Fog Season Page 12

  “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.”

  Yvienne cocked her head, eyeing her. Noe was dutiful, nothing more. Caught between two masters, she thought. It must be dreadful for her.

  “Have you spoken to your handler about being caught?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “And what did he say? Are you in danger in any way?”

  “He – no, miss. Malcroft said that if I was stupid enough to get caught, and you were stupid enough to keep me, then we could go on as before.”

  “He expects you to continue to work for him?” Despite herself, Yvienne’s voice rose in surprise. “I must say, that’s fresh. Well, that’s simply not on. From now on, you’ll live in. Mr Malcroft can have you back when he comes to see me.”

  She allowed herself a moment of self-satisfaction until Noe’s look of horror impinged upon her. Yvienne rolled her eyes. “What?”

  “If I don’t go home, miss, my mother and father and the rest – he’ll…” Noe fell silent. Yvienne sighed. She had not thought of that, but of course, it made perfect sense. Noe’s family was being held hostage to her ability to produce the goods. Clearly, she needed greater leverage to tip Mr Malcroft over to her side. She needed to think on this.

  “All right,” she said. “For now, say nothing more. But I warn you, Noe. You work for me now. Your loyalty is to me. Not this man. Is that clear?”

  Noe nodded, her expression by turns wary and skeptical. Yvienne understood; could a merchant’s daughter protect the housemaid from the dock gangs? I hope so, Noe. I surely do.

  “You may go. And tell Mr Renarte to come in, please.”

  Yvienne watched her leave, and the butterflies in her stomach intensified. What am I doing? No, she thought stubbornly. It’s what this city is forcing me to become. The Harrier, and now this – if the society of Port Saint Frey had wanted a demure Yvienne Mederos, they should have backed off.

  By the time Albero returned, she was back to her old self. “Albero, could you send the gardener’s boy to fetch a cab for me? I have to travel to the solicitor’s offices and I have documents to carry.”

  The city hack was comfortable and dry, the cabbie resigned to Albero interrogating him and giving the cab a once over, but making no complaint once a half-guilder changed hands. Albero handed Yvienne up into it, and passed her case of documents after her. She settled in, he closed the door, and she drew one hand from her rather moth-eaten fur muff and rapped on the ceiling of the cab. The horse started off with a lurch and then almost immediately came to a halt. For a second she gripped the pistol, but the door opened and Uncle Samwell flung himself inside, his hair a tousled mess, and his overcoat half-buttoned.

  “Glad I caught you, missy,” he said. He adjusted himself to fit in the tight space. “You can just have him drop me off at the docks.”

  Yvienne’s breathing slowed, and she made sure the pistol was entirely concealed.

  “Good morning, uncle,” she said. “No breakfast?”

  “I am on a reducing regimen.” He patted his belly proudly. “Coffee and a cigar. Keeps me whole the entire day.”

  “Uncle,” she said, tired of his nonsense. “Why are you here?”

  “I need to keep an eye on you. What would your parents think if I let you go on the way you’ve been?”

  “Really.”

  “Really. Look, I know you think you’re running things, but you’re as headstrong as that sister of yours, and you need a guiding hand.” At her look, he elaborated, “This business with Inigho. You don’t want to make a mistake. The man’s clever.”

  The hack tilted as the horse trudged down the steep hill with the brake on. They bounced over the cobblestones. Remind me to investigate other street paving options, she thought. In a hilly city like Port Saint Frey, smoother roads would be welcome, and many merchants had a sideline in providing goods and services to the city.

  “You’re the one who presented me with the contract,” she pointed out, her voice wobbling along with the bouncy hack.

  “I never thought you’d take it seriously,” he said, which made her roll her eyes.

  “Well, you don’t have to fear – I’ve rewritten most of it.”

  “It’s not the contract I’m worried about,” he said. “It’s you and Inigho. You’re not thinking of forming a personal connection? Not that I trust the Gazette, but the word at Aether’s is you and him are sparking.”

