by Kim Foster
“Miss Cole, I think perhaps you misunderstand—”
“I don’t believe I do,” I say frostily.
Julian snaps his jaw shut. Charlie snorts. “Felicity, remind me to never get on your bad side.”
I turn to face the window and try my best not to smile.
The rest of the journey I focus on what’s to come next, because I have a very specific plan. My heart races as I run through the steps over and over in my mind. I won’t get a second chance.
After an hour’s drive, we enter Oxford. It is a magical city of church bells and dreaming spires, honey-colored buildings and cobbled lanes. The horses’ hooves clop over a bridge that arches across the Thames, a gentle silvery ribbon this far away from London. Small boats punt along the river, their occupants savoring the early evening air. Our carriage pulls up to the gracefully curved drive in front of the opera house.
As we promenade up the stairs into the theater, I hear strains of music and laughter coming from inside the impressive building.
Just before the entrance, we rejoin the other Candidates. “Oh dear, Felicity,” says Rose, “how uncomfortable you must feel. Is this your first time out in Society?”
I keep my chin up. “It is. And your … concern is too kind.”
She eyes my gown ever so briefly. “Ah, I see Jane isn’t terribly experienced with selecting the proper attire for an evening such as—”
“Rose, be quiet,” snaps Julian. “She looks perfect.”
I blink, but say nothing as we move through the doorway and into a magnificent foyer of glittering chandeliers and sweeping staircases, filled with patrons moving gracefully in jewel-colored gowns and sharp black suits.
We make our way, pausing for polite introductions—which I manage to navigate, somehow—into the theater itself. I’m seated in one of the lower boxes along with Hugh and Charlie. The others, including Julian, are in the gallery, farther back. We’ve split up for reconnaissance, but it’s a formation I will be able to exploit for my own purposes.
As the red velvet curtain rises, my breath catches. Violins and flutes come to life as the orchestra swells. Gaslit footlights paint the stage gold. An enchanted forest, branches twisted with flickering candles, spreads before the audience.
A man on stage opens his mouth and a miraculous sound issues forth. For a moment, I forget all about my plans. I am lost, soaring on a magic carpet of music and costumes and lights.
And then I come back to myself. It’s time.
I lean over and whisper to Hugh, not Charlie—he’d likely offer to accompany me, and this is something I must do alone.
“I have a headache,” I whisper. “I’m going to join the others in the gallery. A little farther back, I think.”
Hugh glances at me, annoyed, nods, then looks away. Perfect.
The usher assists me into the lobby. I fan myself with my hand, doing my best impression of someone about to swoon. “My goodness,” I say, “I’m feeling quite overcome.” He looks at me uncertainly. “Perhaps I’ll take some air …”
“Is there anything you require, miss?”
“I’ll be fine I’m sure, but, please—how long before the first intermission?”
“First intermission occurs in approximately one hour.”
I move toward the front entrance and the usher disappears.
And then Julian steps out from a doorway. “I saw you leave. Are you quite all right?”
I clench a fist but am careful to keep my expression masked. “Actually, I have something of a headache. Do you think—could you find an usher and have him bring me some water? I’m just going to lie down on the divan in the powder room. You should get back to the others.”
He looks at me with concern.
“No need to worry, Mr. Blake,” I reassure him.
Reluctantly, Julian turns away. As soon as he’s out of sight, I dart back down the marble staircase and out into the cool night air.
Under quickly darkening skies, I nimbly climb into one of the hansom cabs that line the curved drive. “To Oxford University, please. Balliol College.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“With stammering lips and insufficient sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
the music of my nature.”
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “The Soul’s Expression”
Several minutes later, the hansom cab approaches Balliol College and stops in front of the main building, an imposing structure of honey-colored stone.
I climb from the carriage and hurry toward the entrance.
A porter stops me at the front gate. “May I help you, miss?”
“I’m here to meet my uncle,” I say, more confidently than I feel, in the poshest accent I can muster.
“Name?”
“Professor Reginald Garrick. But—would you permit me to announce myself?” I flash him my warmest smile. “I’m hoping to surprise him, you see. I’ve just returned from the continent, a week ahead of schedule, and I have ever so many stories to tell….”
The porter’s eyes glaze over as I ramble. I keep going until he ushers me through the gate, eager to be away with me.
Inside the main building, I lift my skirts and rush along the corridor, catching glimpses of the manicured quadrangle lawn around which the old buildings are arranged. I tracked down some maps of Oxford University in our library at Greybourne, the only reason I know where I’m going.
It’s a long shot, I know. It’s unlikely the professor will be here, after hours. But perhaps there will be a way of getting a message to him.
When I arrive at the laboratory and push open the door, I enter a world apart. Specimens in large glass bottles and apothecary jars adorn the shelves, and a chalkboard fills the front wall, every inch covered with chalk scratchings, formulas, and diagrams. The air is sharp with the smells of wood polish and turpentine. Books and clocks and unidentifiable devices occupy every spare surface.
But the room is empty. My heart sinks. I glance at one of the ticking clocks. I have around thirty minutes.
