Do you really want this?
That was the crux, wasn’t it? It was one thing to be able to light a candle with a single thought or snuff one out, or make papers sail through the hallway on a single puff of wind. But sinking three ships with all hands in a violent storm – that was a different kettle of fish. If she had blown the papers off the desk, then she had also created the storm.
And if she had created the storm, she had destroyed her family.
The door to the kitchen opened and Uncle Samwell came back in. Yes, five minutes alone was about as long as he could manage it, Tesara thought waspishly.
“Standing watch, Monkey?” he said, full of good cheer, oblivious to her blue devils. She rolled her eyes. Couldn’t he see that she was in the deeps and didn’t want to be called by her old pet name?
Without waiting for a reply, he rummaged in vain in the pantry, his large behind in the doorway. He mumbled a coarse epithet when there was nothing but a sack of old porridge and crumbs of tea leaves. In the old days, he could ring the kitchen and Cook would bring him a tasty dish at all hours of the day or evening.
It’s been six years. You would think he’d be used to it by now. “There’s nothing in there, remember?” she called out to him, resting her chin on her hands and staring at the candle. It remained cold and unlit.
“Thank you, I know,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Perhaps you could do something about that.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. Finally, Uncle gave up his fruitless quest and pulled out of the pantry. He sat down at the table with her, a shadow of his former ebullient self, and spread out in a slack kind of way. He drummed his thick fingers on the table. Funny, she thought, they had been partners in crime when she was younger. They were the two black sheep of the family, egging each other on in mischief until her mother snapped at both of them, crying at her brother, “You’re worse than she is!”
He’d taught her how to play cards, unrepentantly stealing all her sweets money in the process. “What’s the state of your holdings, Monkey?” he’d ask, and then he’d cajole her to play, telling her she was getting quite good, and this time he knew she would win, and then once again he’d win all of her allowance for the week, all the while telling her lurid tales of his narrow escapes from the gaming hells on the waterfront. She sighed.
“Didn’t you girls learn housekeeping at that school?” he said, still with the air of annoyance.
“I can net you a purse, Uncle, or dance a rondeau, but I can’t make you a snack.” That was completely untrue, of course, but she had no intention of setting a precedent.
He laughed. “Useless.”
“And I’m sure you are quite industrious down at the docks,” she purred.
“Business, girl. Business.” He canted a sly look at her. “I’ll make your fortune yet, you’ll see. I’ve been talking with the Colonel, you know. Colonel Talios. Yes, indeed.”
Another one of Uncle’s impossible schemes. “Don’t trouble yourself,” she said with the same deep sarcasm. “Really.”
He bridled as always at the suggestion that he was no good at business. The good-natured teasing fell away.
“Oh, well, look who’s too fancy for business now. That school did you no favors, if it made you forget you’re a merchant’s daughter. This whole family has gone to pot. Your parents have made a right mess of the whole thing, from start to finish. And the least we could do is have some food in the house,” he finished, a cry from the heart.
It was so blasted unjust, coming from him, that she snapped back, “Perhaps if you had insured the fleet, we would have.”
Uncle Samwell went red-faced in an instant. Her blow had landed, and now she felt terrible. It always happened. They would squabble, she would turn on him, and then she would feel horrible. No matter how bad he was, he somehow always managed to make her feel as if she were worse than he was, when in reality they were the same, the two ne’er-do-wells who were forever making mistakes and always being taken to task. I’m not going to feel bad this time, she told herself stubbornly. He started it.
“Yes, well, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“What are you talking about?” she managed to bluster. Samwell smirked.
“All you were ever good for was to marry someone wealthy and keep the money in the family. You haven’t even held onto your looks, and that was all you had to bring to the table. Now we’re stuck with you, and you’ll be nothing but a drain for the rest of your life.”
Her first reaction was relief. He doesn’t know. Then the words hit her harder than any blow. Everything she had ever said to herself during long sleepless nights over the last six years, articulated first as a child and later as a young woman with more understanding, spewed forth from her uncle’s mouth. You are stupid. You are useless. You are a liability.
