by Kim Foster
“You will see, in time, that the world needs you, Miss Cole, and your skills. This really is a great honor.”
At that moment, a steward comes by to refresh our tea.
We travel on in silence for several minutes. I nibble at a scone. “How long until we get there?”
“The train ride to Oxford will take us another hour. Then we’ll go by carriage the rest of the way. Perhaps another hour after that.”
Two hours. Two hours to come to terms with everything this stranger has told me, to figure out what my own plan is going to be. I know a few things already: I am going to survive this; I am going to keep my wits about me, find a way of getting back to normal, and find a way to save Nate.
“And when will Nate arrive at the Academy?” I ask.
Hawksmoor watches me without expression for several moments. “Unfortunately, your brother won’t be coming to Greybourne.”
I blink. “What did you say?”
Outside, a small village flashes by. Hawksmoor remains quiet. My vision narrows and I can hear blood pulsing in my ears. “You said he was coming, too. You had sent someone to retrieve him. I saw him on the journey.” My voice becomes increasingly shrill as I press the words through clenched teeth. “That was the only reason I left London with you.”
“Miss Cole, I said he would be brought to safety. And that is true. I did not specifically state that place would be Greybourne. That was your assumption, I’m afraid—”
“You bloody bastard.” I say in a low voice. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“As I said, he is safe.” Hawksmoor checks his pocket watch. “In fact, they should be there soon.”
I stand, one thought driving me: I must get off this train. My eyes move around the compartment. There is no door to the outside, and the window won’t open wide enough. I ride a wave of nausea.
“Miss Cole, do sit down.”
I ignore Hawksmoor. The liar.
I fling open the compartment door and stalk out into the corridor. There has to be a way off this train. An emergency stop, perhaps.
I’m halfway down the corridor when I feel a strong grip on my arm. Hawksmoor pulls me aside. “Miss Cole, I know you’re upset, but risking yourself will do you no good. You cannot get off this train. I will explain everything. Do return to the compartment now.”
I want to tear into his face with my nails. “What have you done with my brother? Where is he?”
I can think of nothing except this. I will force the answer out of this snake.
Hawksmoor glances up and down the corridor; it remains empty. He exhales with resignation and grips my arms tighter, and I am abruptly flooded with a vision.
Nate is sleeping in a soft feather bed heaped with pillows. The room is in a small, cozy cottage by the sea. Downstairs, in a tiny country kitchen, a round woman is cooking breakfast—I can almost smell the freshly baked bread, soup, sausages …
In spite of myself, the searing heat in my blood tempers a little. With simple furnishing and the lemony sunlight filtering in, warmth and safety pervades every freshly swept corner of the cottage. Just beyond the garden a pathway leads to the sea.
Hawksmoor releases my arm and I am back in the empty train corridor, breathing heavily. I glare at him, fire still curling through my veins.
“He’s safe in a far better place than where we’re headed,” Hawksmoor explains. “He is too young for Morgana training. It won’t happen for him for a few years yet. This is what we do when we rescue a young Morgana who is not yet ready for training at the Academy.”
I continue to scowl, but Hawksmoor is making some sense. If Greybourne is filled with assassins and spies in training, I certainly don’t want Nate exposed to that. And even if I were to leave this train now, somehow, I still would have no idea how to find him.
I take a step away from Hawksmoor. He still lied.
“You knew I believed I was to be reunited with Nate. You deceived me.”
“The fact is, Miss Cole, there’s no way you would have come along otherwise. And then you would either be in the hangman’s noose, or at the mercy of the Huntsmen.”
I feel my teeth grinding together. Though what he says is, perhaps, true, I’m not about to admit it to Hawksmoor.
I think again of the seaside cottage with its white beach where Nate could run, play, breathe fresh sea air …
He will be safe there.
I want to ask Hawksmoor where the cottage is, but I’m certain he wouldn’t tell me. Besides, I’d be showing my hand, revealing too much about my future plans.
