I was relieved when Dunham bowed out of Charlotte's dinner invitation, but pleased that Morgaine had accepted. Charlotte called and made the reservation—all in French, mind you—where I gathered that S.L.E.U.T.H. had a private room at this establishment. I managed to catch the name of the place, Délicieux Petit, and was pleased with how very French it sounded. It had been a long day, and all I wanted was to be served a decent meal, take a shower, and then go to bed.

Just as we were walking out of the conference room, however, Morgaine clicked her tongue with disapproval. "Just where do you think you're going?" she asked.

Charlotte turned around to look at her. "What do you mean? I thought we were going to dinner. We have reservations in an hour."

Morgaine clicked her tongue again and shook her head. "Just because we're good friends with the chef and the owner—who know about us; don't look so panicked, Jenny—it doesn't mean we can show up in full uniform. We have to look the part."

Charlotte ran a hand impatiently through her hair. "What did you have in mind?" she asked a little impatiently.

Morgaine claps her hand and takes us both by the arms and pulls us towards the elevators. She presses a button and I remember that Tutu's studio is on that floor, and I am not surprised when we are ultimately hauled there. Tutu looks up from some measuring that she's doing, taking off her fashionable designer glasses and allowing them to dangle by a platinum chord around her neck. It is an interesting sight as she steps forward, glasses dangling, pencil behind her ear, and yet she is still lovely.

"What's the problem now, Morgaine?" Tutu demands.

"We're going to Délicieux Petit for dinner," Morgaine explains. "Charlotte was of the impression that we could go dressed like this."

Tutu raises her expertly plucked eyebrows in a manner that makes me think she's gone through this before. Shaking her head, she crosses the room to one of the brick walls and presses a button, whereupon a portion of the wall moves like a door, revealing a room that looks as if it is more befitting of a runway than of an organization like S.L.E.U.T.H.

Tutu stands back, smiling to herself, and—like a game show hostess—flexes her hand towards the room, her perfectly manicured scarlet fingers pointing to the inner area. "Well, go on in," she says pleasantly.

Shocked, I find myself moving at robotic speed into this show room and walk among the outfits. Each area has a section, much like a department store, and I am almost instantly reminded of a more upscale Nordstrom, Macy's, or Talbot's. "Seems like Bond girls have been here," I mutter to myself, and I hear Morgaine's musical laughter. "Don't get any ideas," she says, her charismatic tone comforting me. "I think you should know that your personality has been assessed, Jenny, since Daniel put you under before your final combat training."

I blink. "Wait, seriously?"

Morgaine gives me a comforting, kind smile. "There's never any need to fear, my dear. It just means that Tutu has an easier time of figuring out what to dress you as," she says, going towards a rack in the section called Classy Night Out. "You always have to look the part when you're on duty. This way, judging by your personality, Tutu knows just how to dress you so that you remain inconspicuous to the average outsider."

"What will they think of next?" I ask softly, turning to the section that says Dinner Party. I find a dress in an attractive hunter green with a square neckline and a flare skirt. Lace material is the top layer, while a simple cotton layer is beneath it. The sleeves are short ones, ending about two inches from my elbow. I take it out from the rack and quickly hold it up to me, turning as I hear Tutu's heels behind me.

"Looks like a perfect fit," Tutu says approvingly. "That's exactly what I would have chosen for you—understated, yet classy." She nods, giving me a quick smile. "I don't usually do this, but consider it a gift in celebration of you becoming a junior agent. You may keep this dress."

"Oh, no, Tutu... I—"

She holds up her hand. "No, darling. Only you will look wonderful in that dress. Kateryn West had her eye on it when her mother brought her through here once, but I told her that it belonged to another agent. And now it does. Now it belongs to an agent that is twice the agent that Kateryn West will ever hope to be. I believe in you, Jenny Melinsky, and I know that this dress was made by me for you. I shall create a whole new wardrobe with you in mind for your missions."

"Tutu, I couldn't let you do that," I say, lowering my eyes.

She reaches out and tilts up my chin. "Sweetheart, it's part of my job description, and I am permitted to take on extra projects if I'm inspired, and you have inspired me. I cannot wait until you get undercover missions, Jenny dear—I want you to come to me as soon as you're going undercover; I want to create all of your costumes."

"Of course I will," I replied, although for the life of me, I had no way of knowing when I would be in Paris next.

She looks me up and down again, and shakes her head ever so slightly. "It looks as if all that training today took a lot out of you."

