“Useful intelligence is rarely comfortable, dear. If it were, men would share it over breakfast and save us all a great deal of trouble.”
Anna’s gaze dropped to the parchment. “What are you doing?”
Mrs. Pembroke looked almost affronted. “What do you think I am doing?”
Anna straightened. “I don’t know, ma’am, but I’m fairly certain I shall dislike it.”
Mrs. Pembroke’s expression warmed with approval. “Your instincts, Anna child, are improving.” She reached into the drawer again and removed the locket.
Anna’s breath caught.
The silver lay against Mrs. Pembroke’s palm, just as beautiful as before and far more dangerous than any pistol Anna had ever seen. “You said it was gone.”
“I said nothing of the kind.”
Anna swallowed hard. “You implied it.”
“You assumed,” Mrs. Pembroke said accusingly, “and as assumptions are private little catastrophes, I cannot be held responsible for yours.” Mrs. Pembroke placed the locket on the writing table. “Sit, Anna.”
Anna did.
Mrs. Pembroke handed her the parchment and a quill. “Make your letters very small.”
Anna stared at the blank scrap of paper. “Ma’am?”
“Kingfisher, South Wharf, Friday, tide, oil barrels. That should do, dear.”
Anna’s heart pounded. “You want me to write a message?”
Mrs. Pembroke gave an impatient sigh. “I want you to write what you heard, small enough that it all fits. Abbreviate if you must.”
“For whom, ma’am?”
Mrs. Pembroke looked heavenward. “For someone who needs to know.”
Anna took the quill. “Mrs. Pembroke, I am a maid.”
“Yes, dear. And I am a woman with a ruined garden and thirty-five enemies coming to dance in my parlor. We must all bear our burdens.”
“But if anyone finds this on me…”
“Then we shall both be in a great deal of trouble.” Mrs. Pembroke’s voice gentled. “Do you wish to stop?”
Anna gazed at the locket. She thought of Martha Washington’s name hidden inside, her letter, and of British officers speaking freely because they believed no one important was near enough to hear. She then thought of Nathaniel Reed’s warning about thin walls and crowded rooms.
Anna dipped the quill. “No. I do not wish to stop.”
Mrs. Pembroke gave her a curt nod. “Then write, my dear.”
Anna bent over the parchment and wrote the words as small as she could, abbreviating most of the message. When she was done, she showed it to Mrs. Pembroke. “Is that enough?”
The woman looked over her shoulder. “It is ugly enough to be useful.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Code should never look like poetry, dear. Now fold it.”
Anna did, until it was no larger than her thumbnail.
