by Kim Foster
We’re just supposed to be sparring, going through training motions, but I can see from Hugh’s expression that he means to do me more harm than that.
My skin tingles. I’m ready.
He comes at me, but I hold my ground as all movement slows around us. Still as stone. I let him think I’m paralyzed with fear. Because Hugh prefers using his arms—I know he focuses his strength training on his upper body—he will punch out. He’ll probably go for a one-shot knockout. At the last possible moment, I drop down and sweep his legs out from under him. He crumples to the floor, and I’m on him like a predator.
I pin him down, impossibly fast. He is using his gift, too, but the truth becomes clear—mine is stronger. And suddenly, just like that, he’s on the defensive.
I can feel all eyes on me now. Candidates have stopped their exercises to watch. It occurs to me—have I made a miscalculation showing this degree of skill? We are all adversaries now, even more than before.
My gaze meets Julian’s. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, watching, a smile curving the corners of his mouth. I flush and, for a moment, forget about Hugh.
And suddenly find myself airborne, thrown backward as he rallies. I pull my limbs in, midair, and land on my feet, stumbling only a little. He comes at me with all his might. I leap and hit a brick wall, then scramble to get away from it. He isn’t stopping, and he has murder in his eyes. I can hear Isherwood shouting to him, calling him off, but either he doesn’t hear, or doesn’t care.
It doesn’t matter now whether it would be wiser to conceal the full strength of my gift. The second Hugh approaches, I leap straight up. There’s a lantern overhead and I cling to it. Hugh churns under me like a freight train, and the moment he passes, I drop down, knocking him to the ground. One blow to the back of the neck and he is unconscious.
The gymnasium is silent.
I leave Hugh there and walk away. Without thinking, I flick a glance at Julian. His expression has turned more serious. His eyes have a glimmer of something I can’t quite identify—could it be sadness?
Isherwood claps her hands, calling for attention. “That’s enough sparring for now,” she says briskly. “You’re all dismissed.”
As the others begin gathering their things, I quickly slip away.
Safely back in my room, I open my mind. It has been too long since I’ve talked to Nate.
Felicity?
I exhale and my shoulders relax. It’s so good to hear his small voice.
I’m here, Nate. Are you well?
Oh yes! We’re having treacle pudding tonight for tea …
I smile and listen as he describes the seaside picnic they went on two days ago, and the wooden toy sailboat he built—all by himself—last week. Then I tell him my news, that we’ve relocated to London—while skirting around the events that led us here—and that I’m continuing my training. I knew you could do it, he says. I bet you’re the best one there.
I didn’t plan on telling him about the competition, yet somehow it comes out.
Maybe you’re going to be the one! he says, his sweet voice full of excitement.
Perhaps, I say, humoring him. I pause, thinking. That doesn’t mean I’m not coming to get you soon.
He’s quiet a moment. Won’t you miss it? he asks.
The Academy? No. Not at all.
But even as I say it, I’m not sure it’s the truth. Once I leave, I’m certain I’ll never see these people again. A dull ache forms in my chest as I think of Julian. And then an immediate twist of guilt. Kit.
No, it would be better to leave, and never see them again.
I consider telling Nate about our father. The words are almost out of my mouth. But I hesitate. He chatters on for a while, telling me about the cook and the nanny and an escapade that involved chasing runaway chickens. His voice is filled with giggles. Oh, you should have seen Nanny, Felicity …
Later that evening, I have Jane bring me dinner in my room. After I finish, I slip out and climb through the old chimney sweep hatch that leads to the rooftop. Not all old buildings have one, but I knew exactly where to look. Many of my old Whitechapel friends were chimney sweeps, after all.
The manicured parks and pretty townhouses of the fancy neighborhoods of London spread out before me. Farther to the east, dirty smoke rises in pillars—the factories, the slums. What was once my home. Is it still? The silver ribbon of the Thames cuts through the darkness of London.