I feel my cheeks heat at Tutu's accurate statement—it wasn't untrue, and even though it was never a top priority for me, I always liked to look nice. "Yes." I take another look at the dress. "If you don't want me to ruin the fabric with my...bodily fluids...I understand..."

Tutu nods briefly to herself, ascertaining that the dresses' hanger still works appropriately. "Don't worry, dear." She takes me by the hand and pulls me to a wall where there are inexplicably no racks. She presses a blue button and the wall opens, revealing a long hallway. She gently pulls me down it, and I spot two signs, to the left Women, and to the right Men. She pulls me to the left and then we pass by a room which looks to be an upscale bathroom—but with just a long counter, many mirrors, and hair and makeup products. "That's all for later," she tells me, putting my dress in there and pulling me along.

We end up in a proper upscale bathroom, with several Jacuzzis, massage-based showers, and around a corner, a sign said Toilets. I give Tutu a questioning look—how the hell are people supposed to have privacy? I knew that certain rules and regulations regarding privacy were a bit different in Europe, but I didn't want anyone staring at me while I was naked, and justifiably so.

"Would you like a Jacuzzi bath or a massage-shower?" Tutu asked, giving me a welcoming smile.

Though both sounded welcoming, I decided on the Jacuzzi bath. Tutu walked across the room and filled a heart-shaped tub, and then pressed a yellow button with her high-heeled shoe, allowing a five-and-a-half-foot wall to come up on every side of the tub. She stepped out from a rectangular door which had been created by the wall, looking at me for approval. She gave me a grin.

"Bubble bath and mineral salts can be found to the left of the bath, shampoo and conditioner are to the right, and a small caddy in the center holds lotions, creams, and razors of varying shapes and sizes," she said, taking the shoes that matched my dress from me. "Don't want to get these wet. I'll put them down the hall in the Refreshing Chamber along with your dress and fetch you a towel," she said as Charlotte and Morgaine came in. "Robes can be found in the linen cupboard just over there."

"Did you pick dresses?" I asked as Tutu left.

Charlotte giggled as she filled the Jacuzzi next to mine. "Yes. They're in the Refreshing Chamber now." She hung her towel on a silver peg and filled her tub with bubble bath. I noticed that she only put up the wall to about a foot, so as it was level to her own tub, and presumed that she wanted to talk to me whilst in her bath.

Morgaine chuckled at my naivety and went to the closest massage-shower and adjusted the temperature. Hanging her towel on another silver peg, she immediately began to strip off, much to my shock, so that I turned my heated face away from her. Morgaine laughed again and tossed her uniform into the laundry basket beyond, stepping into the shower.

"Is she always like that?" I asked as Tutu returned with my towel and I quickly thanked her.

"Did Morgaine strip off in front of you?!" Tutu demanded, seemingly horrified as she turned to Charlotte.

Charlotte waved it away. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Morgaine knows that I don't mind it, but if you do, I'll speak to her about it," she told me easily. "I think she was just doing it to show you how comfortable she is around you. Although if it were me, I would have asked you." She smiled a little as she turned to the linen closet and removed one of the many white robes. She kept the door open and stood behind it, removing her uniform and putting herself into the plush, white robe she held as I hung my towel on a third silver peg.

Tutu clicked her tongue impatiently at Charlotte's blasé attitude. "I've got to go and mind the front," she said, giving me a smile. "I'm sure you'll be fine here with Charlotte and Morgaine." She gives the latter a glare before sweeping out of the room, and I am grateful when Charlotte tosses me a robe.

Hovering beside my privacy wall, I strip out of my uniform, promptly throwing it effortlessly into the laundry basket and wrapping myself in my robe. I pour bubble bath into my Jacuzzi, and perch on the edge closest to Charlotte's tub, knowing that I must ask. "Charlotte, please, I have to know... Does Dad know about..." I gesture about the room. "...all of this?"

My stepmother sighs and shakes her head. "No, your father doesn't know about me, or about any of this. I was duty-bound from day one never to reveal my alliance with S.L.E.U.T.H. unless it was absolutely necessary."

"And that goes for me, too?" I want to know.

She nods. "Of course it does." She turns briefly to check on her bath before turning back to me. "We're not the kind of organization that kills the agents that are disloyal to us—we erase their memories."

"Erase their—?!" I cry out, my voice choking off as I shake my head, thinking that this sounds way too science fiction for my taste. "But Grant said..."

