Alison didn’t realize she was staring open mouthed until a polite cough stirred her into awareness. She looked down, and further down, and saw a middle-aged woman sitting at a small, plain wooden desk, identical to the ones from Adam Hesketh’s office, complete with outdated computer.
“Ms. Arkin,” said the woman. She was small, but her pointed features were too large for her face, in that a single raised eyebrow seemed to fill the room. She was dressed in a secretarial blouse and knee-length skirt, and was appraising Alison without emotion, her hands paused in the act of typing. “You’re early.”
“Elizabeth, this is . . .” began Danvers, standing to one side and short of breath. “Oh. Right. You already know. My tablet died, and I lost the agenda. But Ms. Arkin caught a look at it, so maybe she could quickly dictate . . .”
“There isn’t time,” said Elizabeth. Right on cue, there came the tolling of an ominous bell, and the ebony doors slowly cracked open, spilling a faintly purple vapor into the room. “The Hand of Merlin are in session. Sounds like they’ve already finished their starter.”
“But . . .”
“Leave it with me, Richard,” said Elizabeth tolerantly, rising from her seat and gaining surprisingly little height. She gestured past them, and a robe-wearing monk who had been standing guard at the base of the stairs dutifully trotted up. He had to bend almost double before Elizabeth could mutter an order into his ear.
Nodding, the monk spun on his heel and trotted back to his guard post, his slippers making a pattern of dull thuds and flip-flaps as he passed from carpet to marble. He quickly returned with a spare robe in his arms.
“Put it on, Alison,” said Elizabeth. She spoke quietly, but with a measured calm that Alison found quite reassuring. “Richard, is there any reason you’re still here?”
Danvers hadn’t moved from his spot but was twiddling his fingers nervously. “Are you serious?” She gave no verbal answer, but her withering expression apparently sufficed. “You’re going to have her in there? Reading the agenda to the Hand?”
“It’s exactly the sort of improvisation they usually appreciate. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the awkwardness to a minimum.”
Alison was surprised by the robe’s lightness and the smooth delicacy of the material. As she pulled the folds into place, she couldn’t help rubbing the fabric of the overlong cuffs between her fingertips.
Elizabeth smartly flicked the hood of Alison’s robe up and pulled it down over her eyes, covering most of her vision. “Start walking when I prompt. Stop when I prompt again. On the third prompt, begin reciting the agenda. You don’t have a face or a mind of your own. You’re just the words. Clear?”
“Oh,” said Alison, slightly disappointed. “Okay.”
“Do you think you could adopt some kind of mystical voice? An airy monotone should do.”
With her field of view restricted to part of the floor and two pairs of feet, Alison noticed for the first time that Elizabeth was supporting her weight on a hard metal cane, whose handle she gripped with a practiced tightness. “I can do that.”
“Good.” The bell sounded again. “You may begin. They’re getting impatient.”
“Elizabeth,” said Richard Danvers. “Is . . . my father on the Hand this morning?”
“He did sign in,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll take full responsibility for this.”
“Okay,” said Danvers, naked relief drenching the word.
The legs and cane of Elizabeth walked out of Alison’s field of view with a pronounced limp. A hand was placed in the small of her back, guiding her gently towards the ebony doorway.
“Keep going straight on,” said Elizabeth, very close to Alison’s ear. “Put your hands in your opposite sleeves. Yes, like that.”
Alison did as she was told, taking one wary step at a time as if she were heading a funeral procession. The light grew dimmer and dimmer until she could no longer see the patterns in the carpet before her. Strange smells reached her nostrils, some sweet, some piercing and disorienting, the combined effect being reminiscent of a recently repainted candle shop. Walking in a straight line was taking up most of her concentration.
She allowed her eyes to glaze and relived the moment in which she had glimpsed the agenda. There was the tablet, held on one side by Danvers (slim hand, wristwatch, trimmed fingernails) and on the other by Casin (long fingers, grubby, smelled faintly of leather and Monster Munch). There were precisely twenty-seven lines of varying width in sans-serif text. She mentally queued the words of the top line at the back of her mouth.
