Necropolis

(The Royal Sorceress, Book III)

Prologue

Written for publication in The Times, London, 1831.  Article suppressed at the request of His Majesty’s Government.

It is with great dismay that we report an attack on Cavendish Hall, home of His Majesty’s Royal Sorcerers Corps.  The incident was spearheaded by an explosion in one of the training compartments, which apparently served as a diversion to allow the actual attack to take place without interruption.  As far as can be determined, the aim of the attack was the kidnap of OLIVIA CRICHTON, adopted daughter of LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON, the Royal Sorceress.  The kidnappers succeeded in removing OLIVIA CRICHTON from Cavendish Hall and, as of writing, she has not been recovered.

Large parts of OLIVIA CRICHTON’S past are a mystery.  It is known she was adopted after the Swing, with several people suggesting that she is the daughter of either Master Thomas or Master Jack, but there are no records of her existence prior to that time.  Nor is there any clear reason why LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON chose to adopt her, despite being barely of marriageable age herself.  The only reasonable assumption seems to be that MISS CRICHTON possesses powerful magic of her own.  If she is indeed the daughter of a Master Magician, she may well be a Master herself.

LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON flatly refuses to comment on the affair.  However, her father, LORD RUDOLF CRICHTON states that OLIVIA CRICHTON has been accepted into the family, suggesting that she may well have an aristocratic birth, even if the records are sealed.

Speaking in the House of Commons, HIS MAJESTY’S PRIME MINISTER, THE DUKE OF INDIA, stated that the attack would not be allowed to hamper His Majesty’s Government’s preparations for war with France, which is expected at any moment.  The Royal Sorcerers Corps, in common with the other military arms of this great nation, will stand shoulder to shoulder against any threat.  However, with an attack that has apparently caused a considerable amount of damage, the reputation of the Royal Sorcerers Corps has been badly dented at the worst possible time.  

Inspector LESTRADE of Scotland Yard was unwilling to comment, but sources within the government have suggested that the kidnapping was intended to put pressure on LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON, who would be expected to lead the Royal Sorcerers Corps into battle, despite being a woman.  COLONEL SEBASTIAN, who has rejoined his old unit, was unavailable for comment, but other disgruntled magicians have warned of the dangers of female emotions interfering with military operations.  If LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON is threatened with her daughter being killed or otherwise hurt, how will she react under such pressure?

The timing of the incident appears dire.  With war against France seemingly days or even hours away, and the Russians apparently reluctant to commit to either side, we can only pray that OLIVIA CRICHTON is recovered as soon as possible.  Indeed, the fate of Great Britain and her Empire might depend on her safe return.

Chapter One

Olivia Crichton fought her way back to wakefulness through a haze of pain.

Her memories made no sense.  She’d been in the library, studying – again – with her tutor, trying to master boring Latin grammar she knew she’d never use outside Cavendish Hall.  Apparently, educated ladies were supposed to know Latin; privately, she figured that she’d forget it as soon as she had impressed her tutor and he moved on to something more interesting.  And he’d given her a drink of water.  And ...

She swallowed hard, cursing her own carelessness.  Six months off the streets and she’d lowered her guard long enough to take a drink from a near-stranger, a man who hadn’t tried to hide his disdain for the street child Lady Gwen had adopted.  There had to have been something in the water, she realised slowly, something to knock her out.  And then she’d been transported somewhere else.

Carefully, without opening her eyes, she felt out her surroundings.  She was lying facedown on something soft, her hands were firmly tied behind her back.  The environment felt as if it were rocking slightly, reminding her of the first time she’d sailed on a boat up the Thames with Jack, before the Swing.  She could hear nothing, apart from a thrumming sound that seemed to come from below her.  And, as far as she could tell, she was alone.  Bracing herself, she opened her eyes.

She was in a cabin, she realised at once.  It was barren, apart from a mattress and a tiny porthole that shone bright light into the room.  The walls were blank metal; the door seemed strong enough to resist an army.  But she knew better than to stay where she’d been put.  A childhood in the Rookery had taught her that being helpless was never a good idea.  She twisted slightly, testing her bonds, then started to press against the knots.  It didn’t feel as though she was bound tightly enough to prevent her from carefully working her way free.

The other girls at the Hall would be helpless by now, she thought, with a flicker of contempt and bitter amusement.  Their perfumes and social graces wouldn’t get them out of this mess.

She smiled, darkly, as she managed to loosen the ropes enough to pull her hands free.  In theory, she was an aristocrat herself, the adopted daughter of the Royal Sorceress.  But in practice, no one took her seriously, apart from Lady Gwen and the senior magicians, some of whom viewed her and her magic with barely-concealed horror.  She simply didn’t have the noble blood of the other women at Cavendish Hall, let alone the endless lessons in etiquette that had been drilled into their heads since they were old enough to tell the difference between a knife and a fork.  There was no one at the hall she could really talk to, not as a friend.  But then, in the Rookery, friendship had often been secondary to bare survival.  A friend could hurt you more effectively than a stranger.

Her hands came free.  She let out a sigh of relief, remembering the first time she’d been captured and tied up by an older man who hadn’t realised she was a girl.  Not that that would have saved her, she knew; his tastes might have run to young boys, but there were plenty of others on the streets who preferred young girls.  She might well have been sold to one of the brothels and never been seen again, or simply wound up with her throat cut in an alleyway.  But she’d escaped the bastard and she would escape this new prison too.

She undid the bonds on her legs, then stood up, gingerly.  Her legs felt weak, as if the drug hadn’t worked its way completely out of her body.  She shuddered, then staggered over to the porthole and looked outside.  There was a seemingly endless stretch of water outside but, in the distance, she could see land.  She pulled at the porthole, trying to open it up, but rapidly discovered that it was impossible.  It was firmly sealed against escape.

Gritting her teeth, she walked over to the door and tested it.  It was hard to open, but it wasn’t locked.  Olivia blinked in surprise, then decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and crept outside.  In the distance, she could hear someone talking in a language she didn’t recognise, but there was no one in sight.  They must have believed that the bonds were enough to secure her, she thought with another flicker of contempt.  If she’d been a born noblewoman, she reminded herself, they would probably have been right.

The floor – the deck, she told herself – was silvered, reflecting her own face back at her.  She scowled darkly as she saw her torn dress and long blonde hair, knowing that there was no way she could still hope to pass for a young boy.  She’d filled out alarmingly ever since coming to Cavendish Hall and feeding regularly, growing breasts and a thick mane of hair which took far too long to prepare every morning.  If it hadn’t been for the maids, Olivia would have cut her hair as short as Lady Gwen.  But they’d been insistent and Olivia hadn’t wanted to defy them, even though she was technically their social superior.  They’d helped save her from all manner of social embarrassments in the time she’d been at the Hall.

She brushed her hair out of her face, looking down at her dress.  It still bothered her to know that it had cost enough money to feed a dozen families in the Rookery for six months, both because of the expense and because it made her a target.  Wearing something expensive in the Rookery was just asking to be robbed, unless one happened to be so well known and fearsome that everyone else was scared instead.  And to think that it was one of the cheaper dresses in Cavendish Hall!  She should have worn trousers instead, she told herself tartly, even if Gwen would have disapproved.  It would have been far more practical than the damned dress ...

Olivia froze as she heard someone coming down the corridor towards her.  She glanced around hastily, looking for somewhere to hide, but saw nothing apart from unbroken metal.  There was no time to get back to her cabin-prison before he came into view ... she braced herself, then ran forward, cursing the dress under her breath.  The man gaped at her as she charged him, then raised his hands, too late.  Olivia rammed her fist into his chest with all of her strength, then chopped at his throat.  He dropped to the deck, choking and gasping for breath.  

Idiot, Olivia thought, with a certain amusement.  Growing up in the Rookery had taught her how to fight – and fight properly, not like the aristocrats and their obsession with fair fights with stupid rules.  And most of the girls she had to study with at Cavendish Hall would have refused to fight, even if they’d been threatened with rape and murder.  The very thought of being without male protection would have shocked them, even as half of the silly cows railed against being taken for delicate and dependent women.  They wouldn’t have lasted a day in the Rookery.

She tore at her dress, abandoning modesty in favour of movement, then started to run towards a ladder leading up to the next level.  Another man was coming down the ladder, carrying a large metal box in one hand; Olivia ran forward and punched him, as hard as she could, in the groin.  He staggered, then fell, screaming in pain.  Olivia cursed her own mistake – the entire boat would hear the racket – and then scrambled up the ladder as quickly as she could.  Outside, sea air slapped at her face; she heard the sound of gulls calling as she came out of the hatch and ran towards the railing.  But when she saw the water, she froze.  Land was so far away that it was barely a strip of green on the horizon.

Ladies weren’t normally taught to swim.  Gwen had insisted she learn, and she’d taken to her lessons far better than any of the aristocratic girls, but she’d only ever swum in the large pool at Cavendish Hall, wearing one of the absurd bathing costumes that covered almost everything, apart from her face and hair.  The idea of swimming in the sea made her hesitate a moment too long, just long enough for someone to wrap their arms around her and yank her backwards.  Olivia gasped in pain as he squeezed, then lifted her foot and kicked him in the leg as hard as she could.  He grunted, but ignored it.  She screamed and he clamped a hand over her mouth, precisely as she had hoped.  Opening her mouth, she bit him as hard as she could, biting down until she drew blood.  He gasped, his grip on her loosening.  Taking advantage of his distraction, she pulled herself free and started to run.

But where could she go?  She’d seen a handful of boats, but this one didn’t look large enough for her to hide long enough to be rescued, if anyone knew where she was.  Gwen would look for her – Olivia had no doubt of that – but how would Gwen knew where to start looking?  And could she even catch up with the boat in time to save Olivia?  The kidnappers, whoever they were, might well take their humiliation out on their captive, who had dared to try to escape.  Olivia had heard enough stories from the Rookery to know she didn’t dare let herself be recaptured.

She reached the stern of the boat, stared down at the choppy water, and started to scramble over the railing.  It would be a long swim; probably a very dangerous swim, but at least she would take her destiny in her own hands.  She was midway over her railing when she heard a voice behind her.  

“Stop,” it ordered.  “STOP!”

Olivia’s body froze before her mind quite caught up with what was happening.  For a long moment, she teetered on the railing, as if she were about to fall over the edge and plummet into the water, then strong hands gripped her and pulled her back onto the boat.  She was rolled over and found herself looking up into the eyes of a tall thin man with short dark hair and an incredibly pale face.  Even if she hadn’t felt his magic, she liked to think she would have deduced what he was from his expression alone.  There was a hint of arrogance in his face that all such magicians seemed to have in common, the belief that they were superior to their fellow men, even their fellow magicians.

A Charmer, she realised, numbly.  Wonderful.

“That was unwise,” the Charmer said, evenly.  “There are dangerous currents in these waters, young lady.  You would have been very lucky if your body was ever recovered.”

There was no longer any magic in his voice, but Olivia cringed inwardly anyway.  She hated Charmers.  Very few people actually liked having such magicians who could influence their thoughts or compel someone to obey, anywhere near them.  And some of the Charmers in training at Cavendish Hall loved playing tricks on their fellow students.  All magicians seemed to have a sense of playfulness in common, but Charmers were often nasty rather than playful.

“Now, listen,” he added.  Magic ran through his voice, demanding her complete attention.  “You will obey all orders I give you.  You will remain calm at all times.  You will remain in your cabin unless escorted by myself or one of my crew.  You will not attempt to jump into the water again or to escape by any other means as long as you are on this vessel.”

Olivia cursed inwardly as she felt the commands sinking into her mind.  Ropes and chains were one thing – she had already escaped one set of ropes – but mental commands were quite another.  There was no attempt to be subtle, no attempt to influence her thoughts without her being aware of the influence, yet it hardly mattered.  The commands would last for days, perhaps weeks, before she finally managed to break free.  And he would presumably renew them every few days.  She was trapped, bound by her own mind, far more solidly than she would be by handcuffs or shackles.

The Charmer leaned down until his dark eyes held hers firmly.  “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Olivia said.  She felt helpless and weak, a feeling she hated ... but the anger was curiously muted, dampened by his magic.  He knew that strong emotion would help her to break the spell and had taken steps to prevent her from getting angry.  “I understand.”

“Very good,” the Charmer said.  He stood upright and smiled down at her, a glint of amusement in his cold eyes.  “Stand.”

Olivia felt her body obey at once.  She tried to glare at him as she rose to her feet, but the numbness seemed to press down on her emotions, making it harder for her to do anything more than stand there like a damnable opium addict.  The thought was terrifying; she’d seen men and women venture into the opium dens and slowly fade away into nothingness, hooked on the drug that was slowly destroying their lives.  Even if she’d had the money, she liked to think she wouldn’t have walked into a den willingly ...

But that wasn’t the worst of it, she knew.  A Charmer’s influence could be almost as addictive as any drug.  At some point, their victims moved from hating the compulsion to loving it and demanding to surrender their minds to the magician controlling them.  She swore to herself that she would never let that happen, yet she knew it wouldn’t be easy to resist.  Unscrupulous Charmers were among the worst of magicians.  Their victims often ended up in Bedlams, unable even to care for themselves.  And he would want her to be completely under his control.

She found her voice.  “What do you want from me?”

The Charmer smiled.  “What do you think?”

Olivia swallowed.  She had two things that were largely unique, as far as anyone knew.  She was Lady Gwen’s daughter ... and she was a Necromancer.  But anyone who wanted to kidnap her purely for the ransom wouldn’t have taken her out of Britain.  No, they would have preferred to keep her somewhere she could be traded quickly for whatever ransom they demanded.  Lady Gwen was a wealthy woman in her own right.  They could have demanded a vast sum of money with the reasonable certainty that they would be paid.

But if they wanted her because she was a Necromancer ...

She felt sick as she remembered the final moments of the Battle of London.  The shambling hordes of undead monsters advancing towards her, the eerie whispering running through her mind that had grown louder and louder as the undead had grown in strength ... and the moment she’d finally managed to stop their advance.  They would have destroyed London, then the entire country if they hadn’t been stopped.  She had saved Britain from a doom unleashed by one of her foremost defenders.  And even that hadn’t been enough to save her from a death sentence, purely for being what she was.  It had taken her adoption by Lady Gwen to convince the government to let her live.

“You must never use your powers again, unless ordered to do so,” Gwen had said.  Olivia hadn’t needed much convincing.  Unlike the other forms of magic, even Charm, received wisdom claimed that Necromancy was impossible to use for any decent purpose.  “And you must not even tell people what you are.”

Olivia shuddered.  Someone had clearly found out anyway – and kidnapped her.

“You know,” the Charmer said.  “Don’t you?”

Her words came unwillingly to her lips.  “You want me to raise the dead.”

“Something like that,” the Charmer said.  “Follow me.”

He stood and strode back towards the hatch.  Olivia followed him, unwillingly.  She tried to struggle against the mental commands, but they were too strong to break.  And yet, she knew that if she didn’t struggle, the commands would only sink further and further into her head until she would no longer be able to separate them from her own thoughts.  He’d have her completely in his power when she thought she was serving him willingly.

The cabin looked as unprepossessing as before, but this time she felt herself trapped the moment she stepped back inside.  The Charmer nodded to the mattress, then smiled at her mischievously.  Olivia glowered at him, then sat down with all the dignity she could muster in her underclothes.  She should definitely have worn trousers.

“You will be fed, of course,” the Charmer said.  “You will eat and drink each day.  You will not attempt to harm or kill yourself – or anyone else onboard this vessel.”

He smirked at her expression.  She hadn’t considered suicide, at least not as a serious possibility, but he was clearly moving ahead of her.  Olivia knew the potential consequences of an outbreak of undead monsters far better than anyone who hadn’t witnessed one such occurrence – and the knowledge she could cause one was terrifying.  Suicide might have seemed the only reasonable solution if escape wasn’t a possibility.  But he’d already ensured she couldn’t end her own life.

“Thank you,” she said, sourly.

The Charmer nodded, then walked over to the door and stepped outside.  He paused, then turned to face her.  “I suggest you sleep,” he added.  “We have quite a long journey ahead of us.”

It wasn’t a command, but her mind insisted on interpreting it as one.  Olivia felt her eyelids suddenly grow heavier.  It was all she could do to lie down before her eyes closed and she plunged into darkness ...

