Traitor and the Tunnel by Y. S. Lee Page A

direction.
    “Show yourself, if you’re there,” said Honoria, and this time her voice held a distinct quaver.

    Perhaps half a minute ticked silently past. She could see little of Honoria – primarily the dazzle of her candle, and her general shape behind that. But she was safe enough: as long as Honoria continued to hold that candle at arm’s length, al beyond it would appear black. And even if she extinguished her flame, Mary would have time to move away silently before Honoria’s eyes adjusted. So Mary remained poised but relaxed, now, and waited for Honoria to act.
    The lady-in-waiting hesitated a minute longer.
    Took a half-step, as though to investigate. Mary tensed, readying herself for action. But after another pause, Honoria turned on her heel and hurried away.
    She had sounded thoroughly rattled. And she was snooping about a part of the Palace she’d no business being in, going through concealed doorways. Mary wondered, again, about Honoria Dalrymple’s position within the ranks of the ladies-in-waiting, and made a note to check with the Agency about her history. Come to think of it, they’d not come back with information about Honoria’s possible connection to Beaulieu-Buckworth, either…
    When Honoria’s footsteps had receded and she was definitely alone once more, Mary moved decisively towards the secret door. She loved these moments, when endless possibilities of action and adventure stretched before her. It was tempting to savour them, to play at heightening her suspense.
    But this wasn’t a game, and she, like Honoria, was trespassing. They both risked severe punishment if caught, although it was a fine debate as to which was the graver penalty: social disgrace for a lady-in-waiting or loss of livelihood for a housemaid.
    Mary shook her head, both figuratively and literal y.
    She was wasting time. And, she reminded herself sternly, it was possible that nothing of real interest lay behind that secret door. Neat rows of jams and pickles, perhaps. Or a child’s play-closet. Yet even as her fingers found the catch, she didn’t real y believe that…
    The door swung open with a faint creak. A new smel , thin and cold and sharp, fil ed her nostrils. This was a surprise – she’d expected claggy damp, perhaps mildew or mould. But not this aroma, which was more reminiscent of riverbanks than anything else. She frowned into the darkness, unable to discern any sort of depth or detail. Even so, she was reluctant to strike a light. As Honoria had just demonstrated, a candle in the darkness il uminated only the things nearest. And it alerted possible observers for hundreds of yards al around.
    Instead, she stepped through the doorway and felt about the frame with her fingertips. One of the Agency’s first rules was Secure your exit. Her fingers moved swiftly, careful y over the unpainted wood. There: set into the top of the frame was a sturdy metal latch that, when depressed, would release the door. Mary tested the catch. Then she swung the door closed behind her and pressed it again. So far, so good.
    Now, inside the secret door, she listened for clues as to what sort of hiding-place this was. The floor gave slightly beneath her shoes – not packed earth but wooden floorboards, springy and rotting with age. How old did that make them? Perhaps thirty or forty years, depending on what lay beneath and how damp it was. Safely during the reign of George I I, at least. Mary’s mind whirled. The old King George and Queen Charlotte were reputed to have had an ideal marriage – congenial and affectionate and dignified
    – and had had fifteen children, if she remembered her history lessons correctly. It made a concealed entrance of this sort less likely than ever – unless it had been built for someone other than the King.
    A smal sound – a rattle or a trickle of some sort –
    recal ed her to the present. It wasn’t an echo, but it sounded distant – as though where she stood was merely the