Take flight, p.14
Take Flight, page 14
They continued to stare unflinchingly at each other, two of the most powerful people in the nation, in the world. And then the Lady spoke again, and Bridget heard the familiar kindness in her voice.
“Surely as a writer and a politician, you have always understood the importance of le mot juste, Winston. The best possible word at the best possible time. The judicious application of one’s ability. That is what the Checquy must be built around. If we did what you are asking, we might win the war, but we would lose everything we had fought for. Our world is much more fragile than one expects. It would be too easily broken.”
“I understand,” the Prime Minister said finally. “Lady Carmichael.”
He understood, Bridget thought as she glanced around at the apprentices gathered in the room. But will these kids understand? My God, look at them. They seem ready to start frying Nazis right this minute. Thank God none of them can fly or there’d be even more illegally downed bombers littering the streets of London. Even as she thought this, she recalled that the boy in the corner, William, was unbelievably gifted with magnetism. It was well within his abilities to yank a plane out of the sky and crumple it into a cube if the mood took him. You’ve got to talk to them. Calm them down, talk them out of this.
“You cannot seriously be thinking about entering the war, just walking out on the battlefields to fight like it’s 1677,” Bridget said, trying to sound like the voice of authority and reason. “Have you forgotten everything we were ever taught? Think of the conflict with the Grafters!” She was pleased to see most of them flinch at the word. “We absolutely cannot use our powers to fight a war with Germany.”
“What are you, daft?” said Edwin. “None of us are suggesting that we use our abilities to fight the Jerries.”
“Oh,” said Bridget after a pause, somewhat nonplussed.
“We know what would happen,” said Ruth. “Of course we can’t take any steps that would escalate this into a supernatural conflict.” The apprentices were looking at Bridget as if she’d suggested that they fight the war by stomping on baby chicks.
“Yes,” said Bridget woodenly. “That would be ridiculous.”
“Not least because, as you might recall, my power is the ability to change the color of people’s hair by touching it,” said Ruth. “It’s not exactly the most combat-applicable gift in the world.”
“You can also make their hair fall out,” said Lewis encouragingly.
“Yes, Hitler, beware,” said Ruth sourly.
“But we want to help in some way,” said Edwin. “Bridget, the Nazis want to conquer the world. They are committing atrocities wherever they go, and they will not stop at the Channel Islands. An invasion could happen any day. Everywhere we look, there are posters calling on us to support the war effort. ‘Dig for Victory!’ ‘Make Do and Mend!’ Men my age are enlisting as pilots and soldiers. They’re fighting to defend this country, but I’m not allowed to—the government won’t let me—and you wouldn’t believe the looks I get, walking around in civilian clothes at the age of nineteen. And they’re right to look at me like that! I keep expecting some lady in the street to hand me a white feather for cowardice.”
“But you know how important the work of the Checquy is,” said Bridget. “I mean, we’re training to fight the fights that absolutely no one else can. And you’re already doing it! Edwin, I read about you in dispatches just last week. It was you who made the breakthrough that cracked the case of the Gloucester Vivisectionist. You put together the detail that he was taking only his victims’ muscles with the fact that the soil in the Forest of Dean lacked nitrogen and realized that the stolen muscle was being used as a source of protein. If not for you, they might never have figured out that the murderer was a beech tree.”
“Well, yes, but that was small . . .” said Edwin.
“It was five people who got torn apart in the street!” exclaimed Bridget. “And we didn’t even have to kill the tree to stop it. It was just a matter of spreading some really good fertilizer around the place.”
“Bridget, people are dying every night because of the Germans,” said Lewis. “More than die in a month from manifestations. Civilians are dying in their homes when bombs fall on them!”
“Yes, thank you, Lewis, I live in London, I know about the bombings. And the reason that more people aren’t dying from manifestations is that the Checquy is there, doing its job. You’re helping the country now,” said Bridget. “Surely you know that.”
