17
non compos piraticus—a shakespearean conversation— the ladies debate gaming tactics— explosions—troubling news— daniel and alice cannot be moved—plot twist!
There are few hours in life more terrifying than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea, when partaken in piratic company. After two cups of Earl Grey, a slice of coconut cake, and “amusing conversation” with the matrons of the Wisteria Society, Alice feared she had become insane, without any intervals of sanity, horrible or otherwise. Not only was she unable to focus on the book in her hands, but she felt actually tempted to slouch on the sofa upon which she sat! Only her corset, and the much-ruffled posterior of her yellow and purple afternoon dress, saved her from such a derangement of good manners.
And only the imperatives of the mission saved her from removing said dress and stuffing as much of it as possible down Frederick Bassingthwaite’s throat so he would stop reciting Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale” in a voice that turned the exquisite poem into something alike to Wordsworth’s “Ode to Duty.”
Once, a few years ago, she had infiltrated a gang of lady smugglers who were terrorizing the law-abiding gentlemen of the west coast with their guns, their secret basements full of explosives, and the interesting sway of their hips as they strolled Cornwall’s cliffs. After her cover was blown, Alice had hidden behind a barrel of stolen rum while the gang drank masala chai (for what self-respecting smuggler drinks ordinary English tea?) and discussed exactly what they would do to her when they caught her. (After hearing their decidedly inventive plans, Alice had never been able to look at a Cornish pasty the same way again.) That was an interesting tea party, to say the least.
The one today had been worse.
Alice would never have believed it possible for a teapot to endure the uses to which Mrs. Ogden put it, had she not seen it with her own eyes.
And she’d always thought a lady did not expose her ankles in mixed company, let alone her knees, thighs, and knickers, by performing a handstand on a table cluttered with cups and plates, such as Eureka Selassie (her nom de pirata: Eek!) had done.
And after hearing the story Millie the Monster told about how she’d employed a coconut in her youth, Alice had sorely wished she’d not eaten that slice of cake.
Now the pirates were enjoying a quiet period, much in the same way the eye of a hurricane is quiet. Settled in the Ecru Drawing Room, they engaged in ladylike occupations such as needlework—“oh, stop sniveling, Olivia, I’ll have this tattoo finished in one minute”—sipping a few extra cups of tea—“dearest, could you pass me the milk jug, and by milk jug I mean rum bottle”—and attending to their correspondence—“I say, Hadiza, how do you spell ‘extortion’?”
Alice wanted nothing more than to get Daniel out of the room so they could have some respite from the grim work of socializing by instead searching up chimneys and in cisterns for the hidden weapon. But he was trapped beside the hearth, staring blankly at Miss Darlington while that good lady lectured him on the risks of encephalitis for young married men. One sleeve of his suit jacket needed straightening, and he had not even noticed a loose thread on the upholstery of the chair in which he sat. He looked like a man who needed a holiday thorough debriefing from his superiors prior to being assigned some new, more gentle mission, such as assassinating the Russian emperor.
Watching him, Alice sighed with melancholy.
Egads! This blatant evidence of her eroding mental well-being so alarmed her, she did not notice someone sit beside her on the sofa until they reached out to take the book from her hands. That they survived doing so speaks to how discombobulated she had become; looking up belatedly, she saw Essie Smith.
“All’s Well That Ends Well,” the pirate lady said, reading the book’s gilded cover. Her tiny skull earrings glinted as she lifted a smile to Alice, who blinked warily in response. “I do so love a happy ever after, don’t you, Mrs. Blakeney?”
Oh God, another conversation. Was there no end to the misery of this mission?
“Indeed,” Alice said. “A happy result to any investig—er, interesting event—is always pleasant.” Her stumbled answer illuminated to her that she had no life outside work. The thought brought another sigh from her lips.
“You sound happy,” Essie noted.
“I am,” Alice answered. After all, service is a fine heritage. She could have written her own ode to duty had she been given enough time with ruled paper and a thesaurus. At least, she could have last week. This week’s bewilderments had left her barely able to recollect the A.U.N.T. motto (Semper Octopus—i.e., Really Needing Eight Arms All the Time Just to Get Everything Done).
