by Kim Foster
Everyone is still shackled. Isherwood is still unconscious, Charlie is bleeding rapidly, though Jane appears to have stanched it somewhat. Hawksmoor looks gray.
I reach Julian first, and quickly release him. With the clink of the metal, I exhale.
I’m not alone in this anymore.
“You did it,” he cries. His eyes are overly bright. He presses his mouth to mine. For a moment, I’m lost in the kiss. Soft, warm, my knees are wobbling. Time doesn’t simply slow; it stands completely still.
And just as suddenly, he pulls away, eyes wide. Sparks still skittering across my skin, I glance at everyone else. Jane stares at us, mouth gaping, while the hint of a smile twitches Hawksmoor’s mouth.
But it passes quickly as he sways and goes even more pale.
I busy myself with releasing Hawksmoor next. We have to get out of here as quickly as possible. As I work the shackles, I can still feel the warmth of Julian’s mouth on mine. My head spins….
Then there’s a faint scraping sound behind me. I turn to see Warwick standing frozen in the doorway. Our eyes lock.
He’s mine.
Warwick doesn’t hesitate. He spins and breaks for the corridor, fast as a whip. I give chase, Julian right behind me. Warwick might be a coward, but he’s impossibly quick. And he seems to know exactly where he’s going. Within a minute, I do, too.
He darts through the headquarters exit, out to street level. I barely register the coaches and omnibuses clattering along Montague Street as we tear faster than any humans should. A few blocks away from the museum, he dashes into Russell Square—a leafy, elegant garden area lined with pathways, in which a coach and driver sit waiting.
I sprint toward the coach, keeping pace, but I’m not gaining. Julian’s breathing is labored right behind me. I know Julian is stronger and faster than me, but his injuries must be slowing him down. As I race after Warwick, Kit flashes in my mind. This is the man who murdered Kit. My stomach burns with the memory of that day; the gunshot blisters my brain again. He’s not going to get away from me this time.
Warwick pulls ahead, bounding into the coach. The driver cracks his whip and the horses leap forward. But even as my feet devour the distance, I know I’ll never reach them in time. I swivel around, looking for an empty hackney cab to hail or commandeer. But the square is empty and quiet.
Shouting rings in my ears; I don’t know where it’s coming from.
And then fingers close around my arm. “Felicity, stop,” Julian says, panting. “We won’t catch him.”
“No, I can find a way—”
He grasps my shoulders firmly and gazes directly into my eyes. “You have to stop. We’ll get Warwick another day. Or perhaps we won’t. Right now, we have to return to the others. The Jubilee …There’s more at stake. Neville will be carrying out his plan, whatever it is….”
I hesitate. The desire for revenge flows hot and bitter through my veins, vengeance for Kit’s murder. “No. You don’t need me.”
“We do need you,” Julian says. “And … you need us. You are an essential part of this team, Felicity. We do this together or not at all.”
And I know it’s the truth. I squeeze my eyes shut, then take one last glance at Warwick’s coach as it quickly grows smaller, vanishing into the fog.
My eyes dart to Julian’s and I nod once, grimly. Together we go back the way we came.
We return to the headquarters. I quickly share what I’ve learned of Neville’s plans, though it’s little more than what they already knew.
“We have to get there now,” says Hawksmoor, though he’s slumped against a wall and looking ashen. Charlie’s gunshot, I now see, was to the shoulder. He’ll live, but he appears to have lost a lot of blood.
“With all due respect, sir,” Julian says, shaking his head, “I don’t think you’re going anywhere. You can’t even stand.”
Hawksmoor closes his eyes against the truth. “It will have to be you two.”
“Actually, Jane is coming with us, too,” I say firmly.
Everyone looks at Jane. “I … beg your pardon, miss?”
“She’s the only other one of us not injured,” I say, “and she has her own set of skills.”
Jane opens her mouth, shocked, but she doesn’t protest.
Julian clears his throat. “Felicity is right. Jane—are you willing?”
