by Kim Foster
I walk to the window seat and tentatively reach out. I calm myself, quieting my mind, focusing all thought on my brother.
A glimmer of something pulses toward me—just a tiny, flickering slice. An idea of Nate, safe and warm in a soft bed in the cottage. He is just waking up—
Nate. Can you hear me? It’s Felicity …
An urgent knocking sounds at my door. “Miss Cole, may I come in?” calls Jane. “We must hurry. It’s almost time to go down to your training session.”
My connection to Nate instantly dissolves.
I sigh, and rise from the window seat. As I do, I feel a sharp pain at the loss, but I tell myself I will be able to try again. Without Hawksmoor’s help, or anyone else for that matter.
“Yes, Jane, come in.”
Jane sits me at the dressing table and begins working on my hair, tying it off my face in a simple style.
“What did you mean yesterday, when you said we were ‘Candidates’?” I ask, watching her in the mirror.
She hesitates, clearly unsure how openly she may speak.
I press my lips together. “Please. There are too many secrets here. I don’t have anyone I can truly trust. Hawksmoor won’t tell me—and I’m not sure I’d believe it was the truth anyway.”
Her hands twist at her sides. “All right. Everyone knows, anyway. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. In the Morgana, there are only ever a few spaces at the top. And, at the moment, there is only one available place.”
“One?”
She nods. “Only one of the senior Candidates will be selected.”
“How do they choose?”
“There will be a series of tests and eliminations. To even be considered, you must prove yourself to the Elders by demonstrating a mastery of your gift. If you can’t, you will be removed from the running.”
“What if you’re ‘out’ but you’re still Tainted?” I can’t believe the Morgana would just throw their own out on the street. Hawksmoor was careful to tell me how dangerous the world is for the Tainted on their own, though I know it from Nate … from my mother.
“In that case,” explains Jane, “unless your family will take you back and promise safety and secrecy, you’re assigned an auxiliary role in the organization. A supportive role, within the Academy.”
“Such as?”
“Well …” Jane’s cheeks go slightly pink.
I still her hand. “Jane? Are you Tainted, too?”
She is quiet for several moments. “I am, miss. And I was a Candidate. I did not pass the trials. But I want you to know that I am not ashamed of what I do. I consider it a great honor to prepare the Candidates. To serve the Academy in the best ways I can. I know I do good work, even if I am not a full-fledged Morgana agent …”
I don’t know quite what to say. I want to tell her that I have no interest in becoming a Morgana agent, either. That it holds no appeal for me, and I certainly don’t think any less of her because she didn’t succeed.
But as true as that is, I’m not sure it would strike the right tone with her at the moment. So I say nothing.
“Miss Cole, I have every confidence you can make it,” she says brightly. “There’s something about you. I can feel it. Maybe it’s because you’re not like them. You’re the first Morgana to come from Whitechapel. You had to grow up tough, fending for yourself.” She blushes again. “If you don’t mind me saying so, of course.”
“I don’t mind, Jane. And please—would you call me Felicity?”
She nods shyly, then puts the finishing touches on my hair. For a moment, my mind wanders away to what it would be like—this achievement she, and everyone else here, seems to covet. To be a Morgana agent. To be a highly trained spy. An assassin. Be involved in affairs that can mold the future of the country …
No. That’s not what I want. The only things that matter to me are reaching Nate and finding a way back to our old life.
“There,” says Jane. “All finished. You’re ready.”
I glance at myself in the mirror. My cheeks have color now and the hollows under my eyes are less pronounced. Although it has only been a day, I already look like a different person.
Jane leads me to an entirely separate wing. I still my nerves as we travel through sumptuous hallways decorated with silk carpets and wall hangings. At last, we reach a ballroom.
Lustrous parquet floor stretches across the enormous space; chandeliers glint off the mirrored, coffered ceiling. A wall of windows, each hung with silk curtains, spans the length of the ballroom. It’s a gorgeous hall, meant for parties and dances and formal events … but the members of the Academy are using it for a rather different purpose.