... And, when she dreamed, she dreamed of the horror she knew was to come.

Chapter Two

Gwen could see smoke rising in the distance as the carriage raced towards Willingham Hall, the driver cracking the whip as if the hounds of hell were after them.  The message had been urgent, and she knew it needed to be dealt with, but she also knew that Lord Mycroft had deliberately arranged for her to go in hopes of distracting her from her worries about Olivia.  Where the hell was she?

It had been a week since the attack on Cavendish Hall.  No one, not even Mycroft’s brother, had managed to trace the kidnappers, which suggested that Olivia had been taken out of the country.  The French seemed the most likely suspect – Britain had been on the brink of war with France for the last two weeks – but they wouldn’t say anything, she knew, if they had managed to kidnap her daughter.  The last living Necromancer was a weapon, first and foremost.  It was why Olivia had been permitted to live.

The carriage rocked as it passed through the gates and headed up towards the hall.  Gwen peered towards the towering building, admiring the strange mixture of styles that had been worked into the hall, from Indian and Chinese influences to good old-fashioned British concepts from the Elizabethan era.  It was no fortress, she noted, but it showed off both the wealth and global reach of the Willingham Family.  Lord Willingham and his family had made their money through trade and, no matter how the older families might sneer, trade was the backbone of the British Empire.  The least they deserved was to have any troubles they might encounter taken seriously by the government.

She sucked in her breath as she saw the flames burning through the west wing of the giant house, flickering with an unearthly light.  They weren’t natural flames – the horde of men carrying buckets of water towards the manor could have put them out by now if they’d been normal – but flames caused by magic.  Gwen could feel the heat even from a short distance away, yet the flames didn’t seem to be interested in spreading further.  A Blazer with a remarkable level of both power and control had damaged but not destroyed the building.

“Your Ladyship?” the driver called.  “Do you want me to wait here?”

“Yes, please,” Gwen said, as she reached for her stick.  “I’ll need you to take me back to London afterwards.”

She jammed her top hat, a memento of Master Thomas, on her head, then opened the door and jumped lightly down to the ground, using magic to ensure she landed gently.  The men fighting the fire barely even glanced at her, probably without realising that she was a girl, but the assembled womenfolk stared at her in silent disbelief.  Gwen fought down the urge to smile in a most inappropriate fashion.  In her top hat, male suit and carrying a cane, she defied all of the strictest ideas of what a woman should wear, particularly at her age.  It was clear that no one at Willingham Hall had ever even heard of the trouser brigade.

And to think that I am far from the only woman who wears trousers, she thought, as she looked around to see who was in charge.  There was normally at least one intensely practical woman in charge of the female servants, if the Lady of the House wasn’t around or had suffered a fainting fit.  She would be old enough to be a mother, old enough to command respect, but not old enough to be a grandmother.

“Lady Gwen,” a voice said.  It was intensely formal, so carefully aristocratic that Gwen just knew the speaker hadn’t been born an aristocrat, or at least not a very high-ranking noblewoman.  “We thank you for coming.”

Gwen turned to see an older woman making her way towards the carriage and sighed, inwardly.  Lady Elizabeth Willingham was tall, alarmingly thin, with long dark hair that was slowly starting to go grey.  The older woman glanced over Gwen’s appearance and shook her head, so minutely that a man might not have even noticed the slight motion of disapproval.  If Gwen had been a normal girl in society, Lady Elizabeth’s disapproval would have been disastrous to her prospects.  Instead, it was merely annoying.  She just knew they weren’t going to get on.

“You’re welcome,” she said, calmly.  If there was one lesson she’d learned from her mother, it was how to be polite to someone she would much rather stab with a knife.  “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Lady Gwen,” another voice said.  Gwen looked past Lady Elizabeth to see a younger woman, only five or six years older than Gwen, staggering towards them.  She looked tired and worn – and deeply worried.  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Gwen nodded, studying the younger woman.  She would be Lady Fanny, if she recalled correctly, the wife of Lord Willingham.  Lady Elizabeth would be her mother-in-law.  Gwen felt a flicker of sympathy for Lady Fanny, who clearly looked harried.  A mother-in-law who expected everything to be absolutely perfect would be an absolute nightmare.  God knew Gwen’s own mother had been quite unbearable at times to Gwen’s sister-in-law.  And there was little recourse when the men of the household weren’t expected to meddle in the female sphere.

“It’s all right,” Gwen said, as comfortingly as she could.  “Now, tell me what happened and –”

“It isn’t a suitable story for your ears,” Lady Elizabeth said.  “We thank you for coming ...”

Lady Fanny gave her mother-in-law a look of absolute despair.  Gwen felt nothing, but amused disbelief.  There was a fire, clearly of magical origin, burning through the manor house, several people might well have been killed or badly hurt ... and Lady Elizabeth was clinging to her preconceptions about what young women should or should not hear!  Like so many others Gwen had met, she was perfectly capable of denying reality if it suited her to do so.  Even the unavoidable truths of female existence were simply ignored by the older women.

“I will hear it,” Gwen said, purposely looking past the older woman.  “Tell me what happened, please.”

Lady Fanny looked as if she couldn’t quite believe what Gwen had done.  This far from London, Lady Elizabeth’s will would reign supreme.  If she wanted to ignore reality, there was no one who could tell her otherwise, particularly with her son out of the country.  Indeed, from the notes Lord Mycroft had given her, Lady Elizabeth held some control over the property that wouldn’t relax until her death.  Judging by the way she treated her daughter-in-law, Gwen wouldn’t be too surprised if her death came sooner rather than later.

“I don’t quite know where to begin,” Lady Fanny said.  “I was in the sewing room, knitting blankets for the troops, when there were cries of fire.”

“And then the west wing started to burn,” Lady Elizabeth put in.  “They dragged a body out of the flames before they became too intense to handle.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed.  “A body?  Just one body?”

“Yes,” Lady Elizabeth confirmed.  “The Governess.”

Lady Fanny looked up, meeting Gwen’s eyes for the first time.  “My daughter is missing,” she insisted, despite the look she received from Lady Elizabeth.  “Where has she gone?”

“You don’t need to make a fuss,” Lady Elizabeth said, tartly.  “Your daughter will return to us, of that I am sure.”

Gwen felt her temper start to fray.  There were more important matters than maintaining the proper appearances and conduct at all times.  If Lady Fanny’s daughter was missing, it was hard to blame her for being worried, just as Gwen herself was worried about Olivia.  But older women tended to ensure that their children were brought up by governesses rather than doing the hard work of childrearing themselves.  They preferred to maintain an emotional distance between themselves and their children, just in case the children died when they were very young.

“You have given her too much freedom,” Lady Elizabeth continued, blithely.  “She has no doubt run out into the forest where she will hide for a few hours, before returning to us.”

Gwen looked over at Lady Fanny, purposefully ignoring the older woman.  “Take me to the Governess,” she ordered.  “I need to see the body.”

“It isn’t a fit sight for a young woman,” Lady Elizabeth said, as Lady Fanny started forward.  “I think it would be better if ...”

“I have seen more bodies in the last year then most soldiers see in their entire lives,” Gwen snapped.  She had no idea if that was actually true, but she had seen far too many dead bodies in her short career.  Some of them had even reanimated and tried to kill her.  “And you will hold your tongue or I will see to it that you are socially blacklisted everywhere in High Society.”

Lady Elizabeth opened her mouth and shut it again with a loud snap.  Gwen was the Royal Sorceress, Master Thomas’s designated heir ... and someone who had the ear of a great many important personages.  And she was the person who had earned the eternal gratitude of most of High Society by destroying blackmail material that would otherwise be used against them ...

“Stay here,” Gwen ordered.  No doubt Lady Elizabeth would eventually convince herself that she hadn’t heard what she’d heard, but for the moment she’d stay quiet.  Gwen looked over at Lady Fanny and winked.  “Take me to the body.”

She eyed the younger woman carefully as Lady Fanny led her away from the manor, towards a copse of trees where the female servants had gathered.  Most of them were young, young enough to be easy to dominate, although a handful were clearly older and tougher.  But Lady Fanny looked almost as beaten down as some of the younger servants, despite being a born aristocrat.  It was clear that Lady Elizabeth had wasted no time imposing her authority on her new daughter-in-law.

“You don’t have to put up with her, you know,” Gwen said, softly.  It was strange to realise that she might have ended up in the same boat, if she hadn’t been born with magic.  Her marriage would have been arranged for best advantage and she would have been expected to simply accept whatever her father decided.  “There are places to go.”

“Not for me,” Lady Fanny said, so quietly that Gwen could barely hear her.  “My family would never take me back.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said.  The Swing had caused a number of changes in society, but there was still so much injustice and mistreatment at all levels.  It was far from unknown for servants to be regularly beaten by their masters, even though it was technically illegal.  And Lady Elizabeth could ensure that they never worked again, if they left her.  “I’m truly sorry.”

They stopped in front of a blanket covering a body.  Gwen knelt down, ignoring the gasp from Lady Fanny, and drew the blanket back, revealing a woman she vaguely recognised.  She was tall, almost skeletally thin, with a tart disapproving face and an expression that suggested she was permanently sucking on a lemon.  Her hair was drawn back into a tight bun, so tight that Gwen knew she spent too much time each day pinning it firmly into place.  And her right shoulder was missing completely, along with her arm and parts of her throat.

“A Blazer did this,” Gwen muttered, as she examined the wound.  The heat had been sufficient to seal the damage or the woman would have bled to death, although it was clearly immaterial.  She doubted anyone could have survived such wounds long enough to reach a Healer, assuming there was one in the area.  “Who is this woman?”

“Madame Constant,” Lady Fanny said.  “She came with very high recommendations.”

Gwen shuddered.  She’d only met Madame Constant once, but it had ended badly for both of them.  Madame Constant believed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that children needed a firm hand to guide them along the path to adulthood, with every small deviation punished intensely.  Lady Mary, Gwen’s mother, had hired Madame Constant as one of the endless series of governesses that had tried to bring up the young Gwen.  But Madame Constant had taken one look at Gwen’s magic and resigned on the spot.  If half the stories Gwen had heard about how she brought up children were true, it was hard to blame her.

“She would have done,” Gwen said.  She looked up, sharply.  “And you trusted your daughter with her?”

“Lady Elizabeth chose her,” Lady Fanny said.  “I wasn’t consulted.”

“This is your daughter’s education,” Gwen said.  “Your daughter’s life.  You shouldn’t let your mother-in-law supervise the development of a girl far too young to stand up for herself.”

She shuddered, again.  Madame Constant was – had been – a firm believer in the concept that sparing the rod spoilt the child.  Gwen had no doubt that she would have been very harsh to Lady Fanny’s daughter, all in the interests of making her a proper young lady.  She’d occasionally seen the victims of constant beatings at Cavendish Hall.  They flinched away from every sharp noise and were suspicious of comforting words.  And they were often so scared of the magic within them that they repressed it until it burst out and wreaked havoc.

She straightened up and looked back at the manor.  Had Lady Fanny’s daughter developed magic?

It was simple enough to identify a magician, although she had no idea if Susan Willingham had ever been tested, but almost impossible to predict when a magician might actually come into his or her powers.  Gwen herself still flinched in horror from the memory of the day her magic had come to life, even though she had continued to learn as much as she could without guidance from anyone else.  Other magicians had developed their powers when stressed, threatened with death ... or, in one case, drinking himself into a stupor.  That particular development had been nasty.  It had taken days to clean up the mess.

“So,” she said, as evenly as possible, “how did Madame Constant treat your daughter?”

“I thought she was doing a good job,” Lady Fanny said.  “She was hired to teach reading and writing, Latin and history ... and music.  Susan was doing well ... I didn’t see any problems.”

Gwen felt her face harden.  She hadn’t seen any problems either, not with how she’d treated the servants in Crichton Hall or with the more generalised treatment of the poor and powerless in London.  It had taken Jack to open her eyes and show her just how badly the latter had suffered under the aristocracy.  There were far too many others in the aristocracy who never saw it at all.  

Or think the poor deserve it for being born poor, Gwen thought, bitterly.  Even now, it was hard for someone to climb out of the gutters and into the middle class, let alone the aristocracy.  There was just so much weighted against them.  

“Of course you didn’t,” Gwen said.  “Was Susan the only person Madame Constant was teaching?”

“Well ... Susan was the only person she was hired to teach,” Lady Fanny said.  “But Jo, Susan’s personal maid, would often join the lessons.”

Gwen lifted her eyebrows.  It wasn’t uncommon for the servants to join the lessons, particularly the servants who were no older than the children of the house, but it sounded oddly charitable for Madame Constant.  If the woman had ever had a charitable thought in her life Gwen would have been astonished.  She’d always seemed more interested in hammering her idea of how to behave into her victims’ heads.

Maybe I misjudged her, she thought, sourly.  She didn’t try to teach me for very long.

She looked down at the body again, studying the damage.  Up close, it was clear that Madame Constant hadn’t ever had children of her own.  Gwen was no medical expert – most of the textbooks she’d devoured had actually concealed truths, rather than revealed them – but the older woman looked too thin to ever have children.  A nasty thought struck her, but a quick check revealed that Madame Constant was definitely female.  Embarrassed, she ignored the coughing sound from Lady Fanny and straightened up.  If she could pass for a man from time to time, why couldn’t a man pass for a woman?

It’s harder to fool women than men, she reminded herself, sharply.

“I think hiring her was a mistake,” she said, as she looked down at the dead body.  “And your daughter is likely to carry the scars for a long time to come.”

Lady Fanny blanched.

Gwen ignored her as she turned back towards the fire.  The firemen had intensified their efforts, yet the flames had neither faded away nor spread to the rest of the house.  She fought down the urge to laugh as she realised the truth, then started to walk towards the flames, Lady Fanny scampering after her as if she didn’t quite believe what Gwen was doing.  Up close, the heat was almost overpowering.  Gwen felt sweat trickling down her back as she walked closer to the flames.

“Stay here,” she ordered.

Bracing herself, she pushed forward, closing her eyes and concentrating her mind.  The heat grew even hotter, but it didn’t burn her flesh.  Smirking to herself, she kept walking forward, feeling the heat fading away to nothingness.  An illusion, she told herself, as she opened her eyes.  Someone with more power than skill had created a small fire and an illusion of a very large one.  There was almost no real damage at all.

Outside, she heard shouting from the firemen, none of whom seemed to be able to believe their eyes.  Gwen felt a moment of sympathy for them – they’d probably be blamed for soaking the house in their struggle against the illusory fire, once the illusion stopped affecting them too – then she stepped forward, into the schoolroom.

Inside, she was greeted by a scene from hell.

Chapter Three

The schoolroom itself wasn’t too different from the study Gwen had used when she’d been a child, working her way through an endless succession of tutors.  There was a pair of desks, a larger desk for the teacher and a blackboard, which had been badly marred by the fire.  A shattered cane lay on the floor, smashed into a dozen pieces.  One cupboard lay smashed open, revealing dried food and bottled water.  She looked over towards the shattered window and winced, inwardly, as she saw the blood and the mangled remains of Madame Constant’s arm.  Her body had been blown right out of the window.  

Should have asked where they found the body, stupid, Gwen told herself, as she searched the room quickly and efficiently.  There was no sign of where the children – both children – had gone, but someone could easily have taken a small amount of dried food from one cupboard and a bottle of water from another.  It suggested that there had been no preplanning before they’d fled, Gwen noted, although it was impossible to say for sure.  The whole affair might have been carefully planned in advance.

Pushing the thought aside, she looked over towards the other door and realised that it led to a second room.  Peeking through, she discovered the mangled remains of a Grand Piano – one that had probably cost more than Gwen made in a year – lying on the floor, ripped to pieces.  It didn’t look as though it had been blasted by a Blazer, something that worried Gwen more than she cared to admit.  If Susan was displaying more than one kind of magic, it suggested she was a Master Magician, just like Gwen.  Finding another Master would be a relief, but it would also be a major problem.  The elements within the Royal Sorcerers Corps that hated the idea of Gwen leading them would have a collective fit when they realised that her successor would also be female.

And not a very patient one, she thought, remembering her own music lessons.  Those hadn’t lasted very long.  She simply hadn’t had the patience to learn to play anything, not even the penny whistle Dave had given her as a joke.  But then, the whistle hadn’t lasted any longer than the short time it had taken Lady Mary to realise she had it and confiscate it, despite their joint complaints.  Anyone would have thought she considered whistle-playing undignified for a young lady.

