by Kim Foster
Julian turns and pushes me back into the compartment, slamming the door closed and snapping the latch shut.
“The brothers again?” I say, breathless.
Julian’s mouth forms a tight line. “Not this time.”
“The dead man’s friends?”
A single tight shake of Julian’s head. My mouth goes dry. Huntsmen.
I back up and my legs bump against the knees of the dead man. The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood. We’re trapped.
Within a moment, they are at our compartment door. The flimsy latch doesn’t hold, and the door springs open. They stand there, crowbars glinting in their hands. I recognize the lead man immediately—thick mustache, glossy hat, dead eyes.
The Duke of Warwick.
He looks first at Julian, and then at me.
“Just give her to us,” Warwick says. “We’ll let you go, Mr. Blake. She’s no use to you, anyway.”
For a heart-stopping second, I wonder if Julian is going to do as they ask. But he tucks me behind his back. “I shouldn’t think so.”
My skin blazes as I realize that Warwick talks about me like an object to be traded. In a dark corner of my mind, there’s a brief flicker of curiosity—such persistence—what on earth do they want me for, anyway?
If there was ever a time to channel my ability, it’s now. What have I been told? Let go.
I try. Nothing happens.
“You have three seconds,” Warwick says, his voice a low, warning growl.
There’s only one thing to do. I grasp for the handle of the exterior door and fling it open, grabbing Julian’s hand. He turns and our eyes connect. He knows what I mean to do.
We launch off the edge together, and fall, straight down toward the gorge far below, stomachs tumbling….
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Solitude was my only consolation—deep, dark, deathlike solitude.”
—Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Far below, I plunge straight in the icy water, feet first. Darkness and bubbles swallow me, the water stealing my breath as I sink, but I right myself and kick hard, swimming back toward the surface.
As it happens, my father taught me how to swim. No self-respecting Greek, having grown up on an island in the Aegean, would allow his daughter to be uncomfortable in water.
My head breaks the surface just before Julian’s does.
I take great gulps of air, twisting in the water to catch sight of the Huntsmen. Will they follow us down?
The train is curving along the bridge on the far side of the gorge now. Two men dive from the train. If they’re strong swimmers, they’ll be upon us in a few minutes.
“Julian! We have to go!” I gasp, between gulps of water.
We swim with all our strength to the side of the gorge and haul ourselves out onto the grassy bank fringing the water. Dripping and soaked through, we look for an escape route. The Huntsmen are swimming a direct line to us.
Which way should we run?
A carriage careens over a hill, horses churning up the dusty road. Hawksmoor.
The carriage slows, but does not stop, as Hawksmoor flings open the door and we leap on. The driver cracks his whip and we’re away.
Through the rear window, I see the Huntsmen emerge from the water, dripping. I can just make out the rage that contorts their features. They grow rapidly smaller as we speed across the landscape.
When I am sure we’re safe, I turn back in my seat and exhale. Julian tucks a blanket around my shoulders, sitting close beside me and gazing at me with concern. “Are you all right, Felicity? You must be freezing.” I look up into his face and note the blue tinge to his own lips.
Hawksmoor, seated opposite, watches us carefully. “A well-executed escape, you two. You should be proud.”
Terror that was previously singing through my bones has subsided to a low hum, making me aware of something else. A certain … exhilaration?
“What the bloody hell was that?” Julian demands, turning on Hawksmoor. “Giving Rose a secret assignment? An assassination? If my team has side operations, I need to know—”
“Not your team, Mr. Blake,” Hawksmoor says, leaning in close. His voice is quiet, his words pointed. “My team. My agents. And I do with them as I please. When you are in charge—should that ever come to pass—then these decisions will be yours. Currently, they are mine.”
Julian’s eyes widen, but he snaps his jaws shut and says nothing more.
“The spare carriage will fetch the others,” Hawksmoor says. “We will debrief when we return to Greybourne.”
We ride the rest of the way back to the Academy in silence.
In spite of the disaster that was my field exercise—or perhaps because of it—I am still required to attend combat training classes. And, little by little, I do learn some techniques: rudimentary assassination maneuvers, and how to handle myself in a fight.
I hear nothing more about Rose’s assignment on the train—her secret, private assignment that subverted our training exercise—but she is unbearable because of it. Walking around like a peacock, regarding herself as the most important of us all.
And, I have to accept, she may well be. The truth is, she was successful. She did what we are here to do. Hawksmoor must be pleased with her. Surely she’s now the lead Candidate.
I wonder what privileges that might mean for her, if Hawksmoor will share with her secrets he keeps hidden from the rest of us. Not for the first time, I consider: what if that were me, instead?
I spend my spare moments poring over Garrick’s book on the Tainted, trying to wring clues from it.
I think about Nate all the time. I try to communicate with him, but every evening when I stagger back to my room, I am too exhausted and there is no connection. There are a few times I manage to snatch a brief conversation, a few pleasant words, just enough for me to be satisfied that he is safe, content, and well cared for. Then I flop face-first into my soft feather bed and fall into a deep sleep.
