“Did you bring my present, Papa?” I asked, excitement bubbling out of me like the first time I tasted pure sugar cane.
He carried me in the crook one arm and slung his rucksack over the other shoulder. I knew my long-promised birthday gift—my beautiful porcelain doll—was in that bag somewhere. We strolled over to Maman who smiled and threw her arms open wide.
“Let me kiss Maman before we talk of presents, little dove.” He kissed her long and deep, and she held him tight.
After a few moments, the celebratory mood turned somber. Maman talked of her worry for our village, and the anger over English occupation. There were fights in the town square where red-faced soldiers shouted insults and commanded townspeople to bow to the king or everyone would be forced out of Acadia forever. Maman would quickly turn me away when these things happened, but I still heard them. I remember them all.
Papa’s face clouded like a storm at sea. That’s what we called it when Papa was cross: stormy sea moods. He saw me watching them and put on a brave smile.
“Mariette, hush,” he said to Maman in a low voice. “We mustn’t frighten the child. After supper, I’ll speak with the minister to ask for news.” His eyes brightened and our jester returned. “We have a grand ball to attend in honor of a very special birthday. And, if Maman is good,” he winked at me, then grinned at us both, “maybe I will give her the pearls I stole from a pirate’s chest just for her.”
I squealed in delight and skipped happily over to Beau, the Boulonnais workhorse we borrowed from our neighbors for trips into town. Papa mounted first, then Maman boosted me up to sit behind him. Finally, she swung up behind me with the aid of Papa’s strong arm. When I was small, I would drift off sitting between the two of them as the rhythmic walking of the horse rocked me to sleep. On this day, with the birthday excitement and the continued serious conversations in hushed tones, I stayed awake until our village came into view.
Maman gasped, and I could feel her heart pounding against my back through her clothes. Her panic frightened me. Papa spurred the horse forward as quickly as the animal could manage with the burden of three people to carry. I heard anguished screams and smelled smoke before I saw the fires.
English soldiers went door-to-door, flushing families from their homes, then setting the buildings aflame. Women wept as they ran with their little ones; the soldiers quickly rounded them up like sheep toward buckboard wagons waiting to take them away. Anyone who dared to fight back was beaten into the ground.
When we drew close enough to see our house, Papa shouted at a torch-brandishing soldier standing on the doorstep. He dismounted the horse and ran with a fury I had never seen. He tackled the man to the ground.
Maman clutched me tightly and yelled, “Louis! No!” She slid from Beau’s back, me in her arms, and the horse neighed as he backed away from the flames and chaos.
Two soldiers ran to rescue their comrade. The torch, still burning, lay in the dirt within arm’s reach of both Papa and the soldier as they rolled on the ground throwing punches at each other. Another soldier pulled Papa off of his friend. Papa swung his arms, and his enormous fist smashed into the face of the man who’d grabbed him. Blood spurted from the soldier’s mouth.
A loud bang echoed from behind us.
I looked backwards and saw an officer, his arm outstretched and his musket smoking from the fired shot.
Maman screamed.
I watched Papa fall. A pinpoint red stain bloomed on the back of his shirt. He didn’t move. After that everything blurred together.
A torch was thrown into our house.
Maman lay crying on Papa’s body until soldiers pried her from him and dragged us both to a nearby wagon.
The soldiers took the rucksack, with my doll and Mama’s pearls inside, and threw it into our burning home.
The last thing I remember about that day is watching my Papa’s lifeless body get smaller and smaller as the wagons took us away. I was eight years old when I learned the meaning of rage.
I pull my fingers away from Fagin’s hand, away from the pearls. There aren’t enough jewels in the world to pay this blood debt.
Fagin’s plan is meant to rally me to the mission. More to the point, it’s meant to guarantee my obedience with promises of imperfect vengeance. Fagin is right about one important fact: The threat of imprisonment or death is a powerful motivator. If we fled, we wouldn’t last a day on our own before either the Benefactors or the GTC caught up to us.
We move back to the round table in the Sim Room’s reproduction of Lady Anne Boleyn’s chambers at Greenwich Palace. Fagin drones on about the mission plans based on the Benefactors’ acquisitions list, which I have yet to see. She likes to be methodical and organized, which means searching through mountains of Tudor simulation programs pieced together from hundreds of time jumps to the era.
After hours of searching, we find enough nuggets to create a rudimentary plan. As Fagin reads mission summary aloud, I stand to stretch my back and legs and wander over to the table of holographic jewels. Looking at the necklace with the initial ‘B.’ I pick it up and secure it around my neck.
“What’s our cover story? It’s no easy task to gain entry to a royal inner circle unless you have connections.” I gaze at myself in the silver looking glass on the table. The necklace is exquisite.
Fagin looks up from the reports. “Current plan is to assimilate into the French court of King Francois the First,” Fagin says. “I am the wealthy widow of his favorite wine merchant, delivering a shipment of rare and expensive Port to