Gwen smiled at the thought, then walked out of the door and onto the grass.  Ahead of her, there was a forest.  It was nowhere near deep and dark enough to hide someone indefinitely, Gwen noted, but a child might not realise that.  Gwen felt a moment of envy – she would have loved to run through the woods as a little girl – and kept walking until she was at the very edge of the forest.  Closing her eyes, she concentrated on her magic, trying to feel out where the children might be hiding.  But there was so much life running through the woods that it was impossible to detect them ... if, of course, they hadn’t run further.  Gwen silently prayed they hadn’t as she opened her eyes and walked into the woods.  A great many things could happen to children in the countryside, few of them good.

She smiled again, feeling an odd sense of relaxation as she strode deeper and deeper into the small forest.  Birds sang in the trees overhead, reminding her just how much she enjoyed her few excursions out of London.  A sudden bitter pang tore at her heart as she recalled that Olivia had loved those excursions too, the chance to be alone together.  But Gwen’s work didn’t allow her much time to merely enjoy herself.  

I’ll find you, she promised silently.  And whoever took you will not live to regret it.

She paused as she heard the sounds of birds flapping away from a distant corner of the forest.  Something had scared them ... and birds in the countryside were smart enough to be afraid of humans.  Hunting was a common pastime, even for the poorest in the land; a bird could feed a family if it was caught in a trap or even shot down with a shotgun.  She turned and walked towards the sound, not bothering to conceal her approach.  If the children tried to run, she could catch them with her magic.  And besides, they would probably react better if she was clearly not trying to sneak up on them.

There was a sudden sound ahead of her, followed by a shape darting from a hiding place and running away from her.  Gwen reached out with her magic and caught at the figure, then felt a sudden surge of resistance; frighteningly powerful, but utterly unfocused.  Susan had no real training, Gwen noted, as she lost her grip on the girl.  And then a burst of magic flashed out of a bush and over Gwen’s head.  She ducked, almost a moment too late, as part of the mystery unravelled itself in front of her.  There were two children and both of them had magic.

“Enough,” she called, putting as much command into her tone as she could.  Her mother had taught her how to issue commands to children and inferiors, after all, warning the young Gwen never to even hint that she thought they might not obey.  Weakness invited challenges and attacks.  “We need to talk.”

There was another burst of magic, stronger this time.  Gwen caught it on her own magic and watched as the flash of light broke up harmlessly.  She gritted her teeth, then pushed as much Charm into her voice as she could.  If her growing suspicions were correct, neither of the girls would have any real defence against blunt Charm.

“Come here,” she ordered, feeling the magic rippling through the air.  “Now.”

There was a long pause, then two young girls appeared from the undergrowth, staggering towards her as if they were trying to resist her command.  One of them was wearing a fine dress that looked as though it had seen better days; it was muddy, torn and ripped ... and probably completely beyond repair.  Gwen shuddered to think of what Lady Mary would have said if she’d ruined a dress that cost upwards of twenty pounds.  She looked enough like Lady Fanny that Gwen had no hesitation in placing her as Susan Willingham.

The other wore a tattered dress that seemed to have survived the brief excursion to the forest better than Susan’s.  She was smaller and thinner, with a nasty scar on her cheek that looked to have been made recently, perhaps within the last few hours.  Her dark face and plainly braided hair suggested a poorer origin than Susan, although it was clear by the way the two girls clung together that they were definitely friends.  Gwen felt a cold sensation in her chest as she worked out the remainder of the story, recalling the damage she’d seen in the schoolroom.

“You must be Jo,” Gwen said, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible.  Inspector Lestrade’s methods for interrogating suspects might work on burly men, but they would probably reduce young children to tears.  “My name is Gwen.  I’m the Royal Sorceress.”

Susan’s eyes went wide.  “You’re her?”

Gwen smiled, then levitated herself a few inches above the ground.  “Yes,” she said, simply.

Susan’s face went very dark.  “I’m not going back,” she said.  Raw sparks of magic flickered around her face, each one glittering with deadly energy.  “I won’t go back.”

“Probably not,” Gwen said.  She sat down on the ground, heedless of the mud staining the seat of her trousers, then motioned for the girls to sit down too.  “But I do need to know what happened today.”

Jo looked alarmed.  “It was my fault,” she said, softly.  “Everything was my fault.”

“No it wasn’t,” Susan snapped.  She caught Jo’s hand and held it, tightly.  “It was the crone’s fault.”

Gwen smiled.  “Madame Constant?”

“Yeah,” Susan said, rebelliously.  She would probably have been told off for slurring her words like that, if she’d been in the schoolroom.  “It was all her fault.”

“Then tell me what happened,” Gwen urged.  “Start from the beginning, then go on until the end.”

The two girls exchanged helpless glances, then Susan started to talk.  “We were supposed to learn together,” she said.  “Jo was meant to learn too.  But every time I made a mistake, the crone punished Jo.  Look at her face.”

Gwen gritted her teeth.  A whipping boy ... girl, in this case.  She’d read about them in books, but she’d never heard of anyone actually trying in real life.  An aristocratic boy would be given a friend from the poorest level of society, someone who could be whipped if the young aristocrat acted badly.  In theory, the aristocrat would be overcome with guilt at watching his friend get punished and stop acting badly.  Gwen suspected that, based on some of the more entitled aristocratic magicians she had to deal with as Royal Sorceress, the noble youth would as likely watch and laugh as his friend suffered.  Not everyone was moved by someone else’s pain, particularly those who had never been taught basic empathy in the first place.

“Jo could make things move,” Susan said.  “I used to love watching her make our dolls dance, but when the crone found out she struck her across the face.  And then I ... I ...”

Her voice trailed away.  Susan and Jo might have come from very different places in society, but their shared magic – even if they weren’t completely aware of it – would have brought them together.  Gwen felt another sudden stab of envy, wishing she’d had a magical friend, even if she’d only been a serving girl.  But she’d never met another magician until Master Thomas strode into her life and recruited her to serve as his successor.

“Your magic burst out,” Gwen said, softly.  “What happened?”

“There was fire everywhere,” Susan said.  “The crone fell backwards, her shoulder was burning; Jo threw her out the window, but the flames kept spreading.  And we ran ...”

“You can’t run any longer,” Gwen said.  She stood up, using magic to sweep the mud off her trousers.  “But I don’t think you will be staying here either.”

Susan stepped in front of Jo protectively.  “I won’t let you take her to jail,” she said, with an icy firmness that reminded Gwen of several much older girls.  “I won’t!”

Gwen was tempted to point out that it had been Susan who’d killed Madame Constant, but held her tongue.  Susan had been conditioned to believe that her friend would pay the price for her misdeeds; even now, even after someone had died, she still clung to the fear of her friend being punished.  Perhaps the whole concept of the whipping girl worked after all ... Gwen considered it briefly, then shook her head.  It was cruel, heartless and thoroughly unpleasant.

“She won’t go to jail,” Gwen assured her.  In crimes involving magic, it was her judgement that was final.  Besides, it was an established point of law that accidental magic, unleashed when the magician first came into his or her powers, wasn’t a criminal offence.  “But neither of you can stay here.  You’ll both come back with me to Cavendish Hall.”

Susan’s eyes lit up. “You’ll teach me how to use magic?”

“Someone definitely will,” Gwen said.  The British Empire needed all the magic-users it could get, even if they happened to be born female.  Besides, Susan was clearly powerful if she’d managed to create such a realistic illusion and leave it in place for several hours.  “And you won’t have to worry about Madame Constant ever again.”

She watched as the two girls shared a long hug, knowing that one day they would realise that they’d actually killed someone, no matter how unpleasant she’d been.  Gwen herself hadn’t handled the knowledge very well, other magicians had merely taken it in their stride or had a few rough nights before they came to terms with the simple fact that they’d ended a person’s life.  It wouldn’t be easy for them at Cavendish Hall – they’d be younger than most of the students there – but it was the best place for them.  Besides, it would be a good chance for them to catch up on their education in other matters too.

“Come on,” she said.  “The carriage is waiting.”

The two girls followed her out of the forest, muttering excitedly to one another.  Gwen smiled, remembering her own enthusiasm when she’d finally been allowed to attend Cavendish Hall, then schooled her face into a blank expression when she saw Lady Elizabeth striding across the lawn towards them.  Her face was set in grim lines that Gwen recognised from her own mother, the absolute certainty that she was in the right combined with a reluctance to listen to anyone else.  Gwen gritted her teeth in cold determination, then stepped forward.  There was no point in handing someone like Lady Elizabeth the chance to get their word in first.

“I will be taking the girls back with me to Cavendish Hall,” she said, shortly.  “Susan and Jo will each be allowed to bring one bag of clothing and a handful of treasured possessions.  Any ... paperwork relating to Jo will be transferred to me and handled by my lawyers.  There will be time, later on, for Lady Fanny to visit her daughter, but for the moment it is vitally important that she finds her feet at Cavendish Hall.”

Lady Elizabeth’s mouth fell open.  No sounds emerged.

“Go get a bag of clothing each,” Gwen ordered the girls.  She waited for them to run past Lady Elizabeth and into the manor, then looked back at Lady Elizabeth.  “Madame Constant’s body is to be placed in a sealed coffin and shipped to Cavendish Hall for disposal, along with any personal possessions she might have. I shall expect to receive them within the next two days.”

“But ...”  Lady Elizabeth finally managed to stammer.

Gwen gave her a completely sweet, completely fake smile.  “You will say nothing about the affair here to anyone,” she continued.  Lady Elizabeth could probably be relied upon to cover the whole affair up, but it was well to make sure of it.  “The firemen will be dismissed, with enough money to ensure they hold their tongues.  I do not want a single word to get into the broadsheets.  Do you understand me?”

Lady Elizabeth stared at her helplessly.  She would have been less surprised, Gwen suspected, if Gwen had slapped her across the face.  The whole idea of a young woman, someone younger than her, actually issuing orders was preposterous, at least to her mindset.  Young ladies were there to be guided by their superiors, taught how to think and act and not to question those who happened to be significantly older.  And, if a young lady dared to act independently, her reputation could be ruined.

But Gwen was immune to all such threats.  Lady Elizabeth had nothing to threaten her with ... and they both knew it.

“Yes,” she said, finally.  She drew herself up to her full height and glowered at Gwen.  “You will see to it that the serving girl does not return?”

Gwen thought about pointing out that Susan was also a magician, but kept the thought to herself.  Lady Elizabeth was probably old enough to remember when magic was new and freakish, a feared change in the world ... and she probably still believed that it was almost exclusively a male domain.  It was stupid, Gwen knew; there had been female magicians long before she’d come into her own powers.  But people like Lady Elizabeth were very good at ignoring things that didn’t fit into their worldview.  Clearly, she’d never even realised that Jo was a magician until the truth had been rubbed in her face.

“Yes,” she said, instead.  Jo’s existence produced other problems, but they could be handled, particularly with the help of a good lawyer.  “You will send me all the documentation concerning her, of course.”

Lady Elizabeth nodded, without arguing.  Gwen was surprised.  Jo’s youth suggested that she had been bought from her family, as easily as one would sell a dog or a cat.  The thought made Gwen sick, even though she knew that Master Thomas had effectively done the same thing when he’d convinced Gwen’s family to let him take her to Cavendish Hall.  But while Gwen had been groomed to be the Royal Sorceress, Jo had been treated as a slave.  It was illegal, now, to sell children.  And yet, it wasn’t enough to stop the trade.

And Jo was lucky, Gwen thought, remembering some of the places Jack had shown her.  It had been a bitter education, an introduction to a world she’d never known existed.  There are far worse places to be than here.

Gwen stepped away from Lady Elizabeth, had a brief conversation with Lady Fanny, then waited for the two girls to come running back into the open.  Susan had a small leather case of clothes, but Jo was carrying hers in a cloth bag.  Somehow, Gwen wasn’t surprised.  No matter the letter of the law, Jo’s owners had been under no obligation to do more than provide her with the bare minimum.  It was sickening, but it was legal.

“Get into the carriage,” she ordered, then followed them in herself.  “Cavendish Hall, please.”

The driver cracked the whip.  Moments later, the carriage shuddered to life and started to take them away from Willingham Hall.  Gwen sat back in her seat, then sighed inwardly.  The brief diversion had helped her to forget Olivia, but now the incident was over she remembered her missing daughter.  Looking at the two girls in front of her, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d have to adopt them too.  And yet the thought was almost a betrayal of her first daughter.

She looked down at her pale hands, shivering.  Just where was Olivia?

Chapter Four

“Well,” Ivan said.  “Did you enjoy your voyage?”

Olivia glared at him, but the Charmer only laughed.  He’d kept her in her cabin most of the time, bound by chains far harder to escape than ropes or handcuffs. She knew, intellectually, that she should be screaming with rage or fear, but instead she felt nothing apart from a damnable coolness that provided no impetus to break his commands.  He’d done a very good job of binding her to him.

He held out a hand as the ship rocked, slightly.  “Come with me,” he ordered.  “I have some surprises for you.”

Olivia followed him, helplessly.  She didn’t want to know what a Charmer might consider a nice surprise – she’d met too many Charmers to believe that any of them were decent people – but he wasn’t giving her a choice.  Outside, she heard the sound of people calling out in the same language she’d heard every day, one that remained frustratingly impenetrable to her.  And then she shivered as a gust of wind blew down the corridor, setting her teeth to chattering madly.  She’d slept in the open in London in winter, when she hadn’t stolen enough money to get a place to stay in the Rookery, but this was far colder.  She couldn’t help wondering if she was about to freeze to death.

“In here,” Ivan said, as the boat rocked again.  “I think we found the right size of clothes for you.”

Olivia frowned as she saw a set of clothes on the bed.  Most of them looked heavier than anything she’d seen in London, including a coat that seemed to be made of fur.  She stepped closer, wonderingly, and saw a bathtub at the far side of the room.  It was steaming so enthusiastically that she realised the temperature was dropping rapidly.

“Have a wash, then dress,” the Charmer ordered.  “Make sure you put on everything, including the coat and gloves.  The weather outside is colder than anything you might have experienced in London.”

Olivia opened her mouth to ask, even as her body went to work, if he was going to watch her undressing.  Instead, before she could ask, he stepped out of the hatch and locked it behind him.  Olivia muttered a word she’d learned in the Rookery under her breath, then undressed and dumped her clothes in the corner, cursing her own weakness.  Once, she would have thought nothing of wearing the same clothes for weeks, without washing them.  But that had been a different life in the Rookery, where being smelly and generally disgusting could save a person’s life. 

She washed herself as thoroughly as she could, then sorted through the clothes, trying to figure out in what order to put them on.  The aristocratic girls at Cavendish Hall had their own ideas about wearing underwear, even though no one actually saw them wearing it, but she had never bothered to try to follow their fashions.  Even though Gwen had given her an allowance for buying clothes, she rarely used it.  Instead, she’d salted it away in various places, just in case.  It had been months before she’d managed to stop hiding food too.

In the end, she pulled them on in what seemed the most suitable order, leaving the fur coat and gloves until last.  The outfit felt alarmingly hot after she’d washed herself, but she had a feeling that it would be necessary.  Two minutes after she’d finished, the door opened and Ivan looked her up and down.  She must have passed muster, because he beckoned for her to follow him rather than suggesting she change her clothes.  A moment later, they were climbing up the ladder to the deck.

The cold hit her like a sledgehammer, despite the coat and gloves.  Olivia felt herself shivering helplessly as she staggered over to the rail and looked around.  There were actual pieces of ice floating in the water!  She stared in frank disbelief – she’d never seen ice before, at least not floating on the water – and then looked towards the looming city in the distance.  One look was quite enough to tell her it wasn’t London.  The style of buildings was completely different.

She sucked in her breath sharply, the icy air stinging her throat.  Some of the buildings at the water’s edge looked like slums, if more firmly built than any of the slums outside London, but others looked strange, almost alien to her eyes.  Many of them were topped with onion-shaped structures, painted gold so they reflected the light of the sun.  The boat shuddered slightly as it altered course, taking them past an island that held a brooding fortress.  Olivia had seen the defences built along the Thames to defend London, but these were different.  Guns pointed in all directions, including towards the city itself.  It struck her, suddenly, that the fortress was intended to oppress the city as much as defend it.