“Not helping enough,” said a dark-haired girl named Madge who hadn’t spoken until then. “There is an army coming, and the Court is making us stand by and do nothing. And it will be bad. Alexandrina, tell her what you saw.” The albino girl looked up, and Bridget could see a faint shimmer on the air in front of her eyes.
“I’ve seen what’s happening in France,” she said quietly.
“Oh, good God!” exclaimed Bridget. “Are you serious? What is wrong with you people? You cannot do that!”
“I didn’t go physically,” said Alexandrina defensively. “I set up a relay of prisms and looked through that. I’ve done it lots of times before.” Bridget was staring at her in horror. “I couldn’t take it any farther than Paris. I barely kept it cohesive at all.”
“I don’t care! Checquy members do not operate outside British territory without express permission from the Court. And definitely not in enemy-occupied territory. Jesus Christ!” She threw her glass onto the floor, where it failed to shatter. The others all looked down at it in bewilderment, but she didn’t need to see it to know that she’d lost control of her powers.
Calm yourself.
“Paris has been occupied,” said Alexandrina quietly. “On top of every French government building, there was a flag with a swastika. German soldiers were goose-stepping in the Place de la Concorde. They’ve reset all the clocks to German time!” She sounded like she was about to weep. “And there are so many German troops throughout the countryside.” Her hands were clenched. “They’re not going to stop at the Channel.”
“I know that,” said Bridget, breathing heavily. “Everyone knows that. It’s why we’re at war.” She looked around at them. “Are you the only ones who are talking like this?”
“No,” said Ruth. “There are others. You understand, we were all brought up to protect this land. But even if we weren’t, there are some things that one cannot simply stand by and allow to happen.”
“They will come, Bridget, and even if they leave us alive, they will smash everything we know and love,” said Lewis. “We know that we can’t use our powers to contribute to the war effort, we understand that, but we’re still people, this is still our country.” He stopped, and she saw that there were actually tears glinting in his eyes.
“Bridget, you have to talk to the Lady,” said Ruth. “Tell her that she has to let us do this. Let me be a Land Girl, let Alexandrina go work in a factory, let Madge join the Women’s Voluntary Services. The boys aren’t even allowed to be messengers or join the wardens!”
“If I can’t be a soldier or a pilot or in the Home Guard or do anything that might lead to actual fighting, fine! But let me do something,” said Edwin. He was pleading, and it cut Bridget in the heart to see her friend like this.
“We wouldn’t use our powers,” said Ruth. “And we could just do it part-time. You know, keep up with our studies and our training.”
“Even conscientious objectors can do alternative work,” said Lewis bitterly. “They can work on farms or in mines or drive ambulances. Conchies can help protect the country against Jerry invasion, but we can’t!”
“Bridget, please,” said Edwin. “Please talk to her.” In the background, over the distant chatter of their fellow apprentices, there was the sound of a gong being rung. They were being summoned to the ballroom. The apprentices in the room kept staring at her, eyes wide open, full of hope.
“Fine, I’ll talk to her,” said Bridget finally. “In the meantime, go on to the lecture.” They filed out silently. Edwin was the last, and he waited uncertainly.
“Aren’t you coming?” he asked.
“No, I’m going to stay in here and brood,” said Bridget. She couldn’t face the prospect of sitting in a crowd of people and trying to pay attention to a lecture. She needed quiet and dimness to think. And alcohol. “Have them send in a Singapore Sling,” she added. I might as well get some touch of the Far East out of the evening. “On second thought, have them send in three.”
Usha and Pamela watched the excited apprentices streaming into the Caïssa’s lecture hall.
“It’s a nice treat for them,” Usha remarked.
“And a good chance to see their peers,” Pamela said. “Growing up, I was always so delighted to meet other apprentices. I imagine it was like meeting cousins—they were obliged to be happy to see you.”
“We should move into the hall,” Usha said. “Get some seats before they’re all taken.”