"You hadn't passed the exam yet, so we couldn't tell you." Charlotte sighs. "The whole practice, I'm afraid, is true. Part of me wonders if that isn't crueler. I mean, you know as well as I do that technology has only come so far. We can't pick and choose which memories we erase. We go into the files, figure out either the day they began working for us, or the day they first became aware of our practices, and then..." She snaps her fingers. "Depending on what happened first, that's when we erase from. In the time they began their service, the agents could have gotten married, they could have had children, they could have done many things. It doesn't matter to us, unfortunately, Jenny."

"So...they just forget everything?" I whisper as we simultaneously turn off our bath water, the pipes squealing briefly in protest. "From day one of their services to S.L.E.U.T.H., even if it had nothing to do with their work here...it's gone?" I ask, my voice falling flat as I grasp the enormity of the situation.

"Yes," Charlotte replies, and I look away as she takes off her robe as she steps into her bath.

I remove my robe and climb into my bath as well. "I don't think I could ever double-cross S.L.E.U.T.H., even if I had a pretty good reason to do so," I say quietly, leaning back against the porcelain of the tub. "I don't think I'd want to lose everything..."

Charlotte smiles at me. "There are some people who claim they have nothing to lose. Never be one of those people."

I shake my head. I lean back and envelope my whole body in the hot water, every pore on my body screaming in ecstasy. Every tendril of my hair loses the grime and the dust it got into it today, and I suddenly feel free. I don't want to ever leave this tub, but I know that more things must be learned, and there was one more adventure for that day.

After toweling off, getting my hair expertly blow-dried and brushed, my hair is then flat-ironed and I am put into the dress. Stockings and the designer heels I'd picked out are made available to me, and I am also put into proper lipstick and other forms of makeup. I am thankful that my eyebrows are still perfect from being plucked on the day of the wedding, and soon Charlotte, Morgaine, and I are prepared to journey out to dinner.

We get a town car and soon are driving along the cobbled streets in the back roads of Paris. Charlotte points out some things here and there, and Morgaine apologizes when she takes a call from her grandmother, Alice, who is old and a widow and needs constant attention. Charlotte explains softly that Alice is under the impression that Charles, her husband of over forty years, is still living. Alice lives in an assisted care home how, in Lyon, about four hours and fifteen minutes away.

Finally, Morgaine finishes the call just as we arrive at a lovely brick building with massive white pillars. The town car slows down and then stops, the driver stepping out and taking us each by the hand and guides us gently out onto the street. The driver looks Morgaine up and down, because I'm not age appropriate and Charlotte is wearing a wedding ring, but Morgaine inclines her head and takes ahold of her pale blue skirts, marching ahead of us up the cobblestone steps, going inside briskly.

"Why doesn't Morgaine be respectful to him?" I asked, thinking that the town car driver—probably in his early thirties—was good-looking.

Charlotte pursed her lips, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs. "It is a complicated matter," she replied as we stepped in, the maître d taking notice of us and leading us to a private room.

"What's so complicated?" I asked, confused.

"Morgaine's...taken. Almost," she said, nodding in thanks to the maître d as we stepped through the double doors of the private room, where Morgaine sat, waiting.

I gently take Charlotte's arm and guide her to a secluded corner. "Kindly tell me what's so complicated, or I shall ask Morgaine myself."

Charlotte's lips, plum-colored due to her lipstick, lift slightly. "You're going to make a very good agent," she says approvingly. "Very well. Morgaine and Miles have...a flirtation."

I raise my eyebrows, turning to look at Morgaine, looking from her pocket mirror to her cell phone and back again. "Really? Does S.L.E.U.T.H. have a thing about co-workers dating?"

Charlotte snorts. "God, no!" She steps closer to me. "Morgaine, while she's one of my dearest friends...is a bit shallow."

I am perplexed. "Shallow?"

Charlotte nods. "Yes. You see...Miles is just Mr. Walker's nickname. His birth name is Clifford. And what do people in your generation think about when you hear that name?"

My mouth perks up a little. "A big, red dog," I reply.

"Exactly," Charlotte says. "Now, again, I love Morgaine dearly, but don't you think that's a bit shallow, Jenny? Not wanting to take the next step with a man because of his first name?"

"I happen to think a great many things are shallow, Charlotte. Such as when you refused to have a glass of punch from Jeremy Harris two years ago at the Christmas party," Morgaine said, coming towards us.

"Morgaine!" Charlotte squawked.

Morgaine smiled and took my arm, leading me towards the circular table, all for us. "Let me tell you a little something about your stepmother, Jenny. I remember poor little Jeremy Harris's expression when Charlotte wouldn't accept his glass of punch..."