“It does not surprise me,” Essie said, flicking through the pages of the book in a carefree manner that made Alice want to snatch it back and hold it safe against her heart. “You are young, attractive, with excellent taste in fashion, and clearly you and your husband cherish each other.”
“We do?” Alice said, perplexed. Then, recollecting her mission identity: “We do!”
Essie’s smile deepened. “In this house full of huggers (and muggers), everyone privately has their eyes on you and Mr. Blakeney. We feel quite arrested by your romance. Someday you must tell me your secrets, for I confess, keeping order in my own relationship is not always easy. As Shakespeare says”—she tapped her long fingernails against the book, and Alice barely managed to restrain herself from breaking those nails and the fingers attached to them—“if only men could be discontented to be what they are, there would be no fear in marriage. But so few of them seek self-improvement!”
Alice’s brain, distracted by the misquote, hastily searched itself for some reply. It flung phrases out of boxes, grabbed her imagination and shook it, all to no avail. Fortunately, Essie continued.
“I am, of course, fond of my dear husband. He is good with his hands, if you know what I mean.”
Aha! Alice’s brain snapped to attention, for it knew how to respond here. “Yes! Mr. Blakeney is also good with his hands,” she said. “He can kill with just one punch.”
“Indeed?” Essie blinked rapidly down at the book. “Goodness me. That is . . . charming, I’m sure. I suppose he is more careful when touching you, though.”
Alice’s expression darkened. “Indeed, he has become prone to gentleness of late.” Even the thought of it made her skin tingle in the most disconcerting manner.
“Oh dear,” Essie murmured.
Alice looked across to where Miss Darlington was now prodding Daniel’s temple and explaining how a freckle proved him to have a raging case of brain inflammation. The elderly pirate seemed oblivious to how close she came to assassination for the crime of being concerned about him. Alice, however, could discern from Daniel’s polite smile that he was clearly on the verge of homicide. She had to clench her muscles to keep from shooting Miss Darlington herself.
Fiddlesticks. When had Agent B, her absolute archrival, become so dear to her that she’d kill to protect him from mild discomfort? If only this mission would finish soon so she could have her happy ending: a whole new mission, assigned to her alone.
At this thought, her heart flinched oddly. Almost as if it would miss Agent B. Almost as if it wished with all its, er, heart to stay with him. That, of course, was nonsense. Falling in love with one’s mission partner contravened several rules and—
Excuse me. Falling in love?
Alice frowned. She was willing to admit stumbling in fondness, perhaps even tripping in lust, but anything further represented an unprofessionalism that could not be countenanced.
“Were I his lady, I would poison that vile rascal,” Essie commented, and Alice turned to stare at her.
“A line from the play,” the woman elucidated, tapping a fingernail again on the open page. She then licked the finger before using it to turn to a new page, and Alice felt the North Pole’s ice caps relocate suddenly into her body.
“You know,” Essie mused, “I suspect Shakespeare may have been a pirate.”
Alice did not reply, her whole attention fixated upon the book for fear of what Essie might do to it next.
“He wrote much that inspires me,” the woman added. “For example, ‘to thine own self be true.’ That is the best advice anyone might receive.”
“And yet it originates with Polonius,” Alice said, “who was a pompous hypocrite.”
“The problem with that being—?”
Alice blinked in bemusement. “Why, a pompous hypocrite is—is—”
“Piratic?” Essie suggested, laughing. “You know, when I was young, I despaired at how different I was from others. No matter my efforts, I could not seem to manage proper behavior. It would have been bad enough had I been a wallflower, but I actually climbed the walls, from a burning curiosity about what was on the other side. Luckily, I met Gertrude Rotunder, who taught me the flight incantation. I stole my first house and never looked back. Now I am to my own self true, and it’s brought me love, friendship, and a rather delightful hoard of treasure. Maybe one day uniqueness will be considered acceptable in women; until then, I pass on Polonius’s advice whenever I can. We pirates know that not even the sky needs to be the limit. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Blakeney?”
Crash!
It took a moment for Alice to realize the sudden loud agitation was not her brain imploding from conversational stress. Mrs. Rotunder had overturned the small round table at which she had been playing whist with Mrs. Ogden and Millie the Monster, and now all three ladies were on their feet and glaring at each other.
