She wondered at the nature of their affliction. They couldn’t be vampyres, as that was a primarily a French thing and she had seen them all out in the bright day without any smouldering or their eyes bleeding. Nor could all twelve be mages, as they were incredibly rare. There were only ten mages in all of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales.
They could perhaps have traces of mage blood. That gave a person a variety of lesser magical skills and talents. That could explain his thrall over her. Was it merely a witch’s spell or trick?
“Oh Dougal,” she whispered to her constant companion. “What am I to do?”
Dougal had no answer. So Aster chose to bury herself in work. She needed a distraction and Sir John had provided the perfect one, a new puzzle. Even after a solid two hours the fiendish list resisted all her efforts to even yield a starting point. With no context or key, she could labour for a hundred years and not discern the secrets held within the symbols. Futile. Everything seemed so pointless. She wanted to screw up the paper and throw it at the wall, but that would make a mess and then she would have to tidy up.
She let Dougal out for a run, and the dog promptly shot into the neighbouring field after a rabbit. She probably wouldn’t see him again until she returned home, when he would appear with a limp body clutched in his jaws. Not only was she abandoned by her dog, but even Sir John seemed in a melancholy mood when she took him the morning tea tray. Worry lined his face and brought his brows together. He tented his fingers on the desk.
His indigo gaze turned to near midnight black. “We live in dangerous times, Aster. Napoleon is fighting on many different fronts and is desperate to find a way out, especially now Prussia has joined us against him. We fight enemies both seen and unseen.”
She stood stiffly, for her mind was preoccupied with a particular name just added to the register of Unnaturals. Sir John intoned his words with such seriousness that alarm broke through her thoughts and crawled up into her mind. “I am aware of events in Europe and how our contribution plays its part, Sir John.”
His gaze fell to his hands. “I don’t know how to say this, Aster, but I believe it is no longer safe for you to work here. Not in the current climate.”
“No,” she whispered, and dropped to a chair as her world tumbled around her. “Please, Sir John. Have you ever had a reason to doubt the quality of my work?”
Tears welled behind her eyes. This could not be happening. If she lost this job, she would have to use her Winter Fund to pay her rent until she found other employment. Where would she find another occupation that kept her active mind busy?
“I am thinking of you, Aster, and how to protect you from a gathering storm.” He softened the blow. “We are at a particularly sensitive point in the campaign, and in the intelligence that crosses through our hands. There are rumours swirling of magical weapons that heighten the danger to this base.” He glanced at the chalkboard. It was the only messy thing in his office. The surface was covered in scribbled notations and parts of words in no discernible order.
She knew the dangers. He had drilled her from the very first day, gently at the beginning so as not to scare her. Once he realised she was made of sterner stuff, he laid out the potential pitfalls of their burden in a workmanlike manner. “I fully understand the risks. Please—”
“I think it would be for the best if you took Dougal and went to the cottage.” The tea cooled on the tray, untouched.
She was being dismissed without even the chance to say goodbye to Hamish. Although thinking she had a place in his affections was another futile hope. If he were an Unnatural surely he would seek out one of his own kind? It was all too much. Tears fell on her hands.
“This is not goodbye, Aster. Never think that; you will always have a position here. I merely want you to be safe. A month is all I am asking, until we have determined the particulars of the rising plot. I will even send you more puzzles, to ensure you are not bored. And perhaps some of those old volumes about historic encounters with Unnaturals.” He lightened his tone, but his words fell heavy on her heart.
A month. Her employment was not terminated, only suspended. Her heart ached that she would not see Hamish’s face again. By the time she returned in a month, he would be gone. The button cooled against her chest. Or would he return for her, so long as she held his token? If there was any magic in the button, the idea of it calling him to her would keep a tiny flame of hope alive, even if the fates decided they were not to be. She wiped away her tears.
“Very well. A month,” she said, and mustered a weak smile. “I cannot leave you for longer. Imagine the mess this office will deteriorate into without me.”
“Yes.” He glanced around. “It is looking shocking already. Would you be so kind as to dust and straighten my books before you finish today?”
She nodded. “You drink your tea and I will fetch my apron.” At least she had one last job to do. She donned an apron to cover her dress and tucked her hair up under a simple cap. She unfolded the small library ladder, a chair that could be turned over to reveal three steps, and climbed up to wipe the top bookshelf.
She took the cloth from the apron pocket. Sir John hated feather dusters; he claimed they simply moved the dirt from one spot to the next, launching it through the air. Instead she wiped each surface, ensuring the dust was trapped in the soft fabric. Cleaning had its own rhythm, and her body swayed with each long swipe. One stretch to wipe the shelf, and then she went back, lifting and repositioning each book as she cleaned underneath.
The door in her office slammed open and a heavy tread thumped across the floor. Aster froze, cloth in hand. It was more than one man. Perhaps Hamish had returned with his men to propose another outing, like their trip to London. It would give her a chance to ask why his men were registered as Unnaturals.