“Probably.”
Neither of them made a move from the bar.
“Or we could stay here and have another drink,” said Pamela.
“Now, that’s the kind of insight that has gotten you where you are today,” said Usha. She gestured to the bartender, who obligingly brought two more gin and tonics. The exodus of the apprentices meant that there were now actually chairs and tables available, and the two women took advantage of this.
Pamela sighed and sipped her drink. “I actually argued against this.” Usha looked at her questioningly. “Bringing all these kids together in London—it seemed so risky. But everyone else thought it would be bad for morale to cancel.” She regarded them as they moved into the lecture hall. “Perhaps they were right. The kids do all look happy.”
“The apprentices I’ve come across are usually very serious,” said Usha.
“You have to grow up pretty quickly in the Checquy.”
“Bridget certainly seemed glad to see her friends,” said Usha.
“It’s a good thing, as it may be the last bright spot in her schedule for a while.”
“Oh, she’ll get a letter or a visit from Gerald pretty soon and be in a state of bliss,” Usha said.
“She and that boy do adore each other,” Pamela said, smiling.
“Do you think it will work out between them?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Pamela said. “Relationships with non-Checquy can be difficult in any case, but when they’re as clever as he is?” She shrugged and made a face. “People like that realize there’s something strange going on and try to figure it out. If they do learn, and if they don’t crack, they’ll turn the implications over and over—and that’s not healthy for anyone.”
“The Carmichaels seem to make it work,” said Usha.
“Well, they’ve known each other since they were children. And besides, he’s always been aware that it was an unequal match. I’m not sure which would be harder for a man, knowing your wife possesses inhuman powers or knowing she possesses orders of magnitude more money than you. Still, she’s lucky. He seems all right with it.” She took a drink. “Plus, she hasn’t told him everything.”
“I don’t think any wife tells her husband everything,” said Usha dryly. “Although concealing one’s devastating supernatural abilities and the true nature of one’s secret government work is quite a lot to not mention.” Pamela smirked, and they sat quietly until Usha said, “Perhaps we should address the elephant in the room.”
“Oh God,” said Pamela, putting her drink down and twisting around to scan the room. “Is Pawn Gentill drunk and doing her party trick again?”
“What? No! I’m talking about”—Usha paused and looked around before continuing in low tones—“our friend whose plane you brought down.” Pamela’s face grew still. “Pamela, can you not tell me what’s going on? I appreciate that perhaps you can’t tell Bridget—she’s been brought up in this thing her whole life. She follows the rules. It nearly killed her not to report you. But I hold you ahead of the Checquy. Our friendship is more important, so you can tell me.”
“I can’t,” said Pamela tightly.
“You can. I won’t think any less of you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Or is someone threatening you?” Pamela closed her eyes and shook her head. “I have to know if . . . do you know why you did it?”
Pamela opened her eyes. “What? Are you asking if I’m going mad?”
Usha shrugged awkwardly.
“I’m not insane, Usha. I know exactly why I did it.” Her mouth twisted as if she had tasted something bitter. “And I know why it was the wrong thing to do. But telling you would only make things worse.”
“How? I don’t understand.”
“It would make things worse for you,” said Pamela. “And it would add another crime to my tally. If you don’t want to help me hunt him down, I understand.”
“Of course I’m going to help hunt him down,” said Usha. She paused. “And if ever you decide that you do need to tell someone, I’m always here.”
“I know,” said Pamela. “There’s no one else I would rather confide in.” The two women were silent for a moment.
“Should we go out now?” suggested Usha. “Start tracking him tonight?”
“With two drinks sloshing around inside us?”
“There is an old saying in my country: There is no better time than the present for hunting down a fugitive Nazi who may be using inhuman powers to murder Londoners.”
“Yours is a rich and beautiful culture filled with much wisdom,” Pamela said. “But the tracking team will still be investigating the site. We’ll get their report tomorrow, and then we’ll see if there are any clues.”