“I am, sir,” she says, voice wavering only a little.
Hawksmoor is quiet, eyes slightly narrowed as he regards us. Then he gives one brisk nod. “So be it.”
Jane positively puffs out her chest. I flash her a grin and we prepare to depart.
As Julian and I quickly piece together our strategy, I risk a glance at Hawksmoor.
Without looking at me, he casually says, “It would be best, I think, if you direct your murderous thoughts toward our opponents, Miss Cole. Although I know, of course, why you are upset.”
I press my mouth into a tight line. Now is not the time, I know, but I can’t contain my anger. “You lied.” I brace myself for some twisted perversion of the truth—he’d never lied outright; he’d simply not corrected me of my assumptions….
He doesn’t reply at first, then nods. “Indeed.”
I blink. “You tricked me into joining the Academy.”
“I did. I had my reasons.”
“I’m going to do everything I can to stop Neville tonight. But after that—your manipulation failed. After tonight, I’ll be leaving the Academy.”
Julian makes a sound of protest, but Hawksmoor shushes him. “Miss Cole is free to do as she wishes. Now, let’s get on with what must be done.”
Several minutes later, my stomach roils as the three of us race to Buckingham Palace. The palace will be teeming with Huntsmen, I’m sure. Neville will be poised to release his device or poison, designed to kill everyone—or, at least, all those who stand in his way.
I only hope I can stay alive long enough to stop him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
“I walk, not seeing where I tread
And keep my heart with fear,
Sir, have an eye, on where you tread,
And keep your heart with fear,
For something lingers here.”
—Robert Louis Stevenson, “LXX,” New Poems
The three of us arrive at the palace, but stick to the shadows where we can observe the main entrance and the guests arriving there in ornate carriages.
“Be careful,” Hawksmoor warned before we left him. “Neville will be lurking somewhere. He would never miss the opportunity to oversee his project and admire the results.”
The rain has stopped, and the palace is festooned with gold banners and swaths of purple velvet, the windows alight with shimmering crystal and candles. Music from a chamber orchestra floats from the doors that have been flung open for the celebration. Someone announces the arrival of the Crown Prince of Austria as the Turkish ambassador’s retinue makes its way up the carpeted stairs adorned in swirls of jewels and silk and a cavalcade of Indian royalty appears in gilded, glittering carriages.
I force myself to stop gaping at the spectacle and refocus on our task. All these people—they’re all doomed unless Julian, Jane, and I discover and thwart Neville’s plan. I note the nearest clutch of Queen’s Guards, standing watchfully in their smart red uniforms and tall black bearskin hats.
“Should we warn them?” Jane asks, watching the guards anxiously. “They could help—”
“We would never be taken seriously,” says Julian, shaking his head.
“It would only land us in shackles. Or worse,” I add. “No, we have no choice but to find the threat ourselves and quietly eliminate it.”
“It’s the only way,” Julian agrees.
There are too many guards immediately stationed around the palace. We’ll never get in that way. We move farther away, eyeing the guests as they arrive.
A line of ornate carriages promenades slowly toward the palace for the banquet, pulled by gleaming horses adorned with ribb
ons and bells. The street is lined with smiling, waving crowds, the air pulsing with their cheers.
An idea germinates in my head.
Jane bites her lip. “How are we going to get in?”
“The way everyone else is, of course,” I say with a faint smile. “In a carriage.”
They both turn to stare at me.
“Well, maybe not in a carriage, exactly. More like underneath a carriage.”
“What did you say?” comes Jane’s shocked response.
Julian turns back to watch the parade another moment, considering my idea. “It might work,” he says slowly. “And at this point, it’s all we have.”
Jane is quiet a moment, then says, “I could create a distraction. You can use that moment to slip underneath.”
I frown. “But then you won’t be able to come into the palace with us.”
“You won’t need me in there. I don’t have the training you two have—I might be more of a hindrance than a help. But I can help get you in.”
