Chapter Text
Lucy’s friends had been buried no more than three days when a mysterious old man came to call.
Mary was sent upstairs to their shared bedroom, but Lucy was told to stay. Mam scolded her in an undertone for the dirt under her nails, the tangles in her hair, as she sat her down on the sofa across from the strange man. He stared at Lucy longer than anyone in her life had ever bothered. Behind the man stood a stern-faced woman in a blood-red jacket and skirt. She did not look at Lucy at all.
“Lucy, this is Mr. Rotwell,” Mam said as she brought in a fully-loaded tea tray. Lucy’s eyes fell on the biscuits, piled high on their finest china. They were her favorite, chocolate digestives, but she knew better than to try and snag one when her mother was already so furious with her. All that would get her was a good wallop. “Say hello.”
“Rotwell?” Lucy asked. “As in…?”
“Tom Rotwell, at your service,” the man said. “And you must be Lucy.”
Lucy could not fathom how or why the most famous man in England was sitting in her family’s home. Mr. Rotwell looked like he’d been alive far too long. The wrinkles in his face obscured most of his features and what little hair he had was as wispy as candy floss. But his eyes—those sharp, pale eyes seemed to look right through her.
“She doesn’t take after him at all,” he said, finally glancing up at Mam. “You don’t expect me to pay for paternity testing, do you?”
“Wouldn’t be more than a bit of pocket change to you, would it?” Mam bit back. “All my girls take after me. But she’s got something they don’t—Talent.”
“So you said.” Mr. Rotwell tapped his cane absently, then snapped his finger at his companion. The woman bent down to pick up a suitcase from beside his chair, then she moved to the coffee table to open it up and pull out its contents.
“Paternity-? Mam, what’s going on?” Lucy asked, but her mother wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“You haven’t told her?” Rotwell asked as his companion placed a few items on the table between them.
“I didn’t think my letters would ever be answered,” Mam said coolly. “So it didn’t seem worth the trouble.”
“Tell me what?” Lucy turned to Rotwell. “Sir, why are you here ?”
When it was apparent Mam wasn’t keen on speaking, Rotwell cleared his throat. “Peter Carlyle was not your father, Lucy. My grandson, Stephen, is.”
Blood running cold, Lucy turned to her mother. “Is that true?” She asked in a whisper. “Am I…am I not Dad’s?”
A muscle in Mam’s jaw twitched. “It was a…mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment. He was in town on a job, and I was drunk and Peter was being particularly cruel at that time. We had a week-long affair and then you came along, nine months later.”
“Oh.” Lucy felt her throat grow tight. “Did Dad know?”
“No,” Mam said shortly. “I never would have sought out Steve at all if Peter hadn’t gotten himself killed.”
Lucy’s stomach churned. “Charming,” Rotwell said. “But enough of this unpleasantness. Lucy, dear, would you mind playing a silly game with this old man?”
Lucy surreptitiously wiped at her watering eyes with her sleeve. It didn’t matter that her father wasn’t her father or that she’d watched her entire team die just a few days before—Lucy Carlyle would not cry in front of a man like Tom Rotwell. “I guess,” she said, glancing at the items on the table for the first time. “What is all this?”
In front of her sat five small objects: a fountain pen, an ivory comb, a pocket watch, a gold bracelet, and an ornate letter opener. All were older, time-worn and outdated in style. Lucy knew without even touching them that they were all Sources.
Rotwell tapped his cane on the table lightly. “I want you to find the Source of a woman named Alice Lewes. She was strangled by her husband’s brother in her bed chambers.”
Mam frowned. “That’s not much to go by.”
A cheshire grin spread across the old man’s face. “If she’s as good as you say,” he told her. “Then it’s all that she needs.”
Lucy reached for the pen and hesitated; she hadn’t used any of her Talents since the night at the mill. A part of her never wanted to deal with ghosts and ghouls again. Another part of her wanted to kill every last one of them, so no other agent would die screaming in the dark. Teeth gritted, Lucy picked up the pen and closed her eyes.
First, she smelled smoke. It was faint, as if Mary had burnt some bacon in the kitchen. But then Lucy could hear shouting, muffled and distant. Firemen, perhaps, or her family who’d escaped the blaze. She couldn't move, not with her legs pinned beneath the fallen ceiling beam. It would hurt, when the flames reached her, but her throat was too parched to call out for help. Everything was so hot, so bloody hot , and the smoke was in her nose and mouth, choking her from the inside out. In her hand was a pen—the one her wife had given her for their anniversary. How she’d miss sweet Sheila, but at least she was outside. At least she was safe…
Lucy came to drenched in a cold sweat. Everyone’s eyes were on her, even the woman in red. She set the pen down with too much force, the clacking sound deafening in the silent room. “Not this one,” she said, wiping her brow with the back of her sleeve. “That was a- a man who died in a fire.”
Rotwell said nothing, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Lucy reached for the next item—the beautiful, ivory comb—and let herself sink into it.
This one was loud from the beginning. A gunshot rang out and a woman screamed. She hadn’t known he was married, how could she? He’d spun such pretty lies about the life they’d have together, once his business took off. He’d said she was the only one he’d ever loved. She hadn’t known he had a wife.
She hadn’t known his wife owned a gun .
Lucy’s eyes opened again, less violently this time. “A mistress murdered by the man’s wife,” she said, setting the comb back down. “With a gun,” she added, as if that mattered.
Rotwell nodded in approval. Mam chewed nervously on her thumbnail, eyes wide with shock. She’d never cared much to hear of Lucy’s psychical gifts or work with Jacobs. Lucy doubted her mother knew half the extent of her Talents.