“Are you cheating, Mrs. Ogden?!” Mrs. Rotunder shouted, drawing her sword.
“I most certainly ain’t!” Mrs. Ogden said, bristling with outrage.
“Well, why not?” Mrs. Rotunder demanded. “Do you not believe me a good enough player that you need to cheat?”
“Um . . .” Mrs. Ogden was momentarily flummoxed. “Of course you are, dear. The best! I was absolutely on the verge of cheating, I can assure you.”
But it was too late. The brief hesitation had sealed her fate.
“En garde!” Mrs. Rotunder declared.
Around the room, chairs and small tables clattered to the floor as several other ladies jumped up, drawing their swords automatically, before realizing the challenge had not been for them. Whereupon, they shrugged . . .
“En garde!” they shouted in reply.
Metal clashed against metal. Cries of Take that! and Die, fiend! and Watch out for the teapot! resounded throughout the chaos.
Essie stood, tossing All’s Well That Ends Well onto Alice’s lap before hurrying over to join the melee. Stunned and aghast, Alice took the book into her hands and stroked it, then checked the pages for tears and creases. The fact that she found none was not appeasing, for her private intimacy with the book had been disturbed. She was beginning a careful four-count of breath when a hand appeared in her line of vision, presented quietly, as one presents their hand to a dangerous animal of whose temper they’re unsure. Looking up, she saw Daniel regarding her somberly.
“You seem fatigued, dear wife,” he said. “May I escort you upstairs for a rest?”
Alice gratefully took hold of the hand, so strong and steady, so cool and dry, with its gold ring and an interesting small scar across one knuckle that she wanted to—
“Mrs. Blakeney?” he prompted.
Blinking rather dazedly, she stood.
A lady spun past, skirts a-whirl and ringlets flapping, as she whacked her sword against that of an elderly gentleman who puffed a cigar while fighting back. The foul whiff of smoke made Alice blanch with sudden nausea. Daniel held her still for a moment, his hand remaining around hers, his other reaching across her front like a shield, as though she was some fragile creature requiring his manly protection.
Outrageous! declared her brain. I am a powerful, professional woman!
Do you think if I swooned, answered her body, he’d lift me in his arms?
A gap opened up in the tumult and they hurried through, weaving between pirates, ducking blades, until they reached the corridor outside. Servants ambled past unperturbed, busy with their various duties (dusting, carrying laundry, making secret floor plans for the government). The calm soothed Alice’s nerves, but she could feel Daniel’s grasp on her hand tightening, and knew that if anyone so much as nodded a greeting to him, all hell would break loose. Now she was the one to protect and guide, practically towing him along the corridor and upstairs.
“We should search—” he began to suggest.
“We should take a quiet moment to restore our balance,” Alice countered, and strode for their bedroom before he could argue. Opening the door, they stepped inside . . .
Boom!
The world filled with smoke.
“I say,” Dr. Snodgrass murmured from beneath a quivering mustache. “It wasn’t my fault.”
They stood contemplating the charred wreckage of the washroom door. Daniel and Alice were composed to such a degree of tranquil perfection, Snodgrass and Veronica trembled at the sight of them. Alice was not even tapping her fingers. And if Daniel had blinked once in the past five minutes, they’d missed it. Veronica was beginning to fear exactly what it took to be a premier A.U.N.T. agent; Snodgrass, who had more experience with them, was mentally composing his last will and testament.
“I didn’t suspect you, Doctor,” Daniel said. “No doubt this was just another of the Wisteria Society’s friendly attempts to assassinate us.”
“Friendly?” Veronica echoed incredulously.
“They wouldn’t try to kill us if they thought we were civilians,” Alice explained.
“Besides,” Daniel said, “we have something more important to worry about.”
“The next assassination attempt?” Snodgrass said, looking around as if he expected it to happen at any moment.
“No, I mean the announcement Frederick Bassingthwaite made at afternoon tea. There will be a ball tonight.”
Veronica gasped. “Oh my!”
“Exactly,” Daniel intoned grimly.
“How wonderful!” The junior agent’s eyes lit with shimmery dreams as she clutched her hands to her breast.
“What? No.” Daniel shook his head. “There will be dancing. And as supposed pirates, we will be expected to join in.”
