by Kim Foster
“And I suppose we’ll simply tell him we didn’t feel like completing our actual mission?” Her eyes glitter as she glances at me, no doubt thrilled at my glaring mistake.
Julian shrugs. “We’ll tell him we were spotted. We couldn’t jeopardize our identities.”
“How can you do it? How can you protect such … incompetence?” She juts her chin in my direction. I can’t quite meet her eye. Inside I know she’s right. “Fine,” she says, folding her arms. “If you won’t report this to Hawksmoor, I will.”
Julian takes a step toward Rose and stops inches from her face. “If you say so much as one word about this, I will tell Hawksmoor about your own blunder last year.” His voice is low, almost a growl. “You know to what I am referring, dear Rose.”
Rose’s mouth opens in a small circle. Her eyes jerk to mine.
“We all make mistakes, Rose. You know that as well as any of us.” he says with finality.
Rose’s nostrils flare. She looks like she might spit nails. But she snaps her mouth shut and stomps away.
“Thank you,” I mouth to Julian. I don’t inquire about the specifics of Rose’s blunder. I know he wouldn’t tell me.
And while I’m relieved my mistake won’t be shared with Hawksmoor, my belly flutters uneasily. Rose now has something she can use against me.
I put my hand inside my cloak as we walk away from the bridge, my fingers meeting the cold smoothness of the pin. I’m not sure why, but I decide not to tell anyone about it. I want to think first, see if I can remember where I’ve seen it before. I run my thumb over the metal.
There are so many things I don’t yet understand. But one thing is clear. No matter what else happens, I am going to learn how to access Aristos. Never again will I cower behind a lamppost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“The forceps of our minds are clumsy forceps, and crush the truth a little in taking hold of it.”
—H. G. Wells, A Modern Utopia
When we return to the Academy, I tell everyone I’m exhausted from the evening’s escapades and wish to retire for the evening. Instead, I slip down to the cellar. I need to talk to Sig.
As I hurry down the stone staircase, I tuck my hand into the folds of my cloak and tightly clutch the strange pin I found on the bridge. I hope Sig has some answers.
I knock on Sig’s door, holding my breath as I wait. The door opens and I exhale.
Sig looks startled to see me standing there in the dark hallway. “Miss Cole! What fortuitous timing!”
He pulls me inside before I can utter a word. The lab smells strongly of chemicals. A flask bubbles in one corner, clockwork ticks in another.
“Now, let me show you what I’ve been developing for you,” he says, rubbing his hands together gleefully.
“For the Candidates?”
He nods. “For the Candidates with Aristos.”
He shows me a tunic made of some kind of lightweight protective fabric. I finger the shirt—the material is fascinating, strong yet flexible.
“And this,” he says, moving quickly to another corner of the workshop. “I’m particularly excited about this one.” He produces a frothy green umbrella with a curved handle.
“A … parasol?”
“Not just any parasol. Look inside.”
When I open it, the lining is chain mail. “The perfect defense for a lady,” he says with a grin that overtakes his face. “I’m thinking of making one for Queen Victoria, herself.”
He chatters on, showing me various bits of equipment and gadgets. I tighten my hand around the strange pin in my pocket as I wait for an opening in Sig’s discourse.
“Listen, this is all wonderful, really. But … I did come to see you for a specific reason.”
He looks up at me through goggles that magnify the size of his eyes. Withdrawing the pin from my cloak, I hold it out to him. The pattern is odd: geometric with three bars, six dots, and a pair of triangles in a linear formation. It has an ancient look to it, although I can’t quite explain why. The pattern feels somehow … intentional. Not just decorative. I’m not sure it’s a device, exactly, but I feel like it has some purpose.
Sig steps closer. “May I?” He pushes his goggles up on his head and gingerly takes the metal from my fingers. After studying it for a moment, he asks, “Where did you get this?”