I will find out on my own. Soon enough, once I’m recovered and able to communicate directly with Nate again, I will find out where they’re keeping him.
Nate will be safe there for now. But I won’t leave him there long.
CHAPTER TEN
“Daydreams are delusions of the demon.”
—Charlotte Brontë, Villette
The carriage wheels bump on the uneven ground as we drive along the country road. We’ve been in the carriage for over an hour, journeying, for the most part, in silence, which has suited me. The carriage thuds over a large hole and I suppress a yelp as my bruised behind bounces on the seat for the hundredth time.
When we pass through a set of gates and begin up a long drive, I peek out the window and suddenly all of my aches are forgotten. At the end of the drive sprawls a large house. Actually, “house” isn’t quite the right word.
The grand manor built of honey-colored stone with its endless rows of windows is much more of a palace than a house. Lush green gardens surround the manor and parkland spreads beyond that, as far as the eye can see. No fewer than three similarly styled outbuildings rest nearby—including a carriage house, perhaps. And maybe stables, and a guest cottage? It’s difficult to tell, and my experience with estates like this is limited to stories and books.
I have never seen anything like it. I have never even dreamed of anything like it.
“Welcome to Greybourne Academy,” announces Hawksmoor.
I swallow. I do not belong here.
Within these lovely walls is an academy that trains its students to become spies. To sneak, to lie … to kill. I wonder about those within. Are they watching, even now?
Curiosity prickles my neck. Could it possibly be true that everyone here is Tainted? Questions tumble in my mind as I gaze at the magnificence of Greybourne.
As the carriage approaches the house, Hawksmoor leans forward to speak to the driver. “Go directly to the carriage house, would you, Tucker? Let’s give Miss Cole a moment before we go inside.”
I look at the man and narrow my eyes. Is he being kind? Or does he have other motives?
I don’t much care. Between my muddy boots and disheveled hair, I am grateful not to have to meet anyone at the present moment.
The carriage rolls into the carriage house and Tucker leaps off to unhitch the horses. Hawksmoor turns to me. “Tucker will take the horses to the stable and I need to see to something. You’ll be fine here for a few minutes, won’t you? I’ll be back shortly to bring you into the house.” And then he’s alighting from the carriage.
I settle in to wait. Soon, the yard becomes very quiet. I crane my neck to look out the window, but there’s not much to see. The air inside the carriage grows stuffy, and I grow restless. A minute later, I climb down, stepping gingerly onto the flagstone.
I run my hand along the other smooth, gleaming sides of the carriages. Dust motes dance within the slanting light of late afternoon. The air smells of wax and leather and horses. I realize my neck muscles are tensed, and I try to relax them, but it’s no good. Everything about this place is incredibly posh, and highly unfamiliar.
Not for the first time, I wish Kit were here. He always knew how to handle himself, in any situation. He had a way of appearing confident, even when he wasn’t. They’d be lucky to have you, Flick, he’d say if he were here now. Don’t let them make you feel bad. They’re no better than you.
&nbs
p; He was always my champion, my steadfast supporter.
My throat tightens.
Through a high, open window, the scent of lilies wafts in from the garden. I tiptoe toward the window, wondering if I can get another glimpse of Greybourne. Scraping a stack of boxes across the floor, I step up onto them. Peering over the windowsill, I can just make out one of the wings, the view as grand as my first glimpse of the house.
Another carriage approaches up the drive. I go up on tiptoe to get a better look—
“Who are ye?” snaps an unfamiliar voice behind me. “What are ye doing ’ere?”
I spin quickly, throwing off my balance. If I weren’t on a stack of boxes, it wouldn’t be a problem. But I am.
The boxes topple from under me and I fall most ungracefully on top of them. Sprawled on the floor, I look up as a young man strides across the floor. He stops, looming over me, arms folded over his chest. “I asked you a question.”
The boy is dressed in threadbare trousers, suspenders, and a cap; his hands and face are grime-streaked. But even the thick layer of dirt can’t conceal a pair of stunning blue eyes framed by dark lashes.
