To Sketch a Sphinx

Chapter One

London, 1825

Hal! Hal, where are you?

Hal chose not to answer. Couldn’t answer. Not now, not in the middle of this project.

Sir, as I said… Thad’s gravelly, barely polite voice was full of exasperation, and yet tinged with respect.

How odd.

Hal! HAL!

Sir…

The door creaked open loudly. Hal, are you home?

Would you have been let in if I were not?

You know, that is a remarkably excellent question.

I do make it a point to have those when I can.

Silence reigned, and Hal wondered if the voice bellowing throughout the house had actually heard that last statement, muttered as it had been.

The only sound for some moments was that of charcoal gliding against paper, the tone shifting and moving with each new angle and avenue. The face was beginning to come to life, shapes transforming into features, imitation morphing into reflection, and the thrill of excitement that came with the witnessing of that change began to rise.

Almost. Almost.

Ah, there you are!

The charcoal stopped moving, and Hal exhaled a short sigh before turning to glance at the tall man now leaning in the doorway of the makeshift study.

Where did you expect me to be? she asked.

The man grinned, though the charming appearance of it would have no effect here. I gather there are a limited number of locations I could have chosen from?

Hal lifted a brow and attempted to return to the drawing. I am only ever in two places at home, Weaver. Here or my bedchamber. As it is not early morning or the middle of the night, it is only right that I should be here in my study.

You call this a study? Surely, a gallery or a library would be more appropriate. Or… a drawing room, as it were.

The charcoal stopped once more, and Hal glared at the guest. That was poorly done. Thad could do better.

Weaver shrugged easily, still grinning. I don’t know, I thought it was rather witty.

No.

Oh well. Perhaps next time.

Sighing, Hal set down the charcoal in earnest and pushed her spectacles atop her loosely pinned curls. Is there something I can do for you, Weaver? Or were you hoping for a social call?

Weaver pushed into the room and waved dismissively. No, no, I understand and appreciate your spite for all social endeavors. And I know full well that if I were to come on any matter other than business, I would have to bring my wife, or else I would be barred from the house.

Too right, Hal grunted, shifting on her settee as Weaver took a seat in the nearby wingback chair. Though you know full well she could never be seen calling here. I’m supposed to be living in shame, remember?

Indeed, came Weaver’s reply with the accompanying sage nod. Your family discredited and all that. I do hope you are bearing up the burden as best you can.

Hal finally managed to flick a rueful smile at the sarcasm. I manage well enough. Such a pity to not have more respectable friends.

Weaver smiled very blandly. Yes, I can see that you feel the loss keenly.

Quite. She batted her lashes once, then snorted and looked down at the portrait, frowning slightly.

Something was off. Her eyes darted here and there, looking for what was missing or wrong. She had felt so in tune with her memory, so detailed in her recollection, but now…

And what are we working on at the present?

Hal glanced up at Weaver, who was watching her with an interest that she did not trust at all. She had worked with him for years, at least a full decade, and when he had an idea or a plan, his expression tended to resemble a cat happening upon a particularly plump and unsuspecting mouse. However, this cat wielded incomparable political power and influence, and he could take down any number of monarchies with his wealth of information if he had chosen to do so.

Which, naturally, Weaver would never do.

Anymore.

It’s supposed to be what I remember of my mother, Hal admitted without any hint of sentimentality, for she had none where her mother was concerned.

Weaver raised a questioning brow. But you have portraits, surely.

In the family home, she confirmed with a quick nod. At my brother’s estate, naturally. Here? Not a one. As it really is too much trouble to send for one, considering, I thought I would do what I could from memory.

I would say such a thing would be extraordinarily difficult, given the passage of time, but with your gifts, I can only say that I wonder at your struggling with it. He smiled with a surprising degree of warmth. She was an extraordinary woman.

Hal made a face and returned to her drawing, looking for the error she would need to correct. Some would say that, yes. I doubt you will hear my brother or myself say any such thing.

You don’t know what she was involved in, Weaver warned with some firmness. You don’t know the details.

And despite our asking, those questions have yet to produce any sort of satisfactory answer. She glanced over at him with a pointed look. 

He met it without shame. You both know why. Your father knew why.