“It fell from the cloak of one of the Huntsmen.” I lift my chin slightly. “The Huntsmen in the tunnels when I was escaping Newgate Prison. I scooped it up at the time, and I’ve been wondering about it ever since.” I can’t help noticing how smoothly the lie glides off my tongue. My skills are growing.
He nods absently, keeping his attention on the pin. After inspecting it for several moments, peering at it through his goggles, and uttering various grunts, he looks back up at me at last. “Well, Miss Cole. I have come to the conclusion that I have absolutely no idea what this is.”
“Oh.” I can’t hide my disappointment.
“In truth, I’ve never seen anything like it. That alone fascinates me. Would you mind leaving it with me, so that I might continue to study it?”
“I suppose I don’t need it for anything.”
He clucks his tongue. “It’s a shame. Huntsman paraphernalia isn’t exactly my strength. If only Dexter were here.”
“Dexter?”
“My partner. Well, my former partner. Until he went”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“mad.”
“Oh dear.”
“He had a particular interest in the Huntsmen. Knew more about them and their inner workings than any of us. His research took him to London, where, unfortunately, he began turning to … certain pursuits to soothe his nerves. Last I heard, he never leaves Tianjin House.”
It sounds like an opium den. No shortage of those in London.
“How dreadful.”
At that moment, the door flies open and Rose stalks inside. “Sig? I need a new knife. This one wouldn’t be fit for a scullery maid chopping cabbage …” She stops short when she sees me, narrowing her eyes. “Oh, Felicity. I thought you’d gone to bed. You must be tired from your exertions this evening.” She pauses theatrically. “Oh wait, that was me. Me, fighting off our enemies while you rested behind a lamppost in a faint.”
“What are you two on about?” Sig asks. “Weren’t you at the opera this evening?”
“Rose has an active imagination,” I say quickly.
“Oh dear, did I say this evening?” Rose frowns with faux innocence. “I meant this morning. During our training session.” A sly smile plays on her lips.
There are so many things I would like to say in retort, but none of them would be wise at the moment.
“As it happens,” I say, “I was just about to retire for the evening.” Pressing my lips together, I swiftly take my leave. I’ll continue my conversation with Sig later and sort out what to do next, although I’m already formulating a plan.
Returning to my rooms, I fall instantly asleep, but it’s a restless slumber filled with nightmares, and I wake very early, before the sun has risen.
As I stare up at the canopy overhead, a determination takes hold in my belly. I rise and quickly dress in my training gear.
It doesn’t take me long to creep from my room and make my way to the ballroom where we conduct our combat training. Surely no one will be there at this hour.
But when I arrive, the door is already open. I stop, and peer inside. A lone figure is there, his back to me. His shirt is off; sweat shimmers on his skin as he moves with fluidity and power through a routine of combat exercises.
Julian Blake.
I’m frozen in place, mesmerized. I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. I know at any moment he’ll turn and see me, so I hurry to slip out of sight. I am too slow.
“Felicity?”
I blush all the way to my toes. “Ah yes, hello, Mr. Blake,” I say, stepping out into view, avoiding his eye and his state of undress. “I see you were practicing. I’m sorry to disturb you. Good day.” I begin
to turn to leave.
“Wait!”
I hesitate.
“You’re dressed for combat, too. Were you planning to practice?” he asks.
I turn back and glance down at my outfit. “Oh, ah, yes. I couldn’t sleep, and I thought I might as well get an early start….”
He grins. “There’s plenty of room. Please, do come in.”
I can’t think of a plausible excuse. There’s nothing for it. I walk into the ballroom. As he re-dresses I let out a small sigh of relief. Relief tinged with … something else. It wasn’t an unpleasant sight.
I move to the far corner and prepare to start training, doggedly ignoring Julian’s gaze. My skin crawls with the awkwardness of it. As I turn, I catch him smirking at me.
“Listen, Felicity. Why don’t we practice together?”