"Morgaine, you don't understand..."

"And then Jeremy Harris cried for seven weeks straight whenever your step mommy came into the office. Poor guy had to be transferred to the Australian S.L.E.U.T.H. office..."

"Morgaine!" Charlotte screamed. "The reason why I didn't take the punch was because Jeremy Harris was not a real person! Jeremy Harris was an alias for Newton Howard, the serial rapist from Australia. I saw Newton put a great amount of flunitrazepam into my punch before giving it to me. I didn't really want to be raped that night, thank you very much. As soon as he started crying, I snuck away from the place, and alerted the police. I learned that the description in their database matched three different rape cases in the area. The police also discovered over a dozen warrants out for his arrest in Australia, so that's why he ended up going back. He's got twenty years to serve over there before a fifteen-year term he has yet to serve in England."

Morgaine looks visibly shaken at Charlotte's declaration. She lowers her sky-blue eyes and repositions the cloth napkin in her lap, looking thoroughly ashamed with herself. "God, I'm so sorry, Charlotte. You don't know how sorry. I guess we all thought Jeremy was a mouse..."

"No," Charlotte says firmly. "Jeremy was a rat."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the burgundy menus with the gold lettering shimmering beneath the elegantly-cut chandelier, almost distracting me from the awkwardness around me. I nibbled at my lip, wondering what many things on the menu were. Yes, I knew French, but not food French...

"Faisan rôti avec pommes de terre dorées et les verts fanées," I read quietly to myself. "Caille cuits dans une sauce de grenade avec du riz sauvage et légumes du jardin," I went on, my mouth watering regardless of whatever it was I was reading. "Canard dans un chutney d'orange avec pommes de terre rouges et canneberges asperges... Guinée poule avec un coulis de citron-thym et le beurre trempé nouilles aux poireaux mijotés... Saumon grillé avec des frites et carottes épicées..."

"Pheasant, quail, duck, guinea hen, and salmon," Charlotte said softly to me from my right. "If you want to know the rest, look it up, ask the chef, or be surprised."

I nodded, ordering iced water when the waiter came around. It was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted, and I savored every sip of the cool drink as it entered my mouth and went down my throat. I decided upon the guinea hen, while Charlotte ordered the quail and Morgaine the salmon. The waiter gave us a smile each before withdrawing from our company.

I gripped my glass of water, the cool temperature radiating through me and calming me down—man, even the French seemed to know how to dress up a plain old glass of water. I kept my eyes down, crossing my fingers that Charlotte and Morgaine would not make a scene—even though we were in a private room. I find myself shivering slightly; I lean forward and replaced my water in its proper place, straightening in my seat.

"Charlotte, I'm sorry..."

My stepmother raised her hand. "You know what? You couldn't have known, you know..."

"Frightening, finding yourself so close to a convicted criminal," I say softly. "How did you know?"

"He'd been in my company for a significant period, but I never felt completely at ease with him," she replied effortlessly. "Once, he dropped a handkerchief he always kept with him, and I took it into the lab to be analyzed. You can change your appearance, sure, but you can never change your fingertips unless you burn your fingers beyond repair, or cut your hands off."

"What did the analysis tell you?" I ask.

"Well, mainly that he was wanted in several areas around the world, but the file was marked confidential. I told Grant without blowing the whistle completely, but he wanted the full information. If I was wrong, and he wasn't the person I was now investigating, there would be a blemish put upon my file forever, and I'd be on desk duty or out of a job. I went into Grant's confidential files, and managed to obtain the pass codes needed to find out the rest of the information I needed to find out Jeffery Harris' true identity."

"Charlotte, isn't that illegal and impractical?"

She smirked. "If I tortured Grant into telling me the information, yes, impractical and illegal. However, it was just illegal, the activity I did."

I lean closer to Charlotte. "Are either of those things allowed?"

Her eyebrows rose. "Stealing permanent record files or potentially assaulting our boss?" she asked quickly.

"I guess, both."

Charlotte smiled a little at that. "Unless we're given strict orders by Grant, we're not allowed to look in the hall of records. As for assaulting him, well, if you're paired with him in company combat, well... I suppose there's a loophole for everything..."

"Company combat?" I squeak.

Morgaine looks past me as the waiter returns with their cocktails—a cherry garcia for her and a cosmopolitan for Charlotte—and thanked the man before he withdrew again. "Sweetheart, you've got a lot to learn. Just because you're no longer required to take classes to benefit your experience at S.L.E.U.T.H.—although additional classes are available, usually private research sessions on a specific topic—you're still required to train every few months."