The last three items called to her. Lucy was tired from her Listening, but exhilarated as well. She never had time just to sit with Sources and Listen, not when there were filings to measure and chains to oil.
Lucy’s hand lingered over the next object in line, but it didn’t feel right. She could swear she heard sobbing come from the last object, the letter opener. She picked it up instead, intensely aware of Rotwell’s gaze on her.
The sobbing grew louder and the back of Lucy’s throat burned with tears that were not her own. But it wasn’t sadness that had her heaving and hysterical—it was fear . A cold, suffocating fear that clawed in her gut, rattled in her chest. She had nowhere to run, no one to whom she could turn, but she had to tell someone , had to go somewhere , had to hide-
Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. It was too late. She’d discovered his secret. Even her husband’s love couldn’t save her now.
Pounding at the door. Rattling of the knob. Splintering wood. Large hands at her throat. Alice fought; she clawed and she kicked and she sliced his shoulder badly with her favorite letter opener. But it was no use. She couldn’t breathe, vision going dark. She couldn’t breathe. Lucy couldn’t breathe-
Pain erupted across Lucy’s cheek and her eyes sprang open. Mam was kneeling in front of her, one hand clutching her shoulder tightly. The other, Lucy surmised, had just slapped her across the face.
“It’s this one,” Lucy rasped. Her throat ached something fierce, as if that man had actually throttled her the way he’d done to poor Alice. “She- she learned a terrible secret and he strangled her.”
“And the secret?” Rotwell asked, leaning closer.
Mam turned to him with a cry of indignation. “She passed your damned test! How’s she supposed to know-?”
Lucy cut her off. “He’d murdered several serving girls. Tossed their bodies down an old well on the estate.”
Her mother turned to her, stunned, face ashen and bloodless. Rotwell grinned, showing off surprisingly white teeth. In her exhausted state, Lucy wondered if they were dentures.
“We’ll take her,” he said to Mam. Lucy frowned.
Her mother spoke slowly. “You…want her?”
“I’m not in the business of charity, Mrs. Carlyle,” Rotwell said. A bit of spittle flew from his lips, and the woman in red handed him a handkerchief. He dabbed at his mouth. “If you want compensation, you need to give me something in return.”
Lucy looked to her mother, heart racing. Mam frowned. “You’ve come a long way just to recruit an agent.”
Rotwell sighed and leaned back in his seat, eyes closing. He was silent for a long moment, and Lucy wondered if he’d drifted off to sleep—or simply died right there. Just as she began to squirm in her seat, uncomfortable, he spoke.
“My son, Thomas Jr., is a capable man. He’s been running the agency for years, since my retirement.” Rotwell’s eyes opened again, training on Lucy’s face. “But his health is poor and my grandson, Stephen…well, you certainly got to know him, Mrs. Carlyle. You tell me—was he not the most arrogant, entitled, idiotic man you’ve ever met?”
Lucy had never met her grandparents, dead before her time, but she’d never heard any of the grannies in the village speak so cruelly of their grandchildren. She wondered if Rotwell was simply a monster, or if this Stephen was truly so horrible.
“We didn’t speak much,” Mam said quietly. This made Rotwell laugh. Bile rose in Lucy’s throat.
“His mother spoiled him,” Rotwell said. More spittle flew from his mouth. “And he turned out lazy and entitled and—worst of all—utterly Talentless. Even as a small thing, he could barely See a Spectre. Stephen is not fit to be heir to the Rotwell name.”
“And Lucy is?”
Rotwell folded his hands over the golden knob of his cane. It was only then that Lucy realized it was crafted in the shape of a lion’s head, mouth agape in a fierce roar. “We’ll have to test to confirm paternity but…she could be. Some education, some training…this is a family business. Always has been, always will be. Stephen has made it clear he’ll never settle, never have…legitimate children. My options are limited and this girl is an opportunity.”
“An opportunity ?” Lucy bit out sharply, but no one paid her any mind.
“And if I say no?” Mam leaned forward, elbows propped up on her knees.
Rotwell raised a pale brow. “Then I deny her paternity and you get nothing. I’m sure I could find a dozen other great-grandchildren that idiot has sired over the years.”
Luyc’s mother was silent for a moment.
“ Mam,” Lucy hissed. “You can’t really be considering this!”
“Would you rather return to work at Jacobs’?” Mam asked, voice low and cold.
“No, of course not,” Lucy began. “But-”
“Those are your choices,” her mother said. “Jacobs or Rotwell.”
Lucy gritted her teeth. She’d rather die than return to work for a bastard like Alan Jacobs, but to enter into some unknown lion’s den, leagues away from home, away from the graves of the only people she’d ever loved?
The answer was as plain as it was painful. Lucy sat up straight, hands clenched into fists at her side, and made her choice. “What is it exactly that I’ll have to do?”
Rotwell smiled and Lucy’s world tilted.
The car ride to London was long and tense. The woman in red drove, leaving Lucy and Rotwell in the backseat together. Lucy had never ridden in a car—or train or bus or bicycle, for that matter—for more than a couple hours before, and her bottom grew sore and her nerves grew frayed.
Lucy had been afforded very little time to pack her things and say goodbye to her sisters. Only Mary had cried, but none of the others seemed happy with the arrangement. Jody had a few rude things to say about their mother and Beth had promised to write, but when it was time for Lucy to leave, no one tried to stop her, offer her another way out. And so Lucy followed her mother’s orders and left home behind, unsure of if she’d ever return.