I take a deep breath and recall my training session from earlier today. I am getting better. I only hope I will be ready the next time I encounter the Huntsmen—wherever they are out there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Hell is a city much like London—
A populous and smoky city.”
—Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Peter Bell the Third”
I arrive at the music hall, nestled in the shadowy streets of Bluegate Fields in East London, just north of the docks. The hall is alive with raucous music and laughter and the sound of coin changing hands. Officially, this may be a music hall, but everyone knows it for what it is: a gambling den.
And tonight is a test.
Hawksmoor has told us that all five Candidates will be present on this mission, but after tonight, based on our performance, the field will be narrowed to three.
“A key quality for an agent is to blend in. To be covert—no matter what the environment,” he said. And then he gave us our mission, which made me shudder. “This is a team operation,” Hawksmoor said. “Do not get caught. Work as a group. Do not leave anyone behind.”
We all came our separate ways to the music hall. I walked here through some of the worst neighborhoods I know, carrying a carpet bag and jingling with bracelets and brass coins.
I am disguised as a fortune-teller.
The truth is, I would never go anywhere near this place, even when I was living in Whitechapel. Everyone knows the Bluegate is a gathering place for the worst of the criminal underworld.
When I arrive, I scan the room and quickly locate Rose. She is looking at me with a disapproving twist to her mouth. She campaigned fiercely to get me off the team, and removed as a Candidate. “She has no experience,” she complained to Hawksmoor. “She’ll fail the group.”
Truthfully, I can’t help but agree with her. What chance do I really have? There’s no way I would be selected.
That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, though.
“Don’t spoil your disguise,” Rose hisses to me as I pause directly behind her near the gambling tables. Rose is dressed in woolen trousers and a cap, disguised as a boy. “Do not ruin this for me.” She doesn’t need to say anything. I’m already worried about my disguise, and a hundred other things besides.
Charlie and Hugh are stationed by the piano. Julian is by the roulette wheel. I will take up a position in an upper gallery, above the stage. Rose is going to be stationed at the card table where she’ll play faro. From our varied positions, we are on the lookout for our mark, a notorious gangster named Rupert Crutchley.
“Are you sure you playing at the table is a good idea?” I ask Rose in a low voice.
“Of course. I can blend in anywhere. I’m the top student in intelligence.”
“But these places—they have very firm rules. One misstep—”
“Please,” Rose sniffs. “This rabble? I doubt that.”
I try to explain, but she cuts me off. “I don’t think you should worry about me, Felicity. I think you should worry about yourself.”
I look at her dubiously and we go our separate ways.
Everyone has moved to their assigned positions. We are fanning out, searching for our target. Hawksmoor told us there would be an operative here to report back on our performance.
He also briefed us on a backup escape plan. “Should things go amiss, there is a door that lets out onto an outside stairwell on the top floor in the attics. An operative will be placed there to protect the exit. My goal is not to get you killed.”
Somehow,
I find this less than reassuring.
At the hall, I take a seat at a small table by the gallery railing. It’s a perfect spot. I can view all the people gathered below—men, mostly. Criminals, almost all. I’ll need to keep my wits about me if I want to make it out of here alive. I scan the crowd, looking for our target. The quicker we find him, the quicker we can be finished with this business.
A man approaches my table. “You can tell me my fortune?” he slurs.
I dig my nails into my palms but keep my face composed. “Of course, sir.”
I run my fingers over his upturned palm, close my eyes, and start making up a story. “You have fallen on hard times recently. But you will soon meet a stranger …”
And then, an unexpected feeling of sadness infuses me. I crack one eye open and look at the man. “Did you say something?”
He looks at me blankly. He hasn’t said a word.
I frown, but continue on. “There is a trip in your future …” I say, wondering where this idea is coming from. “You need to go north, but you are wondering whether to bring your family …” He looks startled.
At that moment, a loud cheer rises up from below, and movement catches my eye. A man in a distinctive green cloak has entered the hall and is receiving a rowdy welcome.
