Game of Secrets Page 8

  I flush and shift between my feet, not sure what to say.

  The gentleman’s warm smile immediately puts me at ease. “I’m only teasing. How very unkind of me. You’ve been through a great deal in the past few days, haven’t you? You must be our newest recruit, Miss Felicity Cole. I’m Mr. Humphrey Neville. I am the Intelligence Master here at Greybourne.”

  I try not to show my surprise. The Intelligence Master. At dinner, I overheard mention of him; from what I could gather he’s in charge of running all of the various spy networks. Hawksmoor’s second-in-command. Who would suspect such an ordinary, friendly, and unassuming man to be a spy, much less the Intelligence Master?

  And then I realize—that’s likely the point. An individual with such an unmemorable appearance could easily slip through crowds, into buildings—wherever he pleased. Nobody would pay him any attention.

  “Why don’t you join me?” he says. “You’ll have just enough time for a glass of brandy before Jane comes looking for you.”

  I hesitate.

  He leans forward and lowers his voice. “I know in proper society, gentlemen and ladies do not share brandy together after dinner, but I think you’ll notice at Greybourne we do many things … differently.” A warm smile lights his eyes.

  The truth is, I hadn’t even known that was a rule.

  I sit awkwardly on a smooth leather club chair and a footman is immediately at my side offering me a glass. I don’t know whether I’m meant to grasp the glass by the stem or the bowl and fumble between the two.

  “It’s the bowl in this case,” Neville says in a confiding whisper, “to warm the liquor. The stem for dinner wine. You know, I sometimes get that wrong, too.”

  I raise my eyebrows, then sip my drink in silence. The brandy, sweet and strong, warms my chest. It occurs to me that this Mr. Neville must be full of information. I take my measure of the man as I sip, the liquor creating a pleasant fuzziness in my head.

  “You must be utterly bewildered by all that has happened,” he says.

  “I am!” I blurt out. “I have so many questions, and I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “But Hawksmoor has explained matters to you?”

  “Some, but not nearly enough. He said he didn’t wish to overwhelm me.”

  Neville sips his brandy thoughtfully, the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “Well, what would you like to know?”

  I hesitate. Can I trust this man? But I’m so desperate to ask, to understand…. The more I know, the closer I will be to reclaiming my old life, I’m sure of it. “I want to know why I am Tainted. I mean—Morgana. How could I have gone so long without knowing? What made me this way? What made any of us this way?”

  He smiles wryly. “Ah, the mysteries of the Morgana. You don’t want to start with something a bit simpler? For instance … which way to the conservatory?”

  I laugh. “In this house, I’m not sure that is the simpler question.”

  He inclines his head. “True enough.”

  “There has to be an answer.”

  “And perhaps there is. But, unfortunately we don’t know it. Surely you have heard the various tales and theories?”

  “Only when I was little. Tales of horror, mostly. Cautionary stories to frighten children.”

  He nods. “The cause of the Morgana abilities was a field of inquiry for natural scientists for a while, although it soon became frowned upon—much like the study of mesmerism and alchemy. Even so, I don’t believe any firm conclusions were ever reached about the why of the Morgana.”

  I bite my lip.

  “Don’t despair, Miss Cole. There is a great deal I can teach you about our group.”

  I sit up straighter. “Such as?”

  “Do you know about the nature of Morgana gifts? You have, no doubt, noticed that some of us possess different strengths.” He rises and crosses to a bookshelf and runs a hand along the spines of old volumes, finally selecting the one he seeks. The spine creaks as he opens it and shows me. The pages are filled with classical drawings captioned in Greek and Latin.

  “Aristos,” I say, gazing at an illustration with the word inscribed beneath, breathing in the musty scent of old paper. “That’s what Isherwood called me …”

  “Yes. That’s because your gifts lie in the physical realm. Aristos refers to supreme agility and physical prowess.” His eyes catch mine. “This, Miss Cole, is you.”

  I shiver.