“May I help you?” I spin around. A man in a brown tweed suit stands in the doorway. He sports a thick gray mustache and muttonchop whiskers, and he has, perhaps, the bushiest eyebrows I have ever seen, like two woolly caterpillars, which sit above a pair of piercing eyes.
“Oh yes, I’m looking for Professor Garrick.” I hardly dare hope that this is the man himself.
He looks at me uncertainly. “And what business is it that you have with the professor?”
“I must speak with him about a delicate subject related to his work. The matter is rather … confidential.”
His eye twitches a little. “You are Morgana, I presume.”
I stare. “You can tell?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I press my lips into a tight line, resolving to say no more.
He gives the faintest of shrugs. “I’ve seen this too many times before. And I’m afraid you’re most unlucky, Miss …”
“Cole. Felicity Cole.”
“… and you’ve wasted your effort in coming here.”
I try not to betray my disappointment. “Oh, I see. You’re not Professor Garrick.”
“No, my dear. I am he. But I have nothing to tell you about the Morgana.”
“Professor Garrick, I understand your reluctance—”
“No, you don’t understand. You must leave. Go back to the Morgana.”
“But that’s just the problem. I don’t belong with them.”
His abundant eyebrows rise and his mouth opens slightly. “You don’t … wish to be Morgana? You’re speaking of the cure.”
“Yes, exactly.”
He rubs the side of his face absently as conflicting emotions flicker over his features.
I hesitate, suddenly unsure how forthcoming I should be with this man. Although it’s true Humphrey Neville vouched for him, he is a stranger to me. But I’ve come this far …
“I need to get my old life back,” I say. “I need everythi
ng to be returned to the way it was.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Cole. I’d like to help you. But the truth is, I don’t study the Morgana any longer. It became too dangerous.”
“What do you mean?”
“My lab, it was ransacked. All of my papers stolen. It was a stroke of luck that I wasn’t there at the time.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Who do you think?”
Huntsmen.
“But, Professor Garrick, it’s because of that danger that I need to find a cure. I’m sure they won’t leave me alone now that they know of my existence, and eventually they’ll find my brother. I have to keep him safe. I promised my father.”
“Your father, he was Morgana also?”
I shake my head. “But he knew the danger my brother faced. It worried him constantly. I’m only thankful Father died before I found out I was Tainted, too.” My voice catches on the word.
Professor Garrick gives me a sympathetic look. “One thing I can tell you, Miss Cole. To find a cure, you must first learn the why.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to find out. But nobody seems to have any answers.”
His eyes twinkle and the smile lines in his face deepen. “Perhaps not. But some of us did come close. It’s possible the answer is just around the corner.”
“Yes?”
“My partner and I were very interested in the teachings of Darwin, and how they relate to the Morgana.”
He erases a patch on the chalkboard and starts drawing. Chalk dusts his fingers and his jacket. He wipes a hand across his face, and chalk smears the end of his nose.
“One theory is that the Morgana and regular humanity evolved separately long ago, like Darwin’s finches. Not an intentional process, but a natural one. My colleague and I were investigating that hypothesis until, as I said, it became too dangerous.”
“But … that doesn’t suggest a cure, does it?” I ask, swallowing my disappointment.
“Well, there was another theory that one of our associates in London was exploring. I believe it centered around an illness, comparable to plague.”
I look up sharply. I had a similar idea not long ago.
“But, as I said,” Professor Garrick continues, “I haven’t done any work in this field for a year or more. I have lost contact with any remaining researchers.”
“So … you don’t know if anyone is still researching the origins of the Morgana?”
“I don’t. But I will give it some thought, shall I?”
I like the idea of illness being the source. The effects of an illness could be reversed, perhaps. Which means I could go home. Nate and I could return to our lives, just like before.
I glance at the brass clock on the laboratory wall, and my stomach clenches. “I have to go,” I say. “If you think of anything, would you please contact me? I’m at Greybourne Academy. It’s protected of course, but”—I pause, chewing my lip—“I know how to get in.”
He nods. “Very well.”
“You must only use it if it’s urgent,” I add. “And if you ever have need of it, you must say you’re an acquaintance of Humphrey Neville when you arrive.”
“Why?”
“They won’t trust you otherwise.”
I try to convince myself it isn’t entirely a lie. After all, Neville had been the one who recommended I speak with Professor Garrick.
Several minutes later, I race out of Balliol College. With a little luck, I’ll be back just in time.
Clouds have rolled in and a light drizzle has begun. I squander a few minutes trying to hail a hansom cab, but after wasting time with little success, realize I’ll have to go back on foot if I’m ever to make it in time. I can run quickly.
I hurry through the darkened streets of Oxford. Gas lamps create halos in the dark mist. Old stone university buildings soon give way to small shops. The sounds of horse-drawn carriages tromping along the narrow streets keep me company.
A lantern flickers overhead and then wicks out.
I look around and realize I’m in a less than savory part of town. Litter clogs the gutters and old buildings are in various states of disrepair. I glance down at my finery. I look a juicy target, that’s for certain. Speeding my step, I cut through an alley to recover the main road.