"Training is every six months," Charlotte puts in, sipping her drink. "We just had one, so the next one isn't for five and a half months," she explained patiently. "The only way you're excused from training is if you're pregnant, if you've got a legitimate family emergency, or if you're on a mission overseas."

"What constitutes a legitimate family emergency?" I asked.

"Oh, say your kids' getting dialysis or something," Morgaine said, sipping eloquently on her beverage; if there was one thing that Morgaine was, it would have to be blunt. She had no qualms about telling it like she saw it, which could be both a blessing and a curse. "That would constitute a family emergency, no problem. Or if your sister is having a baby. Things like weddings, funerals, births, christenings—if you're in to that sort of thing—those kinds of things'll get you out of it."

Charlotte made a face at Morgaine before turning back to me. "So you see, darling, it's quite like any other job. Legitimate things will get you excused. I mean, honestly..." Charlotte fixes me with a brief look before nearly choking on her drink at a thought that comes to her. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

It is my turn to almost choke on a sneaky lemon seed. Beating my chest furiously like some sort of primitive animal, I manage to dislodge it quickly. "Uh, no, no, of course not, Charlotte..."

"Darling?" she asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Are you all right? You don't look well."

"Well, she did just choke," Morgaine said.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at her friend of many years for a moment before turning back to look at me. "Jenny?"

I sigh. "Doesn't matter," I say, straightening my shoulders. I get up from the table and walk towards the window. Peering down, I see a cobblestoned courtyard beyond, and, over the slanted roof, I saw a thin strip of blue, which could only be the English Channel. I heard the door open behind me, and a French accent. Turning, I saw a man, garbed in a traditional chef's uniform, exclaiming at Charlotte's and Morgaine's presence, all the while ordering the three other men who had entered about.

"Non, non, Morgaine voulait que le saumon. Oui, Charlotte a ordonné la caille," he said, and stared past them to me. "Ah, nouvelle petite fille de Charlotte! Comment êtes-vous ce soir, Jennifer?" he asked.

I smiled and stepped forward. "Je suis tout à fait bien, monsieur. Je ne l'ai jamais eu guinée poule avant."

"You did not tell me Jennifer spoke my language," the chef said in heavily accented English to Charlotte. "Bon, my dear, bon," he said to me, his eyes twinkling as he extended his hand. "I am Chef Andre Savoureux," he said. "I have known Charlotte for many years. She is a delight to serve."

"Oui, Andre," Charlotte returned with a smile. "Andre never disappoints me with his culinary talents."

Chef Andre took my arm and led me back to the table. "For you, my French-speaking enchantress, a true delight this evening. For your dessert, I shall prepare you a St. Honoré Cake," he promises.

I flash him a smile. "Merci, Chef Andre," I say.

He blows me a kiss, along with Charlotte and Morgaine, before leaving our private room, along with his associates.

"He's quite a sweetheart," I say, pleased that such a kind man will be cooking for us that evening. "He seems to have both of your orders memorized, and this seems to be a very nice restaurant. He must have many customers, but be very personable if he knows what you eat like that."

"He is a true delight," Morgaine replies. "I would have gone out with him in a heartbeat—he's just my type—if it weren't for Jean Luc."

"Who's Jean Luc?" I ask. "Chief Andre's husband," Charlotte replies, swirling her wine around in her glass like a proper food and wine connoisseur. "Jean Luc is the editor and chief of Nourriture Gastronomique Mensuellement, one of the top three food critic magazines in all of France," she continued in an efficient manner.

"Gourmet Food Monthly?" I ask, shaking my head with a smile. "We haven't even gotten our appetizers yet and I'm starving."

"You'll adore what Chef Andre always brings," Morgaine gushed. "He loves to pair bread and cheese together like there's no tomorrow—and we need it, too. I mean dairy and carbs? Forget about packing on the pounds—we always lose any weight we gain here and then some, due to our heavy work schedule."

"You must train extensively," I remark to Morgaine—I'm not exaggerating ether—she was in top physical condition, it seemed. "Do you have a secret method when it comes to keeping your figure?"

Morgaine smiles, although it does not reach her eyes as she delicately sips her cherry garcia drink. "Perhaps I shall tell you one day," she replies.