It wasn’t the only visible defence, either.  Hundreds of guns were placed on both sides of the river, in position to engage any warship planning to raid the city.  Behind them, soldiers wearing dark uniforms marched and drilled, intent on keeping themselves warm through constant motion.  Olivia remembered snowy days in London and shivered in sympathy, wondering just how long the snow remained on the ground ... wherever she was.  The soldiers couldn’t have a very easy time of it.

Ivan came up beside her and leaned against the railing, staring out over the city.  Olivia looked across at him, then remembered she was allowed to ask questions.  He hadn’t tied up her tongue, merely told her never to speak to anyone apart from him or someone he introduced to her.  Shaking her head, she opened her mouth and posed the question he’d so far refused to answer.

“Where are we?”

“St. Petersburg,” Ivan said.  Clearly, he’d decided there was no point trying to keep her in the dark any longer.  “Russia.”

A piece of ice struck the boat gently as his words sank in.  Olivia knew little about geography outside London, but she had seen the map that hung on Gwen’s wall.  Russia was beyond the Franco-Spanish Empire, separated from the French by a handful of German states.  If London was a tiny dot on that map, Russia had to be thousands of miles from Britain ... she found herself shivering again as the sheer distance they’d travelled sank in, piece by piece.  She couldn’t stay with them, not when she knew what they intended to do with her.  If they’d just wanted to hurt Gwen, they would have killed Olivia by now.  But even if she broke free, where would she go?  

“Oh,” she said, cursing the damnable coolness once again.  “And what are we doing here?”

“Closest safe port,” Ivan assured her.  The boat shuddered as it hit yet another piece of ice, which was nudged aside by the impact.  “I don’t think the ice poses much danger.”

He straightened up and pointed towards a large wharf, near yet another gun emplacement.  A handful of men wearing large fur hats and carrying rifles were waiting for them, standing beside a number of horses.  Olivia smiled at their appearance – horsemen seemed to share the same sense of arrogance and daring-do, wherever they were – but then realised that they were her escort.  They would take her to her final destination.  And then ... she didn’t know precisely what would happen, but she was sure it would be nothing good.

She thought desperately as the boat made its slow way towards the pier, but nothing occurred to her.  Russia ... she didn’t know the language and knew no one who did, apart from Ivan and his crew.  She knew a little French and Latin, thanks to the tutors Gwen had hired, but she knew no Russian at all.  If she broke free, she wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone, no matter who they were.  Unless there was a British Embassy somewhere in the city ... Gwen had been charged with assigning magicians to embassies, and St. Petersburg was a capital city, so it was likely that there was an embassy somewhere close by.  But where?

A dull thump echoed through the ship as it docked.  A handful of men, who were shirtless despite the cold, scrambled off the boat and hastily tied it up to the pier.  Olivia found herself staring at them, wondering how they could endure the cold long enough to do their work without freezing to death.  Ivan could have told her, she assumed, but he was already speaking in Russian to another man.  After a moment, he motioned for her to follow him towards the gangplank.  Gritting her teeth, Olivia trailed after him, uncomfortably aware of the stares following her.  The crew must have known they’d had a strange passenger, but just how much did they actually know about her?

That’s why he wanted me to stay in my cabin, she thought, as she reached the edge of the gangplank and started down carefully.  It was icy and felt dangerously unstable under her feet.  He didn’t want the crew to know more than they absolutely needed to know.

She lost her footing, suddenly, and landed on her bottom.  As the horsemen laughed at her, she slipped and slid to the foot of the gangplank, silently grateful she hadn’t fallen into the water.  Ivan held out a hand, helped her to her feet and patted her back in a gesture she suspected was intended to be paternal – or possessive.  She glared up at him, then looked over at the horses.  Gwen had offered to teach her how to ride, but they’d never actually managed to get around to it.  Olivia hadn’t minded too much.  She’d always found horses a little scary.

“These are Cossacks,” Ivan said, by way of introduction.  “Loyal to the Father Tsar: his most dedicated servants.”

Olivia eyed the Cossacks with some interest, recalling tales she’d heard in London.  They were brutal, she’d heard, utterly ruthless when it came to serving the interests of the Tsar.  And they were monsters in human form ... although she knew better than to take that too seriously.  The first time she’d met a Frenchman, she’d honestly expected him to look like a giant monkey.  But instead he’d just looked like any other foppish nobleman.

Up close, the Cossacks were definitely hairy, with long beards and moustaches that looked straggly and uncut.  Unlike the men in London, who seemed to pride themselves on neatly-trimmed facial hair, they seemed utterly unkempt.  And yet there was a sense of intelligence about them that bothered her, combined with a brutality matching that of the goons she recalled from the Rookery.  The Cossacks would do anything for their Father Tsar, she realised, including taking her to her final destination.

Ivan caught her arm and propelled her towards one of the horses.  Olivia shrank back as the brute snorted at her, shuddering in fear.  The Charmer laughed, picked her up and practically threw her over the horse.  For a terrifying moment, she thought she was going to fall over the other side of the beast and felt absolute panic gripping at her mind.  She caught hold of the saddle and managed to pull herself into the seat, her mind feeling clearer than it had in days.  The panic had broken Ivan’s commands!

She forced herself to remain calm as the Cossacks raised a shout and started to canter down the road, along a street crammed with people, wagons and even a handful of small carriages.  The Cossacks didn’t stop for anything; they just charged forward, knocking people and wagons out of the way by force.  Olivia saw an elderly woman knocked over by one of the horses, then a pair of young boys jumping back to avoid a blow from a whip.  The horses only picked up speed as they kept running faster and faster, as if they were being chased by the hordes of hell.  Or, perhaps, as if they didn’t want to get caught in a single place.  It made sense, she told herself, as she saw a woman with two children being whipped across the face.  Olivia had seen horsemen brought down by crowds during the Swing ...

A set of wagons was suddenly in front of them, accidentally blocking the road.  Olivia saw her chance and pulled hard on the reins, bringing the horse to a sudden stop.  Moments later, she jumped off the beast’s back, landed as well as could be expected and started to run, silently thanking the god she didn’t really believe in that the Russians had made her wear trousers.  Running in a dress was damn near impossible, at least for her.  She had a suspicion that the Grand Mistresses of Fashion preferred to make it harder for young women to run away from them.

She heard shouts behind her as she plunged into an alleyway, silently praying that the street was too narrow for the horses.  Like any London alleyway, it was jammed with homeless people trying to get what comfort they could by huddling together.  She jumped over a pair of women who looked to be around fifty years of age, but were probably a great deal younger – people aged quickly on the streets – and then turned down another alleyway.  Behind her, the shouts were growing louder.  She darted onwards, turning into yet another alleyway, then out onto a main street.  A handful of stallholders eyed her darkly for a long moment, then looked away as she ran past them and down the street.

And then someone caught her hand.  Olivia swung around, just in time to see a young boy who couldn’t have been much older than she was.  She threw a punch at him anyway, only to discover that he was just as experienced in dirty fighting as her; he sidestepped her punch, then slammed a haymaker into her jaw.  Olivia tasted blood in her mouth as she stumbled, then heard the sound of hooves behind her.  Moments later, a Cossack slipped off his horse, yanked her to her feet and slashed his whip across her back.  She felt it even through the clothes she’d been ordered to wear.

She’d been beaten before, during her time on the streets.  It was just one of the occupational hazards of living rough, at least for boys.  Girls had it worse, which was at least partly why Olivia had worked hard to pose as a boy.  She’d believed herself inured to being beaten.  But six months of living in relative luxury and freedom – Gwen had never raised a hand to her and she’d forbidden the tutors to even think about corporal punishment – had weakened her more than she’d realised.  The brief beating hurt far more than it should have done.  She didn’t want to think about what it would have felt like if he’d stripped her naked before laying into her.  She found herself lying on the road, grunting in pain, as the others came up to join her captor.

“That was foolish,” Ivan said.  Olivia stared up at him mutely, then spat at him.  “Even if you managed to get away from us, where would you go?”

He rolled her over, caught her hands and pulled them behind her back.  Moments later, she felt solid metal cuffs clicking around her wrists, so tightly that she could feel the flow of blood to her hands being constricted.  She wondered, briefly, why he didn’t simply Charm her back into dumb obedience, then realised that he had to be having doubts about the efficiency of his powers.  If he hadn’t scared her so badly earlier, she would have remained his obedient servant.  Or his slave.  She wanted to cry as he clicked a second pair of handcuffs around her ankles, then hauled her to her feet.  Walking almost any distance would be damn near impossible.  

One of the Cossacks said something in Russian.  Olivia looked over at him and realised he was holding the boy who’d caught her by the arm.  Ivan said something back and the boy tried to run, too late.  The Cossack drew his sword – it looked like a cutlass – and sliced through the boy’s throat in one smooth motion.  Olivia felt sick as the boy’s body tumbled to the ground, and for the first time, found herself missing the Bow Street Runners.  They could be brutal and utterly unsympathetic, but they didn’t kill informers out of hand.  But, she realised bitterly, the Cossacks had killed him just to issue a warning to her.  They would happily kill her too, if they didn’t need her.

Ivan picked her up, then threw her over the horse.  Olivia gasped in pain as her bruised jaw hit the side of the animal, then realised that she was going to be carried in this absurd and undignified position.  Ivan slapped her bottom, hard enough to sting, then walked around and shook his head sadly at her.  He didn’t look a bit regretful, merely annoyed.  Olivia wanted to spit at him again, but resisted the temptation.  It was clear that they were quite prepared to beat her into submission if they considered it necessary.

She scowled at him, then winced as he patted her head and strode back to his own horse.  If there was one thing the Rookery had taught her, it was the value of patience.  There would be other opportunities to escape, she told herself firmly, and when she saw them she would take them.  And next time she would be much more careful.  Her next escape would be far better planned.

The horses neighed as their riders let out a shout, then started cantering forwards again.  This time, thankfully, there were fewer people in the streets, but there were still some very close calls.  Olivia finally closed her eyes, forcing herself to block out the sights around her.  All she could do, she told herself bitterly, was wait.  There would be a chance, she was sure ...

... Because the alternative was giving in to despair.

Chapter Five

Gwen heard the marching band long before the players – and the soldiers – came into view, parading along Pall Mall to the beat of a drum.  The 5th Highland Regiment was marching to take up positions in the southeast of England, preparing for a French invasion – or to invade France itself, if that seemed possible.  Hundreds of children were clapping and cheering as the Highlanders marched onwards, while young women – even some clearly of aristocratic birth – were smiling and waving at the soldiers.  Gwen had to smile, despite the constant fear for her daughter in her heart.  Every girl seemed to love a soldier.

But then, Britain doesn’t have a large standing army, she reminded herself.  The Royal Navy – the impregnable wooden walls defending the nation – made it impossible for an enemy to actually land on British soil.  Or so they hoped; she knew enough about recent developments in naval technology to fear that the Royal Navy might have some rough days ahead.  But the last time Britain had had a standing army, it had proved as unpopular as they now were in France, Russia and even the German states.

She smiled as she stepped inside the café and sat down, taking a seat in the window.  It was a fashionable place these days, although Gwen had no idea why.  A handful of middle-aged women sat in one corner, pretending not to look at the soldiers, while several young couples were chatting at private tables.  They were being chaperoned, Gwen noted, just to make sure that nothing untoward happened before their weddings.  It would be a major scandal if a couple was found to have anticipated their wedding night.  And it would almost always be blamed on the girl.  Women were often charged with being unable to control their emotions.

Gwen snorted, remembering Sir Charles.  She had been attracted to him, she had to admit, but she hadn’t allowed her emotions to blind her too far.  It could easily have been a great deal worse, she knew, if she hadn’t realised just how carefully he was manipulating her.  And then ... she would probably have lost her position, if not her life.  A husband would be in an excellent position to stick a knife in her back.

She looked over at one of the young couples – the girl younger than Gwen, the boy a couple of years older – and felt a stab of envy.  They were innocent, ignorant of the responsibilities of adulthood, the responsibilities that Gwen had assumed when Master Thomas had died.  She wouldn’t trade her position for a return to aristocratic life, not as a young lady under her mother’s thumb, but it would be nice to be able to put the burden down for a while.  And yet there were no other Master Magicians ready to take her place.   As far as she knew, she was the last Master Magician to be discovered.

The door opened, revealing Lord Mycroft and another man.  Gwen rose to her feet and smiled at Lord Mycroft, then nodded at the newcomer.  They were very different; Lord Mycroft was immensely fat, with the sharp lines of his face weakened by overeating, while the stranger was tall and thin, with short ginger hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.  Gwen eyed him sharply, remembering Sir Charles.  The newcomer had the same air of infinite competence around him as her would-be seducer and betrayer had had.  But she’d killed him in the end.

“Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said.  “Thank you for coming.”

Gwen sat down and waved to the waiter, who bustled over with a set of menus.  Lord Mycroft ordered tea and cake without bothering to actually look at the list of foods; the stranger inspected it minutely, before ordering tea and scones for himself.  Gwen ordered a cup of tea for herself, then settled back in her chair.  It was rare for Lord Mycroft to be seen outside his office, his apartment or the Diogenes Club.  For him to come to a café, no matter how fashionable, and meet her there was extraordinary.  It suggested that there was some deeper purpose to the meeting.

“Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said.  “Allow me to introduce you to Sir Sidney Campbell, one of my special agents.”

Sir Sidney stood up and bowed, then took Gwen’s hand and kissed it lightly.  “Charmed,” he said.  His voice held a faint Scottish accent, suggesting that his family came from the other side of the border, but that he’d spent enough time in England to lose the brogue.  “It is always a pleasure to meet a magician.”

Gwen smiled, despite herself.  “You’re one of the few people who would say that,” she said, dryly.  “Far too many people find magicians unwanted company.”

The waiter returned, carrying a large teapot, a jug of milk, three cups and a plate of cakes and scones.  Gwen couldn’t help noticing that one of the cups was significantly smaller than the other two, suggesting that she was expected to have a feminine quantity of tea.   Rolling her eyes at the casual preconceptions of a world that expected her to be dainty and ladylike, she stood and poured tea for all three of them, then settled back with the smaller cup.  There was enough liquid in the teapot for her to have another, if she felt like it.

Perhaps it does make sense, she thought reluctantly, as she saw one of the older women heading toward the toilet in the rear.  The lady’s dress would be hard to take off, particularly if she were in a hurry.  Gwen’s trousers were so much more practical, but, for women, propriety almost invariably prevailed over functionality and good sense.  We aren’t even expected to go to the toilet outside our homes.

Lord Mycroft took a piece of carrot cake, then settled back in his seat.  “There have been developments,” he said, without preamble.  “We have managed to trace Olivia’s path out of England.”

Gwen felt as though a knife had stabbed her heart.  If the kidnappers had wanted to kill the only known Necromancer, they could have killed Olivia at any moment and made their escape.   And if they’d wanted to trade her for ransom, they wouldn’t have taken her too far from Cavendish Hall.  But if they’d wanted to use her magic for themselves, they’d have to take her out of the country itself.

“Good,” she said, keeping her voice under tight control.  “Where did she go?”

“We traced her passage to the docks,” Lord Mycroft said.  It would have been his brother who had done the legwork, Gwen knew.  “She was transferred to a steamer that was, officially, bound for Sweden.  Unofficially, we have good reason to believe she was headed for Russia.”

Gwen muttered a very unladylike word, just loudly enough for them to hear.  Lord Mycroft showed no reaction; Sir Sidney merely smiled, as if she’d amused him in some way.  Gwen eyed him suspiciously, then sat up in her seat.  Russia.  The only consolation was that Olivia hadn’t been taken directly to France.  After the French had been blamed for the necromantic outbreak in London at the height of the Swing, they’d certainly want to get their hands on a living Necromancer.

But Russia ... almost nothing was known about the Russian magical program, although everyone assumed the Russians definitely had a program.  The French had been hampered by the Catholic Church’s resistance to any form of magic, even magic in the service of the Church; the Russians, as far as she knew, would have had no such obstacles barring their path to magical research.  If the Russians wanted a Necromancer ... what did they intend to do with her?  No matter who was behind the kidnap, no one would have gone to so much trouble unless they had a use in mind for a Necromancer.

