by Kim Foster
I hesitate briefly, then walk stiffly to the table. Her words have caught me off guard, but not in the way she imagines. I assumed I had already been canceled as a Candidate. Does this mean … Am I still in the running, somehow?
“Miss Cole!” Isherwood’s sharp voice slices into my thoughts. “That is not how a lady takes a seat. You do not plunk yourself onto the chair. You alight.”
She demonstrates. I try three times to replicate her movements. None of my attempts prove satisfactory. This will be a long hour. On my fourth attempt, Isherwood emits a grunt that I’m not sure is quite ladylike. “Let’s move on to silverware,” she declares.
She instructs me on the finer points of table manners and decorum, before we move on to visiting and the protocol of calling cards. I sit there, brows knitted, as I try to muddle through the obscure rules. “But—why do we call them morning calls if they happen in the afternoon?” I ask. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense. If you must know, we use the term morning, because they are calls made while wearing morning attire. Now, no more questions.”
More than halfway through our session, Isherwood’s face looks increasingly flushed and the lines around her mouth are deepening. I’m no model student, but how can I help it? These restrictions and rules are bewildering.
As I struggle my way through a lesson in curtsying, I hear her mutter, “I’m sure Hawksmoor hadn’t the faintest idea what he was getting himself into when he pulled you from the Whitechapel gutters.”
I pretend I haven’t heard and attempt another curtsy, though I’m confident it is even more awkward than the last.
Isherwood hardly notices. “Mark my words,” she grumbles, “he would have been better off staying here at Greybourne that day, instead of rushing off to London. Ridiculous visions, indeed … He should have waved them away and taken another cup of tea.”
I readjust and fold into yet another curtsy. But as I do so, the back of my neck prickles. It takes a moment before I can identify what’s wrong.
The way Isherwood tells it, Hawksmoor came to London with the intention of tracking me down. But he told me, after rescuing me in the prison, that it was a lucky coincidence that he’d stumbled upon me in the market that day just as I was using my gift to battle the Huntsmen.
Serendipity, he’d called it.
So did he lie to Isherwood? Or to me?
I tighten my mouth. Once again, I see that this place is a viper’s nest of half-truths and duplicity. Everyone has an agenda. I resolve, for the hundredth time, to not trust anyone. Least of all Hawksmoor.
I consider asking Isherwood for the full truth and then decide against it. If Hawksmoor meant to keep it a secret that finding me was no accident, I will let him think he has that secret still. It’s a small advantage I might be able to play later.
I have spent this whole time feeling at a loss, lowly and unsure. For the first time, I have something with which to bargain.
Isherwood claps her hands, drawing my attention back. “Right. Enough curtsying for now. Let’s see your posture. If nothing else, a lady must have proper carriage. Go stand by the doorway and walk toward that urn in the corner.”
I walk across the veranda, trying my best.
“Good heavens,” she says. “If you cross a room slouching like that, you will be spotted immediately for the street urchin you are.”
I try to stand as tall as possible, but after several minutes an ache develops behind my shoulders. Muscles I’ve never used before begin to complain.
After Isherwood’s fourth attempt to teach me how to stand straight and walk like a lady, she throws up her hands, exasperated. “Hopeless! Utterly hopeless.” She turns away, unable to bear to look at me any longer. “How Hawksmoor expects me to complete this task is entirely beyond me. There’s simply not enough time.”
I frown. “What do you mean, not enough time?”
Isherwood sneers at me. “You are to join a select number of the other Candidates on an undercover training exercise to the opera. Just the local opera at Oxford—it’s not Covent Garden, thank heavens. The point is, you’ll be among society. Never mind that you are completely incapable of accessing your gift. Society will sniff you out the moment you set foot among them. You are a danger to the other Candidates. I can’t comprehend how Hawksmoor can even consider it.”
She pauses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Close your mouth, Miss Cole. A lady does not stand with her jaw open gaping like a fish. That is exactly the sort of behavior I am referring to.”
“I c-can’t go to the opera,” I manage to stammer. Even I know I will stick out there like a goose among the swans.
“At last, we are in agreement on one thing,” she replies frostily.
Later that day, I make yet another turn in the Academy corridors, uttering a curse at the dead end that greets me. Surely the library must be around here somewhere. I glance around—nobody in sight. Isherwood’s toes would positively curl if she’d overheard me say such a thing.
Of course, it’s because of her that I’m on this wild-goose chase in the first place. Before ending our session, she’d commanded me to obtain a book entitled Social Etiquette for Young Ladies by Imogen Brimble, and insisted I read the entire volume before my next lesson. It would be much easier to oblige her if I could locate the library.
I turn down a small corridor. At the end is a double doorway. The plaque above the doorframe reads ACADEMY LIBRARY.
At last.
I push open the heavy door and step inside. The room is dim. When my eyes adjust to the low light, my breath catches.
Several levels of bookshelves rise up around me in the enormous oval of a room. Wooden ladders rest on brass railways that circle the space. A narrow walkway bridges the upper levels, illuminated by a window high above that sends watery light slanting down through the dust motes.