Everyone else is already here, which makes my stomach drop. All the senior Candidates, about a dozen of them, are in gymnasium clothes, like me. They are paired off, sparring, practicing the use of swords. Leaping, tumbling, climbing, and doing incredible things.
I realize I neglected to ask Jane what we would be doing in our training session today. I look at her with alarm. “Combat,” she mouths with an apologetic wince. Then, with an encouraging smile, she pushes me forward.
I wonder at the sight of them—Tainted, every one. My eyes stop on a cluster of people fighting in the center of the room. One of the fighters is taking on three opponents. He’s incredibly fast and strong. Sweat glistens on the back of his neck. He turns and I see his face: Julian Blake.
His opponents come at him all at once. He deftly crouches under one attacker’s punch, sweeping another’s leg away. His movements are so fast, I can barely make them out. I would probably need to be in my own Tainted state, grasping my own ability, in order to see it all properly.
The third opponent catches him and wraps him up, but Julian quickly flips the attacker away.
There’s a small gasp behind me. “My goodness, he’s spectacular, isn’t he?” says Jane. I glance at her over my shoulder and she looks rather flushed.
She’s right, of course. He’s incredible. It’s like watching a beautifully choreographed dance. My heart gives a slight flutter, and then an immediate pang of guilt shoots through me. Kit was killed before my eyes not even a week ago.
And, as Rose made quite clear over dinner, Julian has no reason to pay me any attention. A young man like him would never be a match for me, not in a thousand years. After he winked at me last night, I heard one of the girls whisper, “Julian Blake is a shameless flirt. Everyone knows that.”
Julian quickly dispatches the last of his three opponents, who I now recognize as Charlie Spooner. As the two others lie at Julian’s feet in crumpled heaps, Charlie comes up grinning. “You’re in fine form today, Blake,” he says, breathing heavily. Julian grins back at him. They’re obviously friends.
And then, Julian turns his head and spots me. His eyes go to mine as though he already knows I am there. My cheeks burn. I look away quickly, but not quickly enough.
“Ah, Miss Cole,” shrills a woman’s voice from across the ballroom, the sound echoing up to the high ceiling. A lady emerges from the group and beckons me to stand in front of her. “Come over here so I can see you properly. I am Agatha Isherwood, the instructor of this class.”
I move forward as Jane ducks back, closing the enormous double doors behind me.
Agatha Isherwood is tall—no, not tall. She is of average height, but she holds herself so upright, you have the impression of height. Silvery blonde hair sweeps back from her face, making it all the easier to be watched by her penetrating, wide-set eyes.
I attempt a curtsy, but since I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m not sure I pull it off.
There is a long silence. “Well, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Isherwood says dispassionately. “I imagine your gift is not for curtsying.”
A few titters circulate through the group.
“Mrs. Isherwood?” a familiar voice rings out. Rose. “I daresay Miss Cole has us at a disadvantage. She’s seen what we can do, but we have no idea where her abilities l
ie. Being the newest addition to our class, should we not see the current level of her skills?”
My eyes dart around in alarm. Mrs. Isherwood considers this and nods. “Yes, a brief demonstration won’t be too much difficulty, I’m sure.”
My mouth opens. Demonstration?
Mrs. Isherwood leads me into the center of the ballroom. “Hawksmoor tells me you are one of the best raw Aristos he has ever seen. I, for one, would like to see that for myself.” Her tone brooks no argument, but her words make no sense to me—raw Aristos? I dig my nails into my palm. Why didn’t Hawksmoor better prepare me for today?
I glance at Rose, whose mouth twists in a self-satisfied smile, like she’s just swallowed a mouthful of stolen sweets. Like she knows, somehow, that I have no capability for channeling my ability at will.
My stomach tightens.
