Myra followed Robert’s sage advice and found that, for a few days at least, she both advanced in the practice of her gift and avoided unnecessary drama. She found it maddening how right the man was. And refreshing. Though this she admitted only to herself. That said, at least someone in Grafford House was not altogether without decorum.
And then her peace ended as, under this new routine of calm certainty, Myra woke one morning to find new clothing arrayed and awaiting her. She mentally thanked the wardrobe fairies for yet another gift to match the other three ensembles previously accumulated under similar circumstances and moved to inspect the dress. She blanched.
A smart pinstripe. Cream. And edged with little red tassels. Hideously fashionable. Terribly impractical for M.I.’s line of work.
Was this a joke?
Myra looked to the cabinet to where her other outfits hung in state. Biting her lip, she affected deliberation but knew her decision had already been made for her. She fingered the cloth again and peered closer at the construction of the garment. It looked to be as uncomfortable as it was the latest fashion. Stiff. Constricting.
Ord clothes.
Myra dressed with reluctance, feeling the world retreat, separated as she was from it by her iron cage of corsetry and thick poplin. Her fingers pulled at the cloth, testing. No pockets. No place for her wand. At this last, she felt the hairs on her arm raise in brief alarm.
A knock sounded on her door, and Myra jumped.
“A moment,” she called, dashing over to fetch her wand from her nightstand, gratefully noting that she, at least, still had her comfortable footwear. She opened the door and found herself face to face with Laurel, who beamed at her.
“Good morning, Myra. I see you’ve managed quite well on your own.”
Myra took Laurel’s surprise with a wry smile of her own, managing a clipped, “Yes, thank you.”
Laurie saw right through it. Of course. She captured Myra’s hands within her own, her eyes bright and mischievous as she maneuvered around the wand grasped therein. “Best leave that behind, dear. It mars the disguise.”
Disguise? Oh! Myra gave a wobbly grin, feeling stupid and apprehensive at the same time. The only folk liable to spot the subtle differences between this and mage-modified attire were wizards themselves. Where could she possibly be going that required her to present herself so fully as an ord? And why is it I am so quick to question these kind people over and again?
Myra’s wonder was interrupted as Benjamin appeared at the end of the hallway. She felt the blood drain from her face and instinctively knew, to her mortification, that it rendered the stylish outfit even more ill-fitting for her. She had no recourse. For two days she had studiously avoided Benjamin after their encounter in the library. And here he was walking straight towards her as though nothing had passed between them. Perhaps, in his eyes, nothing had. Myra wilted under the new worry, forcing color unevenly into her cheeks with a furious blush.
“Ah, Myra. I was coming to fetch you. Going out?” Ben’s explanation faltered as Laurel caught his eye. A silent questioning ensued. He sauntered towards them, undeterred.
Myra cast quick eyes over both Laurel’s and Ben’s getups. Neither mage wore ord clothing. Subtle as the differences were, she had gotten used to noting them—through wearing such herself. Benjamin’s reaction was confirmation that the observation went both ways. To his credit, he seemed hurt after their two days of non-interaction. But then it might have been merely because he, himself, never went anywhere.
Myra said, “I don’t know—”
“Breakfast first,” Laurel interrupted Myra’s attempt at deflection, stepping between the two younger agents. The act gave motion to her brisk tone. They walked in silence, Myra and Benjamin’s unsteady peace bent under Laurie’s no-nonsense authority.
Agents. Not young friends. And certainly not paramours.
Myra’s blush migrated down across her neck and up into her ears. She burned from the scrutiny that Benjamin passed her way. Out of the corner of her eye—she dared not try to glance at him directly—she could see that judgment had been passed. But his look was unreadable. Not disapproval, thank the gods. But he wasn’t exactly harboring some secret compliment, either.
The hallways yawned endlessly. For every step forward, Myra felt the carpeted expanse drag on, lengthening to prolong her torture. She looked to Laurel, begging interference, “Does this have to do with the Order of the Holy Flame?”
Laurel flicked her eyes to Myra, then Benjamin. Blessing on Myra’s query and permission for him to answer.
“Liberi Ignis; Children of Fire.” Benjamin’s terse response provided Myra enough surprise that it shook her out of control of her gift. He was jealous. Deeply jealous.
So, his mood is not about the kiss then. Myra felt her insides warm to match her fading blush.
Ben elaborated, “Addair’s mages are more commonly known as simply The Children. Therefore, I believe it a tenuous link to the Order that you all shall shortly be investigating.” Again came the dig, the subtle reminder that he must stay behind, as always.
Myra bit back her apology. Likely he had heard enough of them in his lifetime as an agent. She settled for soothing him with her Empathy as best she could.
“James will provide the rest of the details as needed,” Laurel continued for Benjamin. “But it was Ben who figured out the subtext of Julius’ most recent message. The key meaning of it.”
“Yes, he sent another one to you, Myra. But I didn’t bother delivering it this time.” Ben sighed. “Which is why it is you who must go with James, I suppose.”
