Velvet Undercover (10 page)

“I've got it,” I say, jumping up. I bend to retrieve it from under a seat and then roll it back up before returning it to the bag. As I settle the bag upright, I spot a small red book lying in the bottom of the bag. My heart slams into my ribs and I stare up at her.

She takes the bag from me. “Thank you, darling. That could have been a real mess if you hadn't reacted so fast.”

I nod before picking up my own small handbag and surreptitiously feeling for my codebook. I want to cry in relief when I locate its hard outline. I sit back down, my heartbeat slowly returning to normal. The book in her bag simply looks like mine. It's not as if small red books are that unusual. For a moment I thought— Well, I don't know what I thought, but the incident serves as a warning to me. I mustn't lose sight of what I'm doing for a moment. To do so is not only foolhardy but downright dangerous.

I think of that later as we reach our destination. Though parts of France and even Luxembourg looked as if spring might not be that far off, Berlin is still locked in the gray, icy grip of winter. Looking at the city now, it's hard to believe that it can be lovely and full of life. Nothing can hide its unique mixture of history and modernity, though. Modern brick buildings sit incongruously next to baroque churches, and while the old streets tend to wander haphazardly here and there, the streets of the newly built sections of the city are ruler straight and meet at perfect ninety-degree angles. The Germans are a strange blend of the industrious and the artistic and their capital city shows this intermingling.

In spite of everything—the nerves, the danger, and the assignment that weighs heavily on my shoulders—a small part of me is oddly excited to be back in the city I'd loved so much. My heart leaps when I see the restaurant where my parents took me to celebrate my eighth birthday. I felt so grown up going out to a late supper. The headwaiter brought out a beautiful
Donauwelle
cake covered with sour cherries and candles just for me.

We'd been so happy here.

Mrs. Tremaine has already said good-bye and that she'd no doubt see me at the palace. I wonder. Somehow I don't think an Australian opera singer will be mingling much with the governesses.

Maxwell turns up to help me with my things. “Thank you,” I tell him, even though I know it's part of his job.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I'm to make sure you are settled. It seems as if no one knows quite what to do with governesses or ladies-in-waiting. You're not really servants, because of the family tie, and yet you're being paid. It always seems to cause such confusion.”

“It's like we're being paid to be family,” I say, and he laughs.

“That's it exactly, but on the bright side, you are getting a motorcar to yourself.”

Maxwell hands the driver my trunks before helping me climb up into the backseat of the town car. The thin light of the sun casts shadows over the street and Max suddenly feels like the last friend I have in the world.

“Will I see you?”

He must catch the wistfulness in my voice, because he squeezes my hand before letting it go. His eyes, velvet brown, reassure mine. “Undoubtedly, Sophia Thérèse. I'll make sure of it.”

He nods to the driver and gives me a snappy salute. I watch him until the motorcar turns the corner and he's gone.

Target: The victim of surveillance; the subject.

S
ighing, I settle in to watch the buildings go by, wondering how many changes the past seven years have wrought on the city. The streets are all lit with electric lights now. Before, many of the streetlamps were gas. Lights glow from most of the windows as well, making me think that the Germans have been successful in wiring most of the city. Or at least the area between the train station and the Berliner Stadtschloss.

I've seen the City Palace before, of course, but have never been in it. My father had been inside several times, but had no reason to take his little girl there. Built in an unheard-of short amount of time during the Middle Ages, the Stadtschloss has been renovated several times and is the kaiser's chief residence, though the prince and the duchess spend a great deal of their time at the newly modernized Marble Palace in Potsdam.

I'm taken to the servants' entrance, a small, nondescript
door in the back. Several men in livery are standing next to it, smoking, and I can feel their leering as the driver and I go through the door. The driver hands me off to a maid, who silently escorts me to my room, which is somewhere in the back and near the attic. Learning the layout of the Stadtschloss is going to be my first priority.

“Have you worked here long?” I ask the maid, in an attempt to be friendly, but the glance she gives me is less than sociable.

“Two years, miss, and I like my job.” The answer is short and to the point, and I know further questions are useless.

This won't be the person to give me a tour.

My room is small and scrupulously clean, but plain in its appointments. Not like servants' quarters—the furniture is too nice for that—but definitely not a luxurious guest suite, either. The bed is covered with a pretty yellow counterpane and I see fresh flowers on the dark wood dresser. I smile. At least someone tried to make it welcoming. There's a key on the dresser next to the flowers, and I let out a sigh of relief. At least I'll be able to secure my door when I leave. Not that the housekeeper doesn't have a set of keys, but at least not everyone will be able to walk right in.

I scan the room, looking for a hidey-hole, as I unpack. Miss Tickford told me to get my papers out of the trunk as quickly as possible, as that's the first place someone would look. Unfortunately, I don't run across any loose floorboards or secret drawers. Not that I really expected to. It just would have made things easier.

