Velvet Undercover by Teri Brown Page A

We’re spies. Of course I can’t tell you everything.”
    She has a point, but still. “I think I’ll stand.”
    Her lips curve as if she finds me amusing. “As you like. In the morning, we’ll be leaving for Luxembourg, where you’ll assume your new identity. You’ll also be taking the oath to become a member of La Dame Blanche. After that you’ll be traveling to Berlin.”
    â€œBerlin,” I repeat.
    â€œYes, Berlin,” she confirms. “We have received your assignment and we must get you to Luxembourg as quickly as possible.”
    Talking about this in such a calm manner seems almost obscene to me. My chest tightens with fear and I struggle to keep my voice even. “And just what will I be doing in Berlin?
    Both Miss Tickford and Monsieur are silent and I know he is waiting for her to take the lead.
    â€œYou’ll be extracting a valuable spy whose life may be in danger. Her handler has disappeared. Her code name is Velvet.”

SEVEN
VHYHQ
    Cover: The persona and fictitious image constructed and maintained by an agent for the purpose of espionage.
    T he cliffs of Luxembourg overshadow the entire city, and I stare out the window at the remains of the ancient fortress built precariously onto the side. How bold and brash of human beings to think it could be done and how astonishing that they actually accomplished it.
    Miss Tickford and I arrived at the safe house late last night after a cramped and nerve-racking twelve-hour ride up the Moselle River in a grain container and another four hours of jolting along in the back of a wagon, hidden under a pile of hay.
    Upon arrival, we stumbled to our beds and collapsed. Turns out, fear is exhausting.
    My stomach rumbles and I wish Miss Tickford would return with some food. We haven’t eaten since yesterday.
    I wonder if Velvet has enough to eat. I’ve been obsessing over her ever since I learned of her existence. A young woman, perhaps not so different from me, practiced in theart of espionage but still needing help.
    My help.
    The responsibility is almost overwhelming.
    I push the thought of Velvet out of my head and stare out over the streets of the city. The people of Luxembourg seem to have adapted to occupation far better than the French—perhaps because the Germans allowed them to retain their government. They didn’t come to pillage the tiny neutral country; they came to use it as a strategic entry point to France and Belgium. That fact shows on the streets as people go about their business in a much more relaxed manner than they did in France. Just then the noise of a motor hums above me and I duck my head to look upward. My throat tightens as two German aeroplanes fly overhead, making their way toward France. Tears sting my eyes and the war seems very real all of a sudden.
    I spot Miss Tickford hurrying down the street and rush to open the door for her as she comes up the stairwell. The warm, yeasty scent of bread from the basket she carries tantalizes my nose.
    â€œFood is definitely easier to obtain here than in France,” she says as I follow her to the kitchen, salivating like a dog. “The difference between resisting and playing footsy with the enemy.”
    Right now, I’d play footsy with the kaiser himself for something to eat.
    She takes out the bread, a crock of butter, a small wheel of goat cheese, a bunch of leeks, and a bottle of milk.
    We eat right there in the kitchen at a small table covered in a lace cloth. In my advanced state of hunger, I find that butter has never tasted sweeter, cheese has never been creamier, and milk has never been so good and cold. It isn’t until the loaf is half-gone that Miss Tickford gets up from the table.
    After digging around under the sink for a minute, she produces a worn leather packet.
    â€œStart with this,” she says. “This is your cover.”
    I eye it suspiciously, half wishing I could just continue eating my