The old man sniffled and wheezed, hacking up a lung every so often into a stained, yellow handkerchief. In such close quarters, he reeked of ointment and something sour. Lucy closed her eyes, willing the motion sickness away.
“When we get there,” Rotwell said as they passed through Northampton. “You’ll be put in the care of my son—your grandfather. He’ll be in charge of preparing you for your social debut.”
Lucy had no idea what a social debut was outside of the regency novels she’d read, but she nodded as if she understood.
“We’ll arrange tutoring for you,” Rotwell continued. “Business classes, psychical research, public speaking…” He coughed loudly, a rattling, phlegmy sound. Lucy grimaced.
“Will I go out on any jobs?” She asked, glancing down at the frayed knees of her jeans. The woman in red had sneered at them when she’d climbed into the car hours earlier.
Rotwell dabbed at his mouth. “Some. But you’re not a petty agent anymore, girl. Running an agency is more than tossing flares and digging up bones.”
But it was the most important part, Lucy thought. Still, the night at the mill was fresh in her mind, the screams of her friends. Perhaps time away from the field would be good for her.
“Do you miss it?” Lucy asked after a moment. “Being an agent?”
“No,” Rotwell said almost immediately. He paused, then added, “But I do miss the old days, when it was just Marissa and myself.”
Lucy didn’t know much about the falling out between Rotwell and Fittes, but it surprised her to hear him refer to his old partner so casually. “What was it like?” she asked. “Fighting ghosts before we knew anything about them?”
Rotwell gave her a long, curious look. Finally, he answered, “Terrifying. My Talents were never as strong as Marissa’s, and I often had to rely on her to warn me where the bastards were. I suppose I have my mother to thank for forcing me into fencing lessons as a boy. I doubt I’d have lived long enough to found the agency if she hadn’t.”
“They say no one could ever match you with a sword,” Lucy said, leaning in. It was so hard to believe this decrepit creature was the legendary Tom Rotwell. Perhaps Marissa had done it right, dying so young. She’d left behind an immortal legacy, while Tom lingered like a corpse, decomposing for the world to watch.
“They exaggerate,” Rotwell said, though he looked rather proud of himself. “Marissa never appreciated my technique. Quite the bruiser, that one,” he added with a laugh. “Preferred slashing her rapier about like it was her tennis racket instead of learning proper form.”
Lucy had to admit she didn’t see much value in fancy wards and feints and swordwork when brute force worked just as well, but she didn’t tell her great-grandfather this. “Well, I guess both ways work, if the success of the Fittes and Rotwell agencies is anything to go by.”
“Bah!” Rotwell slammed a feeble fist against the car window. “Marissa never would have gotten anywhere without me . I made her what she was. When we met she was nothing more than a pariah in her own village, talking to the voices in her head. She would’ve ended up in the loony bin if I hadn’t believed in her, and how did she repay me? The bitch left me for a dead man.”
The car fell silent. Lucy glanced forward and met the gaze of the woman in red in the rearview mirror. She shook her head and Lucy pressed her lips tightly together.
Rotwell did not seem to notice the awkward atmosphere. “Fittes might have the nation’s trust but we are the ones people turn to when they’re scared. The Rotwell name means strength and courage. We are lions, girl. And at the end of the day, the public will turn to us to protect them.”
Lucy nodded. Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the drive.
Rotwell’s London estate was a sight to behold.
Settled on the inner circle of Regent’s Park, the mansion was glittering white and stately. A tall, wrought-iron gate circled the property, and as they passed through Lucy gawked at the manicured lawn and tall, Grecian columns that decorated the mansion’s facade.
A butler—a proper butler!—greeted them as the car came to a halt. He held the door open for Lucy and offered her help from the cab. She didn’t take his hand, but she did appreciate the gesture. It wasn’t often Lucy was treated as someone important.
The woman in red helped the butler extract Rotwell from the backseat, and after much hacking and wheezing he hobbled towards the manor, leaning heavily on his cane. Sitting for so long must have wreaked havoc on his joints, if Lucy’s sore bum was anything to go by. The woman in red gestured for her to follow the old man, so Lucy hurried behind him as they headed up the steps and into the foyer.
Much like the outside of the house, the inside was just as breathtaking. A chandelier hung from a tall ceiling, and a beautifully grand staircase wrapped upwards and out of sight. Open doorways hinted of even more impressive rooms beyond, but Rotwell halted here to catch his breath.
“You’ll be in the Sapphire Room,” he told her, pointing upstairs. “It was my wife, Ada’s, favorite.”
Lucy was taken aback by this moment of sincerity from her great-grandfather. “Thank you,” she said.
“Go make yourself presentable,” he said, turning from her. “Someone will fetch you when it’s time.”
Rotwell made for one of the doorways to the right. The woman in red followed him from the room, not sparing Lucy another glance. An older maid led Lucy up the grand staircase and down labyrinthine halls until they reached her new room.
“There’s an ensuite washroom,” the maid said. “Joe will bring your bags up shortly.”
Lucy didn’t know what ensuite meant, nor who Joe was, but she nodded all the same. The maid left without another word and Lucy entered the Sapphire Room alone.
The room’s name suddenly made quite a bit of sense. The walls were papered in a beautiful blue hue, detailed designs etched in shades of gold and white. Deep blue curtains framed tall windows that looked out over the boating lake, and matching drapes hung from a four poster bed. Three small chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the crystal droplets looked suspiciously like real sapphires. It was a breathtaking place, a cool, blue oasis in a strange place full of unknown dangers.
For the first time since her mother had sold her off, Lucy allowed herself to cry.
