Rogue Spy

Thirty-seven

Violet Leyland laid the spyglass across her lap and stretched as well as the low roof of the hackney coach allowed. She straightened her legs and rolled her shoulders. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Lily said, “Neither of us is young,” without moving or opening her eyes. She was curled on the opposite seat with her coat rolled under her head, dozing. In a long and varied career, they’d spent many days and nights like this, on duty, on watch, taking turns sleeping.

Violet said, “Morte magis metuenda senectus.”

“Old age is indeed more to be feared than death.” Lily sighed. “There was a time Anson would not have sent us off to mind our knitting.”

From where she sat in the hackney, Violet could see the whole length of Meeks Street and everyone who came to the door of Number Seven. It was not a perfect way to understand what was going forward at headquarters, but it would serve.

“He’s protecting us,” Lily said.

“He’s making sure we won’t interfere in his operation.”

“That, too. Oh, look. There’s Mr. Paxton just going up the stairs,” Violet said. “I would say he looks calm, but determined. He has a forceful stride, I think. Matters must be developing.”

“He’ll be in the center of it.”

“Yes.”

“Then we will follow him when he leaves,” Lily said, pleased. “I haven’t followed a handsome young man for ever so long.”

“The life of the mind, dear. We have chosen the life of the mind.”

“Of course. And very satisfying it is.” Lily lay down on the seat again, making herself reasonably comfortable.

“I hate getting old,” Violet said.

“I do, too. But the alternative is worse.”