“And why you, my dear, must present yourself as ordinary a person as possible.” James’ voice behind them made Myra jump. He strode forward, his usual black on black attire sharp and ready for all possibilities. The sight of him was, perhaps, the most reassuring thing Myra had encountered all morning after finding that she was to leave all magic behind her for the day.
Relieved her of charges, Laurel smiled thinly and gave James a passing peck on the cheek. “You’ll remember Stephen’s Sholes, James?”
“I’ll remember, Laurie. Though I despise that contemptible machine.” James returned the pale affection with a warm smile. A sad smile. Stephen’s ghost still walked amongst them.
Myra looked away. And found herself accidentally engaging with Benjamin, who had lost his jealous edge. He beckoned her forward, away from the senior agents and towards the breakfast that gave a tantalizing call from the nearby dining room. The tinkle of cup and saucer and scrape of cutlery on plate informed her that others had already broken their fast. She followed Ben with a relieved heart, seeing approval spark his eyes at last as he cheekily looked her over once more, commenting, “Stripes. Never would have thought such on you, stick that you are.”
“I hadn’t enough advanced notice to change my body carriage to match the latest fashion,” Myra sniffed, enjoying the game immensely. Her eyes began to drift towards Ben’s mouth, and she corrected herself swiftly. She instead grasped at his rising mood. “You, Mr. Egrett, tend to be up on haberdashery in spite of your reclusive nature. Any pointers?”
“Don’t flirt with Julius.”
Myra gawked, unable to separate tease from warning. Perhaps they were inseparable, coming from Ben. She nodded, not finding words to answer. Letting him have the victory, she allowed Benjamin to help her to her seat at the table and noted that his eyes sparkled merriment at her. Still an enigma, that man.
Robert looked up from his meal only just long enough to wave a “good morning” at the two newcomers. Whereas Aidan sat across from Myra, his eyes raking over her outfit and drawing his own conclusions. Conclusions he kept to himself.
Certain that both men had heard Benjamin’s comment, Myra mused over the differing reactions. She found that Aidan’s quiet judgment irked her, and at length again concluded that, for all his indecorous behavior, Benjamin was the better gentleman there. Excepting Robert, of course, who was proper in all possible ways.
Hiding amongst her spiced potatoes and sausage, Myra wished that the two rivals would leave her out of it for once. It was hard enough navigating Benjamin’s verbal darts and Aidan’s protective posturing without them also taking shots at one another at her expense.
It was, appropriately enough, James who rescued her. “Myra, when you’re ready? No rush, of course.”
He ducked his head in and out of the dining hall to deposit his statement to her in one smooth motion. Myra rose with alacrity, startling Robert, Benjamin, and Aidan to their feet. With a small smile, she gathered her dishes and swept into the kitchen to make her escape.
Men.
The Grafford House carriage had been pulled ’round the front.
Apparently, while Myra was to play ord, James had no need for such subtlety as disembarking from the mews. He helped her into the coach and then instructed the driver, “Carlisle, please.”
They jolted into brisk motion. Myra gave vent to a small squeak of surprise. Subtle, no. Hurried, yes. She glanced to James. But he had returned to his usual impassive self. Silence made for an awkward third occupant during their journey up now-familiar Constitution Hill.
At length, James leaned forward, bringing gloved hands to his chin and resting them upon his cane. His lips barely moved as he said, “I’ve some business to attend to at headquarters. It was requested that I bring you with. A show, openly, of our mystery guest within Grafford House, as Mr. Griggs might have let slip your presence amongst our company to those with whom we used to work. Your story will be that your elder sister was Kady Moore, and your gift fell to the Dampening before anyone could preserve it via the elixir.”
Myra blinked acknowledgement, aware now that James was attempting to mask their communication to anyone who might be attending. She tried mimicking his stoicism, keeping her voice low. “I’m an ord. Got it.”
“Good girl.” James leaned back, fixing his eyes out the window, every inch the bored gentleman. Myra followed suit. Her boredom, however, was genuine.
The carriage inched along, hemmed in by traffic. Eventually, James reached up and rapped the ceiling, swearing under his breath. He set his eyes on Myra, piercing her with his impatience. “Care if we walk it?”
Shaking her head, Myra prepared herself by looking out the window. She did not recognize anything. But then, buildings around town looked much the same to her. Squished together. Some better, some worse off. And it was crowded. Reminded of her constricting bodice and pinching corsetry as she shifted on the bench, Myra really did not relish the walk. Even if it proved to be but one block. She also had the sense to know that James’ request was, in reality, an order.
The driver deposited them with a promise to return. And within moments, Myra found herself adrift with James in the surging whirlpool that was central London in mid-morning. He navigated them into the current of people, Myra catching her breath and managing a fresh glance around as they slowed to match the pace of those around them. She noted a sign: James Street. The insolence of that man!
Five long blocks had rendered Myra rosy-cheeked and footsore. Her slippers, while clever, were not meant for such abuse. She wondered if they would ever be the same again.
