by Kim Foster
They are dressed like gentlemen, and are carrying weapons. But as they pass, talking among themselves, they don’t sound like gentlemen.
“Warwick says ’e wants her taken alive,” says one.
“Got plans for her, does ’e?”
The others laugh. I bite my tongue so hard the coppery taste of blood blooms in my mouth.
“Kill the guards if you ’ave to,” says the first man. “Kill whoever gets in your way. But take her alive. She’s a feisty one, so ’ave a care.”
A chill slides down my spine. Are they talking about me? I hold my breath, praying they don’t see or hear us.
Mercifully, they pass us by without detecting our presence. When they are gone and we can no longer hear their voices, Hawksmoor detaches himself from the ceiling beams and clambers down. He beckons me to come out. “It’s safe now.”
“Huntsmen?” I whisper.
He nods.
“Who is Warwick?”
“The Duke of Warwick. The man you encountered in Whitechapel Market. The one who shot your friend.”
That man was a duke? I swallow. Dukes are powerful. The have money, power, influence …
“Come now, Miss Cole. We must hurry. It will be a matter of minutes before they discover you’ve escaped and then they will return this way. We need to be gone.”
My heart beats a galloping rhythm as we fly down the tunnel. I’m gasping for air, ears pricked, sure I hear footsteps pounding behind us.
At last, Hawksmoor pauses, then points straight ahead. There’s a trapdoor in the floor, just past the next crossing of tunnels. He levers it open and sends me through first. I clamber down and find myself in an even darker tunnel. Dripping water echoes through the damp space. The smell is even worse than the prison.
Hawksmoor closes the hatch firmly above us, then lights a lantern that had been hooked on the wall.
We walk quickly, sloshing through inches of cold muck that swirls around our feet. After several minutes, hope begins to flutter in my chest. Surely we must be near the exit by now.
A crash sounds behind us.
Hawksmoor grabs my hand. “Run!”
We race, splashing through the tunnels, no longer concerned about making noise. Terror claws at my throat at the idea of being captured by those men. The walls of the tunnel feel like they’re closing in.
At last, the tunnel ends at an old iron gate, and we emerge into a small London square. Though both exhausted, we don’t so much as pause. Hugging closely to building fronts and shadows, we walk briskly through the streets, leaving the prison far behind.
There is no sign that the Huntsmen have followed.
The sky is pink with daybreak. I glance sideways at Hawksmoor. The set of his jaw is firm with determination as he leads us forward, but the fire of panic in his eyes has been extinguished. Have we eluded the Huntsmen?
The streets here are alive with uproar and motion: newspaper boys hawking headlines, carriages rattling over cobbles, the earliest risers making their way to work. It must be early morning, though I have no idea how many days I was trapped within the prison’s walls. We turn a corner and the enormous gleaming dome of St. Paul’s rises up ahead of us.
Hawksmoor pauses and pulls me into an alley. He draws a small waterskin from his cloak. “Here, drink this,” he says, pushing it at me. My mouth is dry as tinder. Without hesitation, I take a deep pull, savoring the cool, fresh liquid as it trickles down my throat.
But as I swallow, a sudden thought crosses my mind. Could that water have been poisoned? I wave away the worry, but a more troubling feeling replaces it, settling in my belly: I am beginning to trust Hawksmoor. This scares me almost as much as my recent ordeal.
I watch him as he, too, takes a drink from the waterskin.
Hawksmoor is helping me, it’s true. And he has plans for me.
But I have plans of my own.
I will go along with him for now. I’ll escape to wherever he is taking me. But I have no intention of staying at this Academy, whatever it is. Once I am reunited with Nate, we’ll run away. Head north, perhaps. We can make a go of it on our own, just the two of us.
Hawksmoor finishes drinking and tucks the waterskin away, before he motions us forward again.