“We don’t know,” Lord Mycroft confessed.  Gwen scowled.  As always, he could read her expressions and use them to divine her thoughts, far more subtly than the average mind-reading Talker.  “But we don’t think the Russians have anything good in mind.”

Gwen couldn’t disagree.  “We need to mount a rescue mission,” she said, firmly.  “Whatever the cost, we have to get her back.”

Sir Sidney smiled.  “Searching all of Russia for her would be tricky,” he observed.  “The Russians control more territory than us, most of it harsh and desolate wasteland.”

Lord Mycroft gave him a sharp look, then nodded.  “We don’t intend to just let this pass,” he said.  “But finding her is going to be a challenge.”

Gwen wanted to place her head in her hands.  He was right, she knew; they were both right.  It would be impossible to compel the Russians to return her daughter without the threat of force and she knew the global situation well enough to understand that threatening Russia wouldn’t be very easy.  Indeed, it would trigger the war that everyone expected to start at any moment.

“There are options, however,” Lord Mycroft continued.  “I do not believe that they would have taken her very far from St Petersburg, their capital.  The Tsar likes to keep control of his Empire firmly in his own hands.  It is quite likely that their magic-research program is based there.”

He took a breath.  “At the moment, it is unclear if the Russians are actually planning to join the French in war against us or not,” he said.  “The Russians have been giving contradictory answers to everyone who asks, British or French.  On one hand, they want to wage war on the Turks; on the other, they’re reluctant to risk another war after the last one turned into a disaster.”

Gwen nodded.  Russia’s disastrous recent history had nearly brought about the collapse of its Empire.  Tsar Nicolas I had considered the Ottoman Empire a prime target for violence, perhaps with the long-term aim of recovering Istanbul for the Orthodox Faith.  But the Ottoman Sultan had been reforming his armies and regenerating his Empire’s moribund economy and the results had surprised everyone.  The Russians had been forced back, whole armies had been destroyed and dangerous tremors had run through the entire state.  In the end, the Russians had conceded defeat.  No one realistically expected them to accept it indefinitely.

“The Russians have agreed to accept an ambassadorial party to discuss matters,” Lord Mycroft continued, breaking into her thoughts.  “On the surface, this party will be intended to raise the possibility of keeping Russia out of the war, should it actually break out.”

“And with a covert purpose of finding my daughter,” Gwen said.

“Precisely,” Lord Mycroft said.

Gwen looked down at the pile of cakes for a long moment, then looked up at him.  “I will be accompanying the mission,” she said.  “I am the most capable magician available.”

Lord Mycroft looked embarrassed.  “We would prefer not to send you openly,” he said, after a long pause.  “You are simply far too recognisable.  Besides, the Russians would be very wary of you and your powers.  We don’t want to spook them when war is so close.”
Gwen glowered at him, rebelliously.  “I’m not leaving my daughter there,” she snapped.  “I will go if you like it or not.”

“I’m not asking you to leave her there,” Lord Mycroft said.  He leaned forward.  “You just can’t go as yourself.”

“You want me to go in disguise,” Gwen said.  She looked down at her mannish trousers and winced, inwardly.  It was simple enough to pose as a man for a few short hours, but the longer she tried to maintain the deception, the more cracks would appear in the act.  There was no way she could go to a male toilet – at least a public one – without revealing her true sex.  “As what?”

Sir Sidney leaned forward.  “As a maid,” he said, flatly.  “No one ever pays attention to the help.”

He was right, Gwen knew.  As a child, she’d thrilled to stories of brave adventurers making their way through enemy territory disguised as servants, traders or even religious figures.  Sir Charles had seemed a dream come true, when they’d met, simply because he reminded her of her childhood heroes.  And he’d actually dressed up as a native and walked among them, sight unseen.  A servant would pass unnoticed where a noblewoman would be blindingly obvious.

“To be precise, we will insert you into the Ambassador’s retinue as one of the maids,” Lord Mycroft said.  “He will be unaware of your true identity, as will everyone else on the mission with the exception of Sir Sidney.  You will be required to play the role until you find Olivia and recover her, whereupon Sir Sidney will assume command of the mission and act as he sees fit.  We have provided sealed orders for him to use if necessary.”

“I see,” Gwen said.  “It sounds like a workable plan.”

She smiled.  There was no point in trying to direct events from thousands of miles away.  The British Empire had expanded so far by trusting the officers on the spot to make the right decisions, without high command peering over their shoulders.  Besides, even with Talkers, the situation could change remarkably before the updated orders could be sent, let alone received.

“It won’t be easy,” Lord Mycroft warned.  “You will have to act the part of a maid until the time comes for you to reveal yourself.”

Gwen swallowed as the full implications sank into her mind.  Young Ladies of Quality did almost nothing for themselves, certainly nothing relating to household chores.  Her mother had tried to teach her how to sew, which was seen as a ladylike occupation, but she hadn’t taught Gwen how to manage a household, at least beyond issuing orders to the help.  Maids, on the other hand, were expected to work from dawn to dusk for only a minimum wage.  If they complained ... well, there was no shortage of young women trying to make a living from serving their social superiors.  A maid could be kicked out of the house if she dared to utter a single complaint.

And there were worse things that could happen than merely being yelled at by the Lady of the House.

“I understand,” she said.  It was for Olivia – and for the British Empire.  If Sir Charles and Sir Travis could endure torture for the sake of the nation, she could play the role of a lady’s maid.  “I can do it.”

Lord Mycroft gave her a long considering look.  Gwen couldn’t read minds, but she was sure she knew what he was thinking.  She’d grown up in High Society, even if they’d considered her a devil-child rather than a normal young lady to be shaped and moulded into the ideal debutante and socialite.  It might have been a hard life at times, but it was nowhere near as bad as being one of the lower classes.  She had been isolated and largely abandoned to a stream of tutors, yet she hadn’t been kicked, beaten or forced to sell her body to survive.  And her magic had ensured she was effectively unmarriageable.

“Good,” Lord Mycroft said, finally.  “Sidney?”

Sir Sidney smiled, tapping his fingernails as he spoke.  “The mission will be headed by Lord Henry Standish, who has been appointed the Special Ambassador to Russia,” he said.  “Lord Standish has considerable experience in important negotiations and, more importantly, has been granted a certain amount of leeway in the hopes we can bribe the Russians to stay out of the war.  I will be accompanying him as Military Attaché and his second, in the event of him needing to be overruled at some point.”

He paused.  “Lord Standish will be selecting the remainder of his staff from his cronies,” he added.  “We won’t know who they are until the mission is ready to depart, although we have some good guesses.  However, he will also be taking his wife, Lady Marie” – Gwen twitched at the reminder of her mother’s name – “and his ward, Raechel Slater-Standish.”

Gwen frowned.  She paid almost no attention to the society pages, but she knew of Raechel Slater-Standish from overhearing conversations in Cavendish Hall.  The young woman had been blazing a path through High Society, scandalising it and giving plenty of older women the vapours.  Gwen had to admire someone like that, even though it was the sort of release she could never allow herself, not now.  Anyone who managed to irritate so many of High Society’s Grande Dames deserved to be admired.

“I believe the young lady is seen as rather a trial,” Lord Mycroft said.  There was a faint hint of amusement on his face.  “You may wish to keep an eye on her at all times.”

“Because she’ll try to cause trouble?”  Gwen guessed.  It seemed likely, but she could think of another explanation.  “Or because you want to recruit her?”

“It is a possibility,” Lord Mycroft agreed, neutrally.  “She’s smart, but totally indiscreet.  We might not consider her a suitable candidate for recruitment unless she grows up.”

He paused, then took another cake.  “I won’t say that this will be easy, Lady Gwen,” he said, in an almost paternal manner.  There was a grim look in his eyes that betrayed his concern.  “You will find it far harder than investigating a murder or an outbreak of magical power.  And there’s no guarantee of success.”

“I know,” Gwen said.  The thought of failure was terrifying.  But so was the thought of staying in Cavendish Hall, waiting for news.  She had to do something, anything.  Going to Russia would put her closer to her daughter.  “I’ll do it.”

“Good luck, then,” Lord Mycroft said.  He rose ponderously to his feet.  “Sir Sidney will fill you in on the remaining details, then make preparations to insert you into the Ambassador’s household.  I suggest you take a few days to learn your duties.  It will not be easy to pick them up once you leave the country.”

 He paused.  “And I would also suggest you make preparations for your death,” he added.  “There is a very strong chance you won’t be coming back.”
Gwen swallowed, nervously.  “I understand,” she said, through a suddenly dry mouth.  “I won’t let you down.”

Chapter Six

Olivia shivered helplessly, testing her bonds to no avail.  It had been four days, she thought, since they had left St Petersburg and started to gallop further to the east.  Every day, it had grown colder and colder, with snow falling around the horses and making the beast carrying her as cold and miserable as Olivia herself felt.  Every night, they’d stopped at a way station where she’d cuddled up to the fire while Ivan, the bastard, renewed the commands he’d put in her head.  Right now, even if she’d somehow managed to break her bonds, she doubted she could make it away from the Cossacks.  Her legs would simply refuse to obey her.  

There were shouts from the Cossacks.  Olivia allowed herself the fantasy of someone attacking the small convoy and rescuing her, but it was not to be.  Instead, they cantered up towards a low dark building, barely visible through the driving snow.  The horses came to a halt in what she assumed was the courtyard, and their riders dismounted.  Olivia tried to glare at Ivan as he came up beside her and started to loosen the ropes binding her to the horse, but she didn’t have the energy.  It was all she could do to stand upright when he tugged her off the horse and down to the ground.

“I suggest you don’t try anything stupid here,” Ivan said, as he undid the cuffs binding her ankles together.  “There is literally nowhere to run.”

Olivia looked around as he half-led, half-pulled her towards the dark building.  The snow was falling faster now, making it hard for her to see more than a couple of yards before her view was completely obscured. She had even less idea of where she was than she’d had at St Petersburg, where she might have been able to find help.  There was no point in trying to run, even if he hadn’t implanted so many commands into her head that they were giving her nasty headaches.  She gritted her teeth as she saw a door yawning open in front of her, then stepped through.  It banged closed behind them a moment later, leaving the Cossacks outside.

“They don’t mind the weather,” Ivan said, when she asked.  “This is a light summer day for them.”

“I don’t believe you,” Olivia said.

Ivan snorted, rudely.  “This isn’t that far to the east – or the north,” he said.  “There are places further to the north where winter is always dark and cold – and snow is always to be found on the ground.  We send rebels, traitors and dissidents there to count trees.”

He smiled, as if he’d made a joke.  Olivia didn’t understand.  Ivan didn’t seem to care.  Instead, he carefully removed her cuffs, freeing her hands for the first time in four days.  Olivia rubbed at her wrists frantically, remembering horror stories about criminals who had been arrested and then forgotten about for a few hours.  They’d sometimes lost their hands completely, simply because the cuffs had been too tight.  Ivan hadn’t cuffed her that hard, but her wrists were still sore.

“Get your coat off,” he ordered, as he led her into another room.  The heat slapped her in the face, hot enough to make her sweaty and uncomfortable.  A large bathtub, steaming furiously, was set in the middle of the room.  “Get undressed completely, have a long soak, then walk into the next room.  There’ll be new clothes there.”

Olivia nodded, cursing her treacherous fingers as they started to undo the buttons on her coat, which was dripping with melting ice and snow.  Ivan gave her a sharp look, warning her against doing anything stupid, then walked out of the door, leaving her alone.  Olivia immediately tested the door and discovered, not entirely to her surprise, that it was firmly locked.  The Russians clearly weren’t taking any chances with her.  Cursing her mistake, in words that would probably have earned her a long lecture from Gwen, she finished undressing and climbed into the water.  

It was gloriously warm, warm enough to make her entire body relax.  She had to force herself to get out of the water after what felt like hours and stumble into the next room.  Inside, there was a large bed, a robe that reminded her of a dressing gown, and a set of combs and hairbrushes.  She puzzled over the robe before realising that it would provide absolutely no protection at all, if she managed to get out of the building.  It was just another chain binding her to the Russians, more subtle than the others.

She pulled the robe on, then looked around.  A book lay on top of a table, written in English, but she couldn’t parse out the words.  It was probably something religious, she decided, as there was a cross on the front.  But she had never had any inclination to follow a formal religion, not when too many of their priests preferred to tut-tut at people like her rather than do anything to help.  There was a knock at the door and she turned, just in time to see a thin-faced woman with long dark hair pushing a trolley into the room.  Olivia’s stomach rumbled as she smelt food.

The woman said something Olivia didn’t understand, then removed a small bowl from the trolley and placed it on the table, along with a wooden spoon that looked absurdly small for its role.  A moment later, she added a glass of brown liquid and a second glass, containing water, then bowed to Olivia and made her way out of the room.  Olivia hesitated – it was easy enough to stick a drug in food – then shook her head and sat down in front of the table.  If the Russians wanted to drug her, they could just have their Cossacks hold her down while they forced poisons or sedatives down her throat.  They didn’t need to dupe her into taking the drugs herself.

She found that she was ravenous as she devoured the bowl of dark purple soup, although she wasn’t entirely sure what it actually was.  It tasted faintly of beetroot, she thought, with some additional flavours she didn’t recognise.  But she felt human again when she had finished the bowl and decided to risk a taste of the brown liquid.  It was a kind of beer, she decided, before she put it to one side.  She’d never cared for alcohol on the streets and she wasn’t about to start now.  The water tasted oddly flat, but it was definitely safe to drink.  Or so she hoped.

There was another knock on the door when she’d finished, suggesting that she was under observation.  Olivia winced – she’d grown far too used to privacy in Cavendish Hall and she’d tried to stay alone on the streets – and then watched helplessly as the door opened.  At least the Russians probably weren’t interested in her as anything other than a Necromancer.  The streets were utterly unsafe for young girls and boys.  

“Good afternoon,” Ivan said, as he entered.  “I trust you are feeling better?”

Olivia nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  The mixture of food and a hot bath had left her feeling pleasantly warm, almost completely relaxed.  They might have put something in the food after all, she realised dully, or it could have just been relief at being out of the snowstorm and somewhere warm again.  There was no way to know.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ivan said.  He smirked, then held out a hand.  “Please would you come with me?”

Her body obeyed before Olivia had quite realised what he’d said.  She cursed inwardly as she took his hand and allowed him to lead her through the door, as if he was courting her like a highborn girl.  Outside, there was nothing but stone walls leading into the distance.  The massive, solid walls helped keep the heat in, she realised, as he led her down the corridor.  She listened as hard as she could, but heard nothing apart from their footsteps.  The rest of the building was as silent as the grave.  

They stopped outside a heavy metal door, which opened slowly at an unseen command.  A faint smell reached out towards her, one that made her recoil in sudden disgust.  Ivan placed a hand on her back and pushed, forcing her into the room.  There was no sign of anything that could produce the smell; the room was almost completely bare, save for a wooden table and a man standing behind it, wearing monkish robes.  His beard was long, his face was pitted and scarred and his eyes glinted with a devilish insanity.  

“You must be the Necromancer,” he said, in cracked and broken English.  His voice was curiously high-pitched, as if he wasn’t quite mature.  “I am Gregory.  You are the answer to our prayers.”

Olivia shuddered as he came around the table and advanced on her.  It was all she could do to hold her ground.  She hadn’t felt so threatened since she’d been caught by a man who’d thought she was a young boy.  Up close, Gregory smelt faintly of urine, as if he never bothered to wash.  Once, she knew, the smell wouldn’t have bothered her.  Few people on the streets bothered to wash.  Now ... it disgusted her.

“You will assist us,” he said, patting her on the head.  She cringed away from his touch, feeling oddly violated.  “Your gift will serve the Father Tsar.”

“No,” Olivia said, gathering herself.  “I won’t help you raise the dead.”

“I can make you help us,” Ivan pointed out from behind her.  “You would become our slave.”

“Charm has its limits,” Olivia countered, remembering what she’d been told by Gwen, after one Charmer had played a nasty trick on her and the other girls.  “You can’t push me too far.”

“You’ll help us,” the monk said.  The unshakable confidence in his voice chilled her to the bone.  “If you refuse to help us of your own free will, you will be made to help us.”