“He who approaches the Hand of Merlin, the seat of power, will identify himself,” boomed a male voice from up ahead, startling Alison. She had stopped walking at Elizabeth’s touch but only at this moment became aware of having done so.
“The Master Apprentice,” called Elizabeth, initially imitating the booming tone of the first speaker, but allowing the last syllable to tail off into a bored sigh.
“The Hand of Merlin recognizes the Master Apprentice, Elizabeth Lawrence, first among the acolytes,” said the first voice. “What request do you bring from the world of Men?”
“The world of Men requests the infallible wisdom of the Hand of Merlin, in matters eldritch and ineffable,” continued Elizabeth, now barely even pretending to be enthused. “I bring the Scroll of Untold Presence, that you would advise us.”
Alison heard what sounded like silverware being set on the side of a plate. “Now, Ms. Lawrence,” said another male voice with a public school accent. “That doesn’t look much like a scroll, does it.”
“Item one,” replied Elizabeth, touching Alison in the back as if pulling the string of a talking doll.
“Item one,” stated Alison, drawing out the vowel sounds slightly in a manner she hoped sounded mysterious and dreamlike. “Evidence of shoggoths in the Lake District—”
“Ms. Lawrence,” interrupted the first, harsher voice. “Are we to take it that the Scroll of Untold Presence is not in physical evidence this morn?”
“The Scroll is entirely intact within the memory of this acolyte,” assured Elizabeth. “I made the decision that an agenda held only within the mind of a devotee would represent less of a security risk.”
“Most irregular . . .”
“Oh, come on, Jack,” said the second voice, or it might have been another. Every single member of the Hand seemed to be an elderly man with an upper-class accent. “I think it’s rather jolly. You can’t say it isn’t fitting.”
“Can you vouch for the accuracy of this acolyte’s memory?” asked the booming first voice humorlessly.
“Without reservation,” said Elizabeth. Alison wondered how much her reputation had preceded her; Adam had made a few phone calls during the drive down but had stopped once they were on the motorway, after a couple of hair-raising close calls.
“Very well. Have your girl proceed.”
“Item one,” repeated Alison, as Elizabeth’s fingertips poked her spine again. “Evidence of shoggoths in the Lake District reported by agents in and around Keswick.”
“Wasn’t this brought up last time?” said what Alison was pretty sure was a new voice, which possessed the jowly ring of the hugely corpulent.
“Yes, two days ago,” said Elizabeth. “In your wisdom you agreed to dispatch our local agent in that area to investigate a reported stench consistent with shoggoths. He has now confirmed shoggoth presence and is following their trail.”
“Oh yes, I should do that,” said one of the many voices.
“The Hand will speak,” intoned the first voice, which seemed to be the chairman or spokesperson. “Our agent will continue his pursuit of the hellspawn until they are caught and exterminated. The Hand has spoken.”
“Next,” whispered Elizabeth to Alison.
“Item two,” read Alison, putting even more of a lilt on the mystery voice. “Suspected manifestations of magical infusions in humans.”
“Three today,” said Elizabeth. Alison heard paper being unfolded. “Mys
terious fires in a primary school in Southwark. An individual advertising a faith-healing practice in Borehamwood. And a scorch mark shaped like a human hand has appeared on a statue of Rupert Brooke in Rugby. I have local agents lined up to take care of the last two, and Agent Collins can handle Southwark.”
“Fine,” said at least three men in unison.
“The Hand will speak,” said the chairman, now starting to sound a little bored himself. “The agents mentioned will be dispatched as you see fit. If tainted ones are found, they will be taken to the monastery. The Hand has spoken.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Lawrence,” said a new voice. This was the oldest and poshest of the lot, and spoke with a breathless, earnest, but slightly baffled tone that reminded Alison of members of the royal family trying to converse with civilians. “Do you know if my ideas for the monastery school are on the agenda today? I made a special point of reminding my son about it.”
