Secrets to Reveal

by Tilly Wallace

  She still had a long walk to the cottage, but at least it would give her a chance to stretch out the cricks in her body. The ride had jarred her so badly that she feared it would loosen her teeth. She stopped at the general store and ordered a few supplies for her stay. The boy would deliver them by nightfall, when he loaded up the cart and did his rounds of the far-flung cottages and houses serviced by the store. They offered her a ride out, but she wanted to clean the cottage and settle in before dark. Perhaps there would even be time for a bath while the daylight lasted.

  Aster set off down a little-used track. She didn’t mind the walk, for it gave her time to think. Every step took her closer to the ocean. The tang of salt and cry of the seagulls told her she was nearly there. As she walked along the cliff edge she watched a wight dance atop the water. The creature appeared to be made of gossamer spun silver, roughly the same shape as a person’s shadow. It sparkled with ripples of reflection from both sun and water. From this distance, Aster couldn’t distinguish any features to name it male or female. It could have been a drowned sailor, or his wife who had cast herself off the hill when he never returned.

  Up ahead, the small cottage hunkered into the side of a hill perched at the top of the cliff. The rough stone walls had stood for well over a hundred years. Originally built by a fisherman who kept his boat on the beach below, at some point it had fallen into Sir John’s hands, and he’d offered it as a spot for Aster to holiday. The original fisherman had carved a narrow path into the cliff, and it hugged the side as it wound down to the sand.

  Some thought the location desolate and isolated, but she loved its proximity to the ocean. She could sit for hours with the crash of waves at her feet and gaze across the water. What wights and sprites she encountered out here left her alone, and no one invaded her privacy. Dougal loved the beach; he would bark and race away to chase the birds circling over the water. Without the little terrier, for the first time she felt truly alone.

  The scandalously daring part of the property was the bath, set on the edge of the cliff and overlooking the ocean. She tried to imagine the fisherman chipping away at the stone. He had first dug a hole deep and wide enough to accommodate the tin bath, and then fitted it into the cavity. Had he soaked in the evening while thinking on his day fishing or was it an act of whimsy, done out of love for his wife? She conjured an image of a man watching a woman bathe under starlight with the moon reflecting off the ocean below.

  Shaking aside such thoughts, Aster set down her bag and searched among the rocks piled around the side of the cottage. Her fingers grasped cold iron and she drew the key from its hiding place, then unlocked the door. Decades of salt wind battering on the timber had worn and etched patterns into the wood, but it stood firm and only groaned quietly as she pushed it open. The interior was dim until she opened the shutters covering the windows. The glass was mottled with bubbles, distorting the world beyond but allowing light to filter in.

  It was a small cottage, designed for simple living for just one or two people. A table had two wooden chairs sitting on opposite sides. A double bed in an iron frame was pushed up against one wall under a low window, to provide the last glimmer of light for reading. A bench ran along another wall, and next to it sat a fat, chunky range. Shaped like a squat iron box, it had a cooktop, an enclosed oven, and a skinny chimney sticking out the roof. An armchair with a worn brocade covering stood on the other side of the range, to share its warmth in winter. A tall bookshelf was crammed with volumes, for there was no better way to pass the time than reading. It had been some months since either she or Sir John had sought the cottage’s seclusion, and a layer of sand covered most surfaces.

  “Right,” she said, and dropped her bag on the floor. “Time to get to work.”

  In a cupboard she found a clean apron—mercifully free from the invading sand, which managed to gain admittance through the tiniest gaps and cracks. Then she drew a bucket of water from the nearby well. It only took two hours to wipe everything down, sweep the floor, set the fire in the range, and make the bed. She desperately wanted a bath, but dared not heat the water and soak until the delivery boy had dropped off her supplies. It would never do to be caught bathing outside; she would save that until dark.

  With everything straight and clean, Aster grabbed her shawl and headed down the path. She kept one hand on the rock face to steady her steps, for there was no rail to stop a plummet over the side. Once she reached the beach, she walked to the water’s edge. The tide lapped at her boots as she stood and gazed across the ocean. Somewhere, off in the distance behind the haze, lay France—England’s enemy. But how many enemies gathered behind her back?

  16

  Aster

  * * *

  As Aster headed back up to the path to the cottage, the ground above echoed with the clip-clop of large, slow hooves. Dusk lit the sky in a riot of colours, like an artist painting broad strokes with their brush. It was a remarkably beautiful spot, if one didn’t mind the isolation. She put a smile on her face and went to greet the shop boy and his patient Clydesdale. The enormous bay with its feathered feet drew a nearly empty cart. Aster must have been one of the last on his rounds of the remote cottages.

  As he unloaded her crate, he chatted about the village comings and goings, telling her about the lives of people she had never met as he carried her purchases into the cottage. The big local gossip was about a witch, a woman with a trace of mage blood, who had taken up residence since Aster’s last stay. The woman sold love spells and tokens to lonely locals and Aster wondered if she should pay the witch a visit for a spell to heal the ache in her chest. If she had been a seer, Aster could have paid for a vision of Sir John, to know how he fared.