“At least I don’t go to the docks and act the clown for all my friends,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from shaking. She got up from the table, looking to make a quick escape, but he was between her and the door. “They’re all laughing at you, Uncle, and you think you’re still one of them.”
“You know nothing about it,” he said. “I’m the one who’s going to restore this family’s fortunes. And you’ll do well to do as you’re told, when the time comes, to do your part.”
“I’d rather be poor than be part of one of your schemes.”
He laughed at her and stood over her, his breath disgusting from alcohol and cigars cadged from his disreputable friends at the docks.
“No, you wouldn’t,” he said. “No one would, least of all you. But that’s not to say I might not leave you out anyway, just to teach you a lesson. Your sister will do just as well. Then we’ll see who would rather be poor.”
On that dramatic note, he turned and flounced off, his head high. If it hadn’t been so sad, she would have laughed. No. If it hadn’t been true, I would have laughed.
Once, they had been friends and she felt sadness in the pit of her stomach that all that was over. All because she had been angry at her Uncle Samwell that fateful night at the dinner party, and let her anger and hurt get the best of her.
With a quick, furious movement, she backhanded the candle. It skittered across the worn floor, to rest against the baseboard. She felt a mean satisfaction, and at the same time, shame at her temper. I don’t know who I’m more angry at, she thought. My uncle or myself.
“Tesara?” her mother called from parlor. “Did something fall?”
“Just a candle, Mama,” she called back, breathing hard, her heart galloping.
Her mother tsked, which she could hear even down the hall. “Do be careful, Tesara. I don’t want you picking up anything that could break.” Brevart said something that was too soft for Tesara to make out, but her mother’s reply was clear enough. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Brev. There’s nothing we can do about it now, and coddling her won’t help.”
The old sting was quick to pain and just as quick to fade. Over the past two weeks, her mother’s reaction to her maimed hand had been shock, anger, a sick sort of jocularity, and more anger, all aimed at Tesara. They had never been friends, even when Tesara was a child – especially when I was a child, she acknowledged with chagrin. She was mischievous and disobedient, and Alinesse was hardly maternal at the best of times. Now, however, Alinesse’s bitter disappointment in her life’s situation and her dissatisfaction with her younger daughter had merged into something else, something harder and more obdurate than ever before. A dim part of her understood. Sometimes hope made sorrows more painful. Alinesse was just trying to avoid heartbreak by turning her heart to stone.
Not a bad idea, Tesara thought. Not a bad idea at all.
Chapter Seven
With the prospect of no supper, it was not surprising that Uncle was nowhere to be found for the rest of the afternoon. Except for Brevart and Alinesse remarking testily on his ill manners, no one really missed him. With no wood there was no fire, and the h
ouse was dark, damp, and chill by the time Yvienne came home with news of having engaged a new housemaid who would start in the morning. Their parents asked all sorts of questions and speculated as to the new girl’s qualifications.
“Does she know how to make coffee?” Brevart asked wistfully. “I hope you asked her about coffee. It takes a special hand, and the last girl couldn’t do it.”
Yvienne assured them that the girl knew her business. “She is entirely amiable and competent,” she said. “And you know Mastrini’s. They have a reputation to keep up.”
Alinesse snorted with disdain at the idea of a staffing agency concerned with its image. “You may depend upon it, Vivi, that the staffing agency only cares for its fees. I don’t wonder but that they will send us the bottom of the barrel.”
“She’s not,” Yvienne said, just short of snapping at her parents. She looked tired and wan. Tesara decided to draw fire.
“None of that will matter if Uncle won’t leave her alone,” she said. As she had hoped, the goad worked.
“Tesara, must you?” Alinesse cried, and in the ensuing argument, Yvienne’s quiet announcement that she was going to bed barely made a ripple. As soon as she could, Tesara slipped away to follow her.
“A governess,” Tesara repeated. “Why on earth would you want to be a governess?”