After Joe, the valet, dropped off her bags, Lucy showered and dressed in her nicest skirt and blouse. Then she paced the Sapphire Room, studying the books on the shelf and the paintings on the wall as she waited. It wasn’t long until the maid returned and Lucy followed her back downstairs and into a large, oval room paneled in dark wood.
It had to be an office, she presumed, as there was a large, ornate desk and shelves full of books and binders. Papers were stacked everywhere, and a fax machine stood in the corner, dreadfully out of place in an otherwise elegant room. At the center stood an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a dour expression. This had to be Tom Rotwell Junior.
Her grandfather.
He did not smile at her as she approached, nor did he acknowledge the maid as she left, closing the door behind her. When he spoke, his voice was deep and sharp.
“You don’t take after your father.”
Tom Jr. looked her up and down, disdain apparent in his eyes.
“From what I hear, that’s a blessing,” Lucy snapped.
“We’ll need to work on that,” Tom said, setting aside the papers he had been reading. He stood and walked toward her, hands tucked behind his back. “Media training, perhaps an etiquette instructor as well. Stand up straight.”
Lucy’s spine straightened on its own accord. She scowled at her grandfather, but he seemed unfazed. “Our usual stylist should be good enough. You certainly can’t compete with Fittes in the beauty department, so we’ll need to lean into your…strengths.” He said the last word hesitantly, as if none were apparent.
“My Talents,” she said, to remind him, though it sounded more like a question.
Tom Jr. nodded absently, tapping a finger to his chin. “A speech therapist, too, to soften that accent of yours.”
“What, you want me to sound like a posh twat like you?” Lucy sneered at the old man.
“Father’s really lost his mind this time,” Tom Jr. said with a tut. “Steve has his shortcomings but you, my girl, are a PR nightmare.”
Lucy seethed. “I didn’t ask to come here,” she said through gritted teeth. “What’s to stop me from walking out that door?”
Tom Jr. laughed then, low and cold. “What is stopping you? I certainly won’t shed a tear to see the last of you. You’re old enough to be emancipated, so go ahead. We’d cease the payments to your family and you’d certainly not get hired by any reputable agency without the Rotwell name. You’ve no Grade Four, no recommendations, no friends in the city…but go ahead. Leave.”
Lucy did not move a muscle. She knew when she’d been bested and her grandfather had a point. Mam would certainly not allow her back if she backed out now, or worse, she’d force Lucy back to working for Jacobs.
“Smart girl,” Tom said, though it didn’t sound like a compliment. “We are as unhappy about this arrangement as you are, believe you me,” he continued, circling her like a vulture who’d spotted a rotting corpse. “But Steve has made it clear he will not marry and I’m not getting any younger. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Young enough to train you up yet, I suppose.” Tom sighed and returned to his desk, tossing a few folders aside. “If you stay, you’ll have access to anything you could want in life. Wealth, fame, power—they will all be yours. As will duty, to this family and to this company.” He gave her a long, hard look. “‘ To whom much is given, much is required. ’”
It was a quote Lucy couldn’t place, but the meaning was clear enough. She nodded, but then a thought came to her.
“And if my father does settle and have a legitimate heir?” She asked slowly. “What happens to me then?”
Her grandfather cleared his throat and said, “You will renounce your claim to the company and retire. Obviously, you will be properly compensated for your work and time.”
“ Properly compensated ,” Lucy repeated with a cold, mirthless laugh. “This isn’t a family at all; it’s a business.”
Tom Jr. gave her an appraising look. “You’re smarter than you look,” he finally said. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
A sickening sense of dread settled in Lucy’s gut. “So, what now?” She asked. “Do I sign my name in blood?”
The older man almost looked amused. “Not quite,” he said. “But that’s the spirit.”
Lucy met her grandmother and father at supper that evening. The dining room was as large and as ornate as she could have guessed, the table comically long for five people. Rotwell sat at one end, Tom Jr. at the other. Tom Jr.’s wife sat to his right, Stephen to his left. Lucy took a place near Rotwell, as far away from her father as possible.
Tom Jr.’s wife, Callista, was a severe-looking woman with ash-colored hair and sunken eyes. She must have been beautiful once, before time had sucked her dry and left her little more than a mummy in rouge. She gulped down chardonnay like it was water, blue eyes glassy and unfocused.
And Stephen…well, Steve Rotwell was disappointing in person. Lucy had imagined him as some sort of handsome rake, devilishly charming and outgoing. Instead he was a sour-faced 40-year-old with graying temples and an unpleasant demeanor. Her mother must’ve been desperate to be seduced by this .
“So, Lucy.” Callista said, voice a bit slurred. “That’s a nice name, isn’t it? Lucy .”
“Thanks,” Lucy said.
“I always wanted a granddaughter,” the woman continued. “A pretty little thing I could dress up, take shopping and the like.”
“This one must be a disappointment then,” Steve said under his breath. Lucy stiffened in her chair.
“The Fittes girls were all so beautiful, especially Penelope,” Callista continued, no longer looking at Lucy. “A shame my Stephen’s good looks didn’t pass on.”
Tom Jr. snorted. “Penelope is the exception. Marissa and Margaret were nothing much to look at.”
“Oh, be nice,” Callista said, swatting her husband’s arm. “I quite liked poor Margaret. It was a shame she and her husband died so young.”
“The Fittes curse, it seems,” Rotwell croaked. “Damn them all to hell.”
“Margaret would’ve sold us the company if she’d outlived her mother,” Callista told Lucy with a wag of her finger. “Wanted to retire to the country to raise Penelope. She was a sweet thing.”