He has a strong jaw, but his face is youthful. He can’t be much older than me. His height and broad shoulders suggest manual labor. He must be a stable hand of some sort.
I soon realize he’s made no effort to help me up. Scowling, I scramble to my feet.
“Who sent ye?” he demands.
“Do you mind?” I say, finding my voice at last. “I am a guest of Mr. Nigel Hawksmoor. Who I am is none of your concern. And who exactly are you?”
The boy looks taken aback, and doesn’t answer. Then he narrows his eyes again. “Why were ye spying on the house?”
I instantly go red, casting about for a reasonable explanation. Before I can say a word, he takes another step toward me.
“And what ’ave ye done with Hawksmoor?” The boy’s eyes flash with suspicion. “Where is he?”
“What—what are you implying?”
He takes another step nearer. He is so close, I can smell the grass and dirt on his skin and his clothes. His face is full of accusation.
Heat rises behind my ears and I tighten my hands into fists. I was invited here, and this is how I am to be treated? I received better in the slums. “I could be asking you all the same questions,” I fire back. “How do I even know you belong at this house? Perhaps you are the enemy and I should be interrogating you.” A familiar prickle begins to creep up my scalp. “I’ve had a very bad past few days. We’ve traveled all the way from London, and the last thing I need is you making unfounded accusations over perfectly innocent behavior.”
Something possibly changes in his expression but I take little notice.
“Now, if you don’t mind. Back. Off.”
He reaches forward. “Now just wait—”
Without planning it, I block his hand. A rushing sensation fills me with power and I know I have—somehow—grasped my ability again. Dust motes freeze in midair and a housefly hovers by my face; I can see its wings beating a slow rhythm. The stranger reaches for me again. My brain registers attack.
I grasp his arm and sweep my foot under his—in a heartbeat—flipping him over. Without a thought, I lunge after him and pin him down so he can do me no harm. He lands hard on his back on the ground. Shock washes over his face.
And then, he bursts into a wide grin. “Well done!”
I abruptly return to myself and, realizing my incredibly inappropriate position, scramble off him. He attempts to stand but a jab of pain flashes over his face. He settles for sitting.
“I’m sorry—what did you say?” I manage.
“My commendations,” he says, with a nod. “That was very good.” The smile brightens his already handsome face. A sweet ache shoots through my chest.
Then I feel immediately guilty. How can I even look at another boy when Kit was murdered only a few days ago?
At that precise moment, Hawksmoor returns.
“Now, Miss Cole, I—” He stops, surveying the tableau before him—me facing off with a stable hand. He raises an eyebrow at the boy sprawled on the dusty ground. “Entertaining our guest, are we?” Hawksmoor waves a dismissive hand at the young man. “Go on. Get out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” says the young man, disappearing in an instant.
Hawksmoor turns to me. “Listen, Miss Cole. We are already quite behind schedule. Let’s go up to the house. We’ve not much time to dress for dinner. And, believe me, you do not want to be around Mrs. Dempster when people are late….”
He gathers his overcoat from the carriage.
“Who was that, anyway?” I ask, frowning at the carriage house doorway through which the young man has disappeared.
“Not to worry, Miss Cole. I’ll introduce you to everyone later.”
I nod. “Wait—did you say dress for dinner?” My stomach tightens. A formal dinner, inside the manor house? I don’t have the vaguest idea how to behave at a formal dinner.
I bite my lip and follow Hawksmoor as he strides toward Greybourne Academy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”’
—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
We enter the house through giant oak doors that open into a large foyer, my boots clicking on the marble floor. I gape at the sight that greets me. A grand staircase rises up through the entrance hall and a crystal chandelier sparkles high above our heads, sending slivers of light over the richly papered walls. The air smells of wood polish and flowers from the enormous arrangement of white and yellow roses on a side table.
A woman wearing a black housekeeper’s uniform strides into the foyer to meet us. She is shortish with a brisk walk and graying hair piled neatly onto the crown of her head.