I kneel next to the bedstead and run my hand underneath until I find a place between the wooden slats. After making a slit in the bottom of the mattress with the small knife Miss Tickford gave me, I pull out enough cotton batting to hide the folded papers in. Once the papers are safely concealed, I shove the batting back in as best I can.

After I'm done, I sit on the edge of the bed and look around in a kind of stunned disbelief. How did I end up in Germany impersonating a dead woman? As a teacher to the kaiser's grandchildren? Panic flutters in my stomach and I quickly turn to the practical. If I dwell on my situation for too long, I'll be paralyzed by fear and won't accomplish anything.

I make a mental list. One of the first things I have to do, after meeting Lillian and Marissa, is to plan an escape route in case of an emergency. I hope it won't come to that, but it's essential to have a contingency plan. Then I need to make contact with LDB to ensure that communication is properly established. The tension across my shoulders eases as I plan my next steps.

There's a knock on the door and I take a deep breath. It's time to put the plan in motion.

I open the door to a pretty young woman wearing a plain blue suit.

She holds out a hand. “Hello there! I'm Lillian Bouchard. We'll be working together in the schoolroom.”

I know from my research that Lillian Bouchard is twenty-three, though she looks much younger in spite of the severe ash-blond knot at the back of her head. There's something
different about her and it takes me a moment to notice that her eyes are dissimilar colors—one is spring green while the other is a light blue.

I smile. “You must be responsible for the flowers,” I say, switching into French.

Her eyes light up. “I am, and your French is lovely. You have no accent at all, which is unusual for a German. No offense, of course.”

I shake my head. “I have a talent for languages.” I wonder how many times I'm going to have to say that.

“I can see. That'll come in handy with the children. Their grandfather is insistent that they be fluent in multiple tongues. Would you care for a tour of the schoolroom now? Or are you tired from your journey?”

It doesn't matter how tired I am, I jump at the chance for a tour. “I'd love to see the schoolroom and at the very least this wing of the palace, if you could show me. I'd like to get my bearings.”

She nods. “Very wise. The children will lead you on a merry chase if you lose sight of them.”

I hang up my coat and follow her out of the room, half listening as she shows me the servants' quarters, which take up almost the entire upper east wing of the palace. While the servants' area is not extravagant, by any means, I'm surprised by just how clean and up-to-date it actually is, considering. Most royal families have installed running water and electricity in the main parts of the house while letting the rooms the staff live in languish from neglect. In
the Stadtschloss, even the hallways of the servants' quarters are warm and clean.

“This is the servants' lounge,” she says, passing a spacious room with a battered piano, a large rectangular table, and several worn sofas and chairs that look to be hand-me-downs from nicer parts of the palace. I give a tentative smile to several young women playing cards in the corner of the room, only to be eyed coldly in return.

“Don't mind them,” Lillian says in French. “They're jealous of our position and education. They'll never be more than maids, while both you and I can move on to other positions or marry well. I don't spend much time here.” She gives a typically French sniff and I hide my grin.

We walk on, through several doors and down a narrow stairway, until we reach what I assume is the children's area of the palace. Rich tapestries, depicting panoramic scenes from Roman or Greek myths, hang from the walls. Long red carpets create pathways on the gleaming parquet floors and elaborate chandeliers hang from the ceiling every twenty to thirty feet. The area is completely silent—even our footfalls are muffled by the carpets.

“The children have already been taken to the nursery for the night, so you'll meet them tomorrow,” Lillian says.

“I thought the prince's family had moved to the Marble Palace?”

“They have, but the duchess doesn't like to live so far out. The prince rather indulges her. Probably to make up for his other shortcomings.”

She casts me a sideways glance and I raise my eyebrows, hoping for some royal gossip, but we've reached the schoolroom and nothing more is said.

“Here is our domain!” She sweeps her arm about an enormous corner room filled with tables, comfortable-looking furniture, and bookshelves. Large multipaned windows occupy two walls, making the room seem even more spacious and airy than it is.

“This is lovely,” I tell her truthfully. “Not at all what I expected.”

“The duchess has modern views on child rearing and education. We also have several other children here, the offspring of relatives staying at the palace.”

“How many children will we be teaching?” I ask.

“Six. The three princes, of course, and three girls—the duchess's nieces and then a Hohenzollern cousin. Not sure how they're related, but they are. The boys and girls are being educated together, at least for now. As I said, the duchess is rather modern.”

She takes my arm in a chummy fashion as she switches off the schoolroom light. “I'm glad you're here. They can be a bit of a handful for one person. I've had a maid to help watch them, but of course she can't teach.”