After one particularly grueling day of physical training, during which I managed to narrowly beat my opponent with a rather clever feint, if I do say so myself, we settle into our places in the dining room for our evening meal. I sigh with pleasure as I take a seat; I finally feel like I’m becoming comfortable with the routines here.
The first course arrives, and I am delighted to see something I recognize for once: a plate of oysters. Pickled oysters from the fishmonger’s stand were a staple of life in Whitechapel. But as I take my first bite, I frown.
I lean over to Charlie, seated on my right, and speak in a low voice. “I’m not certain the cook pickled the oysters correctly. These taste a little odd …”
Charlie looks at me, confused for a moment, and then his lips twitch as he struggles to suppress a grin. He opens his mouth to explain when Rose, ears ever pricked for a blunder, laughs. “Honestly, Felicity. We don’t eat pickled oysters. How horrible. Oysters are most properly served fresh.” She lifts a delicate oyster, swallows it with a simpering smile, and turns to Hugh who is seated at her left. “Hopeless,” she mutters, although she knows full well I can hear her.
“Well, what did you expect?” Hugh says to Rose, glancing haughtily at me. He adds nothing about me coming from the streets, from Whitechapel. But he doesn’t have to.
I can’t muster the strength for a decent retort. I attempt to eat another oyster, but it sticks in my throat. Somehow, I make it through the meal, but excuse myself before dessert is served.
It’s no easy feat to sneak away—my movements are constantly tracked and monitored—and I have to feign illness to keep from being suspected of something more.
Some time later I sit in my nightgown on the windowsill. Candles illuminate the room with a warm, flickering light. I press my face close to the cool glass and stare out at the shadowy hills that surround Greybourne.
I try to reach out to find my brother … and at first, there is nothing.
And then I hear a faint voice. Felicity?
<
br /> Nate, thank goodness, I say, the tension melting from my shoulders. It’s so good to hear your voice.
You sound strange. What’s the matter?
Nothing. I swallow. Listen, I need to tell you something important. Someday, I’m going to escape this place and come to get you.
What are you talking about? Why would you want to escape?
I don’t belong here. This was a mistake. But it’s one I can fix. I’m alive, after all, and so are you. It’ll be just you and me, like it should be. A lump forms in my chest as I think of it.
Did something happen?
I bite my lip. It’s always been impossible to hide anything from my brother. Nate, this isn’t my world. Not only am I incapable of using my ability, I … simply don’t fit in here. I never will.
He is quiet a moment. What do you mean you can’t use your ability?
I wave a hand, though I know he can’t see me. Never mind. That doesn’t matter. The point is, we are going to go home soon—
Felicity, stop. My brother’s voice is gentle and so quiet I almost can’t hear it. You can do this. I know you can.
I shake my head. No. I can’t. I tighten my hands, grabbing large fistfuls of my nightgown. Frustrated tears prickle my eyes.
We can’t go home yet, Felicity. What if the Huntsmen come after us? How will we get away if you don’t finish your training?
I don’t tell him about my encounter on the train. There’s no need to upset him.
Instead, I set my jaw and stare out the window.
You always tell me to try, he says. We’ll be together again. But can you try … one more time?
I’m quiet for a while. There’s a kernel of truth in his words. Learning to control Aristos may be the best way for us to survive. But embracing it would mean taking one more step away from my old life. And that’s the last thing I want to do.
A sudden memory tumbles over me. My last morning in Whitechapel Market, the first day of spring, before everything changed. The cold, pale sunlight, the aroma of leek stew bubbling at Mrs. Pennyworth’s soup cart as I rounded the corner with my basket full of blooms. The air dense with the chatter of sellers hawking their wares. Even fighting with Beatrice, the rage on her face as I tried to stand my ground …
It was not an easy life, but it was mine. And I want it back.
Nothing here at Greybourne makes any sense. The rules, the customs, the dangers—it’s all bewildering. In this world, I’m not in control of anything. Least of all my own abilities.
For you, Nate, I say, at last. I’ll try one more time, for you.
For such a tiny boy, he certainly is a wise little thing.
But there was something else he said that worries me. It takes me a moment to catch it—when he said we’d be together again. A nagging pain gnaws at my stomach. A sudden panic, clawing up my throat.
What if I never see Nate again?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Honest people don’t hide their deeds.”
—Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
The next night I awaken, with a start, just past midnight. I’m not sure what has awoken me, but I can’t get back to sleep. There’s too much on my mind. Too many unanswered questions.
I rise and dress in my training gear. And when I’m sure everyone has gone to their rooms and the corridors are quiet, I slip out.
I don’t know what I’m looking for, exactly, but I know where I’m going to start: the entrance to that secret passage I saw Hugh Torrington pass through the other day. I want to know where it leads.
I reach the hidden doorway underneath the staircase and, after pulling the lever, slip inside. There’s no sign anyone has seen me. Lanterns illuminate the walls of a narrow tunnel, but they are few and spaced far apart. I creep along the dim passageway through the musty-smelling air, carefully watching my footing.
The only sound is the whisper of my own footsteps. A cobweb brushes my face, and I suddenly jump. I pause, swipe the sticky strands away, then gather my nerves and keep pressing forward.
