Given Prince Edgar’s current mood, I expect that the next time I see Mr. Peter Pym will be at the gallows. But that morning, at seven thirty on the dot, he walks into work as he always does.
Mr. Pym is older than sin. He is a short, squat man always shrouded in a dark suit and hat, with small silver spectacles peering out from under an ever-furrowed pair of bushy gray eyebrows. He has worked in the records office longer than anyone, including Martha, and we all previously assumed that he would continue working there long after we all passed on. Although this assumption is now in question, Pym does not seem to doubt it for a second. He is here in that same dark suit and hat, carrying a bone-handled cane and a weathered leather briefcase that is surely older than all of the junior clerks combined, and appears entirely unbothered as he walks past the shattered remnants of his office door like it is just another Thursday morning.
Despite Edgar’s previous edict not to touch the files, I have been elbow-deep in them all night, sitting on the floor and using the coffee table as my “desk.” The Prince simply changed his mind. Edgar ordered Laurie to take over the remainder of my night shift, instructed me to begin sorting and organizing the files, and kicked everyone else out. Then he plopped himself down at Pym’s desk and began working silently alongside me.
While sorting, I cannot help but catch glimpses of the contents. Some documents are bank records, always cash withdrawals, always in small amounts. Others are receipts for seemingly unrelated and arbitrary purchases. Household decor, clothing, coffee, furniture, sweets. All luxury items. Once again, I am reminded of the books he purchased for me. Does Edgar make all personal purchases in cash? Why? And what end justifies ordering the bank’s copies of the records be destroyed, then descending into delirium when his own copies go missing? Without a deeper investigation, I am at an utter loss. Edgar’s presence in the room, though, discourages my curiosity. He may be completely insane, and if so, I dare not poke the hornets’ nest by sticking my nose into his precious files.
When Mr. Pym walks into the office, I automatically jump up from the floor. I am ready to give my rehearsed explanation—that I had no choice, that Martha doesn’t know yet but I plan to tell her, that I did my best given the circumstances—but Pym doesn’t even look at me. He sloshes through the loose papers on the floor, sets his bag on the floor with a heavy thunk, and takes off his coat and hat.
“Morning, Your Highness,” says Pym, then acknowledges me with a nod. “Miss Odric. Starting work early, I see.”
All the while, Edgar has his feet up on Pym’s desk and is reclining so far back in the office chair that I fear he will tip over. His glare follows Pym’s every move. But as if nothing was wrong, Pym just brushes some papers off of an extra chair and pulls it up across from Edgar.
“You son of a bitch,” Edgar spits. “How long have you been plotting this?”
“Language,” says Pym mildly. “There is a lady present.”
“Oh, fuck off!”
“Are we on the record?” asks Pym, turning to me. I frown, then realize what he is asking, and scramble for a pen and paper. Transcription isn’t in my formal job description, nor is it something I have yet been trained in, but I know clerks are expected to take notes when asked. I am also lucky to remember shorthand from my past life. Pym waits until I am situated, then turns back to Edgar. “What is it you wished to discuss?”
I start writing. Edgar makes a jerky hand gesture in my direction. “Stop that,” he snaps. So I stop. Immediately, Pym turns to me and nods, urging me to continue.
“I’m getting mixed messages here,” I say, nervous.
“Whether or not we have this conversation on the record,” Pym says to Edgar, “it matters little. You see, Your Highness, you broke my door down. Now the entire world could eavesdrop upon us. Are you sure you wish to proceed?”
“We shouldn’t even be having a conversation at all,” Edgar snarls. “I should be standing over your grave and pissing on your casket. You understand that what you’ve done is treason. Destroying official records, defying the orders of a prince—”
“Un official records. On the orders of a queen.”
“Go to hell!”
“I’m afraid I’ve already used my vacation time, Your Highness. Now, as I was saying, these orders came from higher up, so you would do best to take it up with them. And, although I doubt you are likely to take my advice at this time, it would be most prudent not to have this conversation with a junior clerk present—”
“What junior clerk? I don’t see one. You’re fired, Pym, and that girl has your job now.”
“What?” I say.
Pym glances over his shoulder at me, eyebrow raised. “Let me rephrase,” he says calmly, “it would be most prudent not to have this conversation with that girl present.”
Oh. Pym knows. He knows who I am—of course he does! He is my father’s personal clerk. He handles all of Edgar’s records, and by extension, all of my records, and probably Mama’s as well. Edgar, by contrast, knows nothing. Yet. Suddenly, Pym has turned himself from a coworker to an extreme liability. I can’t investigate my father from the shadows if he knows I am here. But if Pym tells Edgar who I am, that would destroy my whole pretense of being here.
Then, in a deft stroke of fate, I am saved by the bell. “By the Saints…what on earth happened here?!” a shrill voice cuts in. We all turn to see that Martha has arrived to work. She stands in the remnants of the doorway, her mouth agape.
“Ah, Martha Gadwell, the Good-Time Ruiner,” Edgar drawls.
“Good morning, mademoiselle,” says Pym. “I was just in the process of asking that question myself. I believe His Highness had…a rough night last night.”
For once, Martha is struck utterly speechless. Considering her age, her shock is so concerning that I stand up to clear files off the sofa, but she does not even seem to notice. When she collects herself again, her lips pursed into a thin line and her eyes as hard as steel.
