around the palace a bit before we go out? I’ve seen more of the tunnels than I’ve seen of the actual living quarters.”
His eyebrows arch upward and he nods. “I suppose I could. What would you like to see?”
I hesitate, then plow ahead boldly. “I’d like to see where the family lives. I’m curious about my cousin’s life,” I explain.
To my surprise he just nods. “Of course. I can’t take you through the whole wing, but I can show you part of it.”
I guess that will have to do. He’s quite a knowledgeable guide as he gives me a quick tour. The family apartments are as opulent as you would expect. They are also empty.
“Fräulein Baum and the duchess Cecilie are out shopping and the prince is with his father,” Maxwell says when I remark on how quiet it is.
“Does Fräulein Baum live in the family apartments?” I ask.
Maxwell shakes his head. “No one except family stays there. She’s in the east wing. The duchess made sure she has the corner suite, though.”
“Does it overlook the Lustgarten?” I ask, trying to orient myself.
“Yes. It has a lovely view. Are you ready to go now?”
Smiling, I nod. I’ve gotten what I needed.
I sniff the cold, clear air once we’re outside, and something inside me unwinds. I hadn’t realized how oppressed I felt inside the palace walls until we step out into the street. Last night doesn’t really count. Again, I’m reminded of childhood outings with my mother, of my father teaching me to ride, my governess taking me to the art museum. Memories that have nothing to do with Velvet, La Dame Blanche, or even this horrid war that seems to have no end. A lump rises in my throat and I blink back tears before resolutely turning to Maxwell.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I thought we could stop for a ginger beer and bratwurst and see some of the sights, if that suits you?”
I nod and then remember the note in my pocket. I chew my lip. Dropping off and picking up secret messages with a German guard on my arm is not a good idea. But then again, I’m not sure when I’ll get another chance. I give myself a mental shake. It shouldn’t be that difficult. “Could we stop by the Hess Bakery on the Nürnberger Straße? I remember having some wonderful gingerbread there as a child and would love to see if they still have it.”
His eyes light up. “Have it? I could live on it!”
“Oh, good!”
It seems as if all of Berlin wishes to enjoy the sunshine, no matter what the actual temperature, and men, women, and children fill the sidewalks. A child passes by with his nanny; he’s leading a small puppy with a giant blue bow. Young women walk arm in arm, their skirts swishing as they pass.
If it weren’t for the numerous coats with black armbands, you could almost forget that, several hundred miles away, men from both sides of the conflict lay dying, far from the people who loved them.
Taking a deep breath, I scan the area behind me, recalling what Miss Tickford had told me concerning surveillance. The fact that I’m out on a lovely day with a handsome young man can’t take away the fact that I’m in constant danger and must be on my guard.
After we have a quick bite at a nearby tavern, he takes me past the Berliner Dom, a Protestant church built to rival St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The church is on the other side of the palace, and we walk across the Lustgarten to reach it. It reminds me that I still need to find out whether it was Max who went out last night, and I rack my brains trying to figure out a way to do it subtly.
“So what did you do last night?” I ask.
So much for subtlety.
His brows knit together as if he’s trying to remember. “Oh, I attended a ball with the prince, and then went home. What did you do?”
He’s lying. I can tell by the way his arm stiffens against mine and by the overly casual tone of his voice. Whatever he was doing, it isn’t something he wants me to know about. What could it be? Could he have been spending time with another girl? Not that that’s any of my business.
I toss my head. Tit for tat, I think. “I went to bed early,” I lie in return. “The children exhaust me.”
“I can imagine. Would you like to see the inside of the church?”
I shake my head, wondering if he knows I’m lying just like I know he’s lying. The feeling of being exposed increases and I want to go to the bakery and then back to the palace. The walls that had seemed so close just an hour ago now seem more protective than stifling.
We walk to the Nürnberger Straße, which isn’t that far from the palace. No wonder La Dame Blanche chose the bakery for a drop site. The red-and-white awning has been replaced with a solid blue one, but other than that, the Bäckerei looks just as I remember. My eyes scan the storefront and there it is—a small blue card in the front window, left by one of the assistant bakers, who is an LDB operative.
I have a message.
My heart hammers in my chest as Maxwell gallantly holds the door open for me, and for a moment my confidence falters. Why did I think I could do this right in front of Maxwell? What if something goes wrong?
Then I press my lips together. Not for nothing did I receive medals for my academic prowess and earn more badges in the Girl Guides than anyone else. I sail confidently into the bakery and nod at the woman at the counter. The card would only be put out if the operative was here to hand off my message, and I wonder if the little round-faced woman expectantly smiling at us secretly works for LDB.
Taking a deep breath, I say the key words. “I haven’t been here since I was a child,” I exclaim loudly. Maxwell gives me an odd look.
Perhaps my delivery needs a bit of work.
A man steps up to the counter. “I’ll get this, Olga,” he says. “Why don’t you check on the strudel?”
She shrugs and goes through a swinging door into the back kitchen. The man facing us has a shock of black hair, and long sideburns frame his face like fuzzy caterpillars. His black eyes dart from me to Maxwell as if assessing the situation. Friend or foe? the look seems to ask.
Thinking fast, I turn to Maxwell. “Thank you so much for escorting me here,” I say. “I’m not sure I could have found my way back without you.” I give the man at the counter a friendly smile and repeat, “I haven’t been here since I was a child. Could I have some gingerbread?”
Maxwell nods. “I would like one as well, please.”
This isn’t so hard.
Turning, I take the folded note out of my pocket. Should I try to pass it when he hands me the gingerbread? Making a quick decision, I bend as if I’m retrieving something. “Excuse me,” I say to the man, who has turne
d toward the pastry case. “Did you drop this?”
My chest tightens as he turns back toward me. “Thank you,” he says, taking the paper.
I smile. One down, one to go. I don’t dare look at Maxwell.
The man turns to get our gingerbread. Each small rectangular slab is encircled with a band of gold foil, signifying that it’s been made from a recipe handed down from the Middle Ages. As he gets our treats, I note that while he grabs the first one from the front and hands it to Maxwell, the one he chooses for me is from the back. His hand trembles as he gives it to me and I accidentally knock it out of his hand as I take it. The bag skitters across the floor and I watch, aghast, as Maxwell retrieves it.
“I’m so sorry,” the man squeaks, obviously as horrified as I am.
“No, it was my fault,” I tell him, reaching out to snatch the bag from Maxwell. He holds it away from me.
“You don’t want that one. It’s been on the floor,” Maxwell says, handing the bag back to the man.
The baker takes it automatically and holds it away from him as if it were about to burst into flames. He gives me a stricken look, as if waiting for me to do something.
“Is there a problem?” Maxwell asks, his voice pleasant.
My pulse hammers in my throat. I grab the bag from the man, who is still frozen with horror. “Oh, don’t be silly. The gingerbread itself didn’t touch the floor. It’s fine.” I grip the bag in my hand so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I force myself to relax as Maxwell hands the man a few coins.
Maxwell opens his immediately after exiting the bakery. “Aren’t you going to eat yours?” he asks.
I reach my hand into the bag and break off a small corner. The message will probably be on the foil band around the cake. The last thing I want to do is pull it out where Maxwell can see it. My nerves can’t handle much more.
The gingerbread must be good, the way Maxwell is eating it, but I’m so edgy, it feels as if I’m chewing on sand.
“Would you mind if we go back to the palace?” I ask Maxwell. “I think I’m still weary from the trip.” The lie slips out of my mouth with oily ease and I wonder at myself. Dishonesty seems to come quite easily to me.