  “Now, most Morgana either have a physical gift, Aristos, a mental one, Sophos, or a gift with physical matter and objects—that’s called Mitos. Rarely, a Morgana is gifted with more than one of these sets of skills. Have you heard of Sir Isaac Newton? Leonardo da Vinci?”

  I nod, and Neville continues. “We don’t know for sure, but it is generally believed that these men were Morgana, and that they possessed gifts in multiple spheres.”

  I recall Hawksmoor’s actions during my rescue from the prison, his ability to help me see Nate and to get us out of the prison. “Mr. Hawksmoor, does he have more than one gift?”

  “Indeed,” says Neville. “It is uncommon, but the phenomenon is, of course, not only limited to those of historical note.”

  “Are those the only three realms of gifts?” I ask.

  Neville gives me an appraising look. “Why, what a perceptive question. As a matter of fact, there is one more realm that we know of. It’s hard to describe … It’s of the metaphysical sort. An ability to manipulate time and mortality, in a sense, but not like what you do when you grasp Aristos. It’s more … an imperviousness to mortality. Rebirth, if you like. Immortality.”

  I frown. Immortality?

  “I can see you’re struggling with this, Miss Cole. I understand. Many new initiates come from families of Morgana, and grow up being taught the abilities. For you it’s all new.”

  I nod, reclaiming my glass of brandy and staring into its swirling depths.

  “It must be bewildering,” he continues. “Especially given that you come from Whitechapel. To be frank, we have never had a Candidate from that … part of town.”

  I look up to see his eyes soften, but we say nothing more on the subject.

  “Can you explain about the Candidates? Jane told me there are a limited number of openings. Why?”

  “Ah yes,” he says, pouring more brandy into his glass. “Have you have heard anyone call Hawksmoor by the name Delta? Or Isherwood by the name Epsilon?”

  Delta. That was the name the conductor on the train had used. I lean forward as the meaning clicks into place. “They’re mathematical terms. Greek letters.”

  “They are, indeed,” Neville says, grinning. They are also code names. The upper echelon of Morgana agents—the elder executives—are each given a code name. For many reasons—secrecy, chiefly, but also effectiveness and security—we keep a tight limit on the number of people within that inner circle. When there is an opening due to death or a retirement from active service, we bring forward a senior trainee, a Candidate. Promote them to full status, give them a code name … and allow them to learn all our secrets.” He winks. “It’s a system that goes back to the Academy’s origins with Christopher Marlowe. He, of course, was Alpha.”

  “Your code name?”

  “Lambda.”

  I take another burning sip of my brandy and mull over all I’ve been told. The hush in the room sinks into my bones. “Thank you for this, Mr. Neville. There are so many things I don’t yet understand and I … I suppose I need all the help I can get.”

  He nods. “We have enough enemies out there,” he says, waving his brandy glass. “We are not a well-regarded group, Miss Cole—or well-understood, for that matter. Not unlike your own people, the inhabitants of neighborhoods such as Whitechapel. If you don’t mind me saying.”

  It’s the last thing I expect to hear. I never look for any sort of sympathy—least of all from the upper crust.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I happen to believe it’s an abomination what the nobility has done to the low
er classes.”

  “You don’t think we deserve it?” I ask. Most of the newspapers blame the poor for their own poverty and squalor.

  “Quite the opposite.”

  It occurs to me that I know nothing about Neville’s background. “Are you—”

  “No, child. I’m not from the streets,” he says gently. “My father was a doctor. But I can see what’s happening. And it’s not right.”

  I swallow and nod.

  Neville clears his throat. “I’ve kept you too long. You must be quite tired.”

  A sudden wave of fatigue passes over me. I thank him again for his kindness, then rise to leave. “Good night, Mr. Neville.”

  “Just one more thing,” he adds, stopping me. “Many new arrivals have these same questions. There is someone I usually suggest they might speak with. A professor by the name of Garrick. He has spent much time studying the Morgana and has written a great deal about it, as I understand. I’m not terribly familiar with his work—most recently he was investigating a cure of all things—but he may have more answers than the rest of us have.”

