Game of Secrets Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim Foster

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously.

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Foster, Kimberley, 1972- author.

  Title: Game of secrets / Kim Foster.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Skyhorse Publishing, [2018] | Summary: In Victorian London, sixteen-year-old Felicity Cole is awaiting execution when she is rescued and taken to a secret spy school for the Tainted—those born with special physical and mental abilities.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018006393 (print) | LCCN 2018014644 (ebook) | ISBN 9781510716469 (eb) | ISBN 9781510716445 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781510716469 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Ability—Fiction. | Spies—Fiction. | Conspiracies—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837-1901—Fiction. | Fantasy.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.F673 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.F673 Gam 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018006393

  Cover photo: iStock

  Jacket design by Sammy Yuen

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-1644-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-1646-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Interior design by Joshua Barnaby

  For Alice.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Death doesn’t change us more than life.”

  —Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop

  March 1887

  London

  It’s early on the first day of spring as I hurry to the market, my tattered boots splashing in the muck that lines the cobblestoned lanes of Whitechapel.

  I stride briskly, my heart bright and full. The first day of spring brings fresh starts and new beginnings.

  I adjust the basket of flowers under my arm and keep moving. The truth is, my little brother and I sorely need a fresh start. Today, at long last, there will be money for new bread. And maybe—if we’re lucky and my flowers sell well—a small mutton pie. I can imagine Nate’s shining face when I return to our tiny attic room with the pie steaming in its paper wrapper.

  So as I walk, I smile like a fool.

  I turn a corner, emerging from the darkened lanes into the sun-filled streets of Whitechapel Market. The sound of the hawkers reaches my ears—fishmongers, charcoal peddlers, and every other form of costermonger, calling out their wares from clustered stalls. “Chestnuts, a penny a score!” and “Herring! New herring!” and “Get your turnips!”

  My nose fills with the pungent smells of fish and cabbage rotting in the gutters. Others may find it foul, but to me it’s the smell of hope.

  It was a long, bitter winter. Many of our neighbors suffered horribly. Four of the five Craddock children who live below us died. Two of consumption, two of starvation—including the wee babe, just three weeks old. I caught a glimpse of him when the undertaker came to retrieve his tiny gray body, an icy breeze lifting a corner of the blanket. By then, the sound of Mrs. Craddock’s howling and wailing had given way to the chilled silence of acceptance and despair.

  But we survived, me and Nate. Somehow, we made it through, when so many others didn’t. I figure it was sheer willpower and more than a little luck.

  And perhaps because I won’t allow anything to happen to my brother. He’s only seven, and he has only me. I’m the only thing preventing his secret coming out, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect him.

  In the market, my eyes dash to my favorite corner for selling. It’s an excellent spot, right near the busy onion cart. Thankfully, it’s unoccupied. My heartbeat quickens and I dart to claim the site. Good. Old Lady Beatrice is lazy—she must have slept late. Surely I’ll sell all my flowers. And then? Hello, mutton pie.

  Carriages and omnibuses rumble by on Whitechapel Street, horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles. I watch the ladies shopping in the market in their high-necked dresses and buttoned boots. These are the wives of railway men and cabinet makers, men who earn a decent living. I dip the hem of my skirt in a puddle of rainwater caught between the cobblestone cracks and scrub at some of the dirt on my cheeks. I don’t care about the nice clothes or shoes. But I do care if people buy my flowers. And they’ll be more likely to buy from a clean-faced girl.

  I arrange the daffodils in my basket, the biggest and cheeriest on top, and push it forward a little, beaming my brightest smile. On the other side of the street, the accordion boy plays a jolly tune, further lifting my mood.

  I spot a woman who looks like the housekeeper of a grand house. I smile and show her my basket. “Flowers for sale! Bow pots! Two a penny!” She frowns and hustles by. My smile falters only slightly.

  No matter. It is a beautiful day. There will be plenty of customers.

  Boys race by me, mud larks on their way to the riverfront to search for bits of coal, old rope, bones, and copper nails. Anything they can sell. My throat tightens. Nate would do that, if I let him. But we can’t take the risk.

  After selling a few blooms, I have two pennies and a farthing. I tuck them away eagerly. During a lull, I pull out the knob of bread I’ve saved for my breakfast. A dog comes around the corner—the scrawny creature I’ve seen skulking about for the past few days. It sniffs the ground then stops, looking up at me with big, melting eyes.

  I glance down at my meager bread and try to tuck it away, but the dog locks his eyes on it. I turn my back, trying to ignore him.

  I take a large bite. A faint whimper sounds behind me. I chew vigorously and swallow, pushing it down. There’s quiet. I glance over my shoulder and see the dog, still sitting there with his matted fur and visible ribs, as pathetic as can be. The bread feels like a hard lump in my chest.

  “Oh, here you go, you mangy thing.” I break off a piece and toss it to the dog. The creature darts forward to snatch up the pitiful offering, gobbling it down. My mouth crooks into a grin.