“She was weak,” Tom Jr. said around a mouthful of roast.
Lucy said nothing, her food turning to ash in her mouth. It felt taboo to speak so ill of the dead, even if they were rivals. She thought of her friends, freshly buried and memorialized in the town square. No one in the village would have called them weak . They preferred to lambast the lone survivor instead, and Lucy was okay with that.
After supper, Rotwell and Tom Jr. retired to the salon for a nightcap and Callista went to her suite for a bath. Out of habit more than anything, Lucy tried to help the maids clear the dinner table, but was shooed away. Feeling a bit claustrophobic, Lucy wandered towards the back of the house until she found a set of French doors that led into the garden.
The sun had long since set and the summer nights were quickly turning chilly as autumn crept in. Lucy shivered in the breeze and took a deep breath, willing her nerves away. She hadn’t expected the family to like her, but she also hadn’t expected them to be such callous people. It made her miss her mother, in a weird way; Lucy preferred the devil she knew over one she didn’t.
The garden path led her around pristine hedges and ornate statues, most of which depicted lions—lions roaring, lions sleeping, lions posing heroically to ward off swans from the nearby lake. At the end of the path was a small gazebo and within it, a man smoking a cigarette. The orange pulse of its lit end drew Lucy closer, the sweet smoke warming the night air. Before she knew it, Lucy was up the steps of the gazebo, coming face-to-face with her father.
Steve barely spared her a glance. He sat hunched over on the bench, working the cigarette between his fingers with a frenetic repetition. Lucy knew she didn’t take after him much, but here in the dim light she could make out the shape of her nose, the downward curl of her lips. She was there in bits and pieces of his face, whispered evidence of her illegitimate roots. Lucy’s stomach turned nervously.
“Sterling?” She asked, fumbling about in her memory for the brand Paul and Steph used to smoke after rough jobs.
Steve glanced up, disgust plain on his face. “I wouldn’t touch such cheap grot.”
Right, of course the Stephen Rotwell wouldn’t smoke something that could be bought at any old corner shop. Lucy ground her teeth together and tried again. “Tom- Grandfather says you’re very involved in the Rotwell Institute. Are you interested in psychical research?”
Instead of responding, Steve took one last long drag of his cigarette, then snuffed it out on the bottom of his shoe. With a put-upon sigh, he stood and brushed past Lucy, heading back towards the house and leaving her out in the cold, all alone.
Lucy stayed in the gazebo for a while longer, wondering not for the first time if she’d made the wrong choice.
Lucy’s debut into London society was, ironically, at the funeral of the only Rotwell who wanted her.
It was absurd, being all dolled up just to mourn. The stylist dressed her in a square-necked black dress, the skirt brushing just below her knees, the sleeves a little too tight around the wrists. Black stockings, black heels, and—the pièce de résistance—a black beret, with a veil draping fashionably over half her face. Lucy felt like a particularly morbid clown.
“Don’t forget this,” the stylist said, pinning something to Lucy’s chest. She looked down to see a small, golden brooch in the shape of a roaring lion.
“Right, can’t forget that,” Lucy snarked. “Might as well brand me forehead with the company logo.”
The stylist, to her credit, did not dignify that with a response. Instead she cinched the small belt at Lucy’s waist tighter, making an unpleasant noise as it met resistance. “No dessert tonight,” she told her. “You’ve the unwomanly shape of a refrigerator.”
Lucy scowled at her. “Prettiness isn’t my profession,” she quipped, repeating words her mother had told her over and over again as a child.
The woman scoffed. “It is now,” she said primly. “You’re a Rotwell .”
Lucy held back a rather rude comment about the unfortunate faces of the Rotwell men , as Tom Jr. and Steve decided then to enter the room. Tom Jr. gave her a solemn nod, but Steve refused to even acknowledge her presence.
“It’s time to leave,” Tom said, gesturing for Lucy to follow. The redness of his eyes was the only indication that her grandfather had any sort of emotion about his father’s passing. It had been a quick, peaceful thing—one minute he’d laid down for a nap and the next he was gone—but Lucy had expected a bit more grief from the man, a bit more show of mourning beyond the black clothes and lavish burial arrangements.
As they and Callista filed into the backseat of the limousine that would take them to the cemetery, Tom doled out instructions. “All eyes will be on us today. It is important that we show ourselves as a strong, unified front. No laughing,” he said, eyes on his wife. “No philandering,” he continued, turning to Steve. “And no weeping like a child.” His eyes landed on Lucy.
Lucy was affronted by his accusation. She had not cried once since Rotwell’s death and she certainly wasn’t going to in front of other people. He’d been little more than a stranger to her, even if he was kin.
“Stephen, you will stick by Lucy,” Tom continued. Steve visibly recoiled in disgust.
“Why?” He asked, sounding like a petulant child.
Tom rubbed at his temple. “To convince the public that you are a loving father-daughter pair and that we didn’t just pluck her from the rubbish to cover for your poor choices-”
“Leave him be, darling,” Callista said, putting a hand on Tom’s arm. Tom shook off her grip.
“We can’t have her talking to reporters on her own, yet,” he said. “She’s not trained.”
“Then you babysit her,” Steve snapped. “If she’s too useless to be alone.”
Though Lucy resented the idea of needing a minder, she also had no desire to speak to the media. Tom took a deep, calming breath.
“I’ll be expected to speak on behalf of the company. You will be the one to introduce her as your heir,” he said slowly, as if explaining rocket science to a toddler.