  A cure. “Where is he?”

  “At Oxford, I believe. Not that I recommend you leaving the Greybourne grounds unsupervised. Far too dangerous, and Hawksmoor would definitely not approve. But … should you find yourself at the university at some point, it might be worth your while.” Neville sips his brandy innocently.

  “Good night to you, Mr. Neville.”

  I turn to leave, head full of budding plans. I may not be a Morgana agent, but in a house full of spies and assassins, surely there are ways of getting oneself covertly to Oxford….

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.”

  —Robert Browning, “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came”

  Finally back in my room, I curl up in the window seat and open my mind to my brother.

  Nate, can you hear me?

  Nothing. No response. I stare out the window into the darkness beyond.

  And then, Yes, Felicity, I’m here.

  I jump, sitting up straight on the seat. Finally.

  Nate, I’m so glad to hear your voice.

  Are you all right, Felicity? You sound worried.

  Yes, yes. I’m fine. And I’m so sorry about everything. Are you safe? Are you all right?

  Oh, it’s lovely here. There’s more than enough food to eat, and it’s always hot. Porridge, toast, eggs, soup … So many delicious things. And sticky buns! Oh, you’d love the sticky buns. Do you have them where you are?

  A lump forms in my throat. Yes, Nate, we have sticky buns here, too.

  I put my hand to the cool glass of the windowpane. I wish I could see him, the way Hawksmoor helped me to. But I refuse to depend on the spymaster for anything. I can never trust him again.

  Do you like it there? I ask.

  I love it. He pauses. Although, I do wish you were here, too. But Nanny tells me you’re training to do very important work. She tells me … you’re helping to make Britain a better place. Is that true?

  Is it? I have no idea. There is still so much I don’t know about this place, the Morgana, and our purpose. But Nate sounds so hopeful. So … proud.

  That’s exactly what we’re doing, I say.

  I knew it.

  Nate, do you know where you are, exactly?

  There’s hesitation. Not exactly. We’re by the sea somewhere. It’s quite far from London. The journey to get here was so long.

  Do you think you could … find out somehow? Like a game. Discover the clues. Can you do that?

  Yes, I think I can.

  I want to tell him I am going to fetch him and we’ll run away together, very soon. But I won’t get his hopes up. There are so many things I don’t yet know. Where would we go? How could I provide everything that is being provided for him? I need to form a better plan first.

  Nate is happy and safe wherever he is. I ache to be there, to watch over him. But I know he is better off where he is.

  For now.

  It is early morning a few days later when I make my way to Hawksmoor’s office, passing swiftly through marbled corridors and long, windowed galleries. My breath comes quickly—though not due to my hurried pace. What does he want? Why has he asked to see me so suddenly?

  At daybreak, I received a message that had Jane scurrying to dress me. And now, as I rush toward his office, I try to appear unconcerned, forcing a neutral expression onto my face. I’m worried he somehow knows what I’m planning. I need him to believe I am dedicated to the demands of this academy, that I wish to become a spy and an assassin, like everyone else here. I need him to trust me.

  I have seen little of Hawksmoor since arriving at Greybourne. He’s a busy man, of course, and my time has also been heavily occupied.

  Since my arrival, my days have been filled with lessons: intelligence, languages, code-breaking, covert affairs … and I have returned to combat training. Of course, Agatha Isherwood—who makes no secret of her complete disdain for me—has determined that I have no skills whatsoever. She’s been matching me with mostly junior trainees and those who have no Aristos. Her goal is for me to learn the most basic defensive maneuvers. In spite of the humiliation, I try to hold my head high, although, for the most part, I simply grit my teeth to get through them.

  During training sessions, Isherwood watches me with disgust, Rose looks on with barely concealed satisfaction, and Julian regards me with confusion. There have been a few times when he looked as though he would like to say something to me, but then he abruptly turned away. I know why he is confused—I bested him thoroughly in the carriage house, and now I take a beating on a daily basis.

