by Y. S. Lee
“But what are you going to do?” asked Mary. “You’ll not achieve much by blowing up the palace and murdering a couple of commoners. And in present circumstances, you can’t even manage that without killing yourself, too.” She was scarcely able to keep her voice from shaking, from fury rather than fear. She thought of Lang, sick and alone in Cradle Tower, waiting for a visit that would never happen. He would assume she’d changed her mind, turned coward, broken her promise. Disastrous reversals seemed to run in the family.
Wintermarch scowled. “That’s enough. If you were my wife, I’d beat some civility into you.”
The idea was enough to make her snort. “Asking logical questions is hardly uncivil.”
He frowned and turned to James. “You want to teach her some respect.”
James smiled and shrugged. “She’s entirely correct.”
The old man growled, set down his lantern, and muttered something unflattering about the present generation. All the same, he seemed off balance for the first time since his sudden appearance — rather as though their joint impertinence had robbed him of momentum.
Mary’s muscles twitched with long tension. Could she simply rush him? Would he fumble the gun, be reluctant to fire — especially at an unarmed woman? Reactionary noblesse oblige could work to her advantage here, but only if Wintermarch behaved in a logical fashion. With a rational villain, she stood a chance of anticipating his next move. Wintermarch’s utter unpredictability, however, kept her frozen.
It was during this lull — gun wavering, Wintermarch gnashing his teeth, Mary and James watching, calculating, doubting — that a most unexpected thing occurred. It was perhaps the most surprising development possible. A new pair of boots dropped rather heavily from the ladder onto the guncotton-room floor. An extremely familiar but utterly improbable voice said, “Oof.” And the small, plump form of Queen Victoria appeared from behind the crates.
The three of them gaped, too startled to speak or even make a sound. In this subterranean cavern, lit by a single wavering lantern, with the sound of trickling sewage in the background, the queen’s familiar face seemed most likely to be a hallucination brought on by fumes and tension.
Yet even as they stared, the apparition spoke. “A rather clever false alarm, Wintermarch, but we fail to see what you hope to accomplish with this stunt.”
The earl blinked and stammered, “I sh-should have thought it rather obvious.”
“No,” said Her Majesty decisively. “Not at all.”
“Well, I’ve proven that you’re vulnerable. That your defenses and security practices are inadequate.”
“That will always be the case, Wintermarch; our security is ever at risk. But our life is in God’s hands, and we endeavor our best to rule despite these constant, remote possibilities.”
“It’s not so remote now,” he sneered. But it was a weak sort of gibe.
“It is true that an individual monarch’s life may be snuffed out at any moment. But what have you really achieved?” asked the queen. “After our death, we have four male heirs to the throne; the continuation of the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha is assured. The prince consort would make the finest of regents and is a young man yet; his advice shall be available to the future king for decades. You may kill a single monarch, Wintermarch, but you achieve nothing in the act of regicide.”
Her Majesty paused, but Wintermarch appeared unable to reply.
“Furthermore,” she went on, “dare you imagine your treachery so subtle, so utterly original, that we have not been aware of your treasonous desires for some time? It is the reason your stepdaughter has been so recently elevated and honored, for we keep our enemies close. As our predecessor, Queen Elizabeth, famously said, ‘I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England, too.’ Have you so forgotten your history, Wintermarch?”
The revolver flashed again, held in shaking hands but aimed directly at the queen. Instinctively, Mary and James both moved to stand between the monarch and her would-be assassin, but she waved them away.
“Fear not: the earl’s time is past. He has long whispered against our authority, complaining of rule by a woman. The ruination of a kingdom and an empire. Yet his own scheme is irrational. Ineffectual. It will achieve nothing, leave no mark.”
“Won’t it?” shrieked Wintermarch, bracing his arm to shoot. “I’ll prove you wrong, you —”
A sharp, hissing sound.
A sickening thud.