“You wouldn’t have such a precise control over my gift,” Olivia said, bracing herself for the beating she was sure would come.  Gwen had forbidden her from ever using her talents without direct orders from her or Lord Mycroft.  She’d heard stories of Necromancers who had practiced on dead rats and insects, but she’d never disobeyed Gwen’s orders.  “If you warped me into your slave, you wouldn’t be able to control it.”

“I imagined you would need more ... convincing,” Gregory said.  He grinned at her – the most disconcerting expression she’d yet seen – and then turned and led her towards the door in the far wall.  “Let me show you something of what we’re doing here.”

Olivia hesitated, but a push from Ivan sent her forward.  The smell grew stronger as Gregory opened the door and led the way into a much larger room, crammed with beds and tables.  A dull moaning noise filled her ears as she saw men and women lying naked on the beds, tied down with solid chains.  They were muttering endlessly in Russian, their bodies twisting and turning as they struggled against their chains.  She stopped dead, feeling revolted; she’d heard stories of bedlams in Britain, but surely they weren’t as horrific as the sight before her now.

“Good, good,” Gregory called, addressing a pale-skinned woman wearing a white gown and a cold dead expression.  “I think that last one is showing signs of improvement.”

The nurse eyed him blankly, then leaned over one of the prisoners and injected her with a noxious-looking liquid.  The thrashing girl started to babble in Russian, then urinated helplessly on the bed.  Olivia stumbled backwards, horrified and disgusted.  Only Ivan’s grip on her arm kept her from running out of the door and trying to escape.  Instead, she was pushed through the ward and into the next set of rooms.

“It is our task to unlock the secrets of magic,” Gregory said, as he closed the door behind them.  The moans, screams and endless muttering cut off abruptly.  “Those who have gifts can either serve the Father Tsar or wind up here, having their gifts examined.  Sometimes we learn something truly interesting.”

He smiled, then waved them into the room.  Instead of living victims, it held dead bodies in various stages of dissection.  A handful of men in white robes moved from body to body, carefully drawing samples of blood and brain tissue from the corpses before shipping them onwards to an unknown destination.  Olivia had thought herself no stranger to dead bodies – she’d seen more than her share before she’d discovered the true nature of her magic – but this was truly revolting.  It reminded her of the story of the doctor who had hired footpads to waylay and kill people for him to dissect in front of his students.  She had never been quite sure if there was any truth in it, but she’d seen enough horror to suspect it might be true.

“There are changes in the brain tissue when someone becomes a magician,” Gregory informed her.  He sounded pleased as they walked through the room and passed through a third door.  “Some of the stronger magicians may actually have to adapt their brains to handle their powers – and if they fail, they are killed by their own magic.”

Olivia shuddered.  Some of the students at Cavendish Hall had been taken to the bedlam nearby, where they’d been shown magicians who had been driven mad by their own powers and had to be confined for their own safety.  Most of them were Talkers, their powers so strong that they couldn’t prevent themselves from reading every mind in range ... and were completely incapable of separating out their own thoughts from everyone else’s.  It would be more merciful, she suspected, to kill them outright.  They had no hope of ever leading a normal life.

Gregory smiled at her.  “We take samples from magicians and insert them into non-magicians, just to see what will happen,” he said, as they entered a long corridor.  “Sometimes, the results are quite interesting.”

Olivia shuddered, again.  This time, each of the patients – the victims – had their own cell, locked and barred against escape.  Some of them were clearly mad, others just sat on the floor and stared at nothing.  She shivered as she saw a Mover, floating in the centre of his room with his eyes firmly closed, a handful of toys orbiting his body like the Moon around the Earth.

“That one worked out surprisingly well,” Gregory said.  “He developed magic after the surgical infusion of brain cells from a natural-born magician.”

Olivia said nothing as she glanced into the next cell.  A girl sat on the bed, barely seven years old, clutching a ragged pillow as if it were a teddy bear.  Her eyes were wide, staring at nothing – or, perhaps, at something only she could see.  Olivia gritted her teeth as she saw the girl’s bones clearly visible, despite her tattered dress.  The poor thing was slowly starving to death.

“You need to feed her,” she said.  “She’s hungry!”

“She also needs to learn to cooperate,” Gregory said.  “And so do you.”

There was a cold evenness in his voice that made her glare at him, then look away in disgust.  Beatings would have been kinder.  Olivia looked back at the girl and started in shock; the child was staring directly at her, dark eyes firmly fixed on her face.  She babbled something in Russian, then collapsed onto the bed.  Olivia looked away, bitterly.  There was nothing, she knew all too well, that she could do for the girl.

The next cell held a young boy who seemed to be in constant motion, jumping around his cell and giggling unpleasantly.  He smirked at Olivia, then made a rude gesture towards the two older men, who seemed unmoved.  The cell after him held a pair of middle-aged women, holding hands so tightly they seemed to have fused together.  Beyond them, there was a man who was staring down at a single stone on the floor, as if it were so fascinating that it had captured all of his attention.

And the next cell held a man who seemed to be arguing with himself.  Olivia stared, noting the sudden shifts in body language as his various personalities fought for dominance, then looked away as all of the personalities started hurling abuse at Gregory.  It was chilling to hear how they would switch from a brave personality to one too timid to do more than mutter insults just loud enough to be heard.  The personality seemed to change completely, every few seconds.

Gregory merely smiled and hurried Olivia past what seemed an endless succession of cells, each one containing a different horror.  She honestly couldn’t understand just what would drive someone to create such a nightmare.  Even the loan sharks in the Rookery hadn’t been so monstrous.

“Tell me,” Gregory said.  “Have you seen enough?”

Olivia wanted to scream at him.  Instead, she forced herself to speak almost normally.

“What do you want from me?”

“We want you to raise the dead,” Gregory said.  “And help us with our research for the Father Tsar.”

He turned to face her, dark eyes boring down into her own.  “If you cooperate, you will be treated well,” he said.  “Food, drink ... even company, if you wish it.  But if you refuse to cooperate ...”

Olivia glared at him.  “You’ll torture me?”

“No,” Gregory said.  “We will cut out your brain and use it to create other Necromancers.”

Olivia hesitated.  Despite what the monk had told her about the young Mover, she didn’t know if it was possible to create a magician, certainly not through using any form of medical technique.  Gwen had certainly never told her that such a thing was possible, although Doctor Norwell had been keen to remind her that they had barely scratched the surface when it came to studying magic.  Maybe it was possible after all.

And if she refused, she would have no chance to escape.

“I’ll cooperate,” she said, promising herself that she would escape as soon as possible.  “But I need to rest before I start using magic.”

“Certainly,” Gregory said.  He patted her on the shoulder, then looked up at Ivan.  “Take her back to her room.”

Chapter Seven

“I feel absurd,” Gwen muttered, as she looked at herself in the mirror.  “This isn’t me.”

“But it is what the well-dressed maid is wearing,” Irene Adler said, primly.  She delivered a hearty slap to Gwen’s back.  “The last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself.”

Gwen groaned.  The last time she’d worn a dress had been at the Fairweather Ball, when Sir Charles had escorted her.  It had been hideously difficult to put that ball gown on without help from her maid, something that struck her as an attempt to make it harder for the wearer to surrender their chastity.  By comparison, the maid’s dress was simpler, darker and designed to be donned without assistance.  It would have been suitable if it hadn’t been so irritating.

She looked at her reflection again.  The dress was black, save for a white triangle over her breasts that drew more attention to their shape than she would have preferred.  It was easy enough to hide her chest in her normal garments – the male eye rarely noticed anything out of place unless it was obvious – but the maid’s outfit made it impossible to hide her femininity from roving eyes.  The lower half of the dress was black, falling down to her knees; her stockings covered the rest of her legs from male eyes.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Irene said.  “If you were a maid in France, you would be expected to display your charms and assets in no uncertain way.”

Gwen flushed, realising that Irene was reading her thoughts.  Irene’s talents for disguise, mind-reading and simple powers of observation made her a formidable agent for the British Government, despite having been born female.  No one was quite sure where she’d come from, but as an Opera Singer she could get into all kinds of strange places without raising eyebrows.  Gwen glowered at her friend, then erected her mental barriers.  Irene shrugged, quite unabashed.

“But you managed to get the dress on,” Irene said, once Gwen had spun around to make sure it stayed on.  High Society had chatted for years about a poor noblewoman whose dress had fallen off in the midst of a dance.  She’d never managed to live it down.  “And now you have to work on your duties.”

She led Gwen into the next room, where a pile of clothes had been dumped on the floor.  “Get those packed away,” she snapped, her voice becoming imperious.  “And then get the floor cleaned, you lazy woman!”

Irene kept up the torrent of verbal abuse as Gwen carefully picked her way through the clothes, packing them away into the suitcase, or into the wardrobes and boxes.   Some of them required special treatment, which Irene explained in-between sneering at Gwen, others could just be dropped in drawers and left alone.  Gwen had never quite realised how ignorant she was about some things until Irene patiently explained how to pack a suitcase properly.  She’d never had to pack a bag of clothes for herself in her life.  The only thing she’d ever packed was books.

“Not too bad,” Irene sneered, when Gwen had finished.  She picked up the bag, opened it and dumped the clothes back onto the floor.  “Do it again.”

Gwen glared at her.  Irene lifted a hand, as if she was about to slap her across the face.  “Don’t look at me like that, girl,” she snapped.  Her voice softened.  “And believe me, showing any hint of disrespect could get you into real trouble.”

“I know,” Gwen muttered, as she started to repack the bag.  She knew Irene was playing a role, just as she would have to play a role, and yet she didn’t know how she was going to keep her calm during the mission.  One snap too many from Lady Standish and she might just give in to the temptation to hurt her.  “This isn’t going to be easy.”

Irene sat down on the bed and crossed her legs.  “It never is,” she said.  “Most people don’t pay any attention to maids, but those that do often have bad intentions.  You’ll probably find yourself ducking unwanted attention if you’re sighted by the young bucks.”

Gwen shuddered.  Courtship among the nobility was a careful process, with the parents involved at every stage ... but young men had options denied to young women.  They could go to brothels, find a lover on the side ... or simply mess around with the serving girls.  It was, in theory, sinful, but the prospect of committing a sin had never stopped any of the young men she knew.  She’d heard too much about their conduct in brothels, the brothels she wasn’t supposed to know about, to take it lightly.

“And what do I do,” she asked, “if they do ... try to attend upon me?”

“If they don’t try to restrain you, say you have to meet your mistress,” Irene said.  “If they do, feel free to fight.  But try to avoid using magic.”

“That isn’t going to be easy,” Gwen muttered.  Magic was part of her now, just as it had been from the very first day she’d used her powers.  “I use magic instinctively.”

“That’s the problem,” Irene said.  “If you use magic, you can bet your last shilling that the victim will tell the world – and then you will be in some trouble.”

“I know,” Gwen said.  She finished packing the bag, then passed it to Irene.  “How is this?”

“Better,” Irene said.  She stood up in one smooth motion, then peered down at Gwen.  “Why aren’t you showing the proper respect?”

She went on before Gwen could answer.  “You are the servant in this relationship,” she snapped.  “You are to curtsey whenever one of your social superiors enters the room, then keep your eyes down unless you are specifically told to meet someone’s eyes.  You do not have the right to even look at them without permission.  Do you understand me?”

Gwen hastily bobbed a curtsey.  Lady Mary had spent years trying to hammer the proper way to curtsey into her daughter, but Gwen had never really bothered to practice.  Irene didn’t look too displeased, she noted in some relief.  A girl from the country, looking to make her fortune in the city, wouldn’t be expected to have a perfect curtsey.  But she would be expected to learn as quickly as possible.

“Good,” Irene said.  She marched over to the fireplace, then turned to smile at Gwen.  “You should consider yourself lucky you’re not working for Chinese John.  I had to put up with him for a few days and he was a right ...”

She grinned.  “You probably shouldn’t learn that word,” she added.  “You certainly shouldn’t use it anywhere near Lady Standish.”

Gwen smiled back.  “What was he like?”

“What was he like, My Lady,” Irene corrected.  “He spent two years in China, trying to convince the Ming to allow British traders to enter their ports and trade with the Chinese population.  He took a Chinese bride and brought her back to England.  And he expected his servants to perform the kowtow every time he walked past.”

“The kowtow?”  Gwen asked.  “What’s that?”

Irene knelt, then leaned forward in a deep bow until her head was touching the floor.  “He liked having his servants respectful,” she said, as she straightened up.  “Lady Standish, thankfully, doesn’t seem to be quite that obsessed with being treated with respect.”

Gwen scowled.  She’d asked her mother about Lord Standish and his family and had received, in response, a detailed report of everything High Society was saying about them.  It was actually more detailed than half of the intelligence reports she’d read, which had convinced her to show it to a few of her subordinates and note that it was precisely what she wanted in a proper report.  But it hadn’t made encouraging reading.  Lord Standish was very much a career-driven man, not unlike Gwen’s father, while Lady Standish was obsessed with her social position.  And their ward clearly had a sharp tongue and a desire for independence that matched Gwen’s.

They could have married her off by now, she thought.  As their ward, Raechel Slater-Standish could have been pushed into marrying anyone willing to take her.  But if some of the rumours about her conduct were actually true, she would find it hard to marry anyone unless her uncle issued a fairly considerable bribe.  And instead they’re taking her to Russia?

“You can lay this fire,” Irene said.  “And then light it properly.”

Gwen nodded and set to work.  Laying a fire, at least, was something she could do.  Some of the servants had refused to enter her room when she was a child, even though she’d promised not to try to hurt them.  The young Gwen had had no choice but to learn to set up her own fires, just to keep her room warm.  And when her mother had refused to allow her to keep any firelighters in her room, she’d learned how to use magic to start the fire.  In hindsight, that might not have been the smartest thing to do.  It would have been distressingly easy to accidentally set the entire house on fire.

“Excellent,” Irene said.  “And you know how to make tea and coffee?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said.

“Let us see,” Irene said.  She nodded towards a table, where a tray of cups, a jug of milk and a kettle were waiting for them.  “Heat up the water, then make us some tea.”

Gwen concentrated, using magic to heat the water.  Moments later, Irene slapped her bottom hard enough to sting.  “Magic,” she snapped, as Gwen glared at her.  “You can’t use magic!”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen muttered.  She rubbed her behind, then picked up the kettle, placed it over the fire and waited for it to heat up.  Using magic to heat water had been one of the earliest tricks Master Thomas had taught her, using the prospect of accidentally scalding herself as a teaching tool.  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Irene leaned forward.  “If you want to call it off, say so now,” she said.  “Lord Mycroft will not object to sending someone else.”

Gwen winced.  Part of her wanted to give up now, particularly when she still made stupid mistakes that could betray her identity.  And she knew the odds against finding Olivia were terrifyingly high.  But she couldn’t simply abandon her daughter, no matter the odds.  Olivia was her child, in everything but blood.  What sort of mother would she be if she just left Olivia to her fate?

“I’ll go,” she said, as the kettle started to boil.  She took it off the fire and poured hot water into the teapot, then stirred it carefully.  Her father liked his tea strong, if she recalled correctly, while her mother preferred a weaker brew.  The maids had always had to time their work carefully, just to avoid upsetting one or the other of their employers.  “I’m damned if I will leave her there all alone.”

She poured milk into the cups, then added the tea.  Irene took one of the cups, sniffed suspiciously, then nodded and started to sip it.  Gwen took her cup, then hesitated, unsure if she should sit down or remain standing.  It was vanishingly rare for the servants to drink with their masters.  But Irene had said they would both drink ...

“Sit down,” Irene said, quietly.  Gwen realised her shields had started to slip and flushed again.  “You’re not doing too badly, but there are other things you need to know.”

She picked up a sheet of paper and made a show of reading it.  “Your file states that you spent two years working for Lord Carmichael prior to his departure for the colonies,” she continued.  “You won’t be branded as completely inexperienced, but Lord Carmichael was somewhat eccentric and no one will expect perfection.  More to the point, you were also responsible for taking care of his daughter, Heather Carmichael.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said, remembering the file.  Lord Carmichael was not only eccentric, he was one of Lord Mycroft’s personal friends.  If Lady Standish contacted him to ask for Gwen’s references, he would provide her with a glowing account of a maid who had spent half of her time serving as a substitute mother.  “Do you think that will help?”

“You spent time supervising Heather,” Irene said, dryly.  “Lady Standish will probably ask you to keep an eye on her ward too.”

