by Y. S. Lee
Lang was drooping a little, as though the intensity of his effort had actually bled him. “If. If you chose to sacrifice everything you had to embrace a foreign killer and opium addict, you would accomplish nothing. I would still be hanged. The aristocrat would still be dead.”
“I would be your daughter.”
“And what a bloody taint that would be.”
“What if I chose to embrace it?” She dug in her reticule and found another vial of poison. Of salvation.
He drank greedily enough, but with a new, furtive expression. He was ashamed for her to see him like this, she realized, now that they were talking so very nearly without disguise. “Why stop at social and material suicide? What you propose is tantamount to self-murder.”
Mary knew he intended to shock. He managed it all the same. Only the scrape of the guard’s boots against stone compelled her to resume a prim, standing posture.
“Ten minutes, miss.”
She nodded, unable to speak, afraid to look at the jailer lest he see the evidence of tears on her face.
When he left, not without a suspicious look at Lang, she bent low again. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” she said. The interruption had been good for her composure. “I’ve one last question for you. I can help you to escape. I’ll organize everything. I’ll make it clean. When I call for you, will you come?”
Finally, she had succeeded in shocking him. He sagged back on the cot, hit the wall with a grunt. Waved off her gesture of concern. “I’m fine. You, however, are mad.”
“It’s been done before, by a priest in Elizabethan times. And there’s a water entrance in this tower: direct access to the Thames. If we chose our time wisely, we could be several miles out of London before anybody noticed.”
“I don’t question your ability to escape yourself. But look at me.” He sat straighter, holding out his arms, rolling up his ragged sleeves. He was a mess of bruised skin draped over bones, like gauze over twigs. “Had you forgotten my hand?” He showed her the hideous gash, black and cracked and oozing, with white streaks radiating from its crusted edges. “I’ll never climb down a rope, or even a ladder.”
“I’m not a fool. The most strenuous thing you’ll have to do is walk down those stairs and climb into a boat.”
“And then what? We’ll sail to Greenwich and live as happy wanderers, picking berries and poaching the odd pheasant?” His impatience was clear, despite his weakness. “You daft, impulsive girl. I’m marked for death, one way or another. It doesn’t matter if I hang at Her Majesty’s pleasure or die of blood poisoning from this cut or if one of the jailers strangles me in the night. I’ll be dead in a fortnight’s time, and to hell with the means.”
She hadn’t been quite that stupid: her plan had been to go to ground in Limehouse for a time. She doubted the authorities would be able to identify Lang, one Chinese looking so much like another — to the English, at least. Then, perhaps after that, Bristol or Liverpool — another port town with a small Asiatic population. But she’d not thought so clearly about Lang’s future. The complications of his fragile health, his addiction, his utter lack of interest in survival.
It cut bone deep. It was also so familiar. It was how she herself had felt, at the age of twelve, being tried for housebreaking. She’d not had a future then. Had seen no reason why her life ought not end then and there. But the women of the Agency had proven her wrong. It had been her first lesson at the Academy.
“If you escape,” she told him, “that fatalism will be the most dangerous threat to your own life. We’ll see a physician about that cut. You can wean yourself from opium. You’re not an old man — forty-five or fifty? If you desire it, you can make yourself anew.”
He simply shook his head.
“What does that mean? You don’t believe me? You don’t want to?”
“You’re a brave, warmhearted young lady. Don’t waste it on me.”
So she’d inherited her stubborn streak from her father. Finally, after a long pause, she mustered enough calm to say, “I understand this is a large and dangerous proposal. You may wish to have time to consider it. I shall return tomorrow to tell you the details of my plan.” After all, she’d need until then to work it out in detail and procure the necessary tools.
“I shan’t change my mind, child.”
Child. She blinked back a sudden rush of tears. “Then you can tell me that again tomorrow. Good day, Mr. Lang.”