The earl’s face contorted, and a moment later he toppled forward, his body crumpling as though the legs were made of rags. The lantern barely tottered, coming to rest on its base, its small flame wavering but unextinguished.
Mary and James stared at the queen, then whirled to face Wintermarch’s body. It lay slumped and prone, a long stick planted in its back like a flag. An arrow, Mary realized, her fuddled senses slow to interpret the evidence of her eyes. Behind her, the queen gave a small sigh — the only indication of emotion she’d shown throughout this swift, strange unraveling.
And now Mary heard a pair of boots splashing swiftly upstream toward them: the archer who’d killed Wintermarch. He knelt by the body, assessing his work. Glanced up at the queen and saluted. “The shot went through the heart, ma’am.”
“A fine piece of marksmanship, Captain Mathers.”
“Thank you, ma’am. If you’ll pardon the noise, ma’am.” The archer bowed deeply and whistled shrilly three times down the tunnel. In response Mary heard a whistled reply and the marching of boots. How long, she wondered, had the army been poised and waiting?
Queen Victoria sighed again. This time, Mary noticed her weariness, saw evidence of strain in the tiny beads of perspiration that dotted Her Majesty’s forehead. “A bad end for a proud and foolish man.”
James appeared speechless still. Eventually, Mary said, “Yes, ma’am.” But her mind whirled with questions. How had the queen learned of Wintermarch’s treachery? Where was Honoria Dalrymple now? And what had inspired Her Majesty to come down here herself? Despite her fine rhetoric about the royal line continuing, she’d risked her life in order to confront a madman. Had she died, the tragedy would have changed the arc of history.
“We shall thank you both for your loyal efforts at a suitable time,” said Queen Victoria. “For now, Miss Quinn . . .”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“We should be grateful for your assistance in climbing this rather rudimentary ladder. We are not so agile as we once were.”
Mary couldn’t have felt more bewildered had the queen turned her upside down and shaken her vigorously. As she walked north through the relative tranquility of Mayfair, she found it difficult to stop thinking about Queen Victoria’s astonishing arrival in the sewer. Her Majesty had behaved less like a doughty monarch and mother of nine, and more like a member of the Agency! Even her handling of Wintermarch — the clever conversation, stalling him until the archer was in position to shoot — was extraordinary. Not to mention the speed with which she’d organized the army and the judgment she’d shown in anticipating Wintermarch’s attempt at high treason.
It had been tempting for Mary to forgo all etiquette and bombard the queen with questions. In the end, she’d not had the chance: Her Majesty was anxious to be reunited with her family and to establish a measure of normality at the now-overrun Kensington Palace. She expected the removal of the guncotton to be swift, and to return to Buckingham Palace by nightfall. And so, very little the wiser, Mary made the journey back to the Academy.
It was to the Academy she needed to return — not the Agency. She was in no state to report to Anne and Felicity. What she sought was a quiet room with a lock on the door, a place where she might think without disruption. There were distractions enough in her thoughts. She slipped in through the kitchen door, putting a finger to her lips and smiling when she met Ellie, the Academy’s long-standing cook-maid. Ellie smiled indulgently. She was accustomed to the girls’ comings and
goings and blessed with an utter lack of curiosity.
Despite all that had happened today, it was still only late afternoon and the girls were still in their classes. Mary gained her room without meeting a soul, locked the door, and began to collect what she needed. From beneath a floorboard near the wardrobe, she extracted an envelope stuffed with pound notes — the fruit of her nearly two years’ wages at the Agency; next, a letter of character written on fine onionskin paper, testifying to the good temper and patience of Miss Anne Hastings as lady’s companion. She changed her dress for a dark blue woolen gown, the warmest and plainest she had, and put on her stoutest boots. And then she was ready.
Except, of course, that she was anything but. She sat down heavily at her desk, staring at its scarred surface, its uneven varnish. Generations of girls had used this desk, leaving their marks on it. She’d always loved the sense of continuity suggested by the Academy — that she was part of a new tradition, a brave enterprise on the part of impoverished young women. Was she ready to abandon this life, this identity, entirely? For that was what she’d promised Lang.