Mrs. Isherwood plants her hands on her hips, looking at me expectantly. I have no idea what she intends me to do. I stare at her dumbly, fidgeting under everyone’s gaze. The lights from the ballroom’s chandeliers beam down on my head. A drip of sweat rolls down my neck.
“Ah, how silly of me,” Isherwood says, after an interminable stretch of time. “To properly show us your skills, you will require a sparring partner.”
She turns to the group and selects a boy, though the term is little more than a formality. This particular individual made the transition from boy to man long ago—Hugh Torrington. The posh, snobby one who quoted Darwin at dinner last night. Standing, his height and broadness is all the more obvious. His jaw is heavy, his whiskers fully formed, and a bulk of muscle rounds his shoulders and upper back.
She must be joking.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick.”
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “In Memoriam”
Isherwood barely blinks. She watches with clear eyes as Hugh comes forward, approaching me. Am I meant to fight him? A spasm of panic grips my stomach.
“I’m not sure I can—”
Isherwood waves a dismissive hand. “Please. We have no time for modesty here.”
My eyes lock on Julian’s. He saw what I can do in the carriage house. But he doesn’t realize I can’t control my abilities at will. He gives me an encouraging smile.
I look around for help and spot Charlie Spooner, the friendly ginger-haired boy, standing next to Julian.
“Come on, Felicity,” says Charlie, trying to be helpful. “You can do it.” But he takes note of my panicked expression and clears his throat. “Although, Mrs. Isherwood, perhaps we should let Miss Cole warm up a bit first?”
“Don’t be stupid,” says Rose. “A gift has nothing to do with warming up.”
Isherwood claps her hands once. “All right, Hugh. Don’t hold back. Hawksmoor tells me that’s when her skills best manifest.”
It’s now or never. If I’m going to grasp my ability—
At once, Hugh is on top of me impossibly fast. It feels like being hit by a speeding steam engine … and the next minute I am flat on my back.
Must get up, I think. Hugh issues two swift kicks to my midsection, and a punch square to my right cheekbone, clearing my brain of all such ambition. Stars explode across my vision.
I lay there curled like an insect, moaning. Praying it’s over.
There is profound silence. I’m not sure if it’s real or if I have been deafened by the blow to my head.
“Right,” says Isherwood drily. “Well, that’s quite enough of that.”
My eyes, squeezed shut during the attack, crack open.
Pale faces swim in my vision. A few are horrified, but most look on with disgust and disdain. “Pathetic,” I hear someone sneer.
I can’t see Julian.
“Oh my,” titters Rose. “That was really … awful.”
Now that it’s over, the pain flashes through me full force. I want to sob, but instead I grit my teeth. Isherwood stares down at me, mouth pursed with disappointment, arms crossed.
“It is a dangerous thing,” she begins, looking away from me to address the rest of the class, “to have the potential of Morgana, without being able to use the one advantage you’ve been given.”
There are murmurs of agreement. Have I just been used as an example? A cautionary tale?
“Somebody get her out of my classroom,” Isherwood snaps.
Rose’s face appears before mine. Her eyes glitter; she is not even bothering to hide her triumph. “I’ll take her to the infirmary,” she says in a singsong.
I squeeze my eyes shut again.
With Rose’s help I hobble from the room. Just before the doors close behind us, I hear Isherwood address the class. “A Morgana who is incapable of mastering his or her gift is headed for a great deal of trouble, indeed,” she says. “Now let’s get on with the proper business of training …”
The doors close with an echoing boom as Rose and I continue down the corridor.
“It’s a pity,” she says with a smug smile, now that we’re alone. “Although, I suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise. You’ve learned too many bad habits out in the wild and your gift has been suppressed for too long.” She sighs. “But it was worth a try, wasn’t it?” Her tone drips with condescension.
“What do you mean—that’s it? No more training for me?”
Rose shrugs. “Oh, I imagine they’ll try to teach you a thing or two. But you can’t expect to be a Candidate anymore. I’m afraid you’re just not Morgana agent material.”