“Dunno why we have to keep her at all,” Steve sulked. “Grandad’s dead. Just send her off and pretend we never went along with his stupid idea to begin with.”
“We could do that,” Callista said, petting Steve’s arm. Lucy looked to Tom, whose face was starting to grow red with anger.
“I could still cut you out of the line of succession,” he snapped at his son. “Leave it all to your bastard daughter. How would you like that? She’s at least willing to work for her place. You’ve been nothing but a disappointment since the day you were born .”
Lucy was used to family rows; it came with the territory of seven sisters sharing a single toilet. But the tension building in the air was getting to be too much. At least when Mary called her a stupid cow Lucy could pull her hair and call it a day.
When the car pulled to a halt, Lucy almost cried in relief. The limo door opened and Lucy threw herself out of the cab. The air of the cemetery was cool and damp and smelled strongly of a freshly mowed lawn. And there, lining the driveway and the path to the cathedral were hundreds, if not thousands, of people.
Every single eye was on Lucy. Breathing suddenly became difficult.
Tom came up beside her and waved politely at the crowd and the cameras that trained in on them. He offered his arm to Callista, who took it with an unhappy scowl.
“Stephen,” Tom said in an undertone. “Give Lucy your arm.”
“Piss off,” Steve replied.
“ Now .”
With a roll of his eyes, Steve stuck out his elbow for Lucy to take. She did after a moment’s hesitation, not missing the way he tensed under her hand.
“Do I repulse you that much?” Lucy whispered to him as they headed towards the cathedral.
“You are nothing to me,” Steve hissed back. “A bug beneath my shoe.”
“Should’ve kept your pants on then, yeah?” Lucy ducked her face away as a camera flashed in her eyes. “Instead of seducing married women.”
“I don’t even remember your whore mother.” Steve waved at the weeping crowd of mourners. “Your existence is a mistake my father won’t let me forget.”
Angry tears pricked at the corners of Lucy’s eyes. She didn’t want this man to be her father, didn’t need his love or affection, but his cruelty pained her in a way she didn’t anticipate.
“And yours is one he won’t forgive,” she spat. “I guess we’re both disappointments to our fathers.”
With a huff, Steve pulled his arm away and stalked towards the pew where the rest of the Rotwell family sat. Lucy followed behind and sat next to Tom. If he wanted this charade to keep going, he could at least be a buffer between her and her father.
“Sit up straight,” he snapped. Jaw clenched, Lucy obliged.
The service lasted forever. Bible passages were read, hymns were sung, and then came the eulogies. It seemed as if every important man and woman in London had something to say about Tom Rotwell, about his business ingenuity and service to the nation—the roster included the CEO of Fairfax Iron, the founder of the Sunrise Corporation, two former PMs, and an aged Duke of York, as well as many people Lucy couldn’t be bothered to remember. Not a single word was said about Tom as a person; they only spoke of his work, his fame and accomplishments. Lucy supposed if they’d met the man, they wouldn’t have much nice to say about his personality, but it still saddened her that not a single person could recall a happy memory of being friends with her great-grandfather. Not even Tom Jr. said a word of the sort.
The procession to the Rotwell Mausoleum was a circus. The incessant flash of cameras blinded Lucy, and she stumbled on her heels, bumping into Steve. He grabbed her arm to steady her, solemnly waving to the onlookers, but his grip was too tight, fingers digging into her flesh. Lucy winced and held her free hand up to block out the cameras.
“Steve! Steve!” One reporter shouted, hanging low over the gate that kept them apart from the funeral procession. “Is this your latest girlfriend? What about those photos of you and actress Imelda Clark in Mykonos last week? Care to comment?”
Lucy felt sick at the question. She knew she was wearing a veil, but was it not obvious she was only thirteen? How young were the girls her father dated?
Steve gave the reporter a practiced look of mild amusement. “Imelda is just a dear friend of mine,” he said in a tone Lucy did not for a second believe. “But Lucy, here, is a member of the Rotwell family—one who will be announced very soon.” He gave the cameras a wink.
“A fiancé, then?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“Can you show us the ring, miss?”
Everyone spoke at once, shoving microphones and cameras in Lucy’s face. She felt the familiar cold chill of rage creep down her spine, and once again her mouth moved without her permission. “This is a funeral , you twats,” Lucy hissed at them. “Have some fucking decorum.”
Steve rubbed at his eyes but didn’t tell her off. She had no doubt he’d tattle on her to Tom later, but Lucy couldn’t care less. A man was dead and all anyone cared about was who was warming her father’s bed.
Head held high, she marched forward after the rest of her family. They could teach her and train her and beat her into their perfect little heir, but they could not stop her from being herself, no matter how hard they might try.
Try, they did. After the funeral, time moved quickly. Lucy was thrust into her work, meeting daily with tutors and coaches and all sorts of trainers and teachers. From dawn until dusk she studied and learned, had her knuckles rapped and posture criticized. Some of her tutors were kind, praising her knowledge of the Fittes Manual and rapier form. Others were stricter, unimpressed with her poor education and lack of interest in their subjects.
Callista and Steve avoided and ignored her, but Tom took her studies seriously, adding his own assignments to her workload. “Here,” he said, six months into her life as a Rotwell, tossing a book onto her lap. Lucy, taking a short tea break, nearly dropped her cup in surprise. “Read this.”
Lucy set down her tea and picked up the book, examining its cover. “ The Art of War? What, are we waging war against ghosts now?”
“No,” Tom said. “We’re waging war against Fittes .”