  That the Names were betting on the relationship between herself and Inigho Demaris was stomach-turning. This was worse than gossip. She glanced at her uncle. He was serious, concerned.

  “Setting aside your revolting slang,” she said, “what if we were? Would that be such a bad thing?”

  “I just don’t think he’d be a good fit with the family,” he said, looking earnest. “Face it, Vivi, we’re different. House Mederos and House Balinchard aren’t like other merchant houses. Inigho might take issue.”

  Meaning he’d take issue with you, she thought. She had to admit, though, he had a point. Inigho would get along with Alinesse; she was most like his own formidable mother. And no doubt he and Brevart would be correct and mannerly with each other. But how would Inigho get along with Tesara? They would have to keep her powers a secret from him. And it was one thing for the family to treat both Tesara and Uncle Samwell with disdain, as they did – but Inigho would be an outsider and it would be terrible if he did. Love me, love my family – could any man do that?

  And how would Inigho get along with me? The kissing was nice, but marriage was more than kisses.

  “I think you can be at ease,” she said. “I’m certainly not planning to form any connection with Inigho – or anyone else – any time soon.”

  He refused to be comforted. “Well, but that’s just it. You might. And then it will all go bad, Vivi. Believe me.”

  She had to laugh, but she was also irked. His persistence was beginning to irritate. “Uncle, I believe I can choose my own husband without your help. But I’m not even anywhere near that point.”

  “In fact, it would be better if you didn’t think of it at all,” he said. “For Tesara, at one time, she would have done the family good by marrying. But you shouldn’t bother. I’ve seen married women. They lose all perspective. It would be a shame if all you thought about was your house and your children. Look at Alinesse – she lost all sense of fun.”

  “I’m sorry that my hypothetical marriage would be such an inconvenience for you,” she said, her voice dripping with wrath.

  “See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Uncle, let me make one thing clear, since you think you have a say in my future. I will marry whomever I want, whenever I want. And you will say nothing more about it.”

  She rapped the ceiling of the cab so hard dust rained down on them. The cab jerked to a halt. Yvienne flung the door open and the cold wet air rushed in. “Out. I wish to be alone.”

  He stared at her, and then heaved his bulk out of the hack. He turned back to look up at her, his pink-rimmed eyes wet with injury.

  “I don’t know what’s come over you,” he said. “You used to be the sensible one. Now you’re as flighty as your sister.”

  “Good day, uncle.” Yvienne jerked the handle of the door from his hand. “Enjoy your coffee and cigar.”

  She pulled the door shut, rapped the ceiling with more restraint this time, and settled back in a huff. He was incorrigible.

  I should marry Inigho. It would serve uncle right. Then she sighed. She had hidden depths, but rebellion against her own good sense was not on the cards. Uncle Samwell was safe from a family interloper, at least for now.

  Left hand. Right hand. Tesara splayed her hands against the cold glass panes of her bedroom window, marking the crooked fingers, the condensation slicking on her palms. The damp felt good, as if her blood always ran hot now. Then in an instant, the condensation dried up, and her hands were also dry, the water wicked away. Her fingers throbbed with power, and the
familiar queasiness came back.

  The Harrier was right.

  It’s getting worse. She hated to admit it, but it had become undeniable. The power was getting harder and harder to control. Every time she used her talent, it sickened her a little. Even against the lieutenant, even against Trune’s coachman, whenever the energy built up inside her fingers, it made her queasy. She had become more adept at controlling it, but at a great cost – it took more effort than ever.

  She had been hard-pressed to control herself when she met the Harrier outside the bank, and his quiet, dead-on analysis of what was happening had almost destroyed what little control she had left.

  We can train you, he said. So the Harriers knew about her talents. Presumably there were others like her, and that was intriguing. Tempting. But at what price? she thought. What would the Harriers want from her in return? She imagined that it would be something like what Trune had wanted – to make use of her powers. She wanted none of that.

  And then what had he meant – “don’t use it on yourself?” Why would I be so foolish? she thought. The idea of it sickened her.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, resting her forehead on the window. She couldn’t tell Vivi. It would only worry her, and she had enough on her plate, what with running the House. She had no one to talk to.