We wait for the right carriage, one with enough ornamentation at the bottom edge to conceal us.
“That’s the one,” says Julian, nodding as it creeps down the line. We quickly, surreptitiously patch together a plan.
Jane runs out and falls in front of a horse. The creature stops abruptly, halting the parade, and a gasp rises up from the crowd. One of the horse guards utters a barked command and worried chatter circulates through the onlookers. I don’t see any of this ruckus—I only hear it. Julian and I are moving fast, using Aristos, slipping underneath our target carriage.
We hold onto the underframework of the carriage, barely breathing, expecting a call to be raised that someone has seen us.
Nothing happens. Through the scrollwork, I see Jane as someone is helping her up. She’s unharmed. A satisfied smile on her face tells me she knows we’re on our way.
Once inside the inner courtyard, we wait until everyone dismounts from the carriage, and once the coast is clear, we slip out and slink into the shadows.
We duck through a doorway and head down a narrow staircase. Our first task will be to find some kind of disguise. Uniforms, ideally. As we pass through a heavy doorway, my eye catches on something stamped in the iron of the doorframe.
We move through the door, and I see the stamp in the iron—GUILDFORD & CO—the ironworks factory my father once worked for. I suppress a wave of nausea. How I wish he were here to help me now.
“You all right, Felicity?” Julian asks, seeing me hesitate.
“Yes. Fine. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t move, still watching me with concern.
“Where do we start?” I ask.
“The kitchens,” says Julian. “If he were going to use some kind of poison, he’d introduce it there.”
Julian and I make our way, without being noticed, down to the kitchens. We hide in the larder. The next person who enters will end up regretting it—although he’ll never know what hit him.
In truth, it turns out to be a maid, and we take her down swiftly. I briskly swap my clothes with hers. Her black frock and white pinafore are a little large, but I tuck them as best I can.
Now all we need is a man’s uniform. There are so many staff buzzing about here, surely one or two won’t be missed. In my maid’s uniform, I go out into the corridor to wait for a footman or a valet to pass by. Someone about Julian’s size. After a few moments, I spot an excellent target.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” I say. “Could you help me lift something? It won’t take but a moment.”
The footman looks annoyed, but follows me into the larder, where Julian and I make quick work of him.
We stuff both unconscious bodies behind a large wall of crates, so they won’t be seen by the next person who comes in here for onions or butter. Julian slips a sleeping draught past their lips. They’ll be out for hours.
“What next?” I whisper.
“You look around the kitchens, and I’ll go up to the dining hall and try to locate the Morgana agents posted there.”
A frown creases my forehead. “How do we know Neville hasn’t turned those agents, also? Can we be sure they’re on our side?”
“Good point.”
We stand in silence a moment, weighing our next steps.
“Right,” Julian says. “Trust no one. Only ourselves.”
“Only ourselves,” I echo.
“There are agents around, and likely Huntsmen, too. Be careful. We’ll meet back here in fifteen minutes.”
“What am I looking for?” I ask.
“I have no idea. Anything out of keeping.”
Julian disappears up the stairs and I head toward the kitchens. The clatter of dishes and the smells of roasting meats and browning pastry fill the air.
Anything out of keeping. What on earth would that be? A bomb? A vial of poison? As I move about the kitchens, pretending I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, I do my best to avoid eye contact with the other staff. Mostly, it’s not a problem. Everyone is bustling about, stirring things on stovetops, preparing platters of food, polishing silverware. I pass by a cook whose eyes lift and clap on mine. “Oy, come here,” she says. “Bring this tray up to the dining room. I’ve got no idea where James has gone, and the last thing I want is a girl above stairs … but it can’t be helped. Get on now.”
I start to object, but there’s nothing I can say. I grab the tray and carry it up the staircase.
As I approach the banquet hall, the air ringing with the sounds of tinkling silverware and music from the chamber orchestra, I feel a fizz of excitement. Of course a maid isn’t meant to be inside the dining hall, so instead I hover near the open doorway, surveying the scene.