When Mary presented herself for duty, Mrs. Shaw examined her with a grim eye. “You don’t look much improved — still pasty and puffy. Are you sure you’re well enough? I can’t have you drooping about and fainting in Her Majesty’s presence.”
“I feel much better, thank you, ma’am.”
“Then you may as well start with the Blue Room. Be thorough. I doubt the Tranter chit ever was.”
The Blue Room was generally used in the evenings, before and after formal dinners. On occasion, Her Majesty entertained larger groups there in the afternoon, but those were special occasions, of which today was not one. Yet as Mary entered, she thought she heard the second set of doors click shut. She stopped. It was a vast hall, a former ballroom that had been converted only a few years earlier into a drawing room, and more likely than not she’d heard only an echo. But as she moved slowly down its length, she could have sworn she heard steps hurrying away.
She quickened her pace, glancing from side to side as she went. It was ridiculous to think that someone was lurking behind an ornamental screen or beside a fireplace, but she felt suspicious nonetheless. The door at the other side was indeed not quite closed, which probably accounted for the noise she’d heard: a slight draft would have made the door click as though just being shut.
She turned to begin her dusting — then turned back. For caution’s sake, opened one of the doors very slowly. Nothing. See? She really was becoming overly suspicious about things like this. Even if it had been somebody closing the door, it was likely a footman about his work.
Right. Dusting. She selected a high shelf quite at random and began. The most annoying thing about dusting in the more public rooms was the sheer quantity of delicate ornaments one had to lift, wipe, and replace, all in the course of a few running feet of display space. Perhaps the most astonishing thing about the thefts, all of which had been from this room, was that they’d been remarked at all. She worked her way clockwise round the room, moving from high to low as she’d been taught.
When she got to the fireplace mantel, she frowned. There was something off here. Taking a step back, she looked at the array of treasures displayed: an ormolu clock, a small antique vase, an idyllic rural scene executed in Dresden china, various bits of shining crystal . . . Yes. The vase was missing its mate, throwing off the symmetry of the mantelpiece display. A quick check of the surrounding area showed that it hadn’t been moved to a nearby table or ledge. Most peculiar. As she peered closer, Mary noticed a ghostly pattern in the accumulated dust of the mantel. There: a circle where the vase should have stood, now partly overlain by a tiny carved-ivory snuffbox.
Mary’s scalp prickled. Had she been seconds from seeing the palace thief in action? She darted to the doors she’d just closed. Nothing, of course. And the hallway offered no clues — no hastily dropped monogrammed handkerchief, for example. Had she really expected such a convenient giveaway? Tempting as it was, she decided against pursuit. By now, the thief might be anywhere in the palace — perhaps even outside the palace — and a small vase like that could easily be carried in an overcoat or a handbag. She was only wasting time and ignoring the scene in which the theft had been carried out.
She returned to the mantel and looked again at the remaining vase. It was quite likely one of a pair, depicting as it did a classical scene: Persephone in the Underworld, clutching her fateful pomegranate. The missing vase ought to show Persephone reunited with her mother, Demeter. They would be able to confirm that in the register of household goods. If so, it also revealed one of two possibilities about
the thief: either he or she did not possess a rudimentary classical education, or he or she had been too unobservant or too hasty to see that the vase was one of a pair. They were worth more as companion pieces than separated.
Honoria Dalrymple remained an unlikely culprit. Mary might not have considered her at all but for the night of her subterranean adventure. Even so, there was no incentive for a rich, wellborn lady to steal such relatively paltry items. Dalrymple must be after something else entirely. But all the servants remained suspects. All except Amy Tranter, of course. And that was the best news to come of this new theft: Amy might have lost Octavius Jones, but she could at least reclaim her job.
After a swift but comprehensive survey of the room, Mary hurried belowstairs, found Mrs. Shaw, and laid before her a concise explanation of what she’d found. Given her history with the housekeeper, she didn’t expect praise or instant action, but even so, she was startled by Mrs. Shaw’s response.