From the rest of the Hand there came a short chorus of groans, sighs, and tongue clicks not quite subtle enough to be ignored.
“Well, I just think it’s important,” protested the speaker. “It’s so very important that we reach these young people, and there have been many points of concern . . .”
“Only the Swordkeeper himself, and this acolyte, currently know the contents of the agenda, sir,” said Elizabeth diplomatically.
“Let’s just get through it, Danvers,” sighed another member of the Hand. “If it’s not there, you can take it up with your boy.”
“All right,” said Danvers Sr. “I do think it’s so very important.”
“Item three,” said Alison, as Elizabeth poked her again. “Werewasps dealt with.”
“Casin and Hesketh report that they successfully exterminated the entire hive,” said Elizabeth. “I would, however, like to bring together a few of our local agents around Lincolnshire Wolds to oversee evidence cleanup.”
“Yes, to be expected with those two,” muttered someone.
“The Hand will speak,” said the chairman. “Our agents will remove evidence of the presence of tainted ones, be they hostile or . . . within our employ.” There was an uneasy tone creeping into the last part. “The Hand has spoken.”
“Item four,” said Alison eagerly. “Reassessment of monastery school practice fill in some bullshit to keep the old fart happy.”
Alison only parsed her own words when she felt the stunned silence holding on with a death grip to every cubic inch of stuffy air in the room.
“Perhaps we’ll leave it there for today,” said Elizabeth tightly.
07
Alison sat on a stool in front of Elizabeth Lawrence’s desk, half curled up in a private little cube of hot embarrassment.
A while ago, Richard Danvers had walked past her into the Hand’s chamber, acknowledging her with a perfunctory nod of reassurance as he went. Ten minutes later, after a muffled symphony of angry jabbering voices, he had come out again and flashed her a scowl so terrible that she had quickly feigned interest in her shoes.
Shortly afterwards, the thuds of Elizabeth’s walking cane rhythmically hitting the stone floor emerged from the gloom, followed by Elizabeth herself. She limped to the desk and daintily sat down without a word.
The moment she was settled, Alison leaned forward and clutched the edge of the desk with both hands. “Ms. Lawrence, I’m so sorry,” she said hastily. “It was what it said on the page, and I didn’t realize—”
Elizabeth silenced her with a dismissive flap of a hand. “It wasn’t your fault, Ms. Arkin. Richard should have kept his editorializing to himself. And I should have given you more directions. I can at least credit your ability to follow instructions to the letter.”
Elizabeth’s habit of constantly talking in a slightly judgmental monotone made it virtually impossible to tell when she was being sarcastic. Alison decided that apologizing again was the safest response. “I am really sorry.”
“Put it behind you.” Elizabeth leaned back comfortably and gathered her hands in her lap. “We should discuss your new employment. Mr. Hesketh didn’t have the chance to fully brief you on the Ministry’s workings.” Alison came very close to asking Elizabeth how she could possibly have known that. “You must have questions.”
“Yes, lots,” said Alison immediately.
“Good. Feel free to start at the top.”
The many questions she had assembled jostled for position on Alison’s tongue, until she opted to interpret Elizabeth’s suggestion literally and voiced the most recent one. “Are the Hand of Merlin meetings always like that?”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Not before today, no.”
“I mean, is it always just you listing the things you’ve already decided to do, and the Hand agreeing with it all?”
The older woman straightened up and pinned Alison in place with a glare. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Ms. Arkin. The Hand of Merlin have been sanctioned to oversee dealings with the occult since Elizabethan times. It’s true that in recent decades they have concerned themselves more with broad policy suggestions and left the fine details to the apprentices, but they are as vital and integral a part of the Ministry of Occultism as the queen herself is to the governing of the nation.”
Alison nodded rapidly. “I see. I get it.”
“Was that your only question?”
Alison bit her lip. “Ms. Lawrence, do you mind if I ask . . . if you have a magic power?”