Hal nodded and plastered a false smile on her face. I have no doubt Father knew more than we ever did. I understand the secrecy, Weaver, having lived my entire life with it, but to have never known one’s mother in truth is particularly cruel.

She was every bit as you knew her, Weaver assured her with more gentleness than she had ever heard from him. I can promise you that.

But where did her loyalty lie? Hal murmured, shocking herself with the pain that she felt suddenly rising to the surface. She cleared her throat quickly and set the sketch aside entirely. It doesn’t matter. My memories of her are limited as it is, and I likely cannot trust a memory from childhood to be accurate.

Weaver made a soft, noncommittal sound. I think you could trust your memory from the moment you were born, my dear.

She only shrugged and folded her legs up beneath her. You said this was business. As you are here yourself, may I assume this is not tied to the League? Or, indeed, to any particular office?

You may, he confirmed as he straightened in his chair. What I have… what we need transcends any group or mission. 

Hal’s brows shot up at that. She had never been approached with such a severe tone, or with such a prospect. She was a well-known and well-used asset to every office with covert operations, had participated in meetings and debriefings with some of the most dangerous individuals Britain could boast, and even some from other shores. She would have been an operative herself had she any skill with combat and self-defense, but she had made herself useful regardless.

Everything from the Shopkeepers, the highest officers in covert operations, had specific responsibilities and missions. Everything she ever did for them was strategically assigned. To have an assignment without any of that was unusual, if not unheard of.

Trick? she asked with some alarm, her thoughts instantly shifting to her brother, her twin, who was presently undercover yet again, so much so that he wasn’t able to even write. He was nearly always on a mission, but he was usually able to send her word with some regularity.

Not this time.

Not this mission.

Weaver shook his head firmly, allowing himself to smile. No, he is well, as of his last reporting. Quite well, as it happens.

Hal breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Hunter wasn’t reckless or careless, but he did tend to get himself into quite a bit of danger, which never got easier for her. She seldom knew the details of his missions, which was for the best, but every now and then, she could figure a thing or two out.

The world thought he was a hopeless reprobate who had ruined the family and their legacy, not to mention any chances for a good match for his sister; the truth was anything but.

Neither Hal nor Hunter cared. Their lives had been upended with the death of both parents in the space of two years just as Hunter had been sent away to school. They had no family but each other, and there wasn’t much they cared for other than that.

Apart from England herself.

So what is it, then? Hal inquired, once her heart had settled back into its place. Forgeries? Maps? Composite sketches? I’ve gotten quite good at certificates of death, if any of those are needed.

I feel more like a criminal every time I visit you, Weaver grumbled good-naturedly. No to all of that. This is something quite particular, and yet incredibly vague.

Hal frowned at him. That doesn’t make any sense to me, Weaver.

His sheepish look worried her. It will in a minute. He sobered, then exhaled. We need you to come on assignment. As an agent, not only an asset.

Out in the field? Hal blinked and shook her head. I’m not qualified for the field, Weaver. I have no doubt you have seen my file, which explains everything.

You studied at Miss Masters, did you not? he asked without any note of concern. And in the specialized program?

Hal flicked her fingers in an obvious gesture. Of course I did, you know that.

Weaver gave her a firm nod. Then you have all the preparation you will need. We’ve even given you a code name. How do you feel about being called Sketch?

I was pathetic in combat training, Hal reminded him, ignoring the mention of a code name as she sat forward, almost straining towards him. Those are not my words. That is how Fists described me. ‘Pathetic. Lacking all coordination, notably weak on the left side, shows no aptitude for any weapon at all, and hopeless at defending herself from attack. Most likely to die within the first minute of any assault.’

The lordly man before her only stared, clearly calling upon his more diplomatic skill set to avoid any reaction to her words. Then he shook his head slowly. That memory of yours, Hal. By Jove, it’s a wonder.

She snorted softly. You don’t need a memory like mine to remember something like that, Weaver.

He tilted his head to one side. How did you see the report? Those are supposed to be classified.

She only looked back at him with a flat smile.

At any rate, he went on, overriding her lack of answer smoothly, that makes little difference here, because there will be no fighting at all. Not in the physical sense, anyway.

I will pretend that you are making sense in hopes that your point will soon be clear, Hal remarked dryly.

