We decided it was best for me to approach Tully alone, for we did not want the presence of both her employers to influence her decision. As I dressed for dinner that night, I told her about the mission and asked if she would like to accompany us.

“You are asking me to come with you to France?” Tully asked, looking up from pinning my bodice into place. Her large blue eyes had widened into round astonishment.

“You would be serving both Lady Julia and myself, and it will be very dangerous.”

“Into France. Where the war is?” she asked. “On one of your adventures?”

“Yes. I cannot tell you anything about the mission, but it is for our king and our country. If you do not wish to go, then there will be no repercussions. Your position is safe. You are free to decline. Think on it carefully.”

“I do not need to, my lady. I wish to come.”

Although I was pleased by her enthusiasm, I felt it my duty to counsel caution. “Are you sure? It is a big decision to make so quickly.”

“I am sure.” She pressed her steepled hands to her small chin, suppressing, it seemed, an expansive celebration, for her eyes were alight with it. “Before I came here, my lady, I was a scullery maid, then a kitchen maid, and then a housemaid. It was all honest work, my lady, do not get me wrong. But it was small. I was small.” Her steepled hands curved into the tight shape of a ball. “Then you gave me the chance to be your lady’s maid, even when I was not the most qualified of those who came for the position. My world has grown so much.” Her hands opened into a blooming of fingers. “I have been to so many places, bought disguises, even sewn a dagger sheath into your sleeve. Now you ask me to help you achieve something truly big in this world. Something important. Of course I will come.”

I remembered back to my interview with Tully: the petite young woman with the sweet, round face who had stood before me, nervous but with a direct gaze and a hint of humor. Perhaps I had recognized her kindred, adventurous spirit, even then.

So, now we were six.

•   •   •

The town of Walmer, situated on the little eastern foot of England, was a rather charming sea-resort town with a handsome Tudor castle and a nearby naval marines garrison. Despite the presence of the marines—or perhaps because of it—the town was also ideally placed for smuggling. Only twenty-five miles separated the shorelines of England and France.

Twenty-five miles that we would soon be crossing. At night.

I looked out of the carriage as we navigated a particularly narrow street, the windows of some of the higgledy-piggledy houses on either side already aglow with candles in the dusk.