Page 1 of The Spy’s Song

London, May 24th, 1815

A man may disguise his name, his intentions, even his sins, but what he makes of his soul will one day show through the flesh. At eleven years old, Rodrick had considered this particular Jesuit lesson too hard on the body.

Now, twenty-four years later, he still found the evidence troublesome. For instance, the gentleman blocking his view of the Covent Garden stage had a nose suggesting several generations of mortal sin, though Rodrick knew for a fact that his worst vice was cheating at whist.

Tonight, however, Father Matthieu's proposition had acquired professional relevance. Somewhere behind the curtain was Napoleon Bonaparte's daughter.

Rodrick wondered what sort of soul the emperor had sired. Would ambition show? Pride? That peculiar Bonaparte hunger that had swallowed half of Europe?

Napoleon had been back in Paris after his sojourn in Elba for a little over two months, which had given Europe ample time to determine precisely what he intended to do next and fail spectacularly at the task. Every week produced a fresh certainty. He meant peace. He meant war. He would wait for the Allies to cross the frontier. He would cross it first. His army was formidable, unfinished, invincible, doomed, and possibly all four before breakfast.

Facts traveled slowly. Rumors had cavalry.

The British public had responded to the prospect of another continental war by going to the theater. Rodrick crossed one leg over the other and surveyed the audience. Ladies glittered beneath the chandeliers. Gentlemen leaned over box rails to exchange intelligence concerning horses, mistresses, French troop movements, and the imminent destruction of civilization, often in that order. An elderly dowager two rows ahead had spent ten minutes objecting to a draft with greater urgency than most governments appeared capable of devoting to Napoleon Bonaparte.

The respectable citizens of London had assembled in evening dress to applaud a Bonaparte without knowing it, while he, who had spent a regrettable portion of his adult life interfering with Bonapartes, intended to remove this one from beneath their noses before midnight.

For once, he might do Britain a useful service without shooting anyone. It seemed suspiciously easy.

He might as well lean back and enjoy the spectacle. The orchestra began the prologue. Rolling his eyes at E-flat major being treated as though the fate of civilization depended upon it, Rodrick took the program. The ballet's title—The Salamander—was written in obscenely large letters. Rodrick flipped through the pages until he arrived at the ballet's synopsis.

A warrior-king rescued a young woman from a burning village and discovered that fire could not harm her. In return for her life, she pledged herself to him forever and became the Salamander. Whenever his kingdom was threatened, he summoned her from the flames to destroy his enemies.

Rodrick smiled. One act of salvation in exchange for eternal service. Kings had negotiated worse bargains, certainly, though rarely with music.

When, precisely, had choreographers decided that dancing required ethical dilemmas? Perhaps the old contest between good and evil had become too unfashionable for London. One could hardly expect an audience accustomed to Parliament to be satisfied with villains who simply admitted what they were.

The curtain rose, and Vestris, the celebrated ballet virtuoso, marched on stage. The gleaming armor marked him as the warrior-king. Rodrick watched one heroic gesture involving a sword before consulting his pocket watch. Real cavalry had rather spoiled painted warfare for him. Men under fire rarely arranged themselves so handsomely, horses showed a deplorable resistance to musical timing, and an enemy never waited for one to finish posing before sabering one's neck.

With luck, the rest of the audience found the king's campaigns equally soporific. A theater full of half-asleep aristocrats would make removing the asset considerably easier.

Rodrick was waiting for the first yawn when a pyrotechnic pot spat scarlet at the wing, and smoke clouded the stage. The orchestra rose in E-flat major, and two panels of painted flame slid apart.

The Salamander leaped from the fire, landed, and turned on the king's attackers. She ducked one blade, slipped past another, struck a third aside.

The king had saved her, and she had turned the debt into a purpose and the purpose into herself. Louise danced it as though such surrender were beautiful. Interesting. The dossier had neglected that.

How extremely French. Save a girl once, and she sprouts principles. Convince her the debt was sacred and she might do anything. Governments adored such people. So did fathers—especially imperial ones.

The king's enemies vanished back into the wings. One imagined the poor fellows would have retreated even without stage directions.

Alone now, she turned through a slow promenade in arabesque, giving him her profile and then, degree by degree, her face. If she had arranged the choreography expressly for his inspection, she could hardly have been more obliging.

Rodrick leaned forward. Black hair made her pale skin look almost luminous, the stark contrast giving the Bonaparte blood away more readily than any family tree. The rest complicated the resemblance. Her mouth was full and vividly red, her nose fine, the line from cheek to jaw too delicate for Napoleon. Her Marseillaise mother, perhaps. Two bloodlines had met in the face before him and, irritatingly, produced something considerably more interesting than either alone.

Come now, Princess. Turn a little farther. Let me see your eyes.

At that precise moment, an enormous white obstruction descended into the empty chair before him.

A gentleman settled back, bringing a powdered coiffure directly between Rodrick and the stage. The thing possessed architectural ambitions and, from behind, appeared broad enough to require foundations. Louise Bonnechoix disappeared completely.

"Sir." Rodrick smiled with the courtesy one extended to men shortly before ruining their evening. "Might I trouble you to move several chairs to the left?"

The gentleman glanced over his shoulder. His eyebrows climbed.

Rodrick indicated the coiffure. "Unless, of course, the structure has declared sovereignty. In which case I shall apply to the Foreign Office for permission to cross it."

The gentleman opened his mouth, looked properly at Rodrick, and apparently reconsidered the entire seating arrangement. He rose and moved several chairs down the row.