There must be hundreds—no, thousands—of books. More than I could possibly read in a lifetime.
The library is deserted, no attendant in sight. Are Candidates allowed to borrow and read the books at will? The thought—me, a Candidate—feels new, unfamiliar, like a borrowed cloak I’ve pulled over my shoulders.
I move farther into the library. For the first time since arriving at Greybourne, I feel as though I can breathe.
I glance at the shelves, wondering how to locate Isherwood’s book … and then something about being in this space tickles my memory. When Neville mentioned the Oxford professor, he’d said he wrote and published a great deal of his Morgana research. And he’d said something about investigating a cure.
I go to the shelves, which are in alphabetical order by author, and find my way to the G section in the upper gallery. Professor Garrick … I run my finger along the spines until I find what I’m seeking.
Tainted in the 18th and 19th Centuries by Reginald Garrick. My heart starts to beat faster. I pull the slim volume from the shelf and flip it open.
On the last page, there is a short note about the author:
Professor Garrick teaches and conducts his research at Balliol College at the University of Oxford.
Oxford is only an hour’s carriage ride away.
I page to the front of the book and scan the table of contents. There’s a chapter on the “History of the Tainted,” another on “Categorization of Abilities,” and a section on “Research Into Blood Type.”
Blood type? I don’t have the first clue what that could mean.
The library door opens with a loud creak and I jump at the sudden noise.
Julian Blake strides into the library, one level below me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“The love of learning, the sequestered nooks,
And all the sweet serenity of books.”
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Morituri Salutamus”
I quickly tuck the book away, folding it into my cloak, and try to move deeper into the shelves, out of sight from Julian.
But I’m too late. He st
ops and his eyes go up to the gallery. “Ah, Miss Cole. Fancy seeing you here.”
I step out from the shadows. “You’re surprised?” I say icily. “You think I cannot read?”
He grins. “I think you could probably do anything you set your mind to, Miss Felicity Cole.”
I say nothing, unsure how to respond.
“Right,” he says. “Well, I’m going to search for a book. I’m thinking George Eliot. Or perhaps Dumas … But please, don’t let me interrupt you. Carry on.”
I watch him stroll away into the shelves, and then remember why I’ve come to the library. I need to retrieve Isherwood’s book. I realize, with irritation, that my heart is thumping rather hard.
I move toward the B’s for Brimble—then run my finger along the shelf.
The small, dark slice meant to contain the book is empty. “No,” I utter in exasperation, pushing against the shelf and sending several books tumbling.
Julian comes dashing around the corner.
“What’s happened? I heard something fall—” He looks me up and down, his face flushed, then notices the books scattered around my feet. “You’re not hurt.”
“How observant.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “I’d like to point out, Miss Cole, if you’re going to be a secret agent, you really need to learn to hide your emotions a little better.”
I smile, in spite of myself.
“What happened?” he asks. “Why the clamor?”
“The book I need isn’t here. Isherwood expects me to have read the entire thing—”
“Which book?”
I show him the card on which Social Etiquette for Young Ladies is scrawled in Isherwood’s hand.
“Oh, that old one. Don’t worry, I can fill you in on anything you need to know. I’ve been forced to learn all of that nonsense from the time I could walk. I can teach you, if you’d like. Dumas can wait….”
I want to refuse. I want to tell him that I can handle it myself just fine, thank you very much. But the truth is I need help. I need to learn so much before tomorrow and I’ve run out of options.
Over the next hour, Julian teaches me everything he knows about social etiquette. At first, I sit stiffly and say little. After a while, my shoulders begin to soften, like butter on toast.
He instructs me on introductions and the proper modes of address at a fancy dinner party. Then the etiquette of visiting. “When you’re waiting in the parlor for the hostess to see you, never touch the piano—even if it’s open.”
I nod, listening carefully.
“Let’s practice your curtsying,” he says. “Show me what you can do.”
As I rise with a wobble I see him cringe and then quickly mask it. “It’s terrible, I know.”
“Here, try this.”
He executes a flawless curtsy.
I gape at him. “How did you learn—”
“Sisters,” he says. “Here, I’ll show you again.”
As I watch Julian sink to the floor, I realize I know very little about his background, other than the whispered gossip of the other female Candidates. “How long have you been here at Greybourne, Mr. Blake?”
“First, please call me Julian. Since I was old enough that the Academy would allow me admission.” He pauses, flashing a mischievous smile. “Actually, the truth is, I lied about my age so they’d let me enroll a year early.”
“Weren’t you ashamed? When you realized you were … different?”
He looks at me, confused. “Why would I be ashamed? My Morgana abilities make me who I am.”
His expression shifts. His normally jovial tone disappears. I can tell this place means everything to him.
“You’re very devoted to the Academy, aren’t you?”
“Fiercely. Being Morgana is an honor, but it’s also a responsibility. The world is full of darkness, Miss Cole. It is uniquely within our power to stop it.”
A barb of guilt pierces me. My hopes for this place are much more … selfish. I simply want the means to survive. For me, and for Nate.