“How is that worse than people trying to kill you?” Veronica asked.
“I have spent the past several years in Rotten O’Riley’s company with people trying to kill me. That is regular pirate culture.”
“It is also regular life for a secret agent,” Alice pointed out. “If you do not find yourself on the verge of being murdered at least once a week, you are not doing your job properly. Rather that than attend a ball.”
Daniel nodded in agreement.
Veronica’s shimmer began to dim. “But—”
“I do not dance,” Daniel said in an end-of-conversation tone, which from a professional assassin also threatened end-of-life.
“Nor I,” Alice added.
The junior agent continued staring at them bemusedly. They were side by side, arms crossed, expressions stony, postures on the brink of reaching for a weapon. Veronica proved either her stupidity or her fitness as an A.U.N.T. agent by asking one more question. “Surely you were taught how to dance at the Academy?”
Both agents stiffened even more. “There was an—incident,” Daniel murmured.
“There was an—accident,” Alice murmured at the same time.
“I do not dance,” they reiterated in unison.
“You did the conga the other night,” Veronica pointed out.
“Under duress,” Daniel said. “And that was more a matter of accessorized walking.”
“Well, you must dance tonight,” Veronica persisted in what was perhaps the most death-defying action of the entire narrative. “Suspicion will fall on you if you don’t.”
“Cannot a chandelier or ceiling panel fall on me instead, thus excusing me from the evening?” Alice asked.
“Ha ha ha!” Snodgrass laughed heartily. “What a funny joke, Miss Dearlove!”
Alice stared at him with such icy intensity, it was remarkable he did not freeze on the spot. But instead he flushed, his mustache bristling. “I have just the solution!” he declared. “A little thing I’ve been working on in my spare time—self-dancing shoes! Why, put them on and you’ll be doing the can-can in no time!”
“More likely the crash-bang,” Daniel muttered.
“There is a far easier solution,” Veronica said. “You must practice!”
Before the agents could react, she reached out, grabbing Daniel’s hand and tugging him toward Alice. Only his utter bewilderment saved her from the tedium of three weeks in a hospital bed.
“Now, Agent B, place your hand on A’s upper back—thusly. And Agent A, place your hand on B’s arm. No, higher up—higher—just let me put it there for you. That’s it. Now, each hold the other’s free hand . . . Oh dear.”
She bit her lip as she regarded the two pistols aimed directly at her.
“You’ll need to put those away if you wish to waltz,” she said in a cautious tone.
“There will be no waltzing,” Daniel said.
“No can-can,” Alice added.
“No dancing,” they both emphasized. And holstering their guns, they took a professional step away from each other.
“The discussion is over,” Daniel said. “We will simply intensify our search efforts, defy the odds, find the weapon, escape the pirate hordes, and depart this insane asylum before the band even begins to play.”
“Very well,” Veronica relented with a sigh. “It does not sound particularly romantic, however.”
“This is a mission, V-2,” Daniel chided. “Romance plays no part here.”
“None whatsoever,” Alice agreed.
They glanced at each other, and if Veronica was temporarily blinded by the heat passing between them, she finally retained enough good sense to say nothing about it.
“I can organize more servants to help in the search,” she offered instead.
“Definitely not,” Daniel said. “There are too many double agents downstairs. And the walls have ears.” He paused, seeing Alice look around the room in startlement. “Idiom, Mrs. Blakeney. No, I trust no one at this point.”
“Except us!” Snodgrass piped up.
Daniel frowned in response. “Now, listen. Mrs. Blakeney and I will change our clothes for dinner—not for dancing—and then continue the search. V-2, return to the kitchen, but remain alert for any news and—”
“Guard against exploding cakes,” she added.
A moment of silence followed, in honor of Daniel’s deceased patience.
“Good idea,” he said eventually. “You do that. And Dr. Snodgrass, stay safe in your room.”
The scientist sputtered. “But I have the perfect device, what, which when I—”
“Stay. In. Your. Room.”
Snodgrass’s mustache drooped. “I say.”
Daniel shifted his frown to each of them. “If we all remain in our circumscribed roles, we will have this mission done with no more complications. It’s as simple and easy as that.”
Alice nodded in approval.
Two hours later, they were running for their lives.