by Amelia Price
M
For a minute Amelia could only gape at the message. It seemed her adventure was going to start sooner than she'd thought. Once she'd read the letter again, she picked up the leather holster for the twin blades and inspected them. The handles had grips that fit neatly in her palms and the metal shone, reflecting the light at her.
She'd never held a weapon before, and it felt strange now. It also seemed odd that Myron would give them to her. He frowned upon any kind of illegal activity; at least, Sebastian had told her Myron did. Without a license to carry a weapon it was very illegal, and she didn't know where someone would start trying to get a license for something like these.
With the holster, she noticed, were several sets of clips that could be sewn into whatever garment they would attach to, and then the holster could be moved to whatever corset she was wearing to sit neatly against her back, underneath the material and hidden from sight.
Amelia inhaled and exhaled slowly to try and calm the more rapid breathing that had snuck up on her while inspecting the weapons, and then went back to the letter. It wasn't mentioned but she had a feeling that disobeying his commands or not getting them entirely accurate this time might mean more than losing her teacher. He'd never been so serious with her.
Over the next five minutes she memorised the hotel address like he'd asked, saying it out loud under her breath several times with her eyes closed to check she remembered it. With shaking hands, she then took the paper to the sink and set light to it. Once the message was gone, she repeated the address again a few more times, as much to convince herself that she would remember it as to help aid her memory. If she forgot it now she would have a lot of trouble working out where to go.
The rest of the evening was spent working out the best place to sew and attach the clips to several of her corset waistcoats so she could wear the concealed knives while in London. She doubted Myron would have sent them to her now if he didn't intend her to start using them right away. It took her several hours, but by the time she was done she stood in front of her full height mirror, wearing her best outfit and having the satisfaction of knowing the knives were nestled against her lower back. She couldn't see a difference, and only knew they were there from the warm hardness pressed against her.
As she'd been instructed, she went along to her lesson in the morning and took the small weapons with her. Tom said nothing about the oddness of the extra lesson, but put her through the warm up routine with more haste than usual, encouraging her to stretch a little further and focus more than she ever had.
During her lessons, there was usually light conversation. He was an interesting man who had travelled much of the world and enjoyed talking about the countries and cultures he'd experienced. Although he never said one way or another, she suspected he only lived in Bath now to teach her. His nomadic lifestyle and unattachment to any woman made him a likely candidate for some kind of agent in the British secret service. Either that or he owed Myron, because she was his only pupil and he lived in Bath nearby, something not cheap to do.
When she'd stretched every muscle she knew of in her body, as well as a few she hadn't known she had, he pulled two almost identical knives from somewhere underneath his gi. He spent the next hour teaching her how to disarm him without getting hurt. Then he spent another hour on how to attack with her own blades and keep hold of them. During most of the first hour her little blades went flying across the dojo again and again and Tom grew more stony and silent. When she was exhausted and covered in sweat, he stopped her and allowed her to breathe.
“You need to bring your reaction times up. At the moment, you're not flowing from one move into another, and the hesitation in between each move is where I can disarm you.”
She nodded. The assessment was true. She was being so careful not to hurt him that she was hesitant about which move to do.
“Practice combining different moves into groups of attacks and parries. Try to get used to holding them as well, building the strength in your wrists. They need to be extensions of your arms. Part of you.”
“I'll try,” she said, not sure what else to say. The seriousness of the lesson and the letter the previous night were making her wary. She found herself biting at the inside of her bottom lip, deep in thought, wondering what could have caused this change, but neither Myron nor Tom spoke of it.
“You should take off your gi. A taxi to take you home will be here in five minutes,” Tom said before she could ask him if something was wrong. He came up to her and gave her a hug. “I'll see you when you get back. If you see him, tell him I said hi, or sent my regards. Yes, tell him I send my regards, that's the sort of way he'd say it.”
Amelia laughed, relieved that Tom's normal sense of fun was still in there somewhere.
“I'll tell him. I'm sure I'll see him; I'm practically at his beck and call.”
“Aren't we all? Now go on. He hates it if people are late.”
She gave him a wry smile and hurried to the changing rooms to change tops and dry off some of the sweat before the taxi arrived. Tom must know Myron well.
As she got into the taxi to head home and pack, she exhaled and tried to relax the knot of tension building in her stomach. She couldn't decide if she was in danger or not. This could just be the next stage of whatever scheme Myron had devised to teach her, or it could be something more real. Unless he told her himself, it would remain a mystery, however. She hoped the instructions waiting for her at the hotel made the situation clearer.
“See you in an hour, love,” the driver said as he pulled up outside her front door. “It's the station you'll be going to then, right?”
She nodded and reached for her purse to pay the man for the journey. As he glanced back at her in the rear view mirror, he noticed.
“It's already been paid for, and the next one too.”
“Ah, brilliant,” she replied and stuffed her purse back into her handbag. It seemed Myron had thought of everything, except how long it took a corset-wearing woman to change clothes. He'd given her an hour to shower, dress and pack before being picked up again.