“Do you think you can show me the rest of the palace?” I ask. “It's so huge, and I want to make sure I can find my way around.” I have the blueprint of the Stadtschloss in my trunk, but looking at a drawing is much different than actually walking through the halls, and I really need to know
where Marissa Baum's room is.

Lillian gives me a lovely smile. “Of course. We might as well do it now. Though we have most afternoons free, I'm sure you'll be too tired to do much exploring. What would you like to see?”

I'm trying to think how I might ask to see where the family friends stay in a way that won't raise suspicion when a dim light comes on in one of the rooms down the hall. My companion hesitates ever so slightly before picking up speed.

She stops when we reach the servants' stairwell. “I'm so sorry, I forgot I have some work to do on tomorrow's lessons. We'll have to reschedule our tour. Do you think you could find your way back to your room on your own?” Her voice is casual, but her shoulders are tense.

“Of course. Up two flights of stairs and through those two doors, right?”

She nods, not bothering to hide the relief on her face. “Yes, that's it. I'll come for you at seven in the morning to show you the servants' dining hall.”

She opens the door for me and smiles. I give her a jaunty wave and make a show of heading up the stairs until the door shuts. Then, taking a deep breath, I turn back.

Heart in my throat, I tiptoe back down and count to ten before opening up the door a crack. Lillian was acting perfectly normal until the light switched on in that room. If she has a secret assignation with someone, it could mean that she's Velvet.

I see nothing through the crack, and the hall is silent. If I'm discovered, I can always claim to be lost.

Opening the door wider, I slip through and shut it quietly behind me. I pause for a moment, my eyes staring at the dim light down the hallway. I strain to listen for voices, but the only sound I hear is the thudding of my own heart.

A sense of unreality creeps over me as I slink silently down the hall. What am I doing here in the kaiser's palace in the middle of a war?

Looking for Velvet—a woman so important that the British government is willing to risk anything to save her.

Risk
me
to save her.

As I near the room, I hear voices and freeze.

“Do you want to meet with her?” I hear a man ask.

“I don't know.” Lillian's voice is laced with pain. “What else did she say?”

“I already told you that you need to make a decision before she leaves. That this may be your last opportunity.”

“When is she leaving?”

“She'll be here for another week or so. She doesn't want to stay in Berlin any longer than necessary.”

I frown. The man's voice has a familiar tonal quality that I can't quite place.

“Arrange a meeting. Maybe talking with her will help me make up my mind.” Lillian's voice is weary and defeated.

A sudden silence warns me that they may be moving toward the door. Panicked, I dart behind a giant potted palm.

“As soon as you make arrangements, let me know,” Lillian says.

“Of course,” the man says.

The voices are getting farther and farther away, but by the time I get up enough nerve to peep out from behind the potted plant, they're disappearing around the corner. The dark-haired man by Lillian's side is rather slender and, unlike most men I've seen in Germany, isn't in uniform.

I wait another couple of beats before entering the room they'd met in. It's just one of the many hundreds in the palace with grand furnishings that are rarely used and shelves of books that are never opened. The waste of space and money makes me cringe. Nothing looks out of the ordinary and I return to my room without incident.

Once I'm safely inside, I tremble with relief. I've done as much spying as my nerves will allow. And even though I didn't find out exactly what was going on with Lillian's meeting, I didn't get caught, so I consider my first real spy undertaking a success.

Tucking the bag with my codebook under the mattress, I crawl into bed, praying I'll be able to sleep.

Who was the man Lillian was with? Miss Tickford didn't indicate that anyone else knew who Velvet was—on the contrary, the entire reason I'm here is that Velvet's disappeared and no one else knows exactly who she is or how to get in touch with her. But what if Velvet is being led astray by an enemy? Or maybe the man Lillian was talking to is her source? Velvet has to be getting her information from
someone. It's not as if they would just allow a woman to waltz into a war council.

I hear footsteps outside my door and I pause, unable to breathe until a door opens and shuts just down the hall.

My breath comes out in a whoosh. I have to relax. Of course there'll be people coming and going all night. Many of the female servants sleep on this corridor.

My mind wanders, as it often does, to my father. I turn to lie on my back again, staring up at the ceiling.

Is he alive?
I think he is, but I can't know for sure.
Is he a prisoner of war?
Tears form in my eyes and I wipe them away.

Spies mustn't cry.

I awake the next morning to the sound of footsteps hurrying back and forth outside my room. The palace is awakening. I wash quickly in the small water closet in my room and run a comb through my hair. Before dressing in one of the plain suits Miss Tickford bought me, I tuck the codebook into the inside pocket of my jacket, wondering if she'd had the pocket placed there for that very reason.

The mirror in the water closet is small and wavy with age, making it difficult to draw on my birthmark. I look at the finished product. Does it look the same as it did yesterday? It's hard to tell.

By the time I've finished making up my bed, Lillian is calling for me.