Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) by Christopher Nuttall Page B

him to ask for Gwen’s references, he would provide her with a glowing account of a maid who had spent half of her time serving as a substitute mother. “Do you think that will help?”
    “You spent time supervising Heather,” Irene said, dryly. “Lady Standish will probably ask you to keep an eye on her ward too.”
    She cleared her throat. “You’re nowhere near as polished as they will expect,” she continued, “but that’s understandable. However, you will have to answer some very uncomfortable questions. For a start, why is your hair so short?”
    Gwen scowled. The truth was that she’d had it cut short to keep it from getting in the way – and to make it easier to pass as a man. But that wasn’t something she could tell Lady Standish, not if she wanted her mission to be a success. It would be far easier to simply claim that Lord Carmichael had insisted that she cut her hair, even if fashion had been in favour of long-haired girls at the time. It was unlikely that anyone would expect a maid to join the Trouser Brigade – or care much if she did – but it was probably best to avoid any mention of politics.
    “Because my previous employer, Lord Carmichael, insisted I cut it short, My Lady,” she said, finally. “I complied with his instructions.”
    “Good enough,” Irene said. She paused, significantly. “There will be other questions, I’m afraid, some of them quite ... intimate. She will ask if you have a male friend, for example, and I would advise you to answer no.”
    Gwen coloured. The only man who had shown any real interest in her had been Sir Charles – and he’d been more interested in ensuring that no one found out that he’d murdered Sir Travis, rather than Gwen herself. She still had nightmares about the moment he’d rendered her powerless, leaving her almost at his mercy. It would be a long time before she trusted a man enough to let him get so close to her.
    “Yes, My Lady,” she said.
    “There will be other problems,” Irene warned. “She may slap you, if she feels your work is not suitable, or punish you in other ways. You will have to tolerate it until the time comes to reveal yourself.”
    “I know,” Gwen said. She had more pain tolerance than the average women – either through magic or through constant exercise with male magicians – but she knew just how much pain a single slap could inflict. And it would be worse, she suspected, if the person slapping her thought of her servant as an object, rather than a person. “I can handle it.”
    “You won’t be Lady Gwen, Royal Sorceress, or even Lady Gwen, daughter of Lord Crichton,” Irene reminded her. “You will merely be Gwen, a humble girl from the country, someone without friends or family in London. There will be no protection for you if Lady Standish decides to take her problems out on your body. And I suspect you will not be able to use magic to stop her without revealing the truth.”
    “I know,” Gwen repeated. Irene had mentioned the same fact time and time again. But she was right. The use of magic would be disastrous. “I won’t fail.”
    “Be sure that you don’t,” Irene said. “Do you have your bag packed?”
    Gwen nodded. It held a pair of dresses, a handful of underclothes and a small bag of money, enough to pass for her final wages from Lord Carmichael. There were no books, something she regretted deeply, but a maid from the country wouldn’t be expected to read. Even now, after the Swing, only a small percentage of the country’s population knew how to read and write. The charities that were trying to educate the poor were simply not successful, not when the poor resented being lectured to as well as being taught. After what Jack had shown her, Gwen was not particularly surprised.
    She shucked off the maid’s outfit and packed it away in the bag – she’d change again before she met up with Mycroft’s agent – and pulled her trousers and shirt back on, taking care to cover her