I am going to find a way to get my life back—the one I had with Nate. I am going to find out why we’re Tainted. And then I am going to find a way to cure us of this curse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is or has been is but the twilight of the dawn.”
—H. G. Wells, “The Discovery of the Future”
I know I’m meant to be blending in, but I can hardly contain my amazement as we walk into Paddington Station. My eyes swing skyward. The ceilings are impossibly high, soaring above us. Trains hiss and squeal on the tracks, their gleaming black engines emitting great plumes of steam.
People bustle to and fro on the platforms, carrying carpet bags and parasols. Uniformed porters lug trunks under the close scrutiny of ladies in the finest fashions. Conductors’ shouts and whistles echo upward to the vaulted ceilings. The air is heavy with the smells of axle grease and roasting chestnuts. This will be my first experience traveling on an actual steam train.
I tug self-consciously at the plain linen, high-necked blouse and skirt I’m wearing, and try not to trip on the boots that are two sizes too big. Hawksmoor had the disguise stashed in an alcove within St. Paul’s, complete with a traveling cloak and bonnet that covers much of my face.
As we travel, we are an Oxford haberdasher and his daughter.
“Should anyone ask,” Hawksmoor says, “we do business in buttons, lace, and notions. You are learning lacemaking, and I—who never had any sons—am grooming you to take over the shop. We come into London to do trade—our trunks are making their way to Oxford.”
Hawksmoor’s smoke-gray suit has been replaced by one of plain brown wool, paired with a tweed waistcoat and a bowler hat. He’s also applied a fuller, fake beard and gold-rimmed spectacles to complete the disguise.
To reach the train station, we took an omnibus—my first ride on one of those, too. After the crowded stuffiness of the omnibus, with its mildewed blue velvet seats and straw lining the floor, the airy train station is like a different world.
The air clangs with the sound of metal. The smell of soot and forge overwhelms me with a sudden memory of Kit.
Apprenticed to the blacksmith, he was forever walking around in a cloud of char. How I loved that smell; it meant he was nearby. A ghostlike remembrance of his touch suddenly comes to me and I can almost feel has hands going around my waist. Warm hands. No matter how frosty the air, his hands were always warm, like the coals of the smithy’s fires.
We climb onto a long black steam train and Hawksmoor leads the way down a narrow corridor to our compartment. We speak very little, which is fine with me.
As we settle into the plush seats of our train compartment, I allow myself to exhale. It’s a breath I’ve been holding since escaping the prison.
We’re one step closer to safety, although I know the danger is not gone. Perhaps it never will be.
I reach up to move the curtain aside and realize my hand is shaking. Peering out the window through clouds of steam, I expect to see a Peeler come striding toward us any minute, whistle screeching.
“It was a narrow escape,” Hawksmoor says. “Here. Take this.” He thrusts a flask in my hand. I start to protest, but he insists. “You need it.” The brandy burns as it goes down my throat, but it also softens my limbs.
My thoughts return to Nate. “I need to know where my brother is. If he is all right.”
“Of course,” says Hawksmoor. “Your brother is just fine.”
“I need to know more than that.”
“Here. Why don’t I show you?” he says at last. I let Hawksmoor hold my arm, as he did in the prison, and I am instantly whisked far away.
I see Nate traveling in an enclosed carriage. He must be journ
eying a different route to our destination. He jostles in the seat as the carriage travels swiftly. He appears … content. Safe, and cared for. He looks eagerly out the window, as though he’s on an adventure, and he eats a small treacle tart with delight. A matronly woman sits beside him ramrod straight, looking directly ahead. Although her eyes are not on him, there’s something decidedly … protective about her bearing.
I feel a pang. It should be me watching over him, not a stranger. But I know it’s not possible. Not yet.
“Satisfied?” Hawksmoor asks, when he releases my arm, returning me to the train car.
I nod. Although the ache in my chest is still there, I know I will see Nate soon, and that gives me some comfort.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. Nate is everything now; he is all I have left. Especially now that Kit is gone….