  A knock came at the door. She withdrew her hands from the glass, leaving an odd imprint as if her hands had indented the pane, and called out, “Yes?”

  “Miss Tesara?” Albero said. “There’s a letter for you in this morning’s post.”

  She opened the door, and the young butler handed her a single letter with a formal red wax seal. She took it carefully, avoiding his fingers lest she shock him. “Thank you. Has my sister left for the day already? I thought I heard a cab in the drive.”

  “Yes. She had an appointment with Dr Reynbolten and with Mr Demaris. Your uncle caught a lift too.” Before she could ask him, he added, “I checked the cab and the driver thoroughly.”

  Her mouth quirked in acknowledgement. “Of course,” she said. “I knew you would. I’ll be down in a moment. I do apologize for being late to breakfast again. I know it makes more work for you.”

  “Miss Yvienne instructed me that slugabeds should fend for themselves for breakfast,” Albero said, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “But Mrs Francini would never allow it. If you can keep it secret, would you like to come into the kitchen for your coffee and toast?”

  “My lips are sealed,” Tesara promised. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  Alone, she slid the paper knife under the edge of the seal and opened the letter.

  Madam Saint Frey is at home to Miss Tesara Mederos today at 11 o’clock in the morning.

  Signed,

  The signature was unintelligible, the scrawl shaky and weak.

  It was a demand, not an invitation. Tesara’s heart sank. What on earth did she have to say to Jone’s mama? How could she tell her that she, Tesara, had received a letter from her wayward son describing his determination to seek a life at sea? Not to mention, she thought, that he declared his love for me.

  Don’t go.

  It was tempting to just ignore the summons. Who did old Madam Saint Frey think she was? But despite her self-righteous indignation, she had to admit, she was curious. She had never met Jone’s mama, even though she had been a guest at her salon. Perhaps she could sit and hear the old lady out, allay her fears if she could, try not to give away Jone’s secrets, and make her escape as soon as was polite. It would be her one good deed, and it would take her mind off the Harrier’s offer.

  The instant she stepped out of her bedroom, she gave an involuntary, “ugh!” The house was not only cold and damp due to Yvienne’s no extra fires dictum, there was a dreadful smell, and she covered her nose with the ends of her rose shawl.

  “Ugh, Albero,” she said to the butler as they both headed to the kitchen, Albero with a tray of breakfast things. “Has something gone wrong with the water closet?” Of course they would have plumbing issues, with their parents on a six-month sea voyage.

  “No, miss,” he said. “It’s the dumbwaiter. I fear the damp of Fog Season has accelerated the rot. Miss Yvienne has instructed us to bring in the Alcestris to fix it.”

  “Worse than that,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells rather like the Academy, when a squirrel died in the walls of the dormitory. I hope they can fix it.”

  She followed him down the shallow steps to the kitchen. Already it was warmer here, and the smells of coffee, tea, and Mrs Francini’s lunch preparations overwhelmed the odor from the dumbwaiter shaft. Tesara breathed in deep. Albero pulled out a chair at the wooden table and she sat.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Francini. I’m not used to keeping Vivi’s hours.”

  “She’s a go-getter,” Mrs Francini said with brisk cheer. She set down a cup of coffee in a big mug, and a pile of toast dripping with butter. Tesara took a sip and sighed with pleasure. Perhaps it was her imagination, but coffee tasted better in the kitchen.

  “What are your plans today, Miss Tesara?” Mrs Francini asked over her shoulder. She was whisking a roux on the stovetop.

  “Oh, very little. Just some bits and bobs of errands. I’ll need a cab this morning – half past ten, please.”

  “I’ll let the boy know,” Albero said.

  The massive old mansion, far larger and more ancient than the modern merchant townhouses, sprawled on a cliff overlooking the sea. It rose higher than any other building in Port Saint Frey due to this vantage point. It even overlooked the soaring spires of the Cathedral in the central city.