  Then a feeling of being watched prickles over my skin. I glance around—perhaps there’s a customer interested in buying a flower—and catch a glimpse of a man watching me from across the street. He wears a pale gray suit and a matching silk top hat. He blends in with the smoke rising from the chestnut roasters’ carts. Above an ivory silk cravat, his salt-and-pepper beard is neatly trimmed. Our eyes meet only for a second, but there’s something familiar in that glance. I take a closer look at the gentleman and a sudden twist of recognition takes hold.

  An omnibus rumbles by. It passes, and the man is gone.

  A chill washes over me.

  I crouch down to give the dog’s ears a scratch. “Did you see that?” I shake my head. Could I have imagined it?

  As a shadow falls over me, I look up from where I crouch and my heart sinks. Beatrice Fowler glowers at me. “Felicity, you’re in my spot again. Move off or I’ll break your arms.” Old Lady Be
atrice is as large as a chapel, with a square, fleshy face and a temper to match her size. She likes to brag about her age—fifty-four—knowing it’s older than most will survive. Beatrice’s moth-eaten shawl trails over her skirts. She wears an enormous straw bonnet with ragged feathers and grimy silk flowers—a prize she stole from a neighbor last year and that she now wears with great pride.

  “There’s plenty of room, Beatrice,” I say, my voice even and strong.

  She takes a step closer. Two other women come to stand behind her. “I don’t want your scrawny arse scaring away my customers. There’s room enough for one.”

  You’re right, there’s only room for one … when that person is the size of an ox. But I hold my tongue. Scrapping will not serve me. Getting into trouble, drawing the attention of the Peelers—it’s the last thing I need.

  “Beatrice, be reasonable,” I say, holding my ground. “It’s not us against each other. It’s us against them.” I gesture around us at the ladies shopping and the carriages trundling by. “You and me, we’re not adversaries.”

  “Oh ho! Adversaries, is it?” Beatrice moves in closer, her flinty eyes fixing on me. “Listen, little miss hoity-toity. You think you’re better than us, with your fancy words and your big brown eyes.” She pokes a stubby finger into my chest. “But down here, in the gutter, we’re all the same.”

  She looms over me, her sour breath hot on my face. I refuse to cower. I jut my chin forward. I will not back down this time.

  The other women laugh. “Have you received your invitation to the Golden Jubilee yet, Miss Felicity Cole?” one says in a mocking voice. “Your presence is required at Buckingham Palace …”

  More squawking laughter.

  I say nothing.

  “Nobody is impressed by your la-di-da words here,” Beatrice snarls. “Shove off.” She turns away, settling herself into the spot.

  “Come on, Beatrice. I’m just asking you to think for a second—”

  She spins around, eyes ablaze. “Are you saying I’m stupid? You’re smarter than me, is that it? Your pa may have taught you to read and write.” Her mouth curls. “But your pa is dead.”

  My face goes hot. Anger boils up inside me. Then I spot the blue uniform and peaked hat of a Peeler strolling through the market, nightstick at his side.

  Fighting with Beatrice could mean a night in the clink. And who would take care of Nate then? Both our parents are gone—our father died last year in an accident at the factory; our mother was killed years ago. If the Peelers took me away, even for one night, they might investigate, ransack our little attic flat. They’d find Nate, and send him—or us both—to the workhouse. Or, worse, discover Nate’s secret.

  I shudder. It’s something I can never let happen. I promised my father.

  My eyes dart around the busy market, across the gathering crowd. I’ll have to walk away now or risk everything I’ve worked so hard to keep. Gritting my teeth, I seize my basket. “I would never call you stupid, Beatrice. That would be an insult.” I pause and lower my voice. “To stupid people.”

  Before her face can even register outrage, I swivel on my heel and race away, breathing deeply, trying to calm down.

  I settle into a new, much less desirable spot in the shadows on the other side of the street. People like to shop in the sunshine. But it’s no good feeling sorry for myself. I can still do decent business here, and I will. I lift my head. “Flowers for sale!”

  I gaze west, toward the posh side of town. Not that I can see anything other than our crowded slum. But I can imagine it. Buckingham Palace, Beatrice’s cronies said. For a moment I envision what that would be like. The Golden Jubilee …

  I immediately stop myself. It’s ridiculous. The poet Thomas Gray said, “Ignorance is bliss.”

  And I believe it. In fact, it’s practically a requirement for survival here.

  Although I take a slight exception to the use of the word bliss.

  I glance down at my basket and spot a flower that’s completely wilted. Nobody will buy it, but it’ll do as a wish flower.

  I pluck it out and close my eyes. The wish I make is not for the fancy life of palaces and balls and jubilees. It’s the same one I always make: keep Nate safe.

  And, although I hardly dare think it … someday may he be cured.

  “I’m not sure which looks more beautiful—the flowers, or the seller,” says a familiar voice, just behind me.

  My heart skips a beat as I turn. Kit stands beaming down at me through his grime-covered face. “Morning, gorgeous,” he says.

  Kit is several inches taller than me, with sandy hair that perpetually flops over his forehead. As a blacksmith’s apprentice, he has developed wonderfully broad shoulders in the past year.

