Velvet Undercover Read Free Page A

invisible ash. Most of the women on the train are wearing black—a reminder that my loss is only one in a nation full of losses. It makes my disappointment over the Markel Cup seem trivial.
    I shove the thought from my mind and hurry through the crowded streets. Miss Tickford frowns on tardiness.
    â€œExcuse me,” I say, bumping into a young woman in overalls. She elbows me aside and hurries on toward the docks. She’s probably late for a job she wouldn’t have dreamt of having just a year ago. Before the summer of 1914, men, intheir black suits and derbies, were the rule on the streets of London. They scurried about, filled with the self-importance of the privileged, masculine citizens of the greatest nation in the world.
    Then everything changed, as if an enormous hand reached out of the sky and swept them all away. The remaining men have exchanged their proper English garb for uniforms, and doubt has crept into their once overconfident faces.
    Worse, though, are the men no longer in uniform. Their ill-fitting civilian clothes hang on sharp, skeletal bodies, and far too many shirtsleeves or pant legs dangle empty—a mocking testament to healthy limbs no longer there. These men linger in the dark, smoky doorways of pubs or makeshift rehabilitation houses, watching the world through eyes sad beyond comprehension.
    What a horrible waste of humanity. So many men have been lost.
    Including Father.
    A twinge of pain compresses my chest as I hurry toward the brick building I now work at six days a week for ten to twelve hours a day. Before the war, I went to school, attended Girl Guide meetings once a week, and spent hours with my parents.
    Then my world changed along with everyone else’s.
    After showing my identification to the guard at the entrance, I hurry down the narrow hallway toward the room that has been commandeered for our use. The other girls have already been dispatched on various errands, so the room is empty. Before I can make myself a cup of tea,Miss Tickford pokes her head around the door.
    â€œYou’re late, Miss Donaldson.” Miss Tickford’s breathy voice sounds pained, as if she’s upset that she has to reprimand me.
    â€œI’m sorry, Miss Tickford. It won’t happen again.”
    She blinks rapidly. “After last night’s excitement, it’s a wonder you’re here at all. Captain Parker wishes to see you first thing.”
    My heart jumps. Already? I follow Miss Tickford from the room. When Captain Parker told me that he wished to speak to me about another job, I had no idea he meant so soon.
    â€œDon’t dawdle,” Miss Tickford says, walking rapidly down the hall.
    Our identification badges are examined at three different checkpoints along our way. I keep mine hidden under my bulky black sweater, especially when I’m running messages outside. No Girl Guide has ever been accosted while working for the Security Offices, but nobody wants to take that chance—we have no idea what is in the messages we’re bearing.
    As I follow Miss Tickford down the hall, I wonder what she does for fun. Perhaps she doesn’t have any? She raises her hand to knock on one of the many brown doors lining the hallway and then hesitates. Her large, childlike green eyes blink furiously behind her thick spectacles and she places her hand on my arm. “Conduct yourself well and bring credit to us all, my dear.”
    Before I can ask her what she means, she raps on the door.
    â€œCome in.”
    We enter a small, cramped office with an enormous battered desk squatting in the middle. The woman sitting at it has her dark hair pulled back in an uncompromising bun, and her glasses, like Miss Tickford’s, are perched on the tip of her nose. I wonder if it’s some sort of unofficial uniform for important women, because I can tell by the aggressive set of this secretary’s head that she thinks herself very important indeed.
    She looks me up and