  The lad’s gossip was a lyrical note that filled the silence, like a bird that chirps and sings from a nearby tree. When he climbed into the cart and took up the reins, the note fell away with the receding beat of the horse’s feet, and silence crept back.

  While Aster rationalised she would only be in Lowestoft for a day or two, another part of her said to be prepared. Therefore, she’d ordered enough to get her through a week. If she had no word from Sir John by then, she would reassess her course. There was another task that needed to be done, one item on the secret list that haunted her with its arrangement of letters. Once she had a clear head, she needed to tackle the code and determine if Hamish’s name was there. When she had verified he was not involved, she would seek out his help.

  As dark fell, she boiled water on the range, using a cloth to protect her hand as she carried the pans back and forth to the outdoor bath. The work had a satisfying rhythm: Walk to the well to draw water, then set it to boil. Take the heated water and empty the container in the bath, and walk to the well to draw more water. She stopped her labour when the water lapped close to the edge of the bath. Night lay over the land and the full moon rose and brushed its hand over the sea, leaving a silvery trail.

  Her frame shivered in anticipation as she slipped off her dress, stays, and shift. Ever since Hamish held her and kissed her with such passion, her blood had heated. It was as though the increased temperature brought with it wanton, sensual thoughts that were foreign to her mind. He had awakened her body, and she struggled to make sense of the new primal sensations that raced over her skin. She had a restlessness deep within that demanded to be sated, but she didn’t know how.

  She sighed as she stepped into the bath and lay back. The water lapped at her body as heat seeped into her tired bones and steam rose to mingle with the night air. She stared out over the ocean. The tips of waves sparkled and glistened, caressed by the moon. The lone wight now had company—it danced with a companion, and the two silver shades performed a slow ballet for Aster.

  Bathing outside at night seemed heathen, and her awakened sensual side imagined sharing the experience. What would it be like, to have the press of another behind her? Would he wrap strong arms around her naked waist as she lay trapped between his legs? Hamish’s name whispered from her lips
as she brushed a hand up her stomach, and gasped at the sensation it released.

  How had he done this to her? Or was this his Unnatural affliction, that he could reach her under the moonlight? Thinking of him stirred something strange and hungry within her, and it demanded to be fed with touch. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine her hand was Hamish’s, stroking her body. A moan broke free and mingled with the crash of waves as she explored her flesh for the first time. It should have been wanton and shameful, but under the gaze of the full moon she felt like a creature of the night, indulging in a sensual act as an offering to the sky.

  Her breath came in shallow gasps as she experimented with which caresses tingled and which burst over her skin. One hand crept lower, over her stomach, as the hunger demanded more. In any other place, she would never dare touch herself in such a way, but out here, just this once, she threw her inhibitions to the blanket of stars that shone above. She pressed a finger inside her body and moaned as instinct taught her a gentle rhythm, in sync with the waves brushing the shore. Each gasp drew salt-laden air into her lungs, as though she had become a part of the ocean. She opened her eyes as release exploded through her body, and her gaze locked on a shooting star that raced across the sky. Her namesake perhaps, freed from its celestial tether.

  “Hamish,” she whispered.

  She watched the stars above until the water cooled, then dried herself off and crawled into bed. Aster slept and dreamed of a life that splintered into a myriad of different directions, like a mirror that shattered over the ground. Each shard held a different vision and a different possibility. One was a world where her father had returned from service and married her mother. In another, Hamish was a French spy responsible for Sir John’s death and the downfall of England. Or a world where Hamish fought France and courted her heart and hand, taking her back to his estate in Scotland.

  The next morning Aster rose with the dawn light and headed out. Heat flushed her chest as she passed the bath. Not the heated blood of the previous night, but a flush of pure embarrassment. In the light of the day it was difficult to recollect what she’d done while naked under the moon’s light. She was bewitched, that was the only answer. She had succumbed to a moment of lunacy, which was undoubtedly why you were supposed to avoid the moon’s gaze. Part of her longed for the growing feeling inside her to be a Highland enchantment Hamish had cast upon her with his soft kisses and gentle caresses.

  She headed down the narrow path and walked along the beach. She found a gnarled piece of driftwood and dragged it behind her in the soft sand. She wrote Hamish’s name in giant letters and then jumped on it to flatten them. High above, seagulls circled and cried, taunting her for her foolishness. Doubt and fear ate at her. The encrypted list weighed heavily on her mind. Seven names, and one had the right pattern of letters to be Hamish’s. Perhaps that was why she drew his name on the beach.

  Her brain needed answers, but her heart broke to think her trust might be misplaced. She kept putting it off. She stared up at the cottage, sheltering against the rock at its back. The answer awaited her, if only she were brave enough to seek it out.

  “This isn’t solving anything. Let us answer one riddle, then I can decide what to do next,” she said. Decision made, she planted the piece of wood like a spear in the ground. She grabbed the edge of her shawl and pulled it tighter against the damp chill from the mist rolling off the waves.