“Oh, no need for that. I’m quite content—”
“I’m sure you are. But, even so, there are drills better undertaken with an opponent.” He tilts his head. “I’m bored of training on my own.”
He holds his hand out quite insistently. I hesitate a moment longer. In truth, it would be better to practice with a partner, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to concentrate with him even closer than he already is.
“All right. Just a few minutes, I suppose.”
He flashes me one of his dazzling grins. “Now, where shall we start?”
He demonstrates some maneuvers to help limber me up, and then teaches me a self-defense move I’ve never tried before.
He moves my arms into the correct position, the warmth of his hands seeping through the thin fabric of my training gear.
“Now you try it on your own,” he says.
He watches with a patient eye as I do my best. “That’s good,” he says. “You’re a quick study, Felicity.”
I struggle to keep my face neutral as my heart speeds up with pleasure.
He glances out the window. “The sunrise is spectacular. Let’s continue outside.”
We climb up to the rooftop, taking a shortcut through the billiards room. The rooftop here is flat, and the air is cool. A perfect place to practice. We run through combat training drills high above Greybourne, the Oxfordshire countryside spreading out beneath us.
“Now follow me,” he says, and sets off at a run across the roof.
He leaps across between two rooftops and lands like a cat. My eyes go wide as I realize what he’s done and I stop myself, just in time. He used Aristos for that move. I frown at my feet.
“What’s wrong?” he hollers from across the other roof. “Come on, Felicity!”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He leaps back across and stands in front of me. “You can if you access your Aristos,” he says deliberately.
I am quiet a moment. “Yes, well, that’s the trick, isn’t it?”
“Come on. I have an idea.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.”
—George Eliot, Janet’s Repentance
Julian leads me over the roofs of Greybourne to a hidden garden overlooking the grounds, and stands me before a large cast-iron urn. The air is lush with the scent of lilacs. A gentle breeze stirs the stray hairs around my face. “I can’t believe there’s a garden on the roof! I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Yes, it’s peculiar,” he murmurs, “but quite pretty.” He gives me a pointed look and a blush rises to my cheeks.
Without further comment, he rubs his hands together. “Now, from what I’ve observed, you only seem to be able to access Aristos when you’re angry. True?”
I nod.
“Right. Well, let’s see if we can get around that. Now pick up that urn.”
I doubtfully eye the enormous vessel. It’s far too heavy to lift. Julian waits patiently at my side. There’s nothing to be done but to wrap my hands around the rough edges and try to lift it. It doesn’t budge a hair.
“Try harder.”
“I am trying.”
“No, you’re not.”
I scowl at him. Not for the first time, I wonder why he’s doing this. Why he’s spending time with me. In spite of my bold words to Rose that first night, I know there was a kernel of truth in what she said. Julian Blake is of a different world. And no matter what else I may be, I will always be common. I am from the slums. Nothing can change that.
“Call to Aristos. Try thinking of something that makes you angry,” he suggests. “Like … Rose, perhaps?”
I let out an inelegant snort, then I try to let anger flow through me. As always, nothing happens.
“Maybe something else, then. Hawksmoor? Or … what about the reason you came here? Something happened, didn’t it, the day Hawksmoor found you? Something bad. Something that made you angry enough …”
As he speaks, I’m thrown back to that day in the Whitechapel Market. The crackle of roasting chestnuts. The rhythmic clopping of horse hooves over the cobblestones. The familiar smell of rotting cabbage and piss in the streets. Then the face of the Duke of Warwick. The cold look in his eyes as he killed Kit.
“Think back to that moment, Felicity,” Julian is saying, though his voice is distant and muffled in my ears. He takes a step closer. His skin smells like soap and pine needles and sweat from our training session. I’m again back on the rooftop.
No. I shake my head and block out the distraction. I think of Kit. Kit, in the market …
“Cut out all other emotions and grasp the anger. Dig down and find it.”