Having no time for anything else, she hurried inside, dropped her handbag on the coffee table on the way past and rushed around the flat to gather everything she needed to finish her packing. Half an hour, later she'd never been more grateful for being organised enough to pack some of her clothing the night before.
She yanked off the clothes she'd worn to the gym and got into the shower to have the quickest wash she could manage. Rushed dressing wasn't something she was used to either, but she did her best. No part of her wanted to be late. She'd already angered Myron too many times.
When the taxi driver beeped the horn to let her know he was back again, she swore. Her hair was unbrushed and she'd only managed to dry it a little. Her only solace was knowing everything else was ready.
After making sure her hairbrush was in the top of her handbag, she yanked on her boots and wheeled her case outside. The driver helped her put it in the back and gave her a grin when he noticed her hair.
“Not quite enough time, then, love?”
“Not when you like to wear corsets,” she replied. He laughed but didn't ask her about the odd wardrobe choice. Most people grew curious about anyone choosing to wear such an old item of fashion, but Amelia wanted time to think and observe. Myron had summoned her to London and that meant she had to be on the watch and on her guard.
Normally, Amelia had a book to read when on long journeys, but she had opted against that form of entertainment this time around. Without knowing why she was going to London, she preferred to keep an eye out for potential threats and knew a book would absorb too much of her attention. If she read, it would suck in all her focus until she forgot the world around her. As a teenager she'd even missed a stop and had to backtrack once. To keep herself from being tempted to read, she hadn't even brought anything with her.
By the time she got to London the only result was her boredom, over-brushed hair that hung in
neat lines down her back, and a far too intimate knowledge of the woman across the carriage's love life. Nothing of any importance had happened, and Amelia regretted her decision.
The pit of her stomach still felt tense and uncomfortable, but she was bored of that as well. It made no sense to be this nervous when it could easily be Myron's way of testing her. In both his and Sebastian's line of work it was useful to be calm. The seriousness could be designed to teach her to manage her emotions and responses to potential threats without there being one to her physically. But, of course, it could equally be any number of other tests. In reality, she was clueless.
As she exited the station she looked for a road name to get her bearing. She soon saw one, but realised it didn't help. She couldn't remember the name of the hotel. A gasp escaped her lips as she tried to search her mind for the information. Not once that morning had she thought about it or how to get there.
In the middle of the street, she closed her eyes and tried to picture the map she'd looked up. She remembered something about a marble archway just off to her right and needing to head away from it, so she walked to the junction and turned to put it behind her. As she past the Cumberland, she began to piece together the rest of the directions, although the hotel name still eluded her.
She kept walking past several roads and then past a semi-circular road to her right with another land mark she recognised. The Marble Arch Synagogue was her cue to turn right at the next junction and head down another road that took her in front of the hotel. At least, she hoped she'd remembered that much correctly.
When she got to the next junction, she saw a large amount of green trees a few hundred metres away and hoped that was the square just beyond her hotel. Keeping her head high and her jaw firmly shut, Amelia kept walking, hoping she appeared to know where she was going.
A hundred metres on she exhaled in relief when she realised the canopy on the other side of the road was her hotel. The sign saying 'Radisson blu' welcomed her into a bright and shiny foyer with several reception desks at the far end. A man stood to one side with a name plaque in his hands. It had her character, Edward Dalton's full name written on it. She raised her eyebrows a moment before walking over to him.
“Mrs Dalton?” he asked.
“I think so,” she replied, knowing that sounded vague and hoping he wouldn't take it the wrong way. Myron hadn't said anything about her being booked in under a different name.
“You're here to do research for a book, I understand, Mrs Dalton?”
“Yes, I'm looking forward to getting started,” she said and gave him a relieved smile as he summoned a bell-boy to take her case for her.
“Brilliant. Your first client is already here, sitting out on the garden terrace. Why don't you go straight out to him and we'll get your room sorted and bring your key to you in a moment.”
“That sounds wonderful.” She headed in the direction he'd indicated with his fingers and tried to look like she knew what she was doing and had expected this from the beginning. Inwardly, she was hoping this was Myron and she'd get some answers.
Chapter 3
As Mycroft drank his tea and waited, he continued to organise his small team of retired agents. Not everyone he'd approached had answered his messages requesting their assistance, but he didn't want to ask too many people. The more who knew what he wanted them to do, the more chance the wrong people would find out. He did know his current field agents couldn't be trusted, so he was asking men who'd retired but still felt loyal to him. Very few of them would be loyal to anyone else now they were out of the game. Mycroft had looked after them well over the years.
If he could, Mycroft would work alone on every situation that required his expertise, but he couldn't keep an eye on Amelia, investigate Mr Delra, and find out why their monarch was making deals with terrorists alone. Someone would need to help him and his younger brother.
For now, he'd left Sherlock looking into the Russian coins. It was an inconspicuous way his younger brother could find out more about Mr Delra, and Mycroft could deny knowledge of it. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had disobeyed him and looked into a situation without Mycroft stopping him. That meant other people would need to keep Amelia safe.