  My stomach does a small flip as his arm goes around my waist.

  A few ladies look on disapprovingly. I turn away from their judging eyes. Who would chaperone us, anyway? My parents are both gone. Kit has never known his father, and his mother works far away in a factory up north.

  “Don’t worry about them, Flick,” Kit says, gazing at me with his stunning blue eyes, flashing me a dimpled smile. “Besides, you’re sixteen now. Most of them were married by your age.”

  The mention of marriage makes my pulse flutter. We dance around the subject, but I have a feeling Kit is going to ask me soon, once his apprenticeship is over.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask, chewing my lip. The blacksmith works him hard for a pittance, but jobs aren’t easy to come by. He can’t lose this one.

  “Sent me down here to get more coal.”

  Kit glances toward the other side of the market. Beatrice is watching us both, glaring. She spits in my direction. But as soon as a customer approaches, she quickly regains her composure, all sweetness and gentle smiles.

  “Beatrice giving you a hard time again?” Kit asks, frowning.

  I shrug. “She’s become nastier than a one-eared cat.”

  Kit laughs.

  “She has it in for me. I’ve no idea why.”

  “Ah, she’s just getting grumpy in her old age.”

  I smile, and then an unpleasant thought occurs to me. With a sudden intake of breath, I turn back to Kit. “You don’t think she … suspects the truth about Nate, do you?”

  Kit is the only person who knows about Nate besides me. The only one I trust. “No, I don’t think she suspects,” Kit says. “If she did, well, she’d probably do a lot worse than glare and spit at you.”

  He’s right. Not that it gives me much comfort.

  People like my brother are called the Tainted. And when someone is discovered to be Tainted … bad things happen.

  “Have you heard anything more about Mr. Clegg?” I ask Kit hesitantly.

  He frowns and shakes his head. “Nobody has.”

  One day in the market last month, a turnip cart overturned and landed on one of the mud larks—a scrawny young boy of six. Within seconds, Mr. Clegg, the old milkman, had hauled the entire cart upright with his bare hands and helped the poor lad out. Saved his life.

  But those who witnessed the incident couldn’t help noticing. It was an awful lot of strength for a man of his years. Unnatural, people whispered behind their hands.

  Three nights later, the Peelers turned up, as Beatrice gleefully reported the next morning. She said they carted Mr. Clegg away, tossed him in the back of a wagon.

  Nobody has heard from him since.

  Usually when someone displays … similarly unnatural abilities, they’re taken, never seen again. Occasionally, an angry mob takes matters into their own hands, stoning a victim, or ripping them limb from limb.

  And then there are the rumors of the Huntsmen.

  I look up at Kit uncertainly. “Yesterday, I heard some of the ladies in the market telling a tale of a Huntsman raid over in Spitalfields.”

  He hesitates, then nods. “The boys in the smithy were nattering about something similar.” Concern clouds his eyes, but he quickly clears it. “Don’t worry, Flick
. It’s just another story mothers tell their little ones at night to make them behave.”

  The Huntsmen. Every child has heard tales of the shadowy gentlemen who make it their mission to root out the Tainted among us. Stories of people disappearing … or worse. But what if there’s truth to them?

  I bite my lip and wonder how much longer I’ll be able to keep Nate’s secret hidden.

  Kit looks down at the wish flower resting limply in my hand. “What did you wish for, Flick?”

  “Same thing I always do,” I say, shrugging.

  He remains quiet. I look into his eyes, exasperated. “Nate never asked for this. It’s not his fault.”

  If only whatever made my brother Tainted would go away as quickly as it came. If someone found a cure, somehow, he’d be safe. He could live a normal life, be happy.

  Kit puts his arm around me once more and pulls me back into the shadows of an alley. He puts his hands up to my face, tilts my chin up, and kisses me tenderly. His warmth envelops me, the scent of his skin, the smoky smell of soot in his hair, his clothes …

  “If anyone can keep him safe, Flick, it’s you. Plus, you’ve got me, remember? We’ll do it together.”

  I nod. “It’s just … it seems to be getting stronger. His … affliction. It’s getting harder to hide—”

  “What do you mean, stronger?”

  “He used to know what I was going to say before I said it. Now … he can tell how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking. And he’s started talking to me. With his mind. Eventually, he’s going to slip, and people will know he’s—”

  “Tainted,” Kit finishes.

  “Shh …” I glance around. “Someone will hear you.”

  Kit lowers his voice. “Has he been able to do anything … more?”

  The Tainted have skills that manifest in different ways. I’ve heard rumors of incredible strength, like Mr. Clegg, or speed. The ability to see in the dark. The power to charm and move objects without so much as a brush of the fingers.

  Nobody knows why it happens—this affliction. This curse. But there are enough theories: it’s an illness or demonic possession or an experiment gone wrong. The tongue-waggers like that explanation most of all. I’ve heard wild whisperings about Atlantis, about Darwin, about good old-fashioned witchcraft. I don’t know the truth, and I imagine I’ll never know.