She cleared her throat.  “You’re nowhere near as polished as they will expect,” she continued, “but that’s understandable.  However, you will have to answer some very uncomfortable questions.  For a start, why is your hair so short?”

Gwen scowled.  The truth was that she’d had it cut short to keep it from getting in the way – and to make it easier to pass as a man.  But that wasn’t something she could tell Lady Standish, not if she wanted her mission to be a success.  It would be far easier to simply claim that Lord Carmichael had insisted that she cut her hair, even if fashion had been in favour of long-haired girls at the time.  It was unlikely that anyone would expect a maid to join the Trouser Brigade – or care much if she did – but it was probably best to avoid any mention of politics.

“Because my previous employer, Lord Carmichael, insisted I cut it short, My Lady,” she said, finally.  “I complied with his instructions.”

“Good enough,” Irene said.  She paused, significantly.  “There will be other questions, I’m afraid, some of them quite ... intimate.  She will ask if you have a male friend, for example, and I would advise you to answer no.”

Gwen coloured.  The only man who had shown any real interest in her had been Sir Charles – and he’d been more interested in ensuring that no one found out that he’d murdered Sir Travis, rather than Gwen herself.  She still had nightmares about the moment he’d rendered her powerless, leaving her almost at his mercy.  It would be a long time before she trusted a man enough to let him get so close to her.

“Yes, My Lady,” she said.

“There will be other problems,” Irene warned.  “She may slap you, if she feels your work is not suitable, or punish you in other ways.  You will have to tolerate it until the time comes to reveal yourself.”

“I know,” Gwen said.  She had more pain tolerance than the average women – either through magic or through constant exercise with male magicians – but she knew just how much pain a single slap could inflict.  And it would be worse, she suspected, if the person slapping her thought of her servant as an object, rather than a person.  “I can handle it.”

“You won’t be Lady Gwen, Royal Sorceress, or even Lady Gwen, daughter of Lord Crichton,” Irene reminded her.  “You will merely be Gwen, a humble girl from the country, someone without friends or family in London.  There will be no protection for you if Lady Standish decides to take her problems out on your body.  And I suspect you will not be able to use magic to stop her without revealing the truth.”

“I know,” Gwen repeated.  Irene had mentioned the same fact time and time again.  But she was right.  The use of magic would be disastrous.  “I won’t fail.”

“Be sure that you don’t,” Irene said.  “Do you have your bag packed?”

Gwen nodded.  It held a pair of dresses, a handful of underclothes and a small bag of money, enough to pass for her final wages from Lord Carmichael.  There were no books, something she regretted deeply, but a maid from the country wouldn’t be expected to read.  Even now, after the Swing, only a small percentage of the country’s population knew how to read and write.  The charities that were trying to educate the poor were simply not successful, not when the poor resented being lectured to as well as being taught.  After what Jack had shown her, Gwen was not particularly surprised.

She shucked off the maid’s outfit and packed it away in the bag – she’d change again before she met up with Mycroft’s agent – and pulled her trousers and shirt back on, taking care to cover her breasts.  Irene watched without a trace of shame, something that made Gwen blush furiously, realising just how little privacy she would have while she was working as a maid.  She’d had more privacy in her father’s house, even though her mother had thought nothing of barging in each day to wake Gwen.

“Good luck,” Irene said.  “And if you run into real trouble ... just remember, you asked for it.”

Gwen made a face, then surprised herself by giving the older woman a hug.  Irene smiled at her, then waved goodbye as Gwen walked over to the door and stepped through.  Outside, she took a long breath and started to walk through Cavendish Hall, pausing outside each classroom long enough to assess progress.  In one room, Susan and Jo were being taught the basics of life at the Hall, before moving on to discuss their powers and how best to improve them.  They’d do well, Gwen was sure.  They were both powerful and devoted young women.

She hesitated on the edge of the door, half-wondering if she should step inside and say goodbye personally, then decided against it.  There was no point.  When she came back, there would be time to catch up with the two girls ... and if she didn’t come back, it would be better if they had fewer emotional ties to her.  Shaking her head, she hurried down the stairs, picked up her bag from the office and walked out of the door.  Her carriage was waiting for her there.

“Good luck,” Doctor Norwell called.  The dignified older man knew that Gwen was going after Olivia.  He just didn’t know any of the details.  “Come back soon.”

Gwen nodded, then clambered into the carriage.  It was time to go.

Chapter Eight

Lord Mycroft had warned her that Madame Hampton was strict, but Gwen hadn’t realised just how strict until she’d actually met the woman.  Madame Hampton was tall and thin, with lips that were permanently pressed together in disapproval.  She clearly wasn’t scared of the Royal Sorceress – or anyone, really.  Gwen would have been impressed if she hadn’t known that the woman ruled the lives of countless young girls with an iron hand.  And that she also worked for Lord Mycroft.

“You look barely acceptable,” Madame Hampton stated, her lips thinning still further.  “But you must learn to fit in as quickly as possible.  I will not have my reputation ruined by you.”

Gwen nodded, impatiently.  Madame Hampton’s job was hiring young women from the country, training them to serve as everything from maids to social assistants and then hiring them out to aristocratic families.  She took a share of their wages, Gwen knew, to the point where the girls found it very hard to save enough money to separate themselves from her, no matter how hard they worked.  It was only borderline legal, even after the Swing, but like so much else, it wasn’t precisely moral.  But how else would the girls find clients for their services who didn’t have unpleasant motives?

She smiled.  It was clear that Lord Mycroft had used Madame Hampton to insert an agent into someone’s household before, if only because of how little time it had taken to arrange the whole business.  Gwen had expected it to take longer, somehow, but Madame Hampton had simply recalled Gwen’s predecessor and seen to it that the girl would find another place in a different household, clearing the way for Gwen.  Gwen suspected that Lady Standish would be annoyed by the timing – they were about to leave for Russia, after all – but there would be no help for it.  Besides, she was getting Gwen’s services practically free of charge.

But not without bed and board, Gwen thought.  She was entitled to a place to lay her head, food to eat and a day of rest, although she’d been warned that the last of these might not be honoured, not when Madame Hampton was more interested in making money than taking care of her girls.  And I won’t be staying for long.

“You need to pay attention,” Madame Hampton snapped.  Gwen realised, guiltily, that Madame Hampton had been talking while Gwen hadn’t been listening to her.  “Lady Standish will not be happy if you fail to listen to her commands.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said, grimly.  It was going to take all of her patience to endure weeks of servitude to Lady Standish.  At least she’d be in a position to take revenge afterwards, if it was as bad as Irene feared.  “I understand.”

“Glad to hear it,” Madame Hampton said, darkly.  

She picked up a long dark coat and draped it over her arm, then rang the bell.  When the foreman arrived, she directed him to bring the carriage around to the front entrance and make ready for departure, then she put a few more questions to Gwen as they waited.  It was a shame, she mused out loud, that Gwen couldn’t cook, but it was perhaps unsurprising if she claimed to have worked for someone like Lord Carmichael.  He’d had a separate cook to ensure that he received meals precisely how he liked them, rather than trusting it to his daughter’s maid.  Gwen’s fictional duties had mainly revolved around his daughter.

“Just remember to keep your eyes downcast at all times,” Madame Hampton added, as she led the way out to the carriage.  “And do precisely as you are told.”

Gwen winced inwardly as she followed Madame Hampton into the carriage and sat down.  She had never been very good at doing what she was told, something her mother had bemoaned regularly when Gwen had been a young girl.  But she had obeyed Master Thomas, right up until she’d realised just how far he was prepared to go to stop the Swing.  She’d been too horrified to trust or obey him any longer.  

“It’s harder to get good horses these days,” Madame Hampton said.  She lifted her eyebrows as the carriage jerked into life.  “I trust you know how to ride?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said.  She recalled her cover story and smiled.  “My Lord taught me so I could ride with his daughter.”

Madame Hampton’s lips thinned again as they moved out onto the street, where there were only a handful of carriages making their way down the centre of the road.  Gwen wasn’t too surprised.  The army was calling up horses as well as men, paying bounties for every horse that was brought into the army barracks and signed over to military authority.  Unsurprisingly, horse thieves were having a field day.  No one was checking ownership papers too closely, no doubt in the belief that anyone stupid enough to lose a horse didn’t deserve to keep it.  In the long run, she suspected it would cause no end of problems, but for the moment there seemed to be nothing anyone could do about it.

She forced herself to relax as the carriage headed towards Lord Standish’s residence.  As an important government minister, he was entitled to a small house in Pall Mall as well as a larger mansion on the outskirts of London.  Gwen remembered, suddenly, that her brother David lived in Pall Mall, when he wasn’t with his wife in their own manor.  If he saw her ... she shook her head.  David was too straight-laced to recognise his sister in maid’s clothing, even though they’d practically grown up together.  Imagination had never been one of his strong points.

But he’s been working for Lord Mycroft, she reminded herself, as shouts from outside suggested that the carriage had almost run over someone in the street.  He might be having his mind expanded.

The carriage lurched again, then came to a halt in front of a large stone building.  It was much smaller than any aristocratic hall, but – located at the heart of London – it would be much more expensive than almost anything smaller than a castle outside London.  Gwen recalled her father’s complaints about the cost of owning a home in London and smiled at the memory, recalling the time she’d asked why he wanted to live in the city.  Her father had spluttered and then explained that London was the capital of the British Empire.  As a businessman, even though he might try to hide his occupation, he couldn’t afford to be anywhere else.

Madame Hampton stepped out of the carriage with all the dignity of her station, waited for Gwen to climb down in a ladylike manner, then strode up to the door and knocked, sharply.  Gwen, who had expected her to use the tradesman’s entrance, blinked in surprise, then schooled her features into respectful dispassion as the door opened, revealing a man wearing a butler’s outfit.  He was the blackest man Gwen had ever seen, his white teeth glittering as he smiled at them.  There was a fashion for negro butlers, Gwen recalled, after the Royal Navy had brought a number of former slaves to London.  It was one of the many pointless fashions that occupied her mother’s time.

“Madame Hampton, here to see Lady Standish,” Madame Hampton said, briskly.  “I have brought the new domestic.”

“Come in,” the butler said.  His dark eyes flashed over Gwen, missing nothing.  “Her Ladyship is in the study.”

Gwen kept her face impassive as they walked down a long carpeted corridor, wondering just how much the butler had seen in her.  Servants were trained to read faces and body language in ways few aristocrats could match, just so they could tell when their masters and mistresses were in good moods.  It was quite possible that the butler – Romulus, according to the file – had realised that something wasn’t quite right about her.  Or that he merely thought she wasn’t up to the standards expected of anyone working for the family.  Gwen had known butlers who were worse snobs than their masters.  

Romulus stopped in front of a door and knocked, sharply.  “Madame Hampton, My Lady,” he said.  There was a long pause, then he opened the door.  “Please, enter.”

Under other circumstances, Gwen suspected she would have rather liked the study.  Three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves, while the fourth was decorated with maps and paintings of the vast domains ruled by the British Empire.  Many of the books actually looked interesting, which was more than could be said of the books in her father’s study.  But she didn’t dare look at the bookshelves when Lady Standish was in the room.  Her Ladyship was already rising to her feet, her expression unreadable.  Gwen hastily bobbed a curtsey, then looked down at the floor.  She couldn’t look up until Lady Standish wanted her to look up.

“This is Gwen,” Madame Hampton said, after the two women had exchanged insincere greetings.  Madame Hampton fell some way short of being Lady Standish’s social equal and that rankled both of the women.  “She is experienced in some matters, inexperienced in others, but you will find her suitable.”

“I should hope so,” Lady Standish said.  Her accent was pure aristocracy, without even a trace of anything from outside London.  Even Gwen’s mother hadn’t had so perfect an accent; hell, even the King didn’t have such an accent!  “Let me see the file.”

There was a rustle of paper as she took the file and skimmed through it, then stepped forward until she was standing right in front of Gwen.  “Look up, girl,” she ordered.  “Let me take a look at you.”

Gwen looked up, careful not to meet Lady Standish’s eyes.  She was tall, not much older than Gwen’s mother, with a thin disapproving face, dark red hair shading to grey and an air of absolute certainty that probably irritated everyone who saw her.  This was not a woman, Gwen noted, who was likely to have any doubts about herself or her decisions.  If she was right, it was all her own work; if she was wrong, it was someone else’s fault.  Gwen had met plenty of men and women who shared the same reluctance to admit they could be wrong.  Almost all of them came from the aristocracy.

Lady Standish wore a long black dress, as if she were in mourning.  It was loose enough to hide the shape of her body, Gwen noted, but it was surprisingly tight around the woman’s neck.  Fashion, Gwen recalled vaguely, fighting down the urge to roll her eyes.  She’d banned fashionable outfits at Cavendish Hall, at least for the students, just to prevent it from causing arguments and bad feelings.  But Lady Standish wouldn’t hesitate to wear whatever she pleased, setting fashion rather than following it.

Gwen recalled Lord Mycroft’s brother’s lessons as she covertly scrutinised the older woman, grimly aware that Lady Standish was doing the same to her.  This was not a woman used to any form of physical exertion, she deduced; there were no marks on her hands that suggested any form of work, even writing with a pen and ink.  On the other hand, her dress would hardly require a maid to don, suggesting that Lady Standish was more practical than she liked to appear.  Her hair was pinned up neatly, though, which did suggest a maid.  Gwen decided that Lady Standish had once been very proud of her hair and lavished more attention on it than she did on her clothes.

“You worked for Lord Carmichael,” Lady Standish said, finally.

“Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said.  Her heartbeat started to race.  If Lady Standish was anything like her mother, she would notice any discrepancy and home in on it like sailors homed in on brothels.  “I worked for him for two years.”

“Unfortunate,” Lady Standish observed, coldly.  “He would not have taught you anything of how to act in polite society.”

“No, My Lady,” Gwen agreed.  Irene had taught her that it was always better to agree with her mistress, at least as long as she was playing the role of a maid.  “I was charged with looking after his daughter.”

“And he had no wife,” Lady Standish said.  She sniffed, rudely.  “A man with such a title should always marry again, even if he has a child.  She should not have been raised by a man and a man alone.”

Gwen felt an odd flicker of irritation on behalf of Heather Carmichael.  It was true enough that she’d been raised by maids and tutors after her mother had died, but that was true of almost all aristocratic girls.  Sons could expect their fathers to play a large role in their education, daughters were lucky if their mothers visited them more than once or twice a week.  Gwen’s own mother had spent more time with Gwen, but then Gwen’s reputation had scared away most of the servants.

“Yes, My Lady,” she said, instead.

“You looked after his daughter,” Lady Standish said.  “What did you do, precisely?”

Gwen took a breath.  “I took care of her, My Lady,” she said.  The files had been very detailed on this point.  “I was her companion.  I escorted her to the schoolroom, accompanied her when she rode out in the countryside and supervised her meetings with other aristocratic children.”

Lady Standish’s eyes flared.  “And did you chaperone her?”

“My Lady,” Gwen protested.  “She was thirteen!”

“Old enough to have a marriage arranged for her,” Lady Standish observed.  She didn’t seem to take any offence at Gwen’s tone, but it wasn’t too surprising.  Gwen would have been barred from going into details.  “Did you chaperone her?”

“Her father did not arrange any meetings with potential suitors, My Lady,” Gwen said, feeling sweat trickling down her back.  It was uncommon for a girl to be married off at thirteen – the reforms following the Swing had made it illegal – but Lord Carmichael might have organised it, just so he could get back to his work without a daughter underfoot.  Or, perhaps, so he could marry again without fearing the daughter’s opinion of her stepmother.  “If he had, I would have accompanied her, I am sure.”

“No doubt,” Lady Standish said.  She took another step forward, and another, until she was almost close enough for her nose to press against Gwen’s forehead.  Gwen had to fight to avoid taking a step backwards.  “Your duties will include serving as a chaperone for our ward.  You will not take orders from her that would leave her alone in a compromising position.  Do you understand me?”

Alone with men, Gwen thought.  She understood, all right.  Judging from the reports, Raechel Slater-Standish was incredibly driven to spend as much time away from her family as possible.  It was an impulse Gwen understood very well.  Hell, she shared it.  She’d barely given her family a backwards glance when she’d moved into Cavendish Hall ... and they, too, had practically allowed Master Thomas to adopt her without even trying to fight.  They’d come to regret that, afterwards.