That’s our target: Rupert Crutchley.
I locate Julian, who looks up at me, and I incline my head to the front door. He glances in the same direction, then gives a curt nod. I brusquely wrap up the drunkard’s fortune and leave him at the table. Gathering my skirts, I wind my way down the stairs.
Rose has spotted our target, too. She moves to the gambling table where Crutchley is settling himself. I sidle up near the same table and identify a suitable victim nearby, a dim-looking man with a bulbous red nose. “Care to have your fortune told, sir? No charge …”
As I hover nearby, doing an impromptu palm reading, I hear snatches of Crutchley’s conversation with his entourage.
“… and what about Jones? Is he in, too?”
“If he can drag his sorry arse out of the Tianjin House.”
“Unlikely.” They laugh.
Tianjin House? Why does that name sound familiar?
“Maybe we should go down there and haul ’im out. It’s not far from ’ere.”
My thoughts are tumbling, trying to remember why the name is important. But I glimpse Julian approaching and return to my performance. I need to stay focused on the job.
As planned, Rose takes this moment to cause a loud distraction. She’s not only playing the role of a boy, but a boy who can’t hold his drink. She takes a slug of whiskey and stumbles back, knocking into a few people. She does it well—not too hard, nothing to cause a fight, of course. Just enough to draw attention.
Providing the perfect opportunity for Julian to lift a slim black book from within the folds of Crutchley’s cloak.
Julian’s theft is smooth and perfectly executed, and lightning fast—all thanks to Aristos. My mouth crooks into a smile. He would have made an excellent cutpurse had he grown up in Whitechapel.
At that precise moment, Charlie walks across the gambling hall floor, passing Julian. The moment Julian turns away from the lift, he slips the book to Charlie. The handoff is seamless.
Charlie keeps moving without breaking his stride, and disappears up the stairs. In a back room, Hugh will be waiting. Together they’ll make copies of the names within the notebook, and then Hugh will bring the book back down, and we’ll have to slip it back into Crutchley’s cloak.
Rose continues gambling and I continue pretending to read fortunes while we wait. Julian chats to strangers near the bar. I dare a glance at Crutchley and hope the trickle of sweat dripping down my back doesn’t show. Quickly, boys.
At last, I see Hugh at the top of the stairs, and Charlie strolling around the upper gallery. They both look relaxed. They’ve been successful in their task.
Then, I move to Julian. “Care to ’ave your fortune read, sir?” I ask.
“Why not?”
I blather on bits of nonsense, keeping an eye on Hugh, who is making his way down the stairs and through the crowd. The band fires up a jolly tune and the smells of cigar smoke and sour ale fill my nose.
When Hugh draws close, I flicker a glance at Julian. He winks. And then hollers at me. “What do you mean, woman?” People around us startle. “Why, that’s the worst fortune-telling I’ve ever heard—” He gives me a shove. I see an apology flicker in his eyes. Heads snap in our direction. Black eyes glitter with voyeuristic interest, sniffing a potential brawl.
At that moment, Hugh slides the book back in place.
Flawless.
I turn and slide away. Julian takes a swill of his drink, grumbling about charlatan palm readers.
I exhale. We did it.
When I’m a little farther away, I glance back, just at the moment Rose loses a hand. Her face pinches, the same way I’ve seen when she’s displeased and feeling haughty.
Just stay right there, Rose, I say under my breath. Not yet. But she moves her chair back from the table, just a little, and I know what she’s about to do.
No.
I pick up my skirts and lunge toward her. She must be stopped from leaving the table. But it’s too late. I can’t reach her in time. She leans across and scoops up her coins.
We are undone.
I watch the men’s expressions change. Crutchley grabs her. “Where do you think you’re going, boy?”
“I’m taking my winnings and leaving,” Rose says imperiously. “Unhand me.”