It occurs to me now that if I am not accepted into the inner circle, perhaps information will be withheld from me. Panic rises as I consider the grave misstep I have made. But what could I have done?
“Not to worry, Felicity. I’m sure Hawksmoor will find a position for you somewhere in the Academy. A servant or a cook, perhaps. Maybe a maid to one of the other female agents, if you’re lucky.” Then she gives a little gasp, as though a brilliant idea just occurred to her. “If you like, I could put in a word for you to be mine. Would you like that?”
I’d rather eat glass.
When we arrive at the infirmary, Rose leaves me in the hands of the nurse before turning on her heel and striding back to the combat training. The matron, a stout woman with a large nose and warm hands, clucks and inspects my injuries. When she bustles from the room to retrieve some supplies, I am left alone, staring up at the ceiling.
I spend the rest of the day licking my wounds and avoiding the other Candidates—it’s one advantage to being in a house this large. Jane tells me the other Candidates have training sessions in intelligence, code-breaking, and foreign affairs. But I’m excused from all of that today, given my injuries. My right eye has swollen shut and my left ankle is so bruised I am walking with a limp.
While I lie in bed, resting in the darkness and the quiet, it’s impossible not to think of Nate and Kit. Hot tears slide down my cheeks. I would give anything to be back at the market on that fateful day before everything changed. I swallow. Have I spoiled everything? Have I lost my opportunity to learn the secrets of this place and return to some semblance of my old life?
My presence is required at dinner that evening. Which proves to be a painful affair of a different sort. Jane does an admirable job dressing me and disguising the swelling on my face with cosmetics and powders. But it doesn’t matter—everyone knows of my humiliation. Nobody speaks about it at dinner, but that only makes the whole affair more awkward.
I still have only the scantest understanding of the silverware and the manner in which I am meant eat. I don’t even properly know what I am supposed to do with my napkin.
“Isn’t this roast lamb and mint sauce delicious, Felicity?” says Lucy, chattering away. “I bet you’ve never had anything like it.”
In fact, I have had roast lamb and mint before.
A sudden memory flickers before my eyes. Down by the river, a beautiful moonlit spot where Kit and I had sneaked once, to share a stolen bottle of w
ine and a packet of leftover food given him by the blacksmith in a rare display of generosity. It was a secret spot we’d discovered, and though the gate was locked against trespassers, Kit had known a trick of opening the hinges. As he’d done it, he’d winked at me. “One of the few advantages to being a blacksmith’s girl,” he’d said. How I had loved the sound of those words.
I was his girl. And now I will never see him again.
I stand abruptly from the dinner table and ask Hawksmoor to excuse me, mumbling about a headache. It’s not exactly a lie.
As I turn to leave, I stumble into the sideboard that holds a sumptuous display of marzipan fruits and pastries, balanced on a silver tower. The delicate confections tumble everywhere with a clatter and I let out a sob before I can stop myself. Everyone stares as I do the only thing I can—I race straight for the exit and hurry away without turning.
On my way back to my room, I get lost. It’s not a surprise—this house is unreasonably large. And it doesn’t help that I’m hobbling along with my injuries and fighting back tears.
Just when I think I’ve figured out which way to go, I find myself in some kind of drawing room. “Oh, bugger,” I mutter.
Only then do I realize I’m not alone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“If the misery of the poor be caused not by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great is our sin.”
—Charles Darwin, The Voyage of the Beagle
A gentleman stands by the crackling hearth, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“Oh!” I exclaim. I wipe at my eyes, embarrassed by my tears, and then realize I have probably wiped away all of Jane’s carefully applied makeup. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t know anyone was here.”
He is short and balding, with eyes as warm as caramels and a round belly under his waistcoat, like he’s hiding a Christmas goose there. I’ve never met him before.
“I must admit it’s a habit of mine,” the man says. “Sneaking up on people. Although I think, to be fair, in this situation it really must be regarded as you sneaking up on me.”