Warwick’s face swims into view, his triumphant look as he killed the boy I loved. There’s grief, yes, but it’s the anger I want. I let the rage pulse through me. There’s a prickle in my scalp and a faint buzzing sound in my ears—
The weight shifts a little.
I leap back and Julian’s widened eyes meet mine. “That’s it. You did it.”
I did it.
Immediately, I need more. “I want to try it again.”
I grasp the urn and let myself go back to that moment in the market, let the anger flow through me, release the constraints. I grunt and lift the urn a few inches off the ground. The prickling in my scalp spreads over my skin, and movement around me slows. From the corner of my eye I see a hummingbird hovering in the garden and can make out its wingbeats, slow and rhythmic.
The weight of the urn feels even lighter. I am doing it….
The urn suddenly grows impossibly heavy. I drop it and jump back as it crashes down.
Julian looks up at me, grinning. “Now, how did that feel?”
I’m breathing heavily. “It was like letting my mind off its leash, like a dog on the hunt. I just let the anger wash over me, and with it came the power. I felt this odd sensation in my scalp. And my ears buzzed …”
Julian nods. “That’s a bit like what it feels like for me, too. I just get out of its way, as you say. For me, it’s more like lifting a gate that’s holding water behind it. I let it go and the sensation floods through me.”
I look at the urn resting on the rooftop. “So if I just think of something that makes me angry, I can unlock my Aristos.”
He looks thoughtful. “It would be better if you didn’t need the anger. That would be more useful should you be … on assignment.”
I’m silent a moment. “On assignment to assassinate someone, you mean?”
Julian watches me carefully, then leans forward. “It won’t be easy, Felicity. But it’s important work.”
I think of Rose, dragging the blade across that man’s throat. Of the blood. I push down a wave of nausea. “Killing people?”
“It may be hard for you to see now, but the men we assassinate are marked for a good reason.”
I fiddle with the edge of my sleeve and remain quiet.
“You’ve probably heard of the attempts on the Queen’s life? So far there have been seven since she took the throne.”
“Yes, I’ve heard rumors.” The most recent attempt was just a few years ago by an insane man who shot at the Queen while she was riding in her carriage.
“The truth is, those seven attacks are only the ones that have made the newspapers. There have been three times as many planned, but those plots were stopped by the Morgana before they ever got far enough. And quite often, stopping such plots involves killing the men at the center of them.”
Julian takes a seat on a stone bench at the edge of the garden, overlooking the countryside surrounding Greybourne. A pale stripe on the horizon heralds the coming sunrise. I take a seat beside him on the cold stone surface. “You’ve heard of the Fenians, right?” he continues. “The terrorists who caused that explosion in the Clerkenwell Prison years ago?”
I know about the Fenians, of course. Everyone does.
“Twelve people died in that attack,” Julian says. “Including a seven-year-old girl.”
Seven. Nate is seven.
“But what most people don’t know is that there was a Morgana agent assigned to the man who placed that bomb. Someone, like you, who felt somewhat squeamish about the job he had to do.”
“He was supposed to kill the conspirator?”
“Indeed.”
“And because he didn’t succeed, those people died? That little girl …”
“You see, there are consequences. The actions you don’t take—those responsibilities you walk away from—can have repercussions you could never even dream of. Wouldn’t want to dream of.”
I stare at him.
“Do you remember the toast Hawksmoor made on your first night here? Marlowe’s words? ‘You must be proud, bold, pleasant, and resolute … And now and then stab, as occasion serves.’ Over my years here, I’ve come to see the truth in that.”
I tighten my jaw and look out at the rolling countryside, as the rising sun paints the surrounding pastures and hedgerows. A flock of birds lifts up from a distant meadow, taking to the sky with chattering song. This entire affair is confusing. Julian’s words are so smooth, so convincing, but I must keep my head on straight. I need to know what I want, what I believe, and not because some handsome young man tells me it’s so.