  Welcome to the Port of Saint Frey,

  Where men trade with a wink and a nod.

  Here the merchants look down on each other,

  And the Saint Freys look down upon God.

  She had the hack leave her below the drive and she walked up the rest of the way, covered by the fog. The last time she had attempted this walk, she was wearing dancing slippers and a silk gown and cloaked in desperate bravado. This time, her warm Fog Season attire offered more physical protection but she was far more vulnerable to self-doubt. It was entirely possible that Jone’s mother, with her reputation for selfishness, would simply refuse to see her, that it was enough to vindictively call Tesara out in dreadful weather to make her point. That would be a relief, she thought. Then she could say she had tried, and all of the attendant awkwardness would be avoided.

  Tesara stood before the massive door of the Saint Frey House. She steeled herself and lifted the heavy ring, banging it against the rain-stained oak. The knock reverberated with a hollow echo. Then there was only the sound of the dripping of the eaves. She waited, wondering if she should knock again or go around to the kitchen and peer in the window, when finally she heard the sound of the door being opened. Slowly, as if it were so heavy that it took three sturdy footmen and a kitchen boy to move it, it swung open to reveal the dark entrance, and Tesara and the butler regarded each other.

  He was old and white-haired, and stern. She almost completely lost her nerve, but retained the presence of mind to announce herself.

  “Miss Tesara Mederos to visit Madam Saint Frey,” she said.

  He squinted down at her, and she had long enough to notice that his fine coat and trousers were threadbare, and there were stains on his impressive necktie, a relic of an earlier age. Poor Jone, she thought. House Saint Frey hadn’t lost their money as suddenly as House Mederos had, but in turn they had little chance to earn it back.

  “Come in, Miss Mederos,” the butler said. “Madam Saint Frey has been waiting for you.”

  Resigned to her fate, she followed the man into the house.

  The last time she had stepped foot in the Saint Frey’s home it had been illuminated for a large party, and she had taken no notice of the structure of the great room, being far more preoccupied with the crowd of brightly dressed guests, the music, and the dancing, and
with Jone. This was the Fairy Hall the day after, when the magic had been extinguished and the elves all gone under the mountain. The Saint Frey hall was dark and cold, and smelled of a fireplace that hadn’t been lit in days. The only light came from the high windows on either side of the door, and it was a gray, gloomy light.

  The butler gestured to a dusty, threadbare chair in the foyer and she sat, sliding a little on the fabric. Once it had been a fine seat, embroidered with roses and greens. Now tufts of fluff poked up. Tesara shifted her weight to avoid most of the fluff. The butler made off at a measured pace and she was alone.

  If he had to walk to the other side of the house to tell his mistress, she could be there for a long time. Tesara got up and began looking around, restless.

  The hall had a desolate air. Most merchant townhouses had a genteel foyer for their guests, with a mirror and a narrow table, and two precisely set chairs, polished and dusted. Here the single chair was an afterthought, and in its state of disrepair, possibly an after-afterthought. Cold steeped up from the flagstones into her feet as she paced, and she was mindful of a clammy draft. There was a huge painting over the cold fireplace, but it was so dark she could get no more of an impression than that of a ship in a roiling, dark sea.

  Tesara looked away at once. Even just looking at representations of waves could set her off. She needed to concentrate.

  “Hello, Tesara,” came a familiar voice.

  Tesara started and turned. It was Mirandine.

  The fashionable girl stared back at her through the gloom. Her dress was of the very newest mode, accentuating her long lines. Despite the cold, clammy air, her bared arms were a rosy bronze. The sweet scent of tobacco wafted over to Tesara. Mirandine took a long draft on her cigarillo, and then dropped it and ground it out on the flagstones with a dainty silk-covered shoe.

  “Welcome to the house of the dead,” Mirandine intoned. She came forward out of the gloom. Now Tesara could see that her dress was actually a tunic over long, drapey trousers of gray rose, a fashionable silk Tesara had just seen in Madam Courget’s window.