Lucy frowned. “I don’t have to…you don’t expect me to fight Penelope Fittes, do you? I could take her, but I wouldn’t feel good about it.”
“No, you stupid girl.” Tom gestured aggressively at the book. “Not literal war. Sun Tzu’s tactics are utilized in the world of business. You need to be prepared.”
Lucy didn’t know anything about Sun Tzu, but she was quite certain he had not intended for his work to be used by posh businessmen in boardrooms and offices. Still, a book on war had to be more interesting than learning about economics or calculus.
Instead of leaving, as Lucy expected her grandfather to, Tom sat in the chair across from her, hands clasped together. “I heard from your etiquette coach that you called her a, what was it? A bloody slag .”
“Well, she is,” Lucy said. “She called me a lazy pig and pinched my stomach rolls.” It had hurt, too. The bitch hadn’t been kind about how much weight she felt Lucy needed to drop.
“That is inexcusable behavior for a Rotwell,” Tom said sternly. “You will be barred from meals until you apologize to her.”
“What?” Lucy’s stomach dropped. “But I won’t see her again until tomorrow.”
“You don’t put in the work, you don’t get to eat,” Tom said. His tone was so plain, so matter-of-fact, that it was somehow worse than if he’d yelled and screamed. “ Nothing will come of nothing .”
“That’s mad,” Lucy argued.
“That’s life.” Tom glanced down at her gut, mouth twisting in disdain. “Going hungry will do you some good.”
And then he was gone again. Lucy glanced down at the few biscuits left on her plate and she shoved them into her pocket. She didn’t need Sun Tzu or his stupid book to tell her that rationing supplies was the only way to survive a siege. This was a war she would win.
One name that Lucy heard constantly in her trainings was Penelope Fittes . Penelope had been top of her class at St. Paul’s, could’ve gone onto Oxford or Cambridge if she hadn’t taken over the family business. Penelope had been a finalist in the National Fencing Championships before she turned 18. Penelope was so beautiful that multiple foreign princes had begged her for her hand in marriage the moment they laid eyes on her—or so the rumors went.
It was exhausting. Lucy had spent so much time preparing to be compared to her father, she hadn’t expected how many people wanted her to compete directly with the Penelope Fittes. And the person who was most vocal about this was her own grandfather.
By the time of the Fittes Gala, Lucy felt she knew Penelope intimately, even though they’d never met; she could recite the older woman’s entire CV by heart.
“Try to be pleasant tonight,” Tom told her as the stylist sprayed something sticky in her hair. Lucy coughed at the astringent smell, eyes watering. “Network. Make connections.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Lucy said. “This color makes me look like a clown,” she griped to the makeup artist as she began applying red lipstick.
“Penelope will be dressed elegantly,” Tom told her. “So you must be bold instead.”
Lucy didn’t understand why Penelope’s outfit had any impact on hers, but she dropped the issue. At least they didn’t have her in some hideous, avant garde dress to prove her boldness. Her dress was simple—conservative, even—in a lovely shade of Rotwell burgundy, sleeves long and neck high. It made her feel grown-up and classy, even if it was all a sham. They might’ve been putting lipstick on a pig, but at least nothing pinched or squeezed uncomfortably.
“You need to convince the public you’re someone worth respecting,” Tom said. “A Rotwell, through and through.”
But Lucy wasn’t a Rotwell through and through; she’d spent thirteen years of her life as a Carlyle, as Lucy Carlyle. She would never be Lucy Rotwell in anything other than name.
At the gala, Lucy tried networking—she really did. But after twenty minutes of listening to the narcissistic diatribe of some Fittes agent named Quill Kipps, Lucy was ready to give up and hide. By luck, Kipps was quickly distracted by the arrival of two teenage boys, whose mere presence seemed to infuriate him. Lucy took the chance to slip away, grabbing a glass of something bubbly and alcoholic off a passing tray as she did. It was sweet at first sip, but the aftertaste turned sour in her mouth.
Lucy quickly regretted ditching Kipps, however, when she realized some of the older men were eyeing her like she was a slab of meat. Kipps had been too self-absorbed to ogle her, but now she was lacking his oblivious protection. Someone would be eager to take his place, and Lucy was under strict instructions not to ruffle any feathers tonight. She’d have to go along with whatever creep approached her, else her grandfather would starve her for days.
(He’d tried whipping her into shape quite literally, but found Lucy’s pain tolerance and stubbornness could not be outmatched. Hunger, however, was a powerful motivator.)
She kept moving. Squeezing past clumps of grown-ups in exquisite clothes and agents in uniform, Lucy ducked behind one of the famous Fittes columns, ignoring the gruesome faces of the bloody ghost trapped behind silverglass. But she found she wasn’t alone in this hiding spot.
Penelope Fittes gave her a tentative smile.
“You must be Miss Rotwell,” she said, voice deep and melodic. Penelope extended a gloved hand for Lucy to shake. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time.”
“It’s- it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Fittes,” Lucy managed to get out. It was disgusting how nervous this woman made her, but how could she not? She was everything Lucy needed to be—everything Lucy wasn’t .
“Oh, please,” Penelope laughed. “Call me Penelope. Miss Fittes was my grandmother.”
“O-oh.” Lucy cleared her throat. “Call me Lucy, then.”
Penelope smiled serenely. “How are you finding London?” She asked. “You grew up in the north, I’ve heard?”
Lucy nodded. “Yes, until my father found me.” Though not quite truthful, that was the official story. Unaware of his daughter’s existence, Steve felt something was missing from his life until the day he heard from her mother. A loving father was reunited with his estranged daughter and she was swept away to live with the family she’d never known. And what a coincidence—she was a star agent, the most Talented on her team! You couldn’t expect any less from a Rotwell, after all.