She’d meant it with her whole heart. Yet now, sitting in her bedroom in the only home she’d known in over a decade, she wondered what it meant to abandon one family for the sake of another. Anne and Felicity had proven their devotion to her. They’d educated her, housed her, trained her. They had given her life purpose. Her loyalty to Lang was born only of history, of an irrational desire to feel a blood bond with someone, even if he refused openly to acknowledge it. It was true that the Agency had failed her in small ways on this most recent case. Yet its silence was a minor failing, especially when compared with Lang’s spectacular record of absence and violence. She could hardly expect perfection of Anne and Felicity when she herself was so far from faultless. And yet.
And yet.
She stood and pushed back her chair. Looked about the room one last time in farewell. There were no personal effects missing, nothing that would suggest that her disappearance had been planned. She knew this room so well, she could have sketched its every detail — the ancient washstand, the trim about the window, the shadows cast by the windowpanes by moonlight. Yet these memories would never be required, and it was best to let go of such intimate knowledge. It was as well that she had experience of starting over so many times.
A phoenix suddenly came to mind: the mythological firebird that, every five hundred years, burned its nest to nothing and rose again from the ashes. She was no phoenix, she thought with something that came near a smile, but she could do the same. Aged six or seven. Aged twelve. Aged twenty. And, she realized, once more after her father’s death. His second death, she noted, with a ghost of amusement. A family of phoenixes.
She unlocked her door, drew a deep breath and walked out — straight into Anne Treleaven’s hand, upraised to rap on the door.
Anne blinked. “Ah, Mary. Ellie told me you’d come back. Were you on your way upstairs?”
“Upstairs” referred to the Agency’s secret headquarters in the Academy’s attic, where agents always reported upon their return. Mary gaped for a very long moment. Eventually, she said in a choked voice, “Yes.”
She trailed behind Anne as they climbed the stairs, steeling herself for the usual report. She hadn’t a great deal to say — still hadn’t much insight into Wintermarch’s actions, let alone Honoria Dalrymple’s involvement — but she’d tell them what she could. And then she’d leave, having at least completed her first real assignment. It was better this way, she told herself without much conviction. She touched her reticule, knowing that her future was tucked inside its lining. A strange sort of talisman, but it was enough for the moment.
As she entered the room, Mary’s eyes fell on the first, most incongruous item: Anne’s desk, usually a vision of order with a lone sheet of foolscap floating on its oak surface, was heaped with folders and slips of paper. Her gaze flicked to the bookcase, which looked ransacked. Finally, she turned to Anne and noticed details she ought to have seen plainly three minutes ago — and surely would have, but for her emotional distractions.
Anne Treleaven was the first person Mary had met at the Academy, the Agency manager she felt closer to. She was a thin, tidy woman with a prim, dignified air — a born governess, to look at her. Mary had seldom seen her show emotion or look less than immaculate. Today, however, her usually neat chignon was loose and the front of her hair ruffled as though she’d been running her hands through it. Behind her spectacles, her eyes were suspiciously bloodshot. She summoned a brief, tight smile. “Do sit down. I expect you’re here for answers. It’s taken us — me — some time to get the information you requested.”
Mary stared. She’d seldom asked Anne a personal question. Even “How do you do?” sometimes seemed intrusive, depending on Anne’s demeanor. Yet this scene was so startling that the words tumbled from her mouth. “Miss Treleaven, what’s wrong? Are you unwell?”
Anne shook her head. “I am quite well, my dear. But — there’s something we — I — ought to tell you. Sit down.”
All thoughts of Queen Victoria, explosives, James Easton, and even Lang Jin Hai drained from Mary’s mind. She lowered herself mechanically into the closest chair. She wasn’t going to like what she heard — of this much she was certain. “I’m listening, ma’am.”