A faint scrape sounds behind me.
Continuing forward, I glance over my shoulder. Nothing. Just the shadows of the street.
Cold trickles through me and I keep moving, faster now. Up ahead, I spot the bridge that I believe leads to the high street.
My gaze remains fixed ahead. Fingers of mist creep onto the bridge from the river below. I’m almost there. I hear another scrape behind me, but again when I turn, nobody is there.
As I step onto the bridge, I exhale with relief. And then a figure steps into my path, blocking the way.
I gasp at the hulking form of a man, his face masked in shadow. I square my shoulders and speak in a loud, clear voice. “Out of my way. I have somewhere important to be, and I don’t need any trouble.”
A second figure appears out of the mist. His black top hat gleams in the gaslight.
“We don’t need any trouble either, Miss Cole. Which is why you’ll find it’s best that you come with us.”
The men take a step forward and their faces are suddenly illuminated: the Duke of Warwick and one of his fellow Huntsmen from the train.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“‘We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?’”
—Christina Rossetti, “The Goblin Market”
I turn to flee the way I came, but another figure materializes out of the mist, blocking my way. Another Huntsman.
They must have followed me from the opera house or the university. I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. I must get away.
The men flash crocodile grins as they close in. Their eyes gleam with certain success. They expect this to be easy.
I reach out for Aristos, desperate for the one thing that might help me. But—as always—I find nothing. Warwick carries a dangling length of rope; the other men hold knives. No pistols. I’m not surprised. Nothing would bring the local authorities quicker than the crack of gunshots.
Still, I’m not going to make it easy for my assailants.
Warwick comes at me first with a nasty smile, holding the rope, ready to bind me. I kick at his legs—I haven’t spent my time in training sessions learning nothing. He grunts and falls back, eyes widening with surprise.
A sound behind me gives me a second’s warning, and I duck. The man flies past, overshooting his target, and lands sprawled on the pathway with a grunt. Hope bubbles up, briefly—maybe I can fight my way out of this….
And that hope then quickly disappears as I feel my arms jerked violently behind my back and my feet lift off the ground. Warwick’s voice murmurs in my ear, “This time you’re coming with us.” He laughs—a low, chilling sound. “You’re not going to like it.” Terror claws at my throat.
I am dragged backward. The men close in around me.
Just then shouts cleave the air. The bridge is suddenly filled as people clamber up and over the bridge railings. There must be five or six of them, moving so fast, limbs and weapons flashing. I catch a glimpse of one—Julian.
How did the Morgana team find me?
I scream to be released, and Charlie is there, knocking down my captor with one swift blow. Immediately, I drop and tear the ropes from my wrists. Once more, I try to call for Aristos but there is nothing. I will be no help to the other Candidates, the real Morgana.
I spot a lamppost with a broad base on the other side of the bridge and dart behind it, crouching down, hiding.
As I watch the mayhem, something small flies from one of the Huntsmen’s cloaks and falls at my foot. It glimmers with a dull metallic sheen. I quickly grab at it, but it’s only a cloak pin.
But on closer examination, it carries a distinctive pattern. Familiarity whispers in my ear, although I can’t think why. I tuck the pin away in the folds of my cloak.
As the skirmish continues, I try to discern the identities of the Candidates who’ve come to my rescue: there’s Julian, and Charlie, of course. I also make out Hugh and Rose and two others I don’t know well, but who were with us on our mission.
The struggle lasts only moments. Apparently, the Huntsmen weren’t looking for a fight. Just an easy capture.
As quickly as they arrived, they retreat, dropping over the side of the bridge.
Warwick is the last to go. Before he drops over the side, he looks straight at me. “Don’t worry, Miss Felicity Cole. We will see each other again soon.”
I lean over—two small boats bob in the water, and the men rapidly row away. Why were they after me?
“Very dramatic,” says Julian, the moment Warwick disappears.
“Do we follow them?” asks Charlie, breathing heavily.
Julian shakes his head. “They may have reinforcements waiting around the curve in the river. No, we head back.” He looks at me with concern. “Are you all right?”
I nod. “So … you knew all along? You knew I slipped away?”
He nods grimly. “And it’s a good thing we did.”
I’m thankful for the dim light that hides the furious blush of shame rising to my cheeks. Shame at being useless in a fight. Shame at having to be rescued. Shame at being caught escaping.
I watch the half dozen Morgana as they fan out along the bridge, ensuring the Huntsmen are gone and not coming back. I can’t help admiring their coordination. Something tightens in my chest. What would it be like to truly be one of them?
“Are you going to tell Hawksmoor?” I ask.
Julian shrugs. “He has his secrets. And now I have mine.”
“What about the others?” I glance toward the other Candidates. Surely one of them will say something.
“Let me take care of that.”
Rose stalks over. “How could you be so stupid, you classless trollop. When Hawksmoor learns of this—”
“He shall hear nothing more than what a lovely time we had at the opera,” Julian replies calmly.
