The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,4

her voice was normally so clipped – made Mary bristle defensively. “There is no need. I accept the assignment.” Her voice was almost angry.

Anne looked at her carefully. “You are certain? I need not remind you that it is unwise to take on an assignment unless you are fully prepared, both physically and mentally.” She laid a subtle emphasis on the last word. “If you—”

“I’m fine.” Mary interrupted her for the first time ever. In the past, she had always been too much in awe to be so rude. “Please – tell me what the assignment will involve. I’ll perform whatever tasks you set.”

There was a short silence, during which Anne and Felicity again exchanged quick looks. Mary clenched the edge of her wooden chair and willed the tight feeling in her chest to vanish.

Finally, Felicity cleared her throat. “You will disguise yourself as an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy taking on his first job at a building site. The position will be forgiving of your lack of experience. Your task is to uncover information pertinent to the death of Mr Wick, as well as to the possible causes of injury and delay on the site. This includes an investigation into the ghost stories, which may or may not have a basis in fact.

“You will begin by questioning the men and boys, and simply keeping your ears open. The engineer in charge of the site, a Mr Harkness, already reports directly to the Commissioner and his paperwork is all copied to the Committee of Works, so any evidence you find will be unofficial. The information you collect will determine your subsequent actions, of course. As you can see, it’s an open-ended task which begins in a straightforward fashion.” Felicity paused, but when Mary did not immediately reply, she hurried on. “You’ve already demonstrated that you can pass as a boy, and I’ll spend some time coaching you on the finer points. As you know, it’s primarily a matter of posture and movement, rather than costuming. You’re young and slim and strong, so there’s already a natural resemblance, and lots of boys’ voices haven’t broken at that age.”

Mary nodded. Her fingers were very cold now, and she felt curiously numb. Felicity was always persuasive – a trick of her voice, rather than her facility with words – and Mary hated to disappoint. “Very well,” she said. “When must I begin?”

Anne frowned slightly, possibly at her phrasing. “There are still a few arrangements to make concerning your false identity as a boy – such as ensuring that there’s a place for you on site. Mr Harkness is deemed reliable, but he will not be privy to your real identity. Add to that time to work on your masculine persona … I should say you could begin no earlier than Wednesday or Thursday.”

Felicity compressed her lips. “Too long, I think. Ideally, you’d start on Monday.”

Mary nodded. “Very well.”

“Report back here after luncheon tomorrow,” said Felicity. She nodded at Mary briskly, and glanced at Anne. The meeting was over, and Mary was dismissed.

She stood clumsily, mechanically scrunching the Eye in her hand. “Thank you.” For what, she had no idea.

Two

A bell was ringing.

A clear, high-pitched, arrhythmic clatter.

A G – not that she cared one way or another.

Mary clutched her pillow tighter and let the note resound through her weary brain, refusing to analyze the sound, unwilling to connect it with any sort of meaning. There were always bells ringing at the Academy. Her life, since the age of twelve, had been governed by these bells. She’d never thought to resent them until today.

The bell finally stopped its nagging and Mary rolled onto her back, crinoline collapsing beneath her weight. A lock of hair – short, jagged, unfamiliar – jabbed her left eye. The plaster ceiling was annoyingly creamy and perfect – the result of a much-needed re-plastering last summer. She missed the old, yellowed ceiling, with its hairline fissures and occasional nicks.

That tight sensation in her chest was still expanding, and she hugged the pillow tighter in an effort to combat it. What was wrong with her, anyway? She’d just been handed the most exciting assignment of her nascent career, and the only responses she could summon were panic and nausea. Was this sort of work – spying and covert observation – not for her, after all? Perhaps she ought to be a good little governess, or a nice little nurse, or a quiet little clerk. Anything but the luckiest, most ungrateful girl in London.

Was