“Ah, Mrs. Dempster,” says Hawksmoor, removing his gloves. “Would you show Miss Cole to her room? It’s been a long journey.”
“Certainly, Mr. Hawksmoor.” As he strides off in the opposite direction, Mrs. Dempster turns her gray eyes on me. “Would you come with me, miss?” Her face is impassive. She shows no sign of having noted my shabby appearance, though I know she must have. At the first opportunity, I must brush my hair and see what I can do about cleaning some of the stains from this dress.
I have no bags to carry, so I simply nod and follow her up the staircase and along a long corridor lined with plush silk rugs. I try not to gape at the luxury surrounding me. My feet sink into the thick carpets as I struggle to keep pace. I am so self-conscious in this grand house I barely remember how to walk properly.
Passing tapestries and oil paintings and seemingly endless doors that open into yet more rooms, I think of Nate, and how he would love to see all of this. And Kit … These are sights he will never see. My stomach tightens.
I catch a glimpse of a room that appears to be some kind of parlor. In a corner of the gleaming parquet floor sits grand piano. A grand piano. I’ve never seen one in real life.
My only experience with this world has been in books, and the overblown rumors that circulate in the slums.
“They don’t actually do any … work,” reported my friend Jack, once, fresh from one of his deliveries to Mayfair.
“No work?” demanded one of the younger Craddock twins. “What do they do all day, then?”
Jack relished his role as that of spy to the upper-crust world. “They have fancy dinners,” he said in a hushed tone. “And parties. And afternoon tea. And go a-visiting. And to dances.”
There was silence as we digested this new information. “Sounds dreadfully boring,” sniffed Charlotte. We all murmured our assent, but secretly, I thought it sounded lovely.
I remember standing beside Kit.
How we looked at each other, laughing, as Jack related the bizarre dining rituals. How they break their bread into tiny morsels before eating it. How the servants use a little silver knife to remove crumbs from the tablecloth.
My heart twists at the memory. Kit. I will never see him again. Never look into his eyes …
I push the thought away, shove it deep down.
Ahead of me, Mrs. Dempster stops. She pushes open a door and stands waiting beside the threshold. “Your room, Miss Cole.”
My breath catches as I step inside the grandest bedroom I’ve ever seen. A four-poster bed with a blue silk canopy sits in the middle of an enormous room. A dressing table and mirror adorn one corner; a plush settee, the other. Velvet curtains frame two large windows that reach right up to the coffered ceiling.
“This … is my room?” I ask, unable to stop myself. This can’t possibly be where I will sleep.
She nods briskly. “Jane, one of the maids, will be here shortly to help you dress. In the meantime, a bath has been drawn. You will wish to bathe.” It’s not an inquiry.
A second door opens onto a separate room. I glimpse a claw-footed tub inside and the most heavenly scents drift out. I can’t stop myself from gaping. An entire bathroom just for me? There must be some mistake. At that moment, someone clears her throat behind us.
“You must be Felicity,” says a girl, standing just inside the bedroom door, watching me carefully. She is beautiful. Golden blonde hair frames a heart-shaped face and a tiny, upturned nose. I would guess she’s about my age.
“That will be all, Mrs. Dempster,” she says in a plummy, posh accent. “I can help Miss Cole from here.”
Mrs. Dempster’s hesitation is so brief, I wonder if I’ve imagined it. Yet she nods stiffly and strides from the room.
The girl takes another few steps toward me. “May I be one of the first to welcome you to Greybourne?” She extends a graceful hand. “My name is Rose.”
Haltingly, I wipe my dirty hand on my filthy traveling dress before shaking hers, and then immediately wonder if that was the wrong thing to do. Rose’s lavender dress is made of the finest fabric—silk, perhaps?—with lace at the sleeves and throat. Although nowhere near as nice as Rose’s dress, I am glad of the linen ensemble Hawksmoor provided me. Glad I’m not standing here in my own filthy clothes. This outfit only needs a quick wash and a brush out.
