“So, Miss Odric…why is it that you go by that name?” asks my interviewer. Martha Gadwell is a stern, no-nonsense woman in her late sixties, with a pair of gold spectacles balanced upon her thin nose and a starched blouse as immaculately white as her hair. I have done my research on her. Through her connections in the church parish, Lucienne was able to dig up donation records and eyewitness accounts of Martha, and from them, I know that she is a childless spinster of common birth, who has been working for the palace as chief of records for over forty years. She runs her department like a general of the army and has little tolerance for nonsense or dishonesty.
Based on my investigation, I have prepared accordingly. I sit across from her desk in my most drab, modest jacket and skirt, almost mirroring Martha’s fashion. And I will not lie. I intend on telling only the truth today…perhaps not all of it, but of the things I say, it will all be true.
“Odric is not my family name,” I explain. “My mother’s name is Rossach, Imogen Rossach. But, in my search for employment, I would much like to distance myself from that name.”
“And why is that?”
Martha is the chief clerk of palace records. I know that she knows the answer to that question. She knows that I know that she knows. But she is testing me, and I intend to pass.
“Before I was born, my mother worked for the royal family,” I reply. “She was a chimney sweep, I believe. No parentage or title to speak of. But since I was old enough to understand, she has insisted that my father is Prince Edgar. Now the whole neighborhood associates the Rossach name with the town lunatic who used to work in the palace.”
Martha does not respond, simply continues writing notes on a pad of paper. I take the cue and continue.
“I understand that the royal family values transparency,” I say. “I do not intend to hide my background, and am happy to answer any questions you may have. That being said, I am sure that—just as she has made a name for herself in Lavendel Road—my mother has made quite the name for herself here, as well. I believe she was even fired for harassing His Highness about her delusion. I want nothing to do with that scandal. I am applying to this position to employ my skills as a scribe and a bookkeeper, not to engage in childish gossip. I only wish to be referred to as Eloise Odric to preserve my dignity.”
She looks up over the rim of her spectacles when I say “scandal,” and her gaze remains fixed on mine until “dignity.” There, she gives almost a satisfied “hmph!” and turns back down to resume note-taking. “And why the name Odric? A family relation?”
“Mostly sentimental value, at this point. I was accepted for an apprenticeship with Master Sibelius Odric…”
“Sibelius Odric?” Martha cuts in, with a note of skepticism.
But I am prepared for this too. I nod. “The very same. I know it may be hard to believe, so I have brought my formal offer of employment. I also have copies of the paperwork from the bank account he established for me. A royal bank account would have been the best way to keep a record of my earnings, as required by the merchants’ guild for my certification. Master Odric was my co-signor as I have few assets to my name.”
I hand her the sheaf of papers, and watch in satisfaction as her expression morphs from disbelief to utter bewilderment. I suppress a smile.
“Unfortunately, fate took a turn, and I was forced to reject the offer at the last minute. But Master Odric was so understanding. He even penned a letter of recommendation to my future employers—you’ll find that at the back of the file.”
“And I suppose I am to believe he is so generous as to grant you his name, as well?”
In the last one, yes, as an heir. But alas, not in this one. “No. As I said, I borrow it only out of sentimental value. Master Odric was the first person to see beyond the circumstances of my shameful birth…I can think of no greater man to remember with a pseudonym.”
Martha takes her time in reviewing the papers, often squinting and pushing her spectacles closer to her face. Eventually she places the file back on her desk and folds her hands on the table in front of her.
“To be frank, I find your situation… implausible,” she says.
“This is fair.”
“If we decide to move forward with this application, I assume you would have no objection to us reaching out to Sibelius Odric and verifying your credentials?”
“By all means.” I wave my hand. “I only ask for two things: that my family name be sealed on a need-to-know basis only, and that I receive those documents back. You may make copies, but I do need the originals, if you would be so kind.”
“I have a follow-up question,” says Martha.
“By all means,” I respond.
“You turned down an apprenticeship with Master Odric, one of the richest men in the Belcean Sea. I assume, then, that you had aspirations to become an international merchant. If his reputation is to be believed, his application process is quite rigorous, yes?”
“Oh, of course.” I chuckle, recalling the battery of tests I had to submit in my application portfolio. “I spent a little over a year preparing the written materials. Six written exams, four essays, and one independent research paper. If the portfolio is accepted, he asks you to shadow him for the course of a week with two other applicants, and he evaluates your skills against theirs.”
“And you made it that far?”
“I did.”
“And you were accepted?”
“Yes.”
“But you turned him down? Why?”
I inhale. I had anticipated this question, but I still do not know precisely what to say. I weigh my words for a long, long time.
“Forgive me,” I say hesitantly, “if I wax poetic as I speak of this. I do not know how else to put it. My mother…she is alone in this world. The shadow of death looms long over her. I may resent her, and I may not wish to carry on her name, but I am all she has left in her twilight hours. I thought I could provide for her as I traveled overseas. I sent home—I had plans to send home my stipend, as well as some profits of my sales. But money is not everything, and I realized that I am duty-bound to remain by her side until the end.”
Martha has begun writing again. I pause, realize that my most recent admission could be a weakness for a potential employee, and amend.
“But I would not neglect my duties to care for my mother,” I add hastily. “I intend only to stay within traveling distance, and would entrust her daily care to a friend. I do not anticipate needing extensive time off work.”
“I was about to say,” Martha mutters. “You understand this is a full-time position, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Because the Royal Family requires access to their records at all times, our department is open around the clock. As such, you will be expected to live here at the palace. We have a small staff of only twelve clerks and myself, and you would rotate between on-call shifts as needed. Does that pose a hardship for you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She writes something down. As she flips through my file a second time, I try to interpret the frown on her face, to no avail. Martha is like a brick wall against any attempt at insight.
I am getting a little nervous. The records office is not, by any means, my only avenue inside the palace. Tomorrow afternoon, I have an interview with the manager of the royal bank, and yesterday I had a very successful meeting and offer from the head of housekeeping. But neither is my first choice of employ. The royal bank is located in a separate building from the palace, so I could not get close to my targets. Housekeeping would get me close, but the only knowledge I would gain from such a position would be through gossip, theft, and eavesdropping. To both get close and reduce the risk I take in my mission, the records department is too perfect. And it is the only department thus far that has my real name. If I am hired at the bank or in housekeeping, they will need to learn my real name as well, and thus two departments will know it; but if I am hired in records, only one will know.
“I have one final question for you, Eloise,” says Martha. “Given your background, I would think that a position in the palace is unsuitable for you. You have no title, no property, and no formal education. You will face many barriers to advancement in this place. Would it not be more efficient to obtain wealth as a merchant, even if confined to Saol Eile? Or to find a wealthy husband while you are still young? Why toil away your prime years in a dusty old archive?”
I fold my hands in my lap. Now I cannot help the smile that rises to my lips. I look across the desk at the mirror image of myself—an unmarried woman of common birth who applied to the same job forty years ago. I dive in for the kill.
“Because men and the market are fickle creatures,” I respond. “I do not wish to stake my livelihood on something so capricious as a storm at sea. What I desire is to know, with all certainty, where and when my next meals will be; and to rest assured that they are the fruits of my own labor.”