James Street had led them to Victoria and around to Wilton Road. And that was the end of Myra’s usefulness on that front, having been all turned around by crooked roads, ill-tempered horses, and a multitude of strangers. But at least the traffic had thinned somewhat. Myra’s initial fears of standing out in a crowd had been quelled by the simple fact that most folk seemed intent on their own pursuits—namely the nearby train station.
And so it was that she failed to be impressed by which building along the block she and James entered save for the plaque out front that declared in bold letters:
Whitte & Wight Imports Ltd.
Appointments Only.
Whisked inside by polite manners—ladies first—and her own simple desire to be somewhere quiet and dark, Myra barely had time to wonder if they had made such an appointment.
But there they were. Myra’s eyes were slow to adjust.
Her ears caught on faster. The steady tick of a clock, the chaotic crepitation of paper being dropped by the sheaf-ful, and a man’s cursing introduced Myra to DMI before she could separate the large wooden desk from the dark paneling that covered the walls of the narrow front hall.
Surprised that she could have missed such an elephant, piled high with all manner of administrative jumble, Myra soon understood why the issuer of said foul language had let fly his colorful statement of dismay within earshot of his company. He couldn’t see her either.
At Myra’s side, James cleared his throat.
Under the pointed admonition, a red-faced man peeked over a tottering stack of papers, his actions threatening to send this second after the first. He grew redder when he realized a lady had been privy to his ungentlemanly outburst. He half-rose, leaning as best he could over the massive desk and endless mounds of work that threatened total avalanche. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss—?”
“Moore,” Myra smoothly inserted herself into the man’s embarrassed pause. Mousy and thin in the face, he looked the sort that was easily alarmed, a nervous dog of a man. He also looked the sort that turned such energy into results. A dynamo who made up for his small stature with action, even his mop of dark hair seemed to quiver. His eyes gleamed eagerly, making them appear smaller, like glass beads in a china doll. His nose, however, was thoroughly out of joint. Myra concluded that it had been broken—perhaps more than once—in the past.
He leaned further to take her hand. Another pile of papers slid to the floor with a crash, unheeded by a custodian intent on more important business. Myra felt the knot inside her chest loosen. She had chosen right by her forward actions. Mage-like but not too far out of the ordinary. James stood by, arms crossed around his wand. Myra didn’t have to look at him to feel the glow of his approval.
“Black,” the desk-bound agent huffed, keeping introductions as understated as Myra had come to expect from her time in Grafford House. He turned to James. “Here about the last of yer effects, then?”
James peeled off from where he had been leaning against the wall. The corners of his mouth jerked, an expression that, on anyone save James, might have been a smile.
“And you can put that wand away, James. You look ridiculous.” With a grunt, Mr. Black slid out from behind his desk. Papers crunched underfoot and forced another birthing of foul language hastily checked. Myra had to work hard to stifle a giggle. “Come along, then. And don’t—don’t touch anything.”
With a start, Myra realized this last was not directed at herself but, rather, still to James. Did the ord-mage division run so rough as that? Curious, Myra picked her way past the desk, on the heels of James and Mr. Black.
The entrance faded behind them, the hall growing close and dingy as they continued onward into the bowels of the DMI headquarters. Their guide tried to make idle talk with each of them in turn. “Miss Moore. I hear tell that you’re more’n like one of us than one o’ them. Had a sister of the wand, though, did ya?”
Myra nodded, keeping her eyes downcast to help conceal the lie. She figured it worked in her favor. After all, hadn’t Kady died in a firefight between mages only last month?
Mr. Black answered with a series of muttered condolences in a tone somehow reminiscent of his swearing and did not press her further. He moved on to James. “We’ve a bet going as to where you’ve hidden yourselves. Any chance of helping me out on that point?”
The former agent gave nothing.
Black tried again with a new angle: “And Laurie. How’s she feeling? She’ll be, what, fifteen? Sixteen weeks along?”
If anything James’ jaw tightened, but he gave little more response than that. As for Myra, she only kept her shock hidden through every trick of emotional self-control she had learned. Laurel was pregnant? That explained so much.
But Black had moved on, seeing as he was going to get nothing from his two visitors. “Kept it untouched, as you’ll note. Weren’t sure at first if you’d all be a’comin’ back, see?”
At the agent’s wide gesture to their surroundings, Myra realized that the shabby decor was carefully intentional, like the gaslight that illuminated Grafford House. She glanced at James, seeing if the courtesy had made any impression on him.
“Granted, Griggs has made his improvements—not sure you can feel that. No? Well, then, tha’s good, I suppose,” Black continued, running roughshod over James’ silence.
Julius Griggs. Even his name sent Myra’s skin to prickling with anticipation.
“Myra.”
Her anticipation reached a new pitch. She turned to the speaker, feeling as though she were underwater. Sluggish; simultaneously impatient and reluctant. M.I.’s carefully worded letters of false courtship fluttered up between them in Myra’s mind, fanning her shyness. ‘Welcome to the game, Thales.’
Warm welcome, indeed.
“Julius Griggs.” James robbed Myra of the chance to speak his name.