“Missing, you say?” said Mrs. Shaw with a thin smile. “Are you very sure, Quinn?” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, ma’am. I searched the entire room for the vase.”
“And what makes you so certain it was missing in the first place?”
Mary bit back an impatient I’ve already told you. “The mantelpiece arrangement was strange, ma’am. Uneven.” A parlor maid wouldn’t know the word symmetrical.
“And so you deduced the missing vase.”
“I think so, ma’am.” It was too far out of character to demonstrate knowledge of the story of Persephone’s rescue from the Underworld. “There was a circle on the mantel that was less dusty. It looks like the base of a vase to me.”
“And on this flimsy — I hesitate to say ‘evidence’— this flimsy tale, you wish me to drop everything and report yet another disgraceful episode to Her Majesty?”
Mary swallowed her temper. “Isn’t there a book, ma’am, that lists all the ornaments in each room? It would show whether there’s a vase missing. Or anything else.”
“It will — and I shall consult it in my own good time.” Mrs. Shaw looked down her nose at Mary. “Not when an irresponsible, half-wild, would-be parlor maid tells me to.”
Those adjectives weren’t entirely inaccurate, Mary conceded, considering her role from Mrs. Shaw’s perspective. All the same, she didn’t understand the housekeeper’s frosty hostility toward her. And as she would carry that reputation whether she earned it or not, she’d nothing to lose in pushing the woman a bit further. “With respect, ma’am, if the vase was stolen, you’d want to report it straightaway.”
“But that’s a large if, Quinn — especially as I suspect that your eagerness for action is because you have your own agenda.”
This was half surprising, half entirely too predictable for words. “Ma’am?”
“The simplest and stupidest thing in the world for you to do would be to hide a vase and claim it was stolen, thus exonerating your little friend Tranter.”
“I give you my word, Mrs. Shaw. I never even thought of it. Please. Search my room, if you don’t believe me.”
“A very good idea, Quinn. But it wouldn’t be in your room if you’d taken it.” Mrs. Shaw smiled, very unpleasantly indeed. “You’re rather deep, and very sly. I’ll not find anything there. But watch your step, my girl: when I sack you, it’ll be for very clear reasons. And you’ll never work as a domestic again.” And with that, the housekeeper swept from the room.
Mary shook her head in disbelief. What ought she do now? If the theft was later discovered, Mrs. Shaw would be certain to put the blame on her. Going over the housekeeper’s head was the only way to protect herself from a future accusation of deficiency. But would an ordinary parlor maid have the courage to do so? And if so, whom would she tell? Such an act of mutiny would certainly make its way back to Mrs. Shaw, and how could Mary protect her place then?
The only course open to her was to notify the Agency. They would get word to the right person. They could investigate Mrs. Shaw’s background at the same time, to shed some light on her hostile behavior. Yes. That was the best course of action. And yet, thought Mary as she went up to her room for paper and pen, she’d not yet heard back from Anne or Felicity on any of her earlier queries, whether to do with Honoria Dalrymple, Octavius Jones, or the purpose of the secret tunnel. Without their help, she was as alone here as any ordinary parlor maid. And at the moment, she’d no particular confidence that her training would help her at all. There were still too many things she didn’t understand. There was too much for her to do. She hadn’t a clue where things stood in relation to one another. And tonight, Honoria Dalrymple expected her to seduce Prince Bertie for the greater glory of the Dishonorable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth’s reputation.
Mary thought of Lang Jin Hai, imprisoned in Cradle Tower. He, at least, was secure in his fate. The thought was only half formed, however, when a wave of shame and self-loathing turned her stomach. No: she certainly didn’t envy her father. But perhaps this was part of her desire to help him escape, too — to flee this sordid confusion. Living like happy wanderers was certainly impossible. But she couldn’t help a deep throb of longing for an uncomplicated existence. A happy life. If such a thing actually existed.
She rather suspected it did not.
