Y.S. Lee - The Agency 1: A Spy in the House

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Copyright 2009 by Y. S. Lee
Cover photograph copyright 2010 by Scott Nobles

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

First electronic edition 2010

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover as follows:
Li, Rushang.
A spy in the house / Y. S. Lee.1st U.S. ed.
p. cm. (The agency; bk. 1)

Summary: Rescued from the gallows in 1850s London, young orphan and thief Mary Quinn is offered a place at Miss Scrimshaws Academy for Girls, where she is trained to be part of an all-female investigative unit called the Agency, and at age seventeen, she infiltrates a rich merchants home in hopes of tracing his missing cargo ships.
ISBN 978-0-7636-4067-5 (hardcover)
[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Swindlers and swindlingFiction. 3. Household employeesFiction. 4. Sex roleFiction. 5. OrphansFiction. 6. London (Eng.)History19th centuryFiction. 7. Great BritainHistoryVictoria, 18371901Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.L591173Spy 2010
[Fic]dc22 2009032736

ISBN 978-0-7636-5182-4 (electronic)

Candlewick Press
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Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

visit us at www.candlewick.com

She should have been listening to the judge.

Instead, Marys attention was focused on the flies swarming around her ankles in the prisoners dock and their primary interest: the pool of stale urine at her feet. It wasnt hers. Some poor fool must have lost control of his bladder earlier in the day, but the puddle would remain until... well, until long after her case was finished, at any rate.

It was odd how her senses shifted. In the late afternoon heat, the flies buzzing was the loudest sound in her mind. The judges nasal tenor was far down the list, well after the persistent cackling of someone in the gallery. If she squinted in just the right way, she could make out a halo of loose, grayish hair. Mad? Or merely relieved that it was someone else in the dock?

The prosecutor deformed by his wig, white powder drifting off it every time he turned his neck had enjoyed himself hugely. Hed made much of her youth How much more depraved is one so young, who has already trod so far and so fast through the thorny thickets of evil? and her dangerous looks Such pitch-black hair is a token of her pitch-black soul. Such evil should be nipped in the bud and by that clich, he meant to hang her. She had not spoken in her own defense. She had nothing to say.

The judges voice, threading its way amid the excited droning of the flies, loomed suddenly close and intimate. For the crime of housebreaking, Mary Lang, you are hereby sentenced to hang by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul. The last sentence sounded like mockery. How could it not?

There was some minor shuffling in the room but no murmurs of surprise. Mary lifted her chin and gazed steadily into the gallery, where the spectators looked uncomfortable in the late summer heat. Only one figure a woman dressed in light mourning, her veil rolled back met her eyes. And winked.

Mary blinked. When she looked again, the lady was gone. Then the wardress was dragging her from the prisoners box and leading her out of the courtroom, down the long, dung-and-onion-smelling corridor toward the cool damp of the cellar.

The wardress flung a brawny arm round her shoulder and jostled her roughly. Dont you faint, now, young woman. Her voice was hoarse, with a West Country accent.

Caught off guard, Mary stumbled. I wont, she muttered, but the woman shoved down onto Marys shoulders again, hard enough to make her knees buckle.

May the Lord have mercy on your puny weak soul, indeed! Under the cover of her petticoats, the wardress kicked Marys foot, sending her stumbling once again. Lawsamercy, you scrawny brat, none of this nonsense!

They had nearly reached the turnkey. Behind her back, the wardress administered a sharp twist to Marys left wrist. The iron cuffs cut into her flesh, causing her to hiss in surprise. The woman shook her shoulders roughly, gabbling the whole time at the turnkey. The bloody girls fainting! Im not having these fine-lady airs, thats for certain! Her strident voice drowned out the responses of the nearby jailers. A good ducking in the horse trough will sort her out! cried the woman furiously.

Mary chose to go limp. What was another quarter of an hours bullying to her? She was dragged outside and across the cobbled yard, the wardress still scolding and shaking her vigorously. The men clustered about the door, grinning at the spectacle. As she approached the trough in the corner of the courtyard, lugging Mary under her arm, the wardress produced a coarse handkerchief from her pocket and clamped it over Marys nose and mouth. A new smell, sweet and cold, flooded her nostrils. She struggled for a moment, briefly bewildered by the expression in the womans eyes.

And then the sky went black.

Was this death? Her mouth felt thick, as did her head. Her fingertips were numb. She twitched them experimentally and realized with a small shock that her wrists were no longer shackled. Indeed, she was floating, swaddled in linen and soft blankets. She turned her cheek to one side and rubbed against the pillow, catlike. The scent was pleasant and totally unfamiliar. No lake of burning fire so far. No heavenly choir, either. She saw no reason to move or even to open her eyes.

Mary?

She hadnt considered that God might be female. Slowly, reluctantly, she raised heavy eyelids and focused on the speaker. The woman had changed her lavender mourning dress for something darker, but it was she: the lady whod winked at her from the gallery. That meant this was neither hell nor heaven.

How do you feel?

The question seemed irrelevant. Mary let her gaze slide around the room large, simply furnished, lit by candles and back to the Winker. I dont know.

Your head might ache; chloroform sometimes has that effect, although we use as little as possible.

Chloroform: a fancy word for a dangerous substance. Shed heard whispers of potions that knocked one out but always dismissed them as wishful lies.

You must be thirsty. The Winker offered a glass of something pale and cloudy. At Marys hesitation, she smiled. Its quite safe to drink. To demonstrate, she took a sip.

Marys first taste was tentative. Then, as the cool liquid filled her mouth, she guzzled it greedily. Lemonade. Shed had it once before, a couple of years ago. Now she was sorry when it was all gone. Wiping her mouth, she looked at the lady. She still felt fuzzy-headed, but her curiosity was strong. Why?

Why dont I begin with who and where? Then Ill get to why and how.

Mary nodded. She felt mocked.

The lady sat down beside the bed. My name is Anne Treleaven, she began, and I am the head teacher here at Miss Scrimshaws Academy for Girls. Our founder was an eccentric and wealthy woman whose desire was to help women achieve a measure of independence. Education for girls in our country is generally very inferior, even for the rich, and many girls receive none at all. So Miss Scrimshaw founded a school.

She spoke quietly, but her eyes were sharp, and they rarely left Marys face. We are a little like a charity school, since most of our students would not normally be able to afford our fees. However, we are a very unusual institution in that we often select our students instead of waiting for them to come to us. We search for girls who would most benefit from the special training we offer. She paused. We have chosen you.