Elizabeth hesitated. Her hand began to fidget subtly with the head of her walking cane. “No, I don’t.”
“What about Mr. Danvers? Or anyone in the Hand of Merlin?”
“Mr. Danvers used to run a publishing company; his qualifications lie in management skills. The Hand’s talents are . . . more subtle. Why do you ask?”
“I thought most of the people here would have magic powers. I heard most people go from the school to the Ministry.”
“Not usually to the core Ministry,” said Elizabeth. “We have some tainted ones in the Scroll for research purposes, but the exceptional graduates from the monastery are mostly given part-time freelance work as local agents. Adam Hesketh and Victor Casin of the Sword are the only permanent staff members that carry the taint.”
Alison’s growing cheer at not being as much of a fish out of water as she had thought was undercut by a new feeling of unease. “Tainted ones?”
“The jargon’s confusing you,” said Elizabeth, softening. “The Ministry headquarters has three divisions—the Sword, the Scroll, and the Hand. The Sword consists of agents and field operations; the Scroll, our research and intelligence wing; and the Hand is the command center that manages the two. Have you given any thought to which area would best suit your abilities?”
“Well—”
Elizabeth hadn’t stopped talking. “Because I have something to propose, if you aren’t certain.”
“Okay?”
Elizabeth leaned forward, placing her clasped hands just below her mouth. “Most of the Sword operatives work in groups of two or three,” she said conspiratorially. “Except for one. Agent Diablerie is currently working alone, and I have decided he will be assigned an assistant.”
“And you want that to be me?”
“Yes. Diablerie is resistant to working with partners, but he will be more open to the idea of a subordinate. Report to the Sword briefing room after lunch and you’ll meet him there. Follow his instructions. Come to me if you have any concerns.” She turned to her computer to signal the end of the conversation.
Unconsciously, Alison had already risen. “Thank you so much, Ms. Lawrence. I promise to do the job as best I can.” Only after these sentiments had hurried from her mouth did her mind begin to consider the prospect. “This will be working in the field, right? Actual missions?”
Elizabeth glanced up. “It will. By all means come back to me if you have trouble meeting the challenge, but this is the best possible path your career could take at this point.”
“Really?”
; “Yes. Anything we can do to keep you out of the Ministry bunker for the next few weeks will minimize your chances of being murdered by Mr. Danvers.”
08
Alison opted to eat lunch in a sandwich shop on street level. The Ministry had its own dining hall, but after the morning’s events she felt it probably wasn’t the best time to start networking. Besides, Adam’s anecdotes on the drive down had preemptively soured her to the food.
As she sat at a red-and-white-checked table digesting half a baguette, and noninstitutional food entered her system, her mood began to tentatively improve. It was a nice day, to the point that the residents and workers of central London could occasionally be glimpsed briefly permitting themselves a smile. Under a blue sky rather than low-hanging stone, the prospect of her new job was more appealing than ever.
At the monastery Alison had memorized countless written and spoken accounts of magical creatures, and that had been fascinating enough, but the thought of filling her memory with sights and sounds of magic in practice, in the real world, filled her with excitement to the tips of her fingers. Agent Arkin, of the Ministry of Occultism.
She knew it would possibly be dangerous. Werewasps certainly sounded dangerous. But she had had enough safety in her life. Safety had always meant sitting where her mother told her to sit and quietly watching whatever repeats were on television. Safety hadn’t left her with much. Danger had to be at least worth a try.
Besides, she thought, as she made her way back to Westminster Abbey, Elizabeth wouldn’t send her on dangerous missions, not right away. She was smart, Alison could tell, and smart people don’t send teenage girls to fight monsters.
Alison reentered the secret bunker and made her way to the briefing room. She already knew the way; earlier, when Danvers had been hurriedly escorting her to the meeting, she had glimpsed a floor plan on a wall for a tiny fraction of a second. Relaxed, bustling conversation streamed out as she pushed the door open.
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