A narrow stone staircase spirals, barely wide enough to descend.
When I reach the end, I can see a sliver of light. Muffled voices grow louder.
I move closer, taking care to be quiet. A tapestry covers a larger gap in the wall, and the voices are clearer now. I recognize some of them and my mouth goes dry.
I crouch to peer through the narrow gap between the wall and the heavy fabric. I can only make out half of the room. A large stone table occupies its center; arranged around it are the Greybourne Elders: Hawksmoor, Neville, Isherwood, and Sig. But there are others there, too, young men and a woman I don’t recognize.
“… and the preparations for the Jubilee,” Hawksmoor is saying. “How are they coming along?”
“Not well,” says a reed-slim man with sharp cheekbones. I’ve never seen him before. “To be frank, it’s an enormous event, and there are a great number of risks to manage.”
I press my lips together. This conversation is not meant for my ears. I should turn away, go back the way I came. I know I’m supposed to be training to be a spy, but eavesdropping still feels wrong to me. It’s also dangerous. If I get caught …
“We are terribly shorthanded, sir, and in desperate need of another agent,” the slim man says.
Hawksmoor nods solemnly. “Agreed, but it needs to be the right agent. I will not put a man into the position who is not ready for the task. I would rather have five highly skilled and capable field agents than ten who aren’t up to snuff.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Isherwood says.
“If we had one more full-fledged agent, though, that would make all the difference in the operation.”
“In that case,” Hawksmoor says, “we’ll have to accelerate the selection process,”
Neville clears his throat. “There are some excellent Candidates among our senior students.”
“Yes, but I wonder if we agree about the excellence of the same ones,” Hawksmoor muses.
“We’ll begin the final stages of testing the moment you give the word, Hawksmoor,” Isherwood says, shifting in her seat and giving a sharp nod toward the slim man.
“While we’re gathered, do we have any further reports on the recent rumors of the so-called cure?”
There is much shuffling of papers and clearing of throats. Somebody at the far end of the table is saying something, but I can’t quite make it out. I press myself even closer to the tapestry.
“I have been hearing talk of a weapon being developed for use against the Morgana—” Isherwood says.
I shift to see her better, and the heel of my shoe catches on the edge of a floorboard. My hands reach out to grab for something, anything, to stop me falling forward into the tapestry. But I clutch at air, tumbling into the fabric, before sprawling out into the room, a dozen of pairs of eyes on me.
I squeeze my own eyes shut. How I wish this were a bad dream.
“Miss Cole,” says Hawksmoor in an ominous tone, “were you eavesdropping on the Elders?”
I have nothing to say. As I scramble to stand up, Humphrey Neville barks out a laugh.
“Really, I think she should be punished more because of her failure to eavesdrop properly than the fact that she was eavesdropping,” he says. The others glare at him. “What? Isn’t that the sort of behavior we encourage here at Greybourne?”
Hawksmoor turns away from him with a grunt and fixes me with a fierce glare. “Report to my office first thing in the morning, Miss Cole. We will discuss this privately.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“It seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no control.”
—Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
A few days later, my hands are raw and chapped and my knees and shoulders ache from the interminable hours I’ve spent scrubbing the kitchen floors. And cleaning the hearths. And washing the windows.
Hawksmoor has strip
ped me of my status as Candidate. Neville assured me it will be temporary, but nobody has told me how long my punishment is to last.
I hear the patter of heels across the marble floor I’m polishing. “Right,” Isherwood says sternly, stopping at my side, gazing down at me like a falcon surveying prey from a high branch. “That’s enough of that.”
I stare up at her, confused. “Chop-chop, girl. We haven’t all day.”
I scrabble to my feet.
She leads me to the war room, where Hawksmoor tells me to ready myself for a journey to Oxford, to the opera. I will be joining the Candidates on a reconnaissance training exercise.
My penance is over.
He hands me a small purse of coins. “You may need this. You must be prepared, no matter what you encounter.”
As I reach the door, Hawksmoor stops me. “That was your warning, Miss Cole. One more slip, and it will be your end.”
Two hours later, I’m climbing into a carriage. I adjust the scratchy lace at my wrists and smooth the silk bodice of my gown. As I wait for the others to arrive, I fidget in my seat. This will be my first time out in the wider world after Hawksmoor engineered my false execution. My first attempt to pass myself off as a lady. And worse—I have my own mission tonight that no one can know about. A trickle of sweat drips beneath my stiff collar.
I hear Charlie and Julian approach the carriage, their boots crunching over the gravel, as they joke and carry on, taunting each other about who will be more successful at this evening’s mission. We are to eavesdrop on a secret meeting between a known conspirator and his mystery accomplice. At the sight of me already seated in the carriage, Julian sucks in a breath, clearly surprised to see me. I flush, remembering his words to me in the library, his warning to Hawksmoor before our last training exercise. I give him my haughtiest look. He opens his mouth to say something, but I am faster.
“I do apologize, Mr. Blake. I know you don’t approve of me joining this mission, but it looks as though you and Hawksmoor are to have yet another difference of opinion.”