A black curtain of despair threatens to pull me under again. I dig my nails into my palm, forcing myself upright. Nothing can bring Kit back now. I have to stay focused on moving forward. On reuniting with Nate.
A conductor knocks at our compartment to inquire if everything is suitable. Hawksmoor stands and fusses with his valise, speaking to the conductor in a low voice. The man nods and I can just make out the words, “Very good, Delta,” before he moves on to the next compartment.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“You don’t miss much, do you, Miss Cole?” Hawksmoor’s mouth twitches into a half smile. “That’s good.”
I keep my face neutral, waiting.
“You will soon learn we have something of a network. Eyes and ears throughout the country. It helps us in our work.”
He offers me nothing more. The train starts up with a great squeal of wheels on the track and a hiss of steam. I watch the city of London slide by. Great plumes of smoke rise out of the factories we pass, and I gaze at leagues of red-bricked row houses interspersed with hospitals, church spires, and workhouses.
The city soon gives way to countryside, with rolling hills and hedgerows, and stone villages tucked into green valleys.
“You’ve never seen the countryside before?” Hawksmoor asks.
I can’t peel my eyes from the window. “It’s wonderful.” My whole life has been people, streets, commotion, smog, and soot.
“‘Come forth into the light of things, let Nature be your teacher,’” Hawksmoor recites.
I nod. “Wordsworth. I’ve always preferred Coleridge.”
He inclines his head and a smile plays upon his lips.
In my father’s homeland, women were respected. Which is why he taught both me and Nate to read and write. To play chess. We spent long hours discussing philosophy, politics, science. Nate and I never went to school, but still we learned.
Tea sandwiches and scones are soon served in our compartment. I try not to gobble them down, but I’m so famished I can hardly help myself. Hawksmoor disappears into the train, and returns, carrying a folded newspaper.
“Here. You might be interested in this,” he says. “The morning Times.”
I stare at the outstretched bundle.
“Come now, Miss Cole, I am well aware you can read.”
The front page is emblazoned with headlines about the financial markets and a story about the Tower Bridge that’s being built over the Thames, with a spectacular illustration of its ongoing construction. A piece about the Queen’s Golden Jubilee decorates much of the lower front page. It’s a few months away still, but I read about the preparations that are well under way. There’s to be a banquet, a parade, and a ceremony in Westminster Abbey. I wonder what that would be like….
Hawksmoor turns the page, and points to a small piece at the very bottom of page three: Dangerous Murderess Executed Early This Morning at Newgate Prison.
I scan the words below. Miss Felicity Cole, a criminal of the most vicious sort, was this morning hanged …
I stare at the page, then look up at Hawksmoor. “This is … your doing?” He nods.
I hand the paper back to him, and turn back to the window and lose myself in the farmland rushing by, hardly hearing the clattering of the train on the tracks. My eyes slide over a small white chapel, and then a stone wall and a tiny cottage. Sheep dot the pastures.
Dead. I am officially dead.
I feel strangely … free. Nobody will come hunting for me. I am not an escaped convict. The story is over, and society is satisfied with the outcome.
I frown, thinking of the Huntsmen. Will I be safe from them wherever we’re headed? Will they be fooled by the fabricated execution? A few years ago, this plan wouldn’t have gone off, but the government abolished public hangings. Perhaps there’s a chance.
“I suppose you’d like to know something about where we’re going,” Hawksmoor says, raising a china teacup to his lips.
“Very much.”
He settles back into his seat and takes a thoughtful sip. Returning the cup to its saucer, he steeples his fingers. “Have you ever heard of a man named Christopher Marlowe? He was a playwright in the sixteenth century.”
I nod. A rival to Shakespeare. “He was murdered.”
Hawksmoor gives me a small smile. “Well, that’s what the world believes. But he wasn’t killed. His death, like yours, was faked.”
