by Kim Foster
As I open the doorway, the faint smell of geraniums reaches my nose. It triggers a memory. I have smelled that particular scent before. I recall from the deep recesses of my memory that some poisonous gases have pleasant smells, like flowers or freshly mown grass. It was something I learned months ago during my spy training at Greybourne.
The hairs on the back of my neck lift as certainty grips my belly. I stare down the dark staircase leading beneath the palace.
It wouldn’t be smart for me to go down there alone. Where is Julian? He’s late for our rendezvous. Time is running out. I grasp my Sophos ability and attempt to reach out to him that way. Julian. Where are you? But I get nothing. Of course I don’t. Julian doesn’t possess Sophos.
It’s a risk, but I have no choice—I have to go on my own. When nobody is watching, I slip through the basement doorway and race down a long staircase that carries me two levels down. Willing my footsteps silent, I creep along a narrow corridor. The tunnel continues a long way, and there’s nothing to see but a cold, dark corridor. My hopes begin to dwindle the longer I walk.
Just as I begin to despair that I’ve followed the wrong suspicion, I reach an ironwork door—a gate, more than anything. I grab the cold, rough metal with my hands and pull. It holds fast. Peering through the bars to a platform beyond, I can just make out the precipitous drop down to an underground canal. Gas lanterns on the cavern walls illuminate the strange canal. It’s beautiful, in a way; I never would have dreamed this is what lies beneath Buckingham Palace.
The water of the canal runs swiftly, and it looks deep. Where it leads, I don’t know. And there, at the back wall of the platform, right beside a large hearth, is a device made of brass and clockwork, containing glass vials filled with pale yellowish fluid.
And it’s ticking.
My blood goes cold. That’s it.
I stare at the vials. They must contain some kind of poison. Something toxic to humans. Neville wouldn’t put anything in there that would kill Morgana, too.
Would he?
From where I stand, I can tell the fumes are perfectly positioned to go up the chimney, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it connects to a hearth in the dining hall above. Once the clock winds down, the gas will rise and kill everyone there.
I know I should go back to find Julian … but what if there’s not enough time? I can’t read the face from here.
There has to be a way through this gate. I stand back to look more closely at it. It’s iron. Forged. By a blacksmith.
A blacksmith.
A memory of Kit in his blacksmith’s apron swims into my mind. Forged iron has a weakness, but I can’t recall what it is. And then the memory crystallizes. Kit and I sneaked away to our riverside picnic.
The hinges. They come apart.
I pull on the metal, ripping my fingernails, ignoring the pain. I concentrate on getting through to the device on the other side.
The components soon draw apart—first the top one and then the lower one. I’m through. Now off its hinges, the door clangs open and I knock it aside so it leans on the wall running alongside.
I carefully approach the device and stop. What am I to do with it? Smash it? No, surely not. I wonder if I can deactivate it somehow, turn off the timer …
Then someone clears his throat and a figure materializes from the shadows: Neville.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.”
—Sir Walter Scott, “The Lay of the Last Minstrel”
“I see I underestimated you, Felicity Cole,” he says flatly. Without further conversation, he points a pistol straight at me, and fires.
But I have already grasped Aristos. Everything slows down. The drips in the cavern slacken to a deep rhythm. The bullet comes at me and I bend back beneath it. What would have been a killing shot slices through the air and into the stone.
I rebound fast, bringing my leg up to kick the gun out of Neville’s hand. I barely register his frustrated expression. Again, he has underestimated me.
A look of determination settles on his features.
I need to walk to the edge. Over the railing and into the deep canal below.
I shake my head and the fog lifts, briefly. Was that my thought about the canal?
The mist descends again. Of course it was me. Everything will be all right once I get to the edge. Once I go into the water.
With halting steps, I walk to the edge, still unsure. The thought doesn’t make sense, somehow. But I keep moving. As I approach the edge, the sound of water hums in my ears pleasantly. I must get closer. I glimpse Neville’s face. His lip is curled in a satisfied smile.
But … if Neville is pleased …
Enemy, I think. I glance at the swiftly moving water far below. No. This is wrong.
I struggle to maintain control of my own mind. He’s influencing me with Sophos. It’s the only clear thought I can manage. Then I remember one important thing: he isn’t the only one with that ability.
I may be less experienced and my skill may not be as strong, but I am Morgana. I drop Aristos and grasp Sophos, holding fast as I envision a shield, a wall, a block.
The urge to walk off the ledge weakens. I fortify my mental shield. You can’t control me. Neville’s eyes widen slightly and I know he’s heard me. Can I do it again?
Stop, I think, pushing the thought forward. You don’t need to do this.
But I’m reaching for too much. He may be hearing me, but my words mean nothing to him. And the bomb continues to tick.
There’s only one advantage I have over Neville. I can fight. But if I let Sophos go, he’ll be able to control my mind again.
I will have to fight without Aristos. I learned enough through my training at the Academy, I hope.
Holding fast to Sophos and the mental shield I have created, I marshal all my regular strength. Without warning, I lunge forward and clobber Neville straight in the jaw, a good old-fashioned right cross. He’s concentrating so hard on trying to sway my thoughts, his physical reflexes are delayed and he barely defends himself.