“If I’m to call you Julian, would you kindly call me Felicity? Well—not within Isherwood’s hearing, perhaps.”
He nods, and curtsies deeply.
I laugh.
Julian’s expression grows serious again. “I want to explain my behavior the other day. In the carriage house.”
“There’s no need.”
“All the same, I’d like you to understand. I was in disguise, you see, having just returned from an operation in the village—”
“Julian, it’s fine. Although—why didn’t you just tell me who you were at the time?”
He raises an eyebrow wickedly. “Now what fun would that be?”
My heart thumps, to my irritation. Then, unbidden, an image of Kit enters my thoughts, followed by a ripple of guilt. Kit, golden and smiling, dusted with soot, standing in the market before everything changed so dreadfully.
There’s an awkward moment of silence. “Right,” says Julian, brushing his hands together. “Now, where were we?”
“Um—”
“Dinner parties! Of course, all the tedious introductions can be somewhat tricky, but once you’re through that, you’re laughing. And once the dancing starts, you’ll be fine.”
I try to conceal the panic that I’m sure is washing over my face. But Julian doesn’t appear to miss much. “Wait, you do know how to dance, don’t you?”
I wring my hands. “I—”
“Come now, I’ll show you.”
Without another word, he takes me up in his arms. “You put your arm here. And I place my hand here …”
He moves our arms and hands into the correct positions and then he begins spinning me around the marble floor of the library. The heat from his body, close as it is, makes my cheeks burn.
“Relax, Felicity. Don’t hold yourself so tense,” he says. I take a deep breath.
After a few minutes, I begin to lose myself to the movement. There is no music, but it hardly matters. The shelves of books all around us go blurry, like a kaleidoscope, as he spins me. A bubbly feeling rises up inside my chest, not unlike the champagne I tasted my first night here.
And then, at last, Julian slows and we’re standing in the middle of the library beneath the skylight. I realize that I am still clinging to his shoulders, and quickly take a step back.
“Thank you very kindly, Mr. Blake. I mean, Julian,” I add, smoothing my skirts. “That was most instructional.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re most welcome, Miss Cole. I mean Felicity. I daresay you’re ready to infiltrate the upper crust now. Nobody would ever suspect you weren’t born in Chelsea.”
I’d smile at the compliment but I’m too busy trying to breathe.
Instead, I attempt to stand straight and clear my throat. “You have done me a great service. At least Isherwood will be happy and can recommend me for the training exercises with the group now….”
He cocks his head. “Which group are you being sent with?”
“Oh, Isherwood said something about an exercise at the opera but I don’t know anything more than that….”
My words die in my mouth. A shadow crosses Julian’s face, his jaw tightening.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“The opera is my exercise,” he replies flatly, his face shuttered.
I open my mouth to say something more, but am unsure of my words. Maybe, in spite of his encouragement, he’s afraid I will jeopardize the operation.
Or perhaps, although he doesn’t mind being friendly in private, he has no desire to associate with me in public.
“Oh, well, that may not have been what she said. I can’t be certain.” I quickly gather my things. “Thank you again, Mr. Blake, for your time, but I must be going. Good day.”
And with that, I turn and walk swiftly from the library, ignoring the twist in my stomach.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Why didn’t you tell me there was danger? Why didn’t you warn
me?”
—Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D’Urbervilles
The next several days do not go well.
Aside from my private deportment lessons with Isherwood, the Candidates have an endless array of classes and training sessions on topics including weaponry, surveillance, covert communications, and of course combat. I am terrible at all of it. I continue to be incapable of accessing my abilities, and spend a great deal of time in the infirmary for my troubles.
Our instructors work us without mercy. They stress to us that it won’t be long before the Candidates compete for full agent status, and we must be prepared.
The only bright spot is the classes in foreign languages. My father tried to teach me as a child, and growing up in Whitechapel, I was surrounded by immigrants from every corner of the globe. I learned the basics of French, Italian, and even a little German under my father’s tutelage, and then he arranged for me to practice with my neighbors until I was fluent.
In this area, I am far ahead of the other Greybourne trainees. It doesn’t lessen the thrashings I receive in every other class.
Some evenings, after dinner, I have conversations with Professor Neville. He is tutoring me on the philosophies and finer points of intelligence work.
“Know thyself, know thy enemy,” he says one evening in the drawing room. “It is Sun Tzu, The Art of War,” Neville explains. Lamplight dances on the richly papered walls around us.
I nod, taking a slow breath. The air is heavy with sweet, smoky tobacco. The phrase reminds me of something. “The Huntsmen, I hardly know anything about them. Why did the Duke of Warwick come for me? What did he want? And how did the Huntsmen know I was in Whitechapel, anyway?”
Neville frowns. “Yes, that is a puzzle that would be useful to understand.”
“Are they going to keep coming after me?”
“We have to assume so. But … you will be safe here, at Greybourne.”
He says the words, but it feels like there’s something unspoken beneath them, like the submerged depths of an iceberg. “Is there more I should know?”
