PROLOGUE
The shadows were deep, but the shadows were always deep in the old building, especially at this time of night. Their implied menace went a long way toward keeping the younger girls in their beds. Who knew, after all, what could be hiding in dark corners where the cold breezes from the moors crept in through loose windows and swirled around bare ankles?
On the other hand, the shadows that quelled the young were also very handy for hiding all manner of nefarious behavior.
“Hurry! We don’t have much time.”
“Well, if it hadn’t taken you so long to get past the lock...”
“Or if you hadn’t stopped to sample the loot.”
“If both of you wouldn’t waste time arguing about everything.”
Their bare feet made little sound on the cold stone floors. They knew exactly how to sneak past enemy doors, even as they clutched unwieldy treasure in their arms. It did make opening those doors an exercise in balance that looked more like dancing lessons than theft. But they’d had enough practice to see itthrough. Besides, once inside, they were greeted like the heroes they were.
“Our bedtime snack is here!”
Whispered thanks met them as they began to pass out their booty, girl by girl. Even for the excitement that spread down the long room, the noise was minimal. A quiet thank you, a delighted sigh of anticipation. A muffled crunch as a prize was consumed. Reward enough and more for the chances the burglars had taken. Nutrition shared for girls regularly made to go hungry for the lesson of discipline. Or the greed of the administrators, as all the girls knew.
The sneak thieves had just made it to the last bed when the dormitory door slammed open. These new intruders were not nearly as careful nor as quiet. And they held a lantern high enough to light over thirty girls from ages seven to fourteen crouched on spare beds, suddenly frozen in place, half with purloined bread in their mouths, panicked eyes facing their doom, jaws still working to get their treats consumed before they were confiscated.
Standing by the furthest iron beds, the three miscreants stood as straight and tall as they could, considering one was a head shorter than her comrades. They quickly hid the remaining loot behind them rather than lose it.
“You three,” Miss Larinda Chase accused in failing tones. “Why does it always have to be you three?”
“Because,” a little voice piped up from the middle of the room, “they’re our fairy godmothers. They promised they would always grant our wishes.”
Not exactly. They had promised they would always respond to appeals for help. It didn’t make the next hours of cold isolation crouched in dark and narrow closets any warmer. It did make the headmistress’s consternation more satisfying. And it made their sentences at Last Chance Academy lessonerous, at least until the next year when Georgie, Charlie, and Eddie Packham helped foment rebellion and overthrew the administration. But that is a story for other times. This is the time to talk of fairy godmothers.
1
MAY, 1814, MAYFAIR, LONDON
Lady Georgianna Packham would have known sooner that her help was needed if she hadn’t been busy chasing Napoleon across the plains of France.
“And then General Wellington and Daddy Hill pushed Marshal Soult across the River Nive,” she said, bouncing the painted horse and soldier across the bright blue scarf that wound over the rumpled sheet representing the battlefield.
“Daddy Hill?” her brother Geoffrey asked, his seven-year-old rump in the air as he repositioned the French troops farther east, knocking some over as he’d been wanting to do since they started the lesson. “Why would a daddy lead troops? That’s silly.”
Georgie nodded and shoved a loose curl behind her ear as she pointed to the tiny lead soldier in his distinctive scarlet coat who sat at the front of the British troops. “His real name is General Rowland Hill. But he has taken such good care of his men that they nicknamed him ‘Daddy.’”
“My lady.”
Georgie looked up from where, also on hands and knees, she was knocking down some more French cavalry for Geoffrey. “Yes, Minta?”
The tidy redheaded maid perched in the doorway bobbed a bit of a curtsy. “Back door, miss.”
Georgie nodded. “Well then, I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for the Battle of Paris. Read the rest of those dispatches, Geoffrey. We can set up when I get back.”
Geoffrey, busy engaging a blue-clad soldier against one in red, merely nodded. Seated next to him, thumb in mouth, three-year-old Emily nodded right along.
Giving Emily a quick buss on the cheek and Geoffrey a tousle, Georgie climbed to her feet, where she settled her dress and repinned her hair before following Minta out into the nursery hallway.
“Don’t know how you can enjoy playin’ soldiers an’ all, miss,” Minta said with a shake of her head. “Bloody business, it were.”
“I’m afraid it was, Minta. But this is the best way to lock knowledge into little boys’ heads. And if Geoffrey wants to be a soldier, he needs to learn it.”
Minta shook her head. “Seems to me he needs to learn that soldierin’s a trial and a bloody business.”