This isn’t gambling protocol. In the middle of a game, the low person at the table does not simply walk away. Rose may know the rules to navigate the tearooms in Kensington and the drawing rooms in Chelsea, but she clearly doesn’t know the rules here.
Crutchley grabs her, his hand catching her cap. As it comes loose, her hair tumbles down.
Hair that is not only feminine, but glossy, curled, and clearly belonging to someone of a much higher class.
“What’s this?” he demands. “Ah. Thought you could run with the big boys, did you, girlie? Well, let me show you what it’s like down here in the gutter….”
A blade flashes between Crutchley’s fingers. He stabs it down on the table, straight into Rose’s hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened.”
—Thomas Hardy, personal notebooks
In an instant, I reach the table, grabbing Aristos as hard as I can. Gambling cards and chips fly through the air, hovering unnaturally as everything slows around me.
Lifting up my skirts, I leap onto the table and skim across cash and cards and drinking glasses. I cartwheel over it all and, in one smooth movement, pull the knife from Rose’s hand. She’s a rag doll in my arms, having passed out when the blade entered her flesh.
Instantly, I fling her over my shoulder and leap over tables and chairs toward the exit, ignoring the howls of protest as I dodge the thugs who lunge to restrain me.
I hand Rose off to Hugh, and he darts from the Bluegate Fields into the street. I turn to locate Julian and Charlie. I’m not about to leave them behind. Not in this world—my world. The men in here won’t be kind to liars and pretenders. They’ll show no mercy.
My friends, however, are nowhere to be seen. They must have bolted through the back door. As I turn to do the same, a pair of angry thugs blocks my way. “Get ’er,” one of them growls.
I’m now facing a slew of irate members of the criminal underworld. Abruptly, I turn to the staircase. If I can just make it to the secret exit on the top floor—Hawksmoor’s fail-safe.
Somehow, I outpace my pursuers. In the corridor, I find Julian.
“In here!” he hollers to me, flinging open a small door and the filthy curtain that covers it. Charlie’s already inside, but he’s rooted to the spot, gawping at something just out of my sight. Julian and I come to a sudden halt.
Haw
ksmoor’s agent is there. But he’s dead, stabbed in the back. And the doorway that’s meant to be our exit is completely bricked up.
We’re trapped.
“How will we ever get out now?” Charlie demands, panic setting in.
A single oil lamp flickers, throwing shadows along the wall. I slow my breathing, thinking through our situation. There must be a way.
Julian searches the room, flinging aside boxes and old curtains, hunting for another route. But Charlie’s frozen where he stands. I place my hands on his shoulders. “Charlie, breathe. We can do this together.”
It’s a matter of seconds before the thugs will be upon us. Charlie, eyes wide, is making nonsensical sounds. My gaze sweeps the space, searching for a solution.
Then it hits me. I’ve got a plan to get us out of here.
I grasp the oil lamp and throw it down in the doorway. It catches on the filthy curtain and flames spring up.
“What did you do that for?” Charlie screeches. But I ignore him. I’ve created a distraction that should buy us a few moments.
Wasting no time, I go straight to the tiny old hatch meant for the chimney sweep. It was boarded up, which is why Julian didn’t notice it.
Smoke billows up and flames lick at the walls. Julian and I quickly peel away the boards and then all three of us are clambering out of the hatch onto the rooftop of the ramshackle old building.
Shouting rings out above the crackling of the flames. A cool breeze ruffles my hair. It’s too far a drop down to the streets. We’ll have to find somewhere lower.
I run ahead, scrambling across the rooftop. Julian’s right behind me.
Charlie has snapped out of his panic by now, and we leap across the rickety rooftops, the slums of London below our feet. As we leap across a gap, it suddenly hits me, the thing I needed to remember.
Tianjin House is just around the corner—that’s the opium den where Sig says his former colleague, the expert on the Huntsmen, now spends all his time. I wonder …
“Felicity, keep up!” hollers Julian.