“And if they track him down in the meantime?”
“Then let’s hope they shoot first and ask questions later,” said Pamela.
“Cheers to that,” Usha said, and she raised her glass. “Another drink, then?”
“Yes. I’ll get this round.”
In the end, Bridget went home, frustrated, after only a single Singapore Sling. Sitting alone and getting drunk seemed like the most depressing and useless way of addressing her various concerns.
Besides, the last thing she wanted was to spend the night lying on a camp bed in the club’s capacious cellars surrounded by whispering and giggling apprentices. Or by Edwin and his friends staring at her again with imploring eyes. So, instead, she left a message for Pamela and Usha at reception and walked back to the Carmichael house on Belgrave Square.
Leominster, the butler, met her at the door and advised her that she was the first to arrive home. She thanked him and asked if the cook could make her a sandwich to take to her bedroom for dinner. One of Lady Carmichael’s enormous Russian boarhounds insinuated himself under her hand, and she scratched him absently as she climbed the stairs and proceeded down the hall to her room. Against all the house rules, the dog stepped up onto her bed—which creaked a little in protest—and settled down with a deep sigh. Bridget kicked off her shoes, peeled off her stockings, and settled at the other end of the bed, her feet resting against his flank.
“Bloody hell, what a mess,” she said to the dog. He opened an eye, regarded her, and shut it again.
I do understand how Edwin and that lot feel, though, she thought. Hadn’t she said as much herself just the night before, watching the planes coming in and wishing she could warn people? God, was it really only last night? It seemed like weeks ago. Life had been so much simpler before the war, when all she needed to worry about was learning how to protect the nation from eldritch horrors, occasionally snatching some time to think about the boy she liked.
Still, she couldn’t shake the memory of her peers staring at her with all their hopes on their faces, desperate to help with the war in some way.
Is that why Pamela did what she did? Did her hatred of the war push her to break the law?
It seemed too prosaic a reason for Pamela’s actions. Pamela had been in the Checquy since she was tiny; its laws and teachings were in her blood, and she was exceptional in every way. During her apprenticeship, she had distinguished herself not only by her phenomenal supernatural abilities but by her brilliance and supreme self-discipline. When Pamela finished her apprenticeship and was promoted to the rank of Pawn, the Lady of the Checquy had personally selected her to be her aide-de-camp. And Bridget was sure she was being trained and groomed for even more tremendous things. Her career prospects aside, Pamela simply had too much self-control. Even the junior apprentices knew they could not use their powers in the war.
Then why? Why did she do it?
There was a knock on the door, and Bridget looked up, startled out of her thoughts. “Yes?” Leominster entered and pointedly did not mention the dog on the bed.
“A letter came for you in today’s post, Miss Mangan.”
“Thank you, Leominster.” Was it her imagination or was there a hint of a smile as he brought her the envelope? She looked down at the name of the sender.
It wasn’t her imagination.
Gerald Nash, the twenty-year-old son of acquaintances of Lady Carmichael’s. Neither he nor his parents had anything to do with the Checquy—indeed, they had no inkling of its existence.
Bridget and Gerald had met at a large, formal, and totally agonizing dinner party. At that point, she had been a member of the Carmichael household for only three days and was still trying to settle into her situation. She moved about the house cautiously, petrified of knocking over something that was worth more than she was. The presence of servants made her nervous; she was worried about saying something inappropriate in front of the Lady’s family; and Usha and Pamela were intimidating figures who took their grand surroundings completely for granted.
Hovering over it all was the awful knowledge that she was sharing a house with the commander of her organization and with the commander’s family, so her whole career depended on how well she comported herself in every aspect of her life. She did not dare to leave her bedroom in the morning without checking herself three or four times in the mirror; she woke up early to study the newspaper rigorously in preparation for any breakfast-table conversation; and she tidied her room religiously so the servants would not judge her.