Tom had already updated him on her morning's progress and it hadn't been as swift as he'd have liked or expected from her earlier advancement. Most of the time, Amelia was an amazing example of a human being, especially when he considered what most were like. However, every once in a while she displayed the exact feminine characteristics which he abhorred. The emotional clouding of judgement and a caring attitude that made her hesitant in acting.
Tom had picked up on this caring attitude and how it had held her back. She'd been unwilling to risk hurting him and therefore made herself less effective in combat. It was yet another reason that right now he wished he'd never agreed to teach her.
Just as he was thinking this, he realised she was late. Her train had pulled into the station on time. Mycroft had checked. It would have taken her exactly six and a half minutes to walk from the Marble Arch tube station to the hotel and another two to be sent through to the terrace by the hotel staff. By now she should be sitting in front of him.
He arched his hands together and considered the possible events that might have delayed her, other than her own stupidity. If he needed to act to keep her safe already, he couldn't afford to delay working out what might have happened and assessing the options for their likelihood.
Just as he was deciding someone must have picked her up in a car between the tube station and the hotel, movement from the doorway caught his eye. He blinked a couple of times, the only outward sign that he was struggling to process the feelings within.
Every time he'd seen her she'd had her hair tied up out of the way in a bun or braid of some kind. Today the chestnut locks tumbled, yet still neatly, around her face and the shoulders of the deep green outfit she wore. Her cheeks were flushed from both the cold and exercise, and she had a little sparkle in her eyes that appeared the moment she saw him. The combination made him pause for breath. She'd have fitted neatly in his study and not looked out of place, in either colour or style, and the thought stopped all other threads in his mind. A few seconds later he had gathered the dropped pile back together again, and the blip was in his past.
“My, my, what a surprise to see you here,” he said, getting up and shaking her hand. She smiled and allowed him to steer their meeting. “Why don't you join me for tea, Mrs Dalton?”
“That would be wonderful.” She sat in the seat opposite him and gave the waiter, who'd swiftly appeared, her order. The over-excited greeting had been for the benefit of the few other guests within the terrace area more than anyone else, so he dropped the pretence now she was sat.
“I think I need to learn my way around London,” she said, before he could speak. Her eyes flicked up to his face while he watched her, but they couldn't remain on him while he stared. It made him feel a little better. She knew she was late and was aware it displeased him.
“You followed all the other instructions precisely?” he asked, although he knew she had. She nodded to confirm.
“But I do have a question.” Now she looked at him, and Mycroft knew she was studying him for a reaction as he would study her, but he gave her nothing.
“Not now. Maybe at the end.” He hoped she was intelligent enough to realise the maybe had a condition. It would depend on her performance over the next half an hour. She had some redeeming to do.
“Tell me what you see out there,” he said a moment later and motioned to the people in the small garden nearby. She raised her eyebrows at him and then turned her body to look outwards. He rolled his eyes at her lack of subtlety but didn't expect her to notice.
For several minutes she remained quiet, studying the people. She didn't even notice when the waiter brought her drink. As this continued, he wondered if she was going to tell him anything, but she eventually looked back at him.
“The cou
ple on the left. They've had an argument. Not a big issue, more a sort of bicker over a small detail. I think it's more important to her than him. She's more angry and he's more worried about looking after their small child.” She looked to him with slightly wider eyes, and he recognised the unspoken question. She wasn't confident she was right. Hoping she would get going a bit quicker, he gave her a slight nod.
“The woman by herself who is feeding the birds is sad about something. Either her childhood or something attached to it. She keeps getting a wistful look.”
He nodded again when she glanced his way but frowned at the same time. These were only snippets of the whole picture and not quite the things he'd wanted to know.
“Over there,” she said, pointing and speaking before he could tell her she wasn't doing it right. “Business man in the dark suit. He just got a promotion and probably a raise. He's phoning someone to let them know the good news.”
Mycroft snorted at this and she stopped. Immediately, the interested and excited look vanished from her face to be replaced with the same worried, unconfident, wide eyes she'd had earlier. She rotated her body to face back in his direction.
When he shook his head and sighed his disapproval she lowered her eyes and took a sip from her tea. An awkward minute ticked by in silence as he felt the familiar regret well up within him. No one had ever come close to his level of intelligence.
“Will you tell me what I missed?” she asked, breaking through his angry thoughts. “That way I will know what to look for another time.”
If he hadn't needed to continue, Mycroft would have got up and walked away, but she needed to learn or she wouldn't survive what was coming. Out of necessity, he opened his mouth and told her what he'd seen.
“The couple have argued over what to feed the girl. The father is feeding the girl chips and the mother is not happy about it. Personally I don't blame her. He's very unintelligent, you can tell by the way he controls the girl and simply ignores his partner instead of having a conversation. They're unmarried but engaged. See the ring on her hand, but none on his.”