“This is a crime scene,” she states. “Your Highness, my office, now. Mr. Pym and Miss Odric, you’re next. While you’re waiting, Miss Odric, tell Laurie to call maintenance and seal off this room.”
“And tell them not to touch anything!” Edgar cuts in. Martha shoots him a glare, but sends me off with a sigh and wave of the hand that implies her agreement.
I head to the break room, knowing where Laurie will be. As I expected, he and the other junior clerks are clustered around the lunch table, whispering. When I enter, they all whirl around as if I have caught them in the act of some crime, but seeing that I am alone, slide aside to let me sit with them. “So?” Laurie prompts. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I think Pym is getting fired.”
“I can’t imagine Edgar’s very happy with him,” one of the mailroom girls remarks.
“I can’t imagine Martha’s very happy with him,” says Nigel, “and that’s far more important.”
We fall quiet as Mr. Hatfield, King Edwin III’s clerk, walks in. Although we are all curious to find out what the other clerks know, Mr. Hatfield is just as ancient and no-nonsense as Martha and Pym, so he is more likely to scold us for gossiping than provide us anything of substance. As soon as he leaves, I turn to Laurie.
“Martha wants maintenance in here to seal up Pym’s office. She called it a crime scene. I can’t stay long—she wants to talk to me too.”
“Oh, you’re fucked,” says Laurie, and I nod slowly in agreement.
I have slid right past all of the stages of grief into acceptance. I suppose this whole idea was a stretch, after all. I was a fool to think that an entry-level clerk could gain access to state secrets and wartime intelligence without my identity being unveiled, and I trudge towards Martha’s office burdened with the knowledge that this may be my last day at work. If Edgar finds out who I am, I have one choice: leave the palace. Change my name again and run back home to the drawing board. Maybe cut my hair, bind my chest, and pretend to be a boy this time.
Pym is also waiting for his meeting with Martha. There are only two chairs outside her office, so I take the seat next to him, hoping he is not in a conversational mood.
For a while, he isn’t. The records department is dead silent, besides the two muffled voices behind Martha’s door. It is a fruitless endeavor to eavesdrop on the conversation, since Martha has gone to great lengths to soundproof her office from both directions, and no words can be distinguished from the waiting area. But the discussion is obviously heated. Edgar is yelling. Of course he is yelling. I do not know what his relationship is with Martha, but I know that yelling at Martha is about as effective as yelling at a brick wall. Her authority is derived directly from the Crown. Though he is a prince and she a commoner, she is his equal; not to mention his senior by at least twenty years of age. Whatever the debate, Edgar will lose this one.
“He doesn’t know yet,” says Pym.
I look at him, bewildered. “What?”
“About your mom. He doesn’t have a clue.” Pym keeps his voice low, so that anyone else around might not overhear. “And if all goes well, he never has to.”
Is this reassuring? I’m not sure. I am not very comfortable talking about something like this so openly, but with Pym keeping his voice down and shrouding his language in such ambiguity, he must also be taking caution.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I just don’t want to lose my job,” I murmur.
“You won’t,” Pym says. “Martha likes you.”
“Oh. I…couldn’t tell.”
“She intends to train you as her successor. I am telling you this because there is now a conflict of interest. Edgar wants you to replace me as a senior clerk.”
“Are you actually being fired?”
Pym exhales. “To be honest,” he replies, “I’m not concerned about that. By the end of today, I expect to be dead.”
Not once, in the short time I have known the old man, has Pym’s voice ever delivered anything beyond cool, matter-of-fact indifference. But now it dips into the most unexpected melancholy. He is delivering his own eulogy.
“His Highness is volatile,” Pym tells me. “No doubt you saw it last night.”
Slowly, I nod.
“You will soon be posed with a choice. Stay your course as a junior clerk and expect a promotion to Martha’s position in five years…or take Edgar’s senior clerkship now. There is no middle ground here. And you can’t be promoted into Martha’s position out of a senior clerk position—you calcify in it. You choose one or the other, not both.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t know why you came here. I don’t really care. It won’t matter to me soon. But I need you to understand something, Miss Rossach. Yes, Rossach. Not Odric. I mean this message to go to you . Royalty is not a privilege. It is not a luxury. It is not a blessing. It is a curse of the vilest form, a vice that grips and twists the mind, a trap that promises a slow, painful death in its gilded jaws. Being born as far away from it as possible—that is the best thing that has ever happened to you. Remember that.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I will,” I whisper.
Martha’s office door opens. Edgar storms out without giving either Pym or me a second glance. “Come in, Peter,” Martha calls, and with a grunt of effort, Pym stands.
“Good luck, kid,” he tells me.
As I wait alone outside of Martha’s office, I try to listen in on the conversation again, but it is much quieter this time. Pym is more reasonable than Edgar by far. After some time, I nearly nod off in the chair from so long without sleep. Suddenly, there is a commotion by the front desk. A dozen feet in heavy boots, the clinking of armor, the clack of rifle-spears against the floor. Six armed palace guards make their way to Martha’s office, knock, and enter. A minute later, Pym walks out with chains around his hands and ankles. He keeps his eyes to the ground.
“Come in, Eloise,” Martha calls.
I don’t want to. I want to run away, far away. I wish that Pym had spoken to me before I took this job. If I had, I would have stayed home, as far from Edgar Rosencrantz as possible.