Weaver raised a brow. We need you to accompany another of our assets on a mission into France. Paris, to be precise.

A startled cough escaped Hal, and she barely managed to recover herself enough to look apologetic about doing so.

Oh, she coughed again. Is that all?

He gave her a brisk nod. The pair of you will infiltrate Society there and find every opportunity to discover what you can of the Faction. Its leaders, its sympathizers, its plans…

Surely, you have operatives in France, Weaver, Hal protested, the tips of her fingers beginning to tingle.

We do. He dipped his chin in acknowledgement. They will be your contacts, as well as your informants. But due to the nature of their missions, they cannot break away from their current assignments for this task.

There was something unsettling about that notion, that those with more skills and information, let alone connections, could not be bothered to do what was being asked of her. Was that due to the danger of the assignment being posed to her or due to a sense that this was not nearly as important as Weaver was making it out to be?

I can see your mind spinning. Ask what you must.

Hal brought her eyes back to Weaver’s, not entirely realizing she had ever looked away. She fought a frown as she looked at him. This man had been like an uncle to her for most of her life, had been somehow a godfather and mentor throughout, and likely knew her better than any other person apart from her twin. He already knew what she wanted to know, but he was just maddening enough to keep everything to himself apart from what she would ask.

Always secrets, always partial information. Never the full truth.

Which was well enough, as he did not have her full truth, either.

Why? she asked without any sort of tact.

His mouth quirked to one side. You know better than that. More specific, please.

It had been worth a try, and Hal had to smile at being so neatly caught. Why me? Why not them? Why now?

Weaver nodded at each of the questions and crossed his leg over one knee, his fingers lacing atop them. Why, indeed. We need you because of those maddening skills we’ve already discussed, as well as the artistry of your fingers. We need exact information that can be trusted without question, and you are the perfect person to manage that. 

She’d rather expected something of that nature, so that was no surprise.

Why not them? Weaver repeated, moving on. We cannot trust in the safety of our operatives with something like this. You know about Rogue’s potential compromise, and having Trace back in our ranks, though wonderful, poses new risks, as well as new questions. And now, with missing the clerk from the League, as well… How can some of our best operatives be known to our enemies in such a way? We have no idea how many others might face the same. The only viable alternative for this is to send in a team we can guarantee is unknown to all. 

That, unfortunately, made a great deal of sense. Her own brother was one of the more dangerous operatives the Crown had and could have any number of threats facing him at any given time. Would she really risk him against those odds when there were none against herself?

She swallowed and nodded at the answer. And the third?

Weaver shifted in his chair. Why now?

She nodded once more.

He exhaled roughly. Because I am damned tired of being a step and a half behind in all this, and ready to see us coming against the Faction from a position of strength rather than desperation. Aren’t you?

The question took Hal by surprise. She wasn’t among the ranks, anyone would have said so, even if she was a favorite connection of several operatives and their superiors. She had a part to play in the security of England and her interests, it was true, but it had never been a particularly active one.

Her own motivations had never really been considered, even by herself.

But she had seen Trace return only a few weeks ago, and the emotion of that reunion had been significant. She had been curious about the disappearance of One, the longstanding clerk to the London League. She had devoured her brother’s letters to her with eagerness, trying to root out any code he might have left therein. She was vastly well protected, and not just because of her brother or her parents. She knew too much, and it was in England’s best interest that she remain safe and hidden away as she was.

What was her motivation? What did any of this bring her?

Sad to say, she had no answer. It had simply been what she had always done. Her brother was the one with a rich vein of patriotism and loyalty running through him with all the luster of copper. She had quite simply never thought about the thing long enough to consider anything else.

Only she did know on which side of the line she stood. She knew which flag would fly among the banners of her heart. She couldn’t pretend that the idea of actually doing something, physically giving of herself, would not be a relief, given what the rest of her family had willingly endured. 

She had felt so pale in comparison to the glorious picture of the rest.

No matter how foolishly they had behaved.

The Mortimer family had given their all; now she would join the ranks. Henrietta Mortimer would finally have the chance to do some good.

The weakest thrill of hope flashed within her, a rather dull sensation, all things considered. She could only hope that her body would have more noteworthy physical responses to such nobility of thought in the future. After much practice, no doubt.

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