The food, as expected, was by far one of the most delicious things I'd ever tasted, and that was saying something, considering I'd lived mostly off my own cooking for a period of almost two years. We returned to headquarters briefly afterwards, where Tutu was waiting to send off Charlotte and Morgaine's dresses to the drycleaners, and for my dress to be slipped securely into a fashionable garment bag with a French saying on it. After putting on some inconspicuous street clothes, we went down to the parking garage before going our separate ways for the evening, and I crossed my fingers that Georgie had had a good day sightseeing with Dad, as I was completely exhausted and all I really wanted to do was crash.

Charlotte told me gently that we would need to be there by eight-thirty, to engage in a debriefing with Grant, Chelsea, and Dunham on how exactly we were going to accomplish the mission. I nodded, fully absorbing her words, yet I found I could barely keep my head up and keep conversation. I forced my eyes to stay open during the drive, however, and soon we came upon the home of Sir Charles and Lady Kenna. The gates opened for us automatically, and I suspected that there was a security room in the manor—one of those big jobs with a great many screens to look at. We drove along the cobblestone path, the constant bumps of the car keeping me awake and ridged in my seat.

"Your first day on the job," Charlotte said softly as we began to near the manor itself in the darkness. "You performed far better than I ever thought possible, Jenny. I can't tell you how proud I am of you."

I lowered my eyes in the darkness, a small smile flitting this way and upon my lips as my feelings on her statement struggled to make up their mind. "Thank you," I finally managed to get out. Peering through the darkness and next to me, I saw then that Charlotte looked touched at my utterance, but said nothing as we pulled off to the side and stopped the car.

"Bed immediately," she said, fixing me with a look of firm authority. "It's closing in on eleven and we've got a big day tomorrow."

"Shower first?" I asked, not wanting to go to bed smelling of a gourmet dinner I'd probably never be able to afford.

Charlotte mulls over my small act of defiance in her mind. "Of course," she replies with a quick smile. "You head on up and shower, but then you must immediately go to bed afterwards."

"Wait," I say, catching ahold of her arm as she moves to exit the luxury car. "What have you told Dad? I mean, what's the cover story here?"

Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, what have you told Dad about us being gone for several hours a day? I mean, he's bound to notice. His phone isn't glued to his ear twenty-four seven anymore, now that he's got you. He's actually taking an interest in his family for a change. I suppose Georgie and I have you to thank for that..."

She smiles, clearly touched by my words of praise towards her. "Well, I can't take all the credit," Charlotte replies. "Your father is a brilliant man, and I think he saw the error of his ways." She reaches forward, tweaking the collar of the shirt I'm wearing, smoothing it out before withdrawing her hand.

"So, where are we supposed to have been all day?" I ask as Charlotte checks her electronic appointment calendar. "It's unlikely that you've told Dad about all this —I haven't heard any untoward screaming lately."

Charlotte bites at her lips to keep from laughing. "I've simply said that we've been at Lady Eleanor Berkshire's all day."

"He's likely to believe that once," I reply. "We can't just keep telling him the same story over and over again—he'll get suspicious."

"Exactly," Charlotte replies, "which is why I've informed him that you have taken a shine to the cause of UNICEF and Eleanor is showing you the ropes on the matter and that we're helping her set up a benefit luncheon. How's that for careful planning?" she asks.

I stop briefly in my tracks, mulling it over. "But what if Dad wants to see all the work we've done?" I ask her. "Back when Mom was still alive, he was active all of mine and Georgie's projects..."

"Nothing to worry about," Charlotte says swiftly. "It's a women-only luncheon, save for a few guest speakers, which are permitted to be men."

"Well, what if Dad sends Georgie in his stead?" I ask her. "He might do that, just to check up on what we're doing..."

She laughs. "There's an age restriction policy," she replies carefully. "You've got to be sixteen to enter, and one must have a valid I.D."

"Oh, please," I say. "Someone with an access to our bank account knows that you could pay for a reliable fake one."

Charlotte laughs and gets out of the car, and I quickly follow in her wake. "Lady Eleanor has gotten an improved scanning process," she carefully explains. "One fake I.D., and you're dead—essentially. We're all in a network," she tells me as we approach the front door. "Everyone I know is either a ranking member or an ally to the S.L.E.U.T.H. cause."

"So, Sir Charles and Lady Kenna...?" I ask.

Charlotte nods, lifting up a portion of the wall and placing her hand upon it—it is a handprint identification pad! "All part of the network—they're on a mission in Pakistan right now."

"Will I go on a mission to the Middle East?" I ask.

"Maybe," Charlotte says as we walk inside the house. "But Europe and the United Kingdom are intended for the burgeoning agents at this stage. Now, go on upstairs to shower," she orders me lightly. "Big day tomorrow."