Dark shadows stretched and entered the room long before the three men. They were dressed in the manner of the middle class, with long brown coats of different hues and hats with wider brims, such as farm hands used to shield their faces from the sun. A taller one stood at the apex of their triangle, with two shorter men behind.
They fanned out but seemed to avoid the patches of sunlight on the rug, planting their feet in the shadows. A shiver ran through her body. She did not recognise any of them, but that wasn’t what raised her heartbeat. The men wore an air of menace, from the scowls on their faces to the stiffness in their bodies. These were no lost visitors to the Royal Arsenal. These were men with a very particular reason for seeking out the Records Office.
The taller man in the lead swept his gaze over Aster, the maid frozen while cleaning, and then moved to Sir John. The other two blocked the exit.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Sir John said as he reached for the walking stick next to his desk.
The tall man crossed his arms. “You most certainly can. We have a matter to discuss with you, Sir John. And your secretary, Mr Simmons. Where is he?”
Sir John never missed a beat. He shook his head. “Is he not in his outer office? Margaret, do you know where Mr Simmons went?”
Margaret was her alter ego, the name they used when no one must know she was really the secretary. Not that she needed a coded message to keep her true identity secret; the danger rolling off the men blew a warning all over her skin. Already a trickle of sweat made its way down her spine.
She drew a deep, even breath and managed to keep her tone light. “I believe he went for luncheon, sir. Would you like me to fetch him from the mess hall?”
The leader narrowed his gaze at her. Aster held firm under his inspection, not letting any hint of emotion register on her features. She held the cloth in her hands, waiting for an order. At length he seemed to make a decision.
“My man will accompany the girl to find Simmons.” He tossed the words over his shoulder to the shorter of the two men at his back.
“Might I enquire as to the nature of your visit?” Sir John had levered himself up and hopped to the front of his desk.
“A m
ost confidential matter.” The man grinned. None removed their overcoats or hats, making it harder to memorise their appearance and build. Shadows played over their features but when he stepped into the light, the planes of his face crystallised and burned into Aster’s memory.
Aster stuck the cloth in her pocket and wiped her hands on the apron. “I’ll go find Mr Simmons at once, Sir John.” She bobbed a curtsey and turned to leave.
“One more thing, Margaret.” Sir John’s voice stopped her feet. “Would you mind terribly taking my copy of the Iliad to Major Wilkes? He wanted to read the full tale.”
Another coded message. Her heart beat overloud in her chest, and she hoped the men didn’t hear it. Fortunately there was artillery practice today and a dull, regular, boom sounded from the distant field.
She swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir, which book?”
“Oh, sorry. Margaret has poor eyesight. Would you mind terribly?” He gestured to the man closest to the shelf. “Second shelf, near the end.”
The man exchanged a glance with his superior, who shrugged. The shorter man ran his finger along the shelf and then selected a small, blue volume. He flicked through a few pages and then handed it to Aster.
“Thank you, sir.” She fought an urge to clutch the book and its coded meaning to her chest, but that would give away their plan. Instead she dropped it into the pocket of her apron and bobbed a curtsey. “This way, if you please, sir.”
She left the Records building with the other man so close his foul breath drifted across her face. With every step she commanded her body to breathe in through her nose and exhale through her mouth, long even breaths to ward off the panic that desperately wanted to take hold.
“He will be in that building there, sir.” She gestured to another long, low structure. Within lay the great mess hall where hundreds of soldiers ate their meals. She grabbed the handle of one door and pulled it open. The noise of laughter and chatting men washed out over them. Within was a press of uniforms, a sea of red overlaid with ribbons of white.
Aster turned to her shadow. “Mr Simmons usually dines by the window. Do you want to accompany me?” If the men were up to no good, she doubted he would want to stroll through the middle of hungry soldiers. She prayed with all her heart he said no, for this was her one opportunity to slip away.
He glanced inside at the assembled mass of British uniforms and then glared at Aster. “No. Bring him out, but be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled and slipped inside, letting the door shut behind her. What to do? Her mind raced. She had seconds to determine her course of action. If she were a hysterical woman, now would be the time to break down in tears. However, being practically minded, instead she formulated a plan.
Very few men knew of Sir John’s true work and even at the Arsenal he was seen as simply the collator of records. If his secret had been breached, then it had been torn apart at the highest level, which left her in a quandary. She couldn’t approach any officer, for how did she know which ones were true servants of England and which laboured in secret for Napoleon? Trust no one, verify everything. If she screamed and cried in the packed mess hall, she would be discounted as an irrational female, and that wouldn’t help Sir John. She needed a calm, logical approach.
Her instinct cried out for her to find Hamish. But could she trust even him? Before she decided on what to do to help Sir John, she first needed to lose the man waiting on the other side of the door. Maids were unusual in the mess hall, but not unknown. They often helped out by clearing dishes, and with relief, she spotted one or two others circulating. They wore the same white apron and cap, so that Aster appeared to be another server. With false smile plastered on her face, she approached one table.
“All finished, lads?” At a nod, she picked up a load of plates and kept heading through the room. She wove between tables; her sole focus the door on the other side.