His head snaps back, and down he goes.
No longer shackled by Neville, my thoughts fly free. It’s like coming up for air, my head bursting above water. I take a step toward him, looking for the pistol that skittered away. I need to finish the job.
But I don’t immediately see the weapon, and I have something much more urgent to deal with: the device.
I dash toward it and crouch down in front of the tangle of tubes, wires, and clockwork. If only Sig were here. I can see absolutely no way of deactivating the mechanism, short of smashing it. But who knows what that might trigger?
The clock on the device appears to be moving backward. It’s counting down. And there are only six minutes remaining. I have to get this bomb out of here.
Then, there’s a sound behind me.
I pivot as Neville struggles to his feet, grinning. Blood smears his teeth. “You’re wasting your time. There’s no way to stop it,” he says. “Every non-Morgana in this building will be dead in five minutes. In fact, everyone within a mile will be.”
“Neville, this is madness. Turn off the bomb.”
“There’s only one way of deactivating that device,” he says flatly.
“And you’re not going to tell me what it is.”
He laughs but says nothing more. Tendrils of foreign thoughts creep into my mind. Thoughts of the canal. Thoughts of water. Thoughts of drowning.
No! I am not going to let him in.
Somehow, I use Sophos to press his influence away. But physically, he’s well out of reach now, the device between us. And he’s too clever to be caught off guard again. He doesn’t need to attack me—he just has to keep me at bay until the device detonates.
I’ll have to channel bo
th Sophos and Aristos. But I’m not certain that’s even possible.
Terror shoots through me at the idea. What will I become if I do that?
The ticking of Neville’s device pounds loudly in my ears. It’s time for me to let go. It’s time for me to stop doubting that I can be anything more than a lowly girl from Whitechapel. Everything I’ve been clinging to is so very real, but it’s also holding me back. Whitechapel. Selling flowers. My father. Kit. Squabbles with Beatrice. Spending tuppence on a warm mutton pie …
All those things are part of me, but I can be more. I can choose to be whatever I want.
And right now, I choose to be powerful.
I let it all go—all the doubt and the uncertainty. It falls away, dissolves. The action is easier than I imagined. And with that lightening, I know I can grasp both Aristos and Sophos now.
Power surges through me.
Everything slows.
The canal water stops moving.
I throw myself into the air, hurling over the top of Neville, and then somersaulting toward the pistol that rests on the ground behind him. I pull it up just as he is turning to face me. Flip around, aim, and fire.
Bright red blossoms on his forehead, right between his eyes. He falls back like a stone, right over the railing, toppling into the waters of the canal far below.
I have no time to think about it; no time to celebrate my triumph. Every non-Morgana in this building will be dead in five minutes.
I have to get this bomb out of here before it detonates.
Without hesitation, I grab it and run.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“‘When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
Cradling the device, I head straight up the cellar stairs, through the kitchen, and out the door. If I can only get it onto the streets, far away from Buckingham Palace, away from the building and all the people within …
The moment I pass the tall black iron gates, I realize my mistake.
The streets of London are filled with people—revelers celebrating the Royal Jubilee. They’re everywhere. Laughing, dancing, drinking. Filling the parks, thronging into the streets. And all within reach of Neville’s poisonous gas. Even if I’ve managed to save those within the palace, I’ve doomed everyone else.
So foolish. I should have stayed underground, beside the canal—
The canal, the water … Neville said there was only one way to stop the device.
At once, I know what I must do. Neville wasn’t trying to make me drown myself again—in spite of his efforts to guard his mind, I was reading his thoughts about how to deactivate the bomb.
As I take a step off the street to go back inside the palace, a shot flies past my ear. The Queen’s Guards are there in front of the gates, leveling their rifles. They’re shooting at me. I glance down at the package I carry. It looks exactly like a bomb. It is a bomb.
I want to scream. They don’t understand.
More shots. I hold fast to Aristos and dodge them. My heart thundering, I sprint down Birdcage Walk, the tree-lined path that leads straight to the Thames. I must get to the river.
The clock on the device reads three minutes. With my enhanced speed, I might be able to make it. Then, a hot fire poker slices into my arm. I fall, barely stopping the bomb from smashing on the ground.
In an instant, I’m back on my feet, gritting my teeth against the pain. Scarlet blood flows freely from my shoulder. If I get shot again I won’t make it. I have to keep moving. I have to run.
Then, a black horse comes flying around the corner. Julian. He scoops me into the saddle.
I’m gasping for breath. “Must get the bomb to water—”
He nods grimly and we fly down the path to the river, dodging people, trees, and carriages. I glance at the clock mechanism, counting down. One minute to go.
“Clear the way!” Julian hollers.
We’re close, but there are still so many people around. We fly past the Parliament buildings, hurtling across the intersection, weaving among carriages and crowds.
Julian steers his horse straight onto Westminster Bridge. With no time to think, I dismount, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, and race to the railing and toss the bomb straight into the swirling river below.