“This must be difficult for you,” Penelope said, nodding her chin in the general direction of the room. “Being brought into this life at your age. I was born into it and I find it so...”
“Overwhelming?” Lucy guessed with a snort. “Intense?”
Penelope chuckled. “I was going to say lonely.”
Oh. Lucy took a moment to study Penelope’s face, to trace the lines around her eyes, the strain in her smile. “I suppose it is,” she finally said.
“That’s life at the top,” Penelope told her. “When few can be counted among your peers, even fewer can be counted among your friends.”
“Damn,” Lucy muttered, taking another swig of her drink. “That’s a bit fucked.”
“It is,” Penelope laughed. “But I have a feeling you’ll be just fine, Lucy.”
Before Lucy could respond, Penelope was whisked away by several simpering, important-looking people. The Fittes head gave her a wave as she glided away, dark hair flowing behind her in an unfairly ethereal way. Lucy drained the rest of her drink and steeled herself to head back into the fray.
She might not be as beautiful or as austere or as intelligent as Penelope Fittes, but Lucy couldn’t let that stop her. Then, one day, she would be Penelope’s peer—and maybe even her friend.
Two years into being a Rotwell, Lucy was finally deemed ready to shadow her father at work.
Neither she nor Steve were happy about this arrangement, but Tom Jr.’s health was failing and soon Steve would take over the agency.
For the most part, Lucy didn’t mind the work. She was a pro at skimming legal documents now, at reviewing budgets and department performance reviews. There were days where she missed being in the field, the feel of a sword in her hand and the whispers of the dead in her ear. Most of all she missed her friends, missed fighting side-by-side with peers she could trust with her life. Life behind a desk was boring and, as Penelope had so succinctly put it, lonely, especially when Lucy wasn’t allowed anywhere but the Rotwell offices and the manor in Regent’s Park.
Sometimes, in the evenings, she would sneak out after Callista’s fifth glass of wine, when Tom was shut away in his office and Steve was who-knows-where, and simply wander the streets of London, rapier at her hip. The only other living souls around after curfew were nightwatch and agents, and Lucy could pretend she was one of them, another kid off to keep the city safe as adults cowered in their homes.
By day, however, she couldn’t pretend to be anyone other than Lucy Rotwell. She sighed and threw her pen down on her desk, stretching out the kinks in her neck. She’d been revising this project plan for hours now, always missing something every time she sent it off to her father to review. This was his work, but he was busy playing scientist with the lads from the Research Institute. Lucy couldn’t understand his fascination with those goons and their mad experiments—none of the contraptions they put out onto the market did anything remotely useful except line her family’s pockets. The money funneled into the institute could’ve been used towards hiring more agents or better compensating those who aged out of the company.
Speak of the devil—a sharp rap on her door alerted Lucy to Steve’s presence. She looked up and groaned. “I’m not finished with those revisions,” she told him.
“I don’t care about that,” Steve said flippantly. “Father wants us to join him for lunch.”
Lucy’s stomach growled as if on cue. She stood and stretched and only then noticed the young woman standing just behind Steve.
“What’s this, the third girl this week?” Lucy asked with a sneer. “She’s a bit young, don’t you think? Grandfather will be thrilled to hear about it.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “This is my new assistant , Holly Munro. Miss Munro, this charming creature is my daughter, Lucy.”
Miss Munro stepped forward to offer Lucy her hand. She smelled of sun-ripened pears and the freesias Mary grew every summer. Her skin was dark and smooth and flawless, her hair a cascade of shiny black curls. Even someone as beautiful as Penelope Fittes paled in comparison to this girl. Lucy’s mouth went dry.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Rotwell,” Holly said, and her smile was so sweet it made Lucy irrationally angry.
“Charmed,” Lucy grunted, shaking the proffered hand. It was soft and well-manicured, which only made Lucy grumpier.
“I love your necklace,” Holly said, eyes flickering down to the hollow of Lucy’s throat. “It’s beautiful.”
Lucy’s hand automatically went to her neck. The necklace—a silver lion on a delicate chain—had been a reward from Tom Sr., before his death, for her assistance on a case involving a Source hidden beneath the booby-trapped floorboards of an Elizabethan-era manor. It was rare for Lucy to be allowed in the field, but she’d been in fine form that night, and for once someone wished to recognize that.
“Thank you,” Lucy said, taken aback. She hadn’t even realized it was visible under the high collar of her blouse. She’d fought and fought for the right to wear slacks instead of skirts in the office, but that came with the drawback of frilly blouses and stiff blazers.
Steve cleared his throat. “Lunch,” he said sharply. “Now.”
Lucy stood and brushed the crumbs of her breakfast from her lap. Grandfather only let her eat fruit or a single slice of whole-wheat toast for her breakfasts, so Lucy often broke into her stash of chocolate digestives an hour or so into her work day.
“Oh, dear,” she heard Holly say, and then suddenly the girl was in her face, hand patting at her chin and her hair. “You’ve got crumbs all over you.”
Steve made a noise of disgust and Lucy’s face went hot. She slapped Holly’s hands away and shouldered past her. “Let’s get going,” she said to Steve.
“All this time and you’re still a nasty little thing, aren’t you?” Steve said in an undertone. “What did grandfather ever see in you?”
“More than he saw in you,” Lucy snapped back.
They both fell into a familiar, tense silence after that, the only sound the clacking of Miss Munro’s heels on the hardwood floors as she followed after them.