As the train flies past farms and villages, Hawksmoor explains. “Christopher Marlowe was, indeed, an Elizabethan playwright. He was also Tainted, making him perfectly qualified for his work. His more important role was spy and assassin, in service of Queen Elizabeth herself. At the age of twenty-nine, when his secrets were in danger of being compromised by a great treachery, his death was counterfeited. This allowed him to go deep underground where he was able to continue his work.”
“As a secret agent for the crown?”
“Indeed. Being officially dead allowed Marlowe the freedom to create a large, secret network that has grown ever more sophisticated in the three hundred years since.”
Hawksmoor sips his tea again and continues. “The Queen granted Marlowe use of a large country house, Greybourne Abbey in Oxfordshire, from which he ran his operations. He kept the name, but turned it into Greybourne Academy, an institution to recruit people with … rather special talents.”
“Tainted?” I whisper, although I know we can’t be heard. Hawksmoor nods over the rim of his teacup.
My brows knit together. “I’m to believe that there have been Tainted throughout England for over three hundred years? That there’s a secret underground network of people … just like me?”
“We don’t call ourselves Tainted. That’s the slur of those who misunderstand and fear us. We use the ancient name—we have long been known as the Morgana.”
The Morgana. I let the name roll around in my mind. There is something deeply familiar about the word, though I can’t quite put my finger on why it seems so.
“It was a stroke of luck that I happened in Whitechapel Market when I did,” Hawksmoor says.
“When you saw me?”
“Just before the Huntsmen found you.” He watches me intently. “It was fortuitous timing, to say the least. Shall we call it serendipity? I believe these things happen for a reason.”
I’m not sure I believe in fate, but I remain quiet.
“I do apologize for leaving you in the prison as long as I did. I needed to be sure everything was set for our escape; I needed to select the correct moment.”
I sip my tea.
“At any rate, it is for Greybourne Academy that I have recruited you, as you have probably surmised.” He watches me carefully. “Being among the Morgana is a gift, Felicity.”
Being Tainted is a curse. It has always meant danger for my brother. It meant death to my mother.
“At Greybourne, you will embark on a very special path. Your gifts make you perfect for this role. You will become a sharp instrument to do the necessary work of shaping the country and the Empire.”
I frown. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means you wil
l be trained to be a secret agent and assassin.”
I almost drop my teacup. “I’ll be trained to be … a what?”
CHAPTER NINE
“The wicked are wicked, no doubt, and they go astray and they fall, and they come by their deserts; but who can tell the mischief which the very virtuous do?”
—William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair
An assassin. And a spy.” Hawksmoor looks at me carefully. “There are evil men in this world, Miss Cole. Men who would do great harm. You will eliminate those men. It is a great honor to protect Queen and Country.”
My mouth works, but no words come out.
“I can see you are not pleased,” Hawksmoor says drily.
How could I be pleased? I have no interest in being a secret agent. And as for being an assassin …
I have a sudden flash—a memory of killing the footman in Whitechapel Market. How could I possibly do that again, and … intentionally?
I look at Hawksmoor, sitting across from me. Is refusal an option? I’m conscious of how much I am at his mercy. I shift with discomfort. I still need his help—for this escape, and to be reunited with Nate.
“I think you’ve overestimated my abilities,” I say. “I couldn’t possibly become what you say.”
“On the contrary, Miss Cole.”
“But I know nothing of such things,” I object, my voice growing firmer. “Being stealthy enough to … kill someone? It’s the last thing I’m capable of. You saw me back in Whitechapel. Was I stealthy then?”
“You will learn,” he says mildly, plucking a piece of lint from his trousers.
I cross my arms over my chest. “And if I don’t wish to learn? If I refuse?”
His hand stills. He gazes back up at me and any trace of humor has left his eyes. “Need I remind you that you—and your brother—remain in great danger? Without the protection of the Academy, you would not last a week.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Is that a threat?