But, without magic and with a sizeable bank account of her own, Raechel could easily get into a great deal of trouble.  A young buck might manage to seduce her, then get her pregnant, just to force her to marry him.  And, when he did, control over her money would pass to him.  Lady Mary’s extensive report had noted that Raechel’s control over her own money was dependent on her remaining unmarried.  Her family’s will specifically stated that it was only hers for as long as she remained single.

“I understand, My Lady,” Gwen said, recalling one of the more unpleasant cases Lord Mycroft’s brother had told her about.  A young lady had been kept unmarried by her family because, as long as she was unmarried, they controlled her money.  “Your orders take precedence.”

“If the situation becomes unpleasant, you are to drag her out,” Lady Standish continued.  “And you will report to me as soon as she is back home and safe.”

Gwen winced.  This time, she knew it showed on her face.

If she’d been a real maid, the orders would have been nightmarish – and trying to carry them out would have been worse.  Raechel could make her life miserable in a hundred tiny ways, from leaving messes for Gwen to clear up to simply badmouthing her to Lady Standish.  And, if she did manage to slip off with a young man, Gwen would get the blame.  At best, she’d be in real trouble and have her pay docked.  But, at worst, she would be summarily fired.  

That’s why they insisted on giving me a history with young girls, she thought, sourly.  But Heather had been thirteen, young enough to be biddable, thanks to the age gap between her and her maid.  Raechel was eighteen, a year older than Gwen herself ... and probably not inclined to listen to someone she knew would be spying on her.  Gwen might not be under her direct orders, but it could still get unpleasant.  Very unpleasant.

“If she refuses to cooperate,” Lady Standish added, “you will take whatever steps you deem necessary.”

She nodded to Romulus before Gwen could ask for specifics.  “Take Gwen to the servant’s quarters and introduce her to Janet,” she ordered.  “I shall expect them both to wait on us at suppertime.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Romulus said.  He looked at Gwen, then gave her a half-smile.  “If you will come with me ...”

Gwen curtseyed again to Lady Standish and Madame Hampton, then followed Romulus out of the room.  The door closed behind the aristocratic women with an ominous thud.

“A word of warning,” Romulus said, once they were safely out of earshot.  “Lady Raechel is no easy person to handle.  But she does have a sense of justice.”

Gwen frowned.  What the hell was that meant to mean?

“But Her Ladyship expects the very best from everyone,” he added.  “Don’t fail her.”

Chapter Nine

Olivia slept very poorly after her meeting with Gregory.  Her dreams were full of crawling hordes of undead, the nightmare she remembered from London, but made worse by the whispering that followed her as she tried to flee.  Normal people, mundanes and other magicians, heard nothing from the undead but moans.  The researchers, according to Gwen, believed that the moaning was a form of communication.  After all, the greater the number of undead, the greater the level of intelligence they showed.

But Olivia knew better.  In her nightmares, as on the streets of London, she could hear the whispers, the endless chant of the undead.  She couldn’t make out any words, but the sense was unmistakable.  The undead wanted to kill everyone, to build an army so large that they were utterly unstoppable.  There was no way to negotiate with such creatures, no way to talk them out of their ambitions.  All the living could do was destroy them all and hope they never rose again.

She jerked awake and stared around the dim room, cursing her powers under her breath.  It had taken her months to get used to Cavendish Hall; she’d almost killed a maid who’d come into her room on the first day, just to light the fire.  Even afterwards, when Gwen had pointed out that she was in no danger, she hadn’t been able to relax for a long time.  These days, the maids were always careful to knock first and go away if they received no answer.  But there was no one in the room.

Gritting her teeth, she sat upright and wiped the sweat from her brow.  Her body ached, both where she’d been beaten by the Cossack and where the cuffs had been wrapped around her wrists.  Clearly, she’d been too frozen earlier to feel pain, she decided, as she carefully flexed her muscles.  She needed another soak in hot water, she told herself, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up.  Her legs almost buckled beneath her weight and she hastily sat down.  The skin, when she looked, showed far too many nasty bruises that had developed overnight.

There was a knock at the door.  Olivia glanced down hastily to make sure she was decent, then called out for the visitor to come in.  The door opened, revealing a pale-skinned girl wearing a long dark dress and carrying a small tray of food.  Her hair hung in ringlets down to her shoulders.  Olivia looked at her face and recognised the signs of someone who had been beaten into submission, just like the whores she’d seen and feared on the streets.  They hadn’t been scary, not in and of themselves, but she’d known she was looking at her future.  If Gwen hadn’t adopted her, if she hadn’t had any powers, she would have been forced into the brothels when she could no longer pose as a boy.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.  “Please put it on the table.”

The girl obeyed, although it was hard to tell if she really understood or was merely following someone else’s orders.  Olivia hesitated, then motioned for the girl to sit on the bed facing her.  The girl’s face seemed to pale still further, torn between two sets of orders, then she finally complied with Olivia’s wishes and sat down on the bed, smoothing down her dress in one smooth movement.  Olivia felt a moment of pity, followed by the angry realisation that she wasn’t the only prisoner in the complex.  But then, she’d seen enough of their experiments to know that it could be far worse.

“My name is Olivia,” she said, remembering the days when she’d been Oliver.  Now that she’d filled out, she couldn’t be Oliver any longer.  “Do you understand me?”

The girl hesitated, then nodded, so slightly that Olivia almost missed the motion.  It was interesting, she noted, that the girl spoke English – or at least understood English – when the Cossacks had clearly not understood a word she’d said.  She rubbed her stomach absently, cursing them under her breath.  They hadn’t needed to speak to her to get their point across.

Olivia smiled at the girl.  “What is your name?”

The answer was so quiet that Olivia had to strain to hear it.  “Esther.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Olivia said, holding out a hand.  Esther ... it sounded familiar, although she wasn’t sure from where.  It certainly wasn’t the name of anyone she knew personally.  “How did you end up here?”

The girl shook her head frantically, then scrambled to her feet and practically ran towards the door.  Olivia stared after her, realising that Esther had probably been given very strict orders to have as little to do with the prisoner as possible, then turned to the tray of food.  It was a stew that tasted of beef and vegetables, with a hard bread that she had to soak in the stew before it became edible.  When she’d finished eating, a different girl entered and removed the tray, then nodded towards the door.  Ivan was standing there.

“Good morning,” he said, in his unaccented English.  “I trust you slept well?”

Olivia glowered at him.  The Russian didn’t seem too bothered by her disdain; he merely held out a hand, inviting her to come with him.  Olivia hesitated, remembering the pain in her ankles, then stood up anyway.  If she refused, he would simply compel her to come to him. But the pain was so overpowering that she fell to the floor, trying desperately not to scream.  

“Now, that won’t do,” Ivan said.  She felt him walking over to her, then picking her up effortlessly.  “Don’t worry.  We will fix the pain.”

“You caused it,” Olivia muttered through clenched teeth.

“Yes, we did,” Ivan agreed, dispassionately.  He carried her towards the door, then through it and down the long stone corridor.  “But we can fix it too.”

They entered a smaller room that was as bare as the others, apart from a long stone table.  He placed her down on it, told her to stay on the table and walked out of the door.  Moments later, he returned with Gregory in tow.  The monkish man smelt as bad as ever, Olivia realised, as he touched his fingers to her ankles.  But she started to feel better almost at once.

“I was blessed by the Father Tsar,” Gregory said, when she gave him a surprised look.  A Healer.  He had to be a Healer.  “Where else does it hurt?”

Olivia hesitated.  The last thing she wanted was him touching her, not when he smelt as if he hadn’t taken a bath in his life.  But her body hurt badly ... she swallowed her disgust and pointed to where her body was aching, hoping he would heal them all.  One by one, he touched them and the pain faded away to nothingness.  In some ways, she realised mutely, he was a more capable Healer than Lucy.  And Lucy was among the best in British service.

“Thank you,” she said, when he’d finished.  “But it wouldn’t have been necessary if your men hadn’t beaten me.”

Gregory laughed, unpleasantly.  “And would you have done as you were told if you hadn’t been tied up?”

He helped her to her feet, then headed out the door.  Ivan pushed Olivia towards it, gently, then followed her down the corridor.  They passed through a pair of armoured doors, each one reminding her of the ironclad she’d seen on the Thames, then deeper and deeper into the complex.  Finally, they reached a room with a pair of Cossacks standing on guard, holding sabres rather than rifles.  Olivia puzzled over it for a long moment – no matter how good they were with swords, a child with a pistol could kill them – and then felt her blood run cold as she realised the truth.  Swords were the best weapons, short of flamethrowers, against the undead.

“Once we’re inside, I suggest you obey orders,” Ivan muttered, as Gregory spoke to the guards in Russian.  “This is not the time to play games.”

Olivia felt sick as the door opened and the stench of death wafted out at them.  Inside, illuminated only by a set of torches on the walls, was a stone prison cell.  No, she realised mutely; it was far more than just a prison cell.  Iron bars allowed the occupant to be watched by his captors, while preventing him from reaching them without permission.  Indeed, the bars were far closer together than was strictly necessary.  As a child, she’d wormed her way through iron bars that would keep out grown adults, but it wouldn’t be possible here.  A cat would have problems getting through the bars.

But it made sense, she realised numbly.  The undead had no sensitivity to pain.  They wouldn’t hesitate to break bones, just to fit through the bars.  In the cage, they couldn’t escape without crippling themselves permanently.  She shuddered, remembering the undead crawling forwards, pressing themselves against the barricades.  Even crippled, they were still dangerous.

A sudden flare of light made her blink and cover her eyes in surprise.  When she pulled her hand away, she saw a chubby man standing in the corner, producing glowing balls of light.  A Blazer, she noted, cursing once again under her breath.  She might have managed to defeat a Healer, but Blazers were notoriously dangerous unless one had the advantage of surprise.  And if there was one Blazer, there might be others.

She gritted her teeth as she felt despair sinking into her mind, latching on to the commands Ivan had left in her head.  It was hopeless, part of her mind argued; there was no way to escape, not even into death.   The very thought of suicide was somehow unthinkable.  No, all she could do was obey the Russians and give them what they wanted.  She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was the result of Ivan’s commands, yet it was so hard to fight.  One day, she realised, she would be theirs ... and she wouldn’t even know that anything had changed.  She glared over at Ivan, who smiled back at her.  

Damn Charmers, she thought, remembering Gwen’s tales about Lord Blackburn.  He’d come close to molesting Gwen, an aristocrat, Master Magician and Master Thomas’s ward.  If he’d been prepared to do that, what else had he actually done?  None of them are ever decent people.

“Look inside the cage,” Gregory said.  There was a note of grim ... enthusiasm in his voice that chilled her to the bone.  “What do you see?”

Olivia scowled as she saw the body lying on the stone floor.  It had once been a young man, but someone had killed him ... judging from the marks on his throat, she deduced that he had been choked to death.  Someone had just wrapped their hands around his neck and squeezed, hard.  It was impossible to be sure – the room was cold enough to slow the decomposing process – but she had a feeling he’d died only a day or two ago.  Perhaps even only a few hours ago ...

“So,” Gregory said.  “Bring the body back to life.”

Olivia stared at him. “I can’t bring him all the way back to life,” she protested.  Only Jesus had ever been able to bring a man back from the dead.  Necromancers could imbue corpses with a shambling mockery of life, but it wasn’t the same.  “All I can do is ... make him one of the undead.”

“Then do it,” Ivan said.  “Now.”

There was an undertone of command in his voice that reminded her that Charm was always an option.  Olivia hesitated, wondering if she shouldn’t force him to compel her anyway, then she pushed the thought aside before it could solidify.  If she let him work on her mind again, the eventual collapse into mindless surrender would come sooner, rather than later.  Instead, she stepped forward, wishing she knew more about how to use her powers.  But Gwen had flatly forbidden her to experiment and it was one rule she’d never even considered breaking.

A young girl in Edinburgh had a pet mouse that died, she recalled, bitterly.  She brought it back to life and took it to her mother, expecting to be praised.  Instead, she was killed and her family transported to Australia, just to make sure no word of the affair leaked out.  If the population had known that a Necromancer had been born in Edinburgh ...

“It will take time,” she hedged.  In truth, she wasn’t even sure where to start.  The undead hordes she’d faced before might have obeyed her, but they hadn’t been raised by her.  God alone knew who’d turned them into the government’s secret weapon.  Gwen had speculated that it had been Master Thomas, but no one knew for sure.  “Let me try ...”

“We are patient,” Gregory assured her.  There was a faintly mocking tone in his voice that suggested he knew precisely what she was feeling.  “Take your time.”

Olivia moved as close to the bars as she dared, then closed her eyes, recalling what little she knew about the actual necromantic process.  There had been almost nothing in the books; Gwen had never tried to use the power, while the male Master Magicians had left those pages blank, preferring to pretend they didn’t have the power themselves.  No one had really tried to interrogate a Necromancer before killing him, Olivia knew; they’d been too scared of the possible consequences.  But it had also left them alarmingly ignorant of how the power actually worked.

“Of all the magical arts,” Gwen had said, months ago, “necromancy is the least understood.”

Olivia tried to feel out her magic.  The girls at Cavendish Hall had spoken of feeling their magic crackling through their bodies, as much a part of them as their hands or feet, but she’d never really tried to use her magic.  She slowed her breathing, concentrating on her heart beating within her chest, then tried to feel for something new.  For a long moment, there was nothing new or unfamiliar ... and then she heard a whisper.  It echoed through her mind, as if someone was talking loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be understood.

But it didn’t seem to reach beyond her flesh and bone.

Opening her eyes, she looked at the dead body and realised, to her horror, just how to awaken it into a semblance of life.  She inched forward, reaching her hand through the bars until she was touching the body, then closed her eyes again.  This time, she was aware of her living flesh ... and the dead corpse she was touching.  And it was the easiest thing in the world to take some of her life energy and push it into the body.  She felt it jerk under her fingers and yanked her hand back, her eyes snapping open.  In the cage, the body was slowly coming to life.

Her head swam as the whispering grew louder.  She toppled backwards, expecting to slam her head against the stone floor, but Ivan caught her before it was too late.  Tears fell from her eyes as she clung to him, seeking comfort even in his arms.  Ivan patted her back softly, his eyes never leaving the creature in the cage.  Olivia forced herself to stand on her own two feet, then turned to look at what she’d done.  The whispering seemed to grow even louder as she saw the undead creature slowly making its way to its feet.

It had been human once, she knew.  Now, its skin was grey and its eyes were an eerie yellow colour, as if it had long lost all traces of humanity.  Its hair seemed to be falling out, although she couldn’t tell if that was merely a side effect of what limited decomposition had happened or something to do with necromancy.  It held out one long hand and examined it, without a trace of interest or curiosity on its face, then held up its head and stared at the four humans watching it.

And then it moaned.

Olivia moaned too as the sound sliced into her head.  It was a cry of hunger, a raw lust for sustenance that ran far beyond a desire for food and drink.  It wanted something else, she knew; it wanted the living energy running through them all.  She understood, now, why the undead had reacted the way they did.  When they weren’t being directed by a Necromancer, their lives were consumed by an endless desire for life energy.  And, when they ran out, they just waited until they were reanimated by human contact.

She shuddered, then vomited, throwing up everything she’d eaten onto the hard stone floor.  Gregory didn’t even seem to hear her.  He was too fascinated by the undead creature as it made its shambolic way to the bars and stood there, staring at him.  It looked to have been thwarted by the bars, but Olivia knew better.  The creature was waiting.  She could feel the link between herself and the creature, even though they were no longer touching.  It was hers to command as she saw fit ...

But the more she touched it with her mind, the louder the whispering in her head.  Sooner or later, it would overcome her and then ... perhaps there was some sense in having all Necromancers executed, no matter what they were before they developed their powers.  It threatened to pull her into its undead mind ...

“Take her to wash and then feed her,” Gregory ordered.  His voice was excited, as if he was pleased to see the undead creature.  Olivia thought he was mad.  Couldn’t he understand how dangerous it was?  “We will do more tests later.”

Ivan helped Olivia to stumble towards the door, his hands gently holding her upright.  Behind her, the creature moaned again.  The further she moved from it, the weaker the link between them.  But she knew it wouldn’t last ...

If they let it loose, she thought grimly, there will be hundreds of others all too soon.

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