I breathe out, relieved, as the device hits the water.
But … it doesn’t sink. How is that possible? And then I understand: the gas in the bottles is keeping the bomb afloat—it will go off anyway. Everyone on this bridge, on the banks, within a mile, will be poisoned….
I clamber onto the railing and dive straight in, grabbing the bomb on the way and pushing it below the surface of the Thames. Part way down, it explodes, vials shattering, rocking my body abruptly backward.
The world goes fuzzy around the edges. I lose track of which way is up. It’s almost black down here, underwater. And my skirts … so heavy. My boots … I can hardly kick my feet in them.
And everything is so cold…. I’m so tired.
I take a breath of cold water, feeling dark, liquid peace close around my heart as I stop struggling …
A firm hand closes around my arm and yanks me roughly. I have a vague awareness of being towed to the surface.
My head breaks the water, and strong arms haul me to the shore. I cough and sputter and take a giant breath of sweet air before flopping onto the bank, trying to catch my breath. Julian is soaked beside me, doing the same.
People have gathered, attracted by the spectacle. Carriages have stopped in the middle of Westminster Bridge to see what the commotion could be.
But people are behaving normally. Whispering to one another, exchanging glances, pointing at us. Nobody is writhing from poisoning. We did it.
I turn to Julian. “You saved me. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“You saved everyone else, Felicity. The least I could do was jump in to haul you ashore.” He flashes me a grin, between gasps. My stomach flutters, and it has nothing to do with the water I swallowed. “Of course, had I given you another minute, you’d probably would have saved yourself.” He shrugs. “But … we’re a team.”
I nod. A team. The word sounds warm, safe, wonderful. And exactly right.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“My sun sets to rise again.”
—Robert Browning, “At the Mermaid”
Inside Westminster Abbey, under gothic arches that soar to the heavens, a hushed anticipation hangs in the air. The galleries are swathed in red silk; every seat is filled with royalty, nobility, and other honored guests, dressed in their finest. The smells of candles and roses fill the air.
I drink it all in. Stone walls and stained glass windows muffle the sounds of trumpets and drums outside. The cheers of crowds grow louder and closer, announcing the imminent arrival of the Queen herself, in her open landau drawn by eight cream-colored horses.
Growing up in the slums, I never dreamed I would be here one day. Whitechapel is just down the river from where I sit now, but it is a world apart. All the great kings and queens are buried beneath the Abbey, and many other great men: Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin. My stomach flutters. I hope I don’t do anything to embarrass myself.
I glance at Julian beside me. Seated on his other side are Hawskmoor, Isherwood, and Sig. Charlie, Hugh, Rose, and the other Morgana are to my left. Together we occupy a small upper gallery—a discreet position of honor. Jane did her best to disguise our black eyes and bandaged gunshot wounds, and we are all dressed in our finest.
There was a moment I thought I’d never see these people again.
I smooth the skirt of my gown—a gorgeous pale blue silk—then rest my gloved hands in my lap. It surprises me how comfortable I’ve grown in such elegant, rich clothes. But, then again, nothing in life is quite turning out as I’d expected.
I gaze around the Abbey, struggling to keep the awe from my face.
/> “Shall I pinch you?” Julian leans over and whispers.
“Cheeky,” I whisper back reproachfully. “But, yes. I think somebody must. In truth, I can hardly believe I’m here. I feel like the Metropolitan Police are going to haul me away any second….”
“The fact is, this is all because of you.”
Surprised, I turn to face him.
“It’s true. We’re all here because of your quick thinking.”
“The boy is quite right,” says Hawksmoor, inclining his head to me.
I try to prevent the smile that’s creeping onto my lips. I know, of course, that the general public will never know what happened. With a little luck, history will never record any of the events of last night, and all the royals and aristocrats here today will continue in blissful ignorance of how close they came to losing not only their positions of power, but their lives. Only the Queen knows; Hawksmoor debriefed her early this morning.
The choir begins singing a hymn. Ethereal voices float through the air. A lump forms in my throat as I think of Nate. He would have loved to be here. But, no. That doesn’t make any sense.
That fateful day in the market feels like another lifetime ago, one I can never go back to. I bite my lip, lost for a moment. Then Julian squeezes my hand.
I think of the legendary people buried beneath the stones of this abbey. Death is not always a bad thing. Just like the Great Fire of London that swept through so many years ago. It killed thousands, but it rid the city of the plague, and ensured a future for those who survived. For a rebirth to happen, there needs to be disaster and loss.
I once thought I could only be happy if I had my old life back. But I have a new destiny now. I lift my chin. It’s time to let the past go.
At that moment, the doors to the abbey swing wide open and pipers announce the Queen’s arrival. Beefeaters stand to attention on the steps beside the grand doorway, guarding her entrance. There is riotous color everywhere; gold and jewels sparkle in the bright sunlight.
I shift in my plush velvet seat as Queen Victoria begins her procession down the main nave, trailed by attendants. Once she comes to a halt at the front, standing before the Archbishop of Canterbury, she glances up at our tiny gallery. My heart feels like it might thump straight through my rib cage.