When the summons came from the Prince of Wales, she was woefully unprepared. She’d had her thoughts fixed so firmly on tonight — after dinner, after the staff were dismissed for the day — that his timing thoroughly rattled her.
It was the beginning of the post-luncheon lull, when the servants had an hour’s free time. On her way up to her room, Mary paused at the housekeeper’s room to check for a return message from the Agency. Nothing. She frowned. She’d not given them much time, it was true, but Anne Treleaven was generally so efficient. Perhaps in another hour. She turned down the corridor toward the staircase and, rounding a corner, met one of the smirking, thin-lipped equerries of the previous morning.
“You’re a lucky girl.”
She cursed silently. “Are you speaking to me, sir?”
He glanced about elaborately. “Who else?” It was true: they were quite alone in the hallway. “His Highness wants a word with you.”
“A word?”
That smirk again. “Perhaps more than one. But I doubt you’ll be doing much talking.”
In any other circumstances, she would have kicked him in the groin and fled. The prospect remained tempting in her situation: while defying Prince Bertie’s wishes would certainly get her the sack, so would complying with them, once Mrs. Shaw could secure proof of her immoral behavior. Between these two scenarios, her continued employment was extremely precarious. For now, she elected to obey the equerry, as she stood more of a chance of influencing the prince than she did Mrs. Shaw. With a grim look, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the Prince of Wales’s apartments. It would be a long walk; she was now at the farthest end of the palace from his rooms.
The equerry — they were so alike she’d never attempted to tell them one from another — tagged along behind her. “I say, are you going just like that?”
She ignored him.
“I mean, oughtn’t you, er, perform your toilette, or some such?”
She looked down her nose at the lumpish attendant — not difficult, despite the fact that he towered over her. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
He crimsoned, then scowled. “Hoity-toity for a common little bit of skirt, ain’t you? Just because you caught the prince’s eye.”
She kept walking.
“You ain’t even that pretty.”
Mary thought, The next thing he says will be: “Dunno what he sees —”
“Don’t know what he sees in you, myself.”
As they crossed through the portrait gallery, Mary hoped for somebody — one of the princes or princesses, a visiting dignitary, even the prince consort himself — to appear. No such luck: they came upon only an occasional domestic who, in the equerry’s presence, instantly tu
rned to face the wall. Mary’s mood darkened. There would be witnesses capable of bearing a tale, but nobody capable of stopping this nightmare.
As they exited the Long Gallery, the young man drew near and said in an ugly tone, “Don’t you dare behave as though I’m invisible.” A few moments later, he was so close she felt his breath, hot and wine sour, on her neck. “Or I’ll make you sorry.”
Mary’s pulse roared. She swallowed hard and checked the desire to utter a smart retort. She couldn’t walk faster without breaking into a run, but three long corridors lay between her and the Prince of Wales’s apartments. She’d no idea which place was safer.
The answer came a moment later, when thick fingers bit into her upper arm and she was dragged toward a doorway. “Too daft to listen,” he sneered, shoving her against the wall, rattling the door handle. His face was dull red, his breathing hoarse.
Mary glanced about, trying not to show her panic. They were the only two souls in the corridor.
“No one’s coming to save you, you worthless jade.” His free hand rummaged her skirts, and she knocked it away with a swift blow that made him howl. She twisted away, but even as she began to run, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her into the door so hard that her shoulder crunched and bounced off it again. “You like a scrap, eh? I’ll give it to you rough.”
The door was locked, but that didn’t deter him. He pulled her tight against him, her back against his chest, his breath loud and moist in her ear. His arm was locked about her waist — he was surprisingly strong, despite his doughy appearance — and he fumbled her skirts again.
He wanted her to struggle.
He wanted her to cry, to beg, to be terrified.
He hadn’t the first clue with whom he was dealing.
“You stupid little boy,” she said in a clear, acidic voice. “What d’you think Bertie’s going to say when I tell him what you’re trying to do?”
Instantly, he went still.