Please let me reach it before he comes after me.
The next door opened and she nearly wept as she entered the bustle of the kitchens. She dropped the plates on the long bench for the legion of washers and kept moving at a brisk pace. Her time was limited, and she couldn’t run and draw attention to herself. Having decided on a course of action, each step she took was a step toward helping Sir John. She could not leave him on his own with those men. That thought battled with the instructions he long ago taught her. He had said that if anything ever happened she was to disappear, silently, like morning mist evaporating under the sun. Under no circumstances, he had warned, was she to draw attention to his corner of the Royal Arsenal.
Except she couldn’t obey. She would not leave him to face such danger alone. She balled up her hands, her nails digging into her palms. She had to do something.
Out in the yard she spotted two soldiers. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
“Yes, miss?” one said.
“Sir John Warrington over in the Records Office has a large crate to move, and he asked me to find two strapping lads to assist.” She pointed back to the low building while her gaze darted around. “Would you mind terribly nipping over for five minutes and giving him a hand?” She kept a smile on her face, when she really wanted to hang on their arms and tell them to hurry.
“Of course, miss, shouldn’t take long.” They smiled and carried on chatting as they headed off in the right direction.
She waited as long as she could risk, until they disappeared into the building. At least she had sent help. If events were critical, the soldiers could raise the alarm, and she had kept her word to Sir John. Her main concern now was Dougal. The little dog had still not returned from the hunt, and she could not afford to linger and call for him. The man shadowing her would search for her once he realised she had tricked him. Only now did a sob rise in her throat. She might not escape him so easily a second time. She took off down the road and prayed Dougal would find his way home.
13
Aster
On her way back to the boarding house Aster removed her cap and apron and balled them up around the book. The little volume seemed to weigh more with each step she took and the coded message contained within its pages became a lead weight dragging her down. She just needed time alone to discern what it had to tell her.
As she trod along the road, she hoped the soldiers found Sir John unharmed and chased away the brooding men who seemed wrapped in shadows. From her first day of employment, Sir John had drilled her in what to do in several different scenarios, from a rogue shell from the range, to the mages setting fire to something, to unwanted invaders. Aster’s heart and mind warred with each other over following his instructions. She was leaving him alone to face an uncertain outcome, when she should be doing more. She should have stood firm beside him, instructions be damned. Her thoughts scuttled back and forth like clouds in a wind, and before long she had walked the two miles to the boarding house.
She climbed the stairs to her room with a heavy heart. Part of her prayed this was an exercise to test her mettle, but she couldn’t shake off the dark foreboding that shadowed her every step and invaded her mind. For now she had to push those feelings aside. Later this afternoon she would have the luxury of time to examine them further. Just now she had to keep moving, even if she didn’t want to. From the large wardrobe she pulled down a battered bag and packed a few belongings. She took only what she could carry: a change of clothes, a book to read, the Iliad to examine later, and her small purse of coins. All the time, she hoped Dougal would bark on the landing. He had still not appeared when she left to find the landlady.
She found Mrs Roberts in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Aster wound her fingers together to try and still their frantic movement. “Oh, Mrs Roberts, I have received terrible news of a sick aunt. I must leave immediately, but Dougal is out hunting and has not returned. Would you mind terribly looking after him until I return? I shouldn’t be more than a day or two.”
The older woman smiled and waved a hand holding a wooden spoon. “Of course, Aster. Don’t
you worry, I’ll keep an eye open for the wee chap. I might put him in the attic later; the scuffling is back.”
She sighed. At least Dougal earned his keep by chasing rats and would be waiting on her return. Probably with a fat belly from overindulging in furry vermin. She just hoped they didn’t make him sick.
“Thank you, you are such a dear.” She kissed Mrs Roberts’ cheek and took up her bag. One last thought rattled in her brain. “If the captain should call, do tell him I will return as soon as I am able.”
Then she hurried away before her courage deserted her. Her mind recited the instructions given to her. She was to stay hidden for a day or two in a London tavern they had selected some months earlier. When the coast was all clear, Sir John would post a small advertisement in the paper. Then she could return, reclaim Dougal, and take him out to the seaside cottage as they had discussed.
She was sure this would just be a mistake. Perhaps the men who barged into the office were simply unhappy about a shipment of wool for uniforms—that would explain their dour faces. Yes, that must be it, for what else could explain their presence? She nearly convinced herself—and, indeed, it would have worked if she were ignorant of Sir John’s cryptography work. The word puzzles fuelled his paranoia and, once decoded, provided valuable military intelligence. What if the men had come for the latest secrets their little office held?
As she struck out for the river, she remembered her early days with Sir John and the games they devised. Coded messages to tell her if there was danger, and then another to tell her all was safe and she could return to the office. They even made a day of it; he’d called it a ‘grand adventure’. They had planned the route she should take, and Sir John took great pains to select an appropriate tavern where she could take a room. The establishment was not so working-class as to endanger her person, but not so well-to-do that she would be conspicuous or would have to spend too many precious coins.
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