Seven for a Secret by Elizabeth Bear Page A

Irene—”
    Abby Irene lifted her chin, knowing she resembled a hound on a scent. “You think I’d mind-control those children? Sebastien. But what if we could promise to spirit their families to safety? Do you think that might make a difference in their loyalties?”
    Sebastien tossed his head like a restive horse. “There’s another solution.” He turned away from Abby Irene and Phoebe, as if uncomfortable with the pronouncement he was about to make. He stood, and went to the window. Beyond it, the night hovered. Abby Irene knew what he saw, invisible rain drumming on the planished street, the dimpled
ripples broadening.
    “The suspense,” Phoebe said dryly, “is killing us.”
    The book cradled against his chest, he turned away from the rain. “It was you who called me the Scarlet Pimpernel, mi corazón. We’ll go and get them.”
    Abby Irene heard her own intake of breath and saw Phoebe’s spine stiffen. Phoebe said, “And if the Prussians are using their families to control them?”
    He folded his other arm over the book, as if it were some wholly inadequate piece of armor. “We smuggle out Jews.”
    Abby Irene felt a chill settle into her belly. “Sebastien,” she said. “I think you may be unrealistically optimistic about your chances of convincing these young women to come away.”
    He lifted his chin, disapproval creasing his forehead. “And also, you want to use them as a weapon against the Chancellor. Which you cannot, if we rescue them.”
    “Wartime rules,” Abby Irene said, and made herself meet his eyes. “What’s a couple dozen lives, Sebastien, measured against millions?”

4.
    The afternoon drill ended with forty-five minutes of catechism in the rights and duties of Prussian officers and Prussian women, which Ruth had memorized to the point of dreaming it. Which was a lucky thing, because she could barely keep her eyes open for the duration of the lesson. The question-and-response seemed endless, chants like a litany, and she knew she would hear it echoing in her head for hours afterwards.
    By dinnertime, it appeared all was forgiven. Or expunged in Ruth and Adele’s hard work and suffering. They took their places among the other girls without remark, though Ruth caught the littlest ones whispering at the bottom of the table. Their own agemates—Beatrice Small, Joan Mapes, Katherine Ressler, and Jessamyn Johnson—simply kept their eyes lowered and their hands folded, waiting for Herr Professor to take his place at the head of the table. It was Jessamyn’s turn to sit in the hostess’s place at the foot of the table, for which Ruth was grateful. She did not think that she could manage to support a spirited conversation among the youngest students today.
    It was all Ruth’s willpower not to fall on the bread and butter like a starving wolf while they waited, but poor table courtesy was another way to earn demerits, so—even though her stomach was rumbling loudly enough that Beatrice shot her a sidelong smile—she folded her hands in the lap of her dress and bowed her head while Herr Professor said Grace. When the bread was passed, she broke it into dainty pieces dabbed with butter, eating in small ladylike bites.
    This was part of the discipline, too. Ruth felt Herr Professor’s gaze upon her every time she lowered her eyes to her plate, and so extended herself in courtesy to the girls sitting across from and beside her. Manners, decorum, strength, courage, loyalty.
    The virtues of a mastiff dog.
    She owed it to her family—to the world—to excel. Adele would understand, when it was done. Adele would forgive her.
    Practice occasioned another costume change. Pleated knee-length skirts and tennis shoes were at least quick to slip into, and Adele was the best in the class at braiding hair. When she did it, the process might bring tears to sting Ruth’s eyes, but the braid stayed put.
    Ruth smoothed her blouse over her wolfskin in the mirror, frowning critically at her