Anne did not sit. Instead, she paced the width of the room, from her desk to the bookcase and back again. And as she pivoted, Mary noticed that half an inch of Anne’s slip peeped from beneath her skirt hem. This, for Anne, was the equivalent of near nakedness in others.
Mary sat in tortured suspense. And now that she had leisure for visions of doom and tragedy, a cold hand clutched her heart: something had happened to Felicity Frame. It was the only answer. Anne would never, otherwise, be alone in such a time of distress. And the obvious disorganization around her — it was no wonder Mary’s requests for information had gone unanswered. “What’s happened to Mrs. Frame?”
Anne’s smile was weary. “You always were fond of unanswerable questions.” She stopped pacing and laced her fingers together, as though about to recite a poem. “My dear, I expect you’ve been aware of undercurrents and tensions for some time. The day-to-day running of the Agency is a complicated affair, and Mrs. Frame and I have worked together for nearly two decades. It’s quite common for colleagues, in such situations, to fall out, and you’ve already seen some evidence of differences of opinion between the two of us.”
Mary nodded but did not speak. There was nothing to say.
“What has happened recently, however, is of graver import. There is no clever or subtle way to say this, Mary: after a fundamental disagreement about the future direction of the Agency, Mrs. Frame and I have agreed to part ways.”
Mary stared. She’d expected to hear of Felicity dead or missing. Or of a case gone badly wrong. She hadn’t expected this — a nasty spat, the dissolution of a business arrangement. It was both dreary and petty, adjectives she’d never associated with the Agency. So much for her childish notions of “home.” “What —?” Her voice was rusty, and she cleared her throat before trying again. “What are the consequences for the Agency and its operatives?”
Anne sighed. “Both simple and complicated, I’m afraid. Mrs. Frame has, for some time, been keen to change the scope of her work. She has wanted to admit men to the Agency and to cultivate certain powerful contacts she has made in government. You’ve been privy to some of her suggestions — for example, that we invite your friend James Easton to join the Agency. She was also responsible for committing the Agency to the case you worked on at St. Stephen’s Tower, which was so very nearly disastrous.”
“Bad-mouthing me behind my back, Anne? I didn’t expect that from you.” The voice — rich, dramatic, slightly amused — came from the door. It was Felicity, of course — extravagantly dressed, as usual, in a garnet-colored silk gown. A scarlet woman, walking away from her home, her friends, her dependents. “Good afternoon, Mary. I see I’m just in time to balan
ce the picture.” She waved a dismissive hand at Anne. “Oh, don’t ruffle up. It’s best for her to hear it from both of us.”
Anne swallowed something — likely her temper — and said, “True. I’ve just explained your desire to make changes: adding male agents and chasing your Westminster contacts.”
“There’s no need to make it sound grubby.” Felicity turned the force of her charisma onto Mary. “Everything’s changing, Mary: London. Politics. Society. The empire. Everything except the Agency. I don’t think that’s right, and I’m damned worried about being left behind.
“As you know, Anne and I differ on this matter. This break has been coming for some time — although I apologize if it is a complete shock to you — and I’d hoped there would be a minimum of disruption and resentment.” She looked meaningfully at Anne. “But I suppose it’s always difficult, breaking apart an organization.”
Mary didn’t like this. Of course, she hated the idea of the Agency changing. But she specifically disliked the way Anne and Felicity were sparring, sniping at each other like petty girls rather than conversing as intelligent adults. “I thought the Agency was a collective,” she said. “That’s how you described it to me before I even began my training.”
Anne nodded. “You are correct. But over the years, Mrs. Frame and I have been its day-to-day managers. We maintain contact with clients, organize contracts, do all the background research that is so essential for the agents’ success.”
“In practice,” cut in Felicity, “we’ve a choice: whether to chart a new course for the Agency or to continue straight on.”
“Shouldn’t you have asked all the agents for their positions? It’s not right to leave us in the dark, then present this fracture as a fait accompli.” She’d never spoken in such a tone to the two women; wouldn’t have dreamed it possible an hour earlier.