  I have no explanation for him, no idea why I can’t control my abilities.

  My stomach pulls into a knot as I hurry on toward Hawksmoor’s office. Has he decided he’s made a mistake in bringing me here? Will I be thrown out?

  In the east wing, I arrive at Hawksmoor’s door—a heavy oak slab with a brass bellpull. I hesitate, then ring the bell.

  “Enter,” calls a muffled voice from within.

  The door squeaks faintly as I push it open. I force myself to breathe calmly before stepping across the threshold. Hawksmoor’s office is filled with books, maps, and charts. Two leather club chairs occupy one corner, surrounded by mahogany shelves bearing brass instruments. A stand of newspapers rests by a tray of cut glass brandy decanters. I breathe the faint, sweet smell of tobacco.

  Hawksmoor is seated at a leather-topped desk, poring over a newspaper. “Ah, Miss Cole,” he says, looking at me over his spectacles with that intense gaze of his. “Yes, come in. Close the door.”

  I step forward, my palms sweaty. One of the few with gifts in the mental and physical spheres. Can he read my mind, even now?

  The desk chair creaks as he sits back and steeples his fingertips.

  “It seems I have made a mistake,” he says.

  My heart skips. “You have?”

  “I realize, belatedly, that it’s impossible to pull someone off the streets and throw them into this odd world of formal dinners and curtsying and calling card etiquette. There’s much you’ll have to learn. I realize that now.”

  “Sir?” My face burns.

  “Never fear. It’s all been arranged. You’ll have special tutoring in deportment and etiquette to catch you up. Your first lesson will be out on the south veranda in”—he pulls out his silver pocket watch and glances at it—“Ah. Five minutes.”

  I don’t move. Is that all? He wanted to speak with me about comportment lessons?

  “Off you go, Miss Cole. South veranda. Your tutor will be waiting for you there.” He picks up the newspaper once more and flips a rustling page. “Quickly now. It’s impolite to be late.”

  I curtsy—poorly as ever—and leave the room.

  As I make my way to the south veranda, my mind tumbles with rapid calculations. If I can be taught the proper way to curtsy, the proper way to eat a boiled egg without causi
ng grievous offense, I might have a chance of fitting in here. Something I must do if I’m ever to gain a coveted spot on the team.

  Turning a corner, I catch sight of movement. I quicken my pace, curiosity piqued. Hugh Torrington is up ahead. He looks over his left shoulder—there is something decidedly shifty about his bearing—but thankfully he doesn’t see me. I tuck back out of view to watch him. He goes toward a panel on the wall, and then he pulls a small lever I hadn’t noticed before. A doorway swings open like a yawning mouth.

  He glances around again before quickly slipping inside. The door closes behind him, leaving no trace of the entranceway.

  I wonder where the doorway leads. But I can’t follow him. I’m already late for my deportment and etiquette training.

  When I reach the south veranda and push open the tall leaded glass doors, all thoughts of secret passages are swept from my mind as I take in the tutor waiting for me.

  Agatha Isherwood.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  Isherwood stands drumming her fingers on a table set for dinner with china plates and crystal goblets and linen napkins. Her face looks carved from stone, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed on me.

  She doesn’t look any more pleased to be here than I am.

  “Good day, Mrs. Isherwood,” I say.

  “And there is your first error, Miss Cole,” she says through a pursed mouth. “You do not say ‘good day’ to your superiors. Your blessings are of no interest to them. You ask, ‘How do you do?’ because that is all that should concern you.”

  I dig my nails into my palms.

  “Now, let’s begin. We have much work to do, and only an hour in which to do it.”

  Only an hour? How am I going to make it through even ten minutes of this?

  “I can see, Miss Cole, from the sour look on your face that you would rather be elsewhere. However, it is my duty to inform you that your failure in this endeavor will result in your cancellation as a Candidate. Now, come and sit down.”