  At the cottage she fed another piece of wood into the range, so it would boil the kettle. She spooned tea into the pot and decided it was past time for action. While the tea steeped, she looked in the cupboard and found the basket of stationery containing a stack of paper, a pencil, and a quill and ink pot. She laid everything out on the table and then, finally, drew the Iliad from her bag. With a fingernail she loosened the secret flap and unveiled the list.

  The familiar tingle of magic raced over her fingertips as she laid the page flat. Thankfully, the mages had stabilised the ensorcellment, and the letters held firm and didn’t march and change places as she stared.

  Logic ruled her morning. First she copied each line of symbols onto its own piece of paper. She needed plenty of space to scratch out notes and ideas for each as they hit. Then she took up the small volume. The book was the key, of that she was certain. Sir John must have either cracked the key or been close, judging by his notations in the margin alongside each underlined word. She held the answer in her hands already; it was just a matter of discerning how the original author had manipulated the alphabet. Once she knew that, the names would yield to her.

  The simplest code was one where each letter was shifted a fixed number of positions through the alphabet. It was sometimes called a Caesar cipher, after Julius Caesar, who used a factor of three to protect his messages of military importance. Such codes were also easy to break, and given the random pattern of the names, she doubted the agent had used anything so uncomplicated. Sir John would have discerned a simple Caesar cipher and broken it within hours, if not minutes.

  No, if she were a foreign agent trying to hide the identities of men who had a part to play in the downfall of her enemy, she would use something much harder. Something many thought unbreakable, like a Vigenère cipher.

  Unless one happened to know the keyword used to encode the message, a Vigenère cipher was impenetrable, even without magic paper that made each symbol dance and dart amongst the lines. That required a mage to make the cypher behave, and there were only a few mages born to each country. The Iliad had a part to play in revealing the keyword, if Aster could decipher Sir John’s clues to figure out where in the text the keyword lay hidden—or rather, keywords. Each name would have a keyword the same length—that is, with the same number of characters. That would explain why so many words were underlined because the agent needed seven keywords of varying lengths, scattered throughout the book.

  So much work lay before her. She scoured the book page by page, jotting down the underlined words and their order, hoping it would be as simple as each snippet corresponding to the length of a name on the list. It nagged at her, though. If the keyword laid in the underlined text, Sir John should have deciphered the list already. She feared she was missing something.

  Shaking her head, she carried on with her set routine when presented with a new cipher. She needed to draft up grids of the alphabet to figure out which letter in the key corresponded to which letter of the alphabet. It was time-consuming, detailed work, and by midday her brain screamed it was full and could not stare at another letter. Her body also protested the time spent hunched over the table, and she had a cramp in her hand.

  She donned a short, grey-striped spencer, and then picked up her bonnet and a basket. She would stretch her body by walking to the village and buy a fresh fish for her dinner. She passed no one and saw no traffic until she neared the village, although that was a generous term to describe the assortment of buildings that lay on the outskirts of Lowestoft proper. This lonely stretch of road contained a general store, a blacksmith with stables, a tavern, and a few houses dotted alongside. One house had a riotous garden and a wooden sign out the front with a falling star drawn on it. The resident witch.

  Aster’s feet slowed and she nearly turned up the path to seek a magical cure for her aches. Then she reminded herself that work came first and she had chores to do. She carried on to the store, which contained everything you could need, from buttons and fabric to tea and flour.

  The owner smiled at Aster. She was an infrequent visitor to this corner of Lowestoft, but the man had a prodigious memory and knew all the locals and people who passed through.

  “Where’s your puppy today? I’ve got a bone he would love,” he asked.

  She smiled, and her heart ached a little for her constant companion. “I left him in Woolwich this time.”

  “Hope you’re not too lonely out there. You pop down to the tavern if you need company; there’s lots of people who would give you a ride back in their cart. Or you could hire a horse, if you ride
?” He chatted as he worked, filling orders laid out on the counter.

  Did she ride? She closed her eyes and blinked back tears as thoughts of Hamish teaching her flew to her mind. Her body could still recall the press of his hands as he positioned her legs, his gentle patience with his instructions.

  “No, I don’t ride,” she said. “I’m quite happy to walk, thank you.”

  She purchased a newspaper, two fish fillets, and a loaf of bread. This far out, the news was behind by a day or two, so she would have to make do with delayed information. Better that than none at all. While at the store, she penned a quick apology to Mrs Roberts and asked her to look after Dougal for longer. Her hand was poised to address the letter, when suddenly she froze over the paper. Yet again she’d almost committed a folly. Once she handed it over, she lost control over who knew her whereabouts. What if other eyes saw the missive and knew where she’d posted it? That would give away her location, which was something she couldn’t risk. She tucked the note into her basket with a sigh.

  She thanked the store owner and headed back out into the sunshine to begin the long walk to her temporary home. Curiosity ate at her with every step, and once she was well clear of the little settlement, she found a spot under a tree and snapped open the newspaper. While she read, she pulled off a corner from the loaf and chewed fresh bread. Another day passed, and still there was no coded message for her return from Sir John. There was no further news about the murdered soldiers discovered at the Royal Arsenal, either. She had little choice but to stay her course.