A long table fills the enormous hall. People are dressed in their absolute finest. Never have I seen so much silk, velvet, diamonds … all in one place. The guests are gathering, mingling, and taking their places.
As I scan the faces, I catch more than one surreptitious look. A lady absently adjusts her gloves, but I’m certain she’s using the opportunity to take stock of the gentleman to her left. The gentleman stands stiffly. Too stiffly? Is he hiding something? Across the room, another lady delicately opens her fan. She brings it close to her face and coquettishly gazes over the edge. Do her eyes betray an intensity that doesn’t belong? Who is she watching?
Anxiety crouches in my stomach. Time is running out. I imagine all these people—all the lords and ladies and foreign royalty and dignitaries—dropping dead.
But I can glean no clues from this bewildering scene. I scan the room more closely—the ceilings, the corners—for anything amiss. An explosive, a weapon of some sort. But there’s nothing I can detect.
The butler spots me, looking scandalized. “I was told to bring this tray up,” I say quickly. He nods briskly and takes it from me, moving swiftly back into the melee.
Before I turn to go, I spot Julian inside. He walks smoothly, as though he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. He goes to the sideboard, smoothly grasps a decanter of sherry and begins topping up glasses. As he moves through the guests, he quickly and subtly takes stock of each person. The other servants are so busy with their own tasks, they take no notice of him.
I feel the tingle of being watched. My gaze lands on a lady on the other side of the ballroom. Her eyes quickly flit away from mine and she melts into the crowd.
Am I attracting attention because I don’t belong in this room? Or is it something else? Either way, I need to go, quickly, and continue the hunt in the servants’ quarters. Julian will have to handle this room.
On the narrow stairwell back downstairs, I turn on the landing and bump into a man on his way up.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” I say quickly to the man, who appears to be a valet. But as I move to pass him, I glance into his eyes. My blood chills.
Huntsman. I’m certain.
I tuck my head down and hurry down the remaining steps. Behind me, I hear him continue to go another few steps up the sta
ircase, but then the sound stops.
Before he reaches the top.
My heart thunders. I exit the stairwell and take a sharp left, hurrying away. Desperately, I try to recall what I’ve been taught about evading pursuit. What did Isherwood say? Change your outward appearance, if at all possible.
In the corridor, I spot a hooded cloak hanging on a hook. I throw on the cloak and pull up the hood, stuffing my hair under it. Moving quickly, toward the kitchens, I slouch and change my walk. It’s not much, but it might buy me an extra few moments.
Isherwood’s voice rings in my head. If you believe you’re being followed, it’s best to stick to crowded places where it is far easier to lose yourself in the bustle.
I had planned to go to the servants’ quarters and storage rooms to search for evidence of Neville’s plot, but that will have to wait. I take a sharp turn into the kitchens and dive into the tangled mass of servants and house staff, bubbling pots and clouds of steam.
When I reach the far side, close to the pantry, I hazard a glance over my shoulder. The Huntsman is at the entrance of the kitchens, scanning the room. I duck out of view behind a tall shelf of pots and pans, my chest in a tight knot. I pull the hood a little lower and after another few moments peer out. Frustration spasms over the Huntsman’s face as he turns and leaves the room.
In the kitchens, I squeeze my way past cooks and scullery maids, avoiding eye contact. The clatter of dishes and pans vibrates in my ears. I pass a kettle of soup bubbling on a stove, fragrant with curry spices and nutmeg. Mulligatawny—my father’s favorite, not that we were able to have it very often. More thoughts of my father push to the surface, and I curse my inability to focus. Of all the times to become distracted …
Unless … my mind is trying to tell me something.
Like a beam of light, a thought suddenly strikes me. My father died in a poisoning incident of sorts—a gas leak at the factory….
And how does gas travel?
It rises. Which means … we need to look down. The basement.
I move to the kitchen doorway that leads down to the basement. I’m willing to bet it’s down there. The poison is deep underneath Buckingham Palace.