They shared a single bed in their room and talked in the darkness, their voices low. There was no question of candles, as they were so dear. The cold harbor air leaked in through the crooked shutters so the two sisters were wrapped in their blankets and dressed in two petticoats each, with nightcaps covering their braids. The bed was snug enough, though Tesara knew her nose would be cold by the morning. She put her hands over it, breathing into her palms to catch her warm breath.
“We need the money. And you have to admit that I would be good at it. Better than housework at any rate.”
“Are you mad?” Tesara asked. She rose up on one elbow to look down on her sister. “Don’t you know what it’ll be like, teaching the spoiled brats of some merchant household who’ll be naughty just because they can? You have to remember what it was like, Yvienne.”
“I rather liked some of our governesses.” Yvienne’s voice was reflective.
“And besides – who would have you? I mean, they would be foolish not to – you’re the smartest girl in Port Saint Frey – but you know how they treat us now.” She didn’t want her sister to be snubbed or mistreated. She felt her anger burn just thinking about it.
“Well, that’s just it,” Yvienne said in her thoughtful way. “There are two types of Houses that would hire me. One type is those who know that we’ve been unfairly scapegoated. They would do it out of kindness. The Sansieris, for instance.”
“The Sansieris might be all right,” Tesara muttered reluctantly. The Sansieris were old friends.
“And the other type are the ones who would love to have a dishonored Mederos at their beck and call. I wouldn’t take that position, though,” Yvienne said.
“I should think not!” Just the thought of it made Tesara flop back down onto the thin mattress. “How shameful of them.”
“Yes, well, I’ll make sure not to run afoul of them. So, we’ll see. And there are plenty of other households in Port Saint Frey. Some of the shopkeepers are practically merchant families themselves.”
“They’re a little rough, aren’t they?” Tesara was dubious. There was just something about the shopkeepers…
“They’re just like the merchant families, just with less money and less sense of entitlement. Anyway, there’s no saying that I’ll get a job. Miss Mastrini told me she would send me a letter.” Yvienne yawned. “It was a busy day.”
They lay quietly and companionably, each to their own thoughts. Yvienne’s breathing deepened, and Tesara could tell when she fell into sleep. In the stillness of the night and the darkness, she rubbed her hands together. A little spark, the usual kind cause by rubbing, arced under the cover, and faded just as quick.
When Tesara woke, she had a moment of disorientation. Cold spring sunlight streamed through the window. She and Yvienne were warm though, warm and cozy, because a fire burned on the hearth. The little fire did not smoke. She sat up in bed, blinking. A memory of the bedroom door opening in the early morning came back to her, but fled as distant as a dream of the old days. The fire kept crackling away. The logs were made of tightly wrapped scrap paper from Brevart’s day-old gazettes that he gathered up from the streets. They burned as cheerfully as wood. It wouldn’t last long, but it would make it that much easier to get up and dressed in the morning. And the smells – the heavenly breakfast smells. It smelled as if Cook had come back to them. Her mouth watered in anticipation.
She nudged her sleeping sister. “Wake up,” she said. “Yvienne. Up.”
Yvienne muttered and then roused, pushing her sleep-tousled hair out of her eyes. She pulled the cap from her head and made a single under-the-breath noise of wonder.
“Mathilde came,” Tesara said. It was as joyous as early morning on Saint Noel’s Day in midwinter. She threw back the covers and pushed herself out of bed, hurrying into her clothes. “Let’s eat.”
Chapter Eight
The Mederos family stood at the doorway to their dining room as if they had never seen the place before and were afraid to enter. The breakfast table was clean and wiped down and laid with their simple breakfast things. The lovely smell was porridge, but it was neither burnt nor bland as the other housemaids – or any of the Mederos women themselves – usually made it. Mathilde came through the door with a pot of tea wrapped in a tea towel. She set it down at the foot of the table, where Alinesse sat. Mathilde wore a black dress with a white apron that was crisp and ironed, and a little cap perched over her dark brown braids.
“Good morning,” she said. “It’s not much but I can do a bit of shopping in the market and see about getting some spices and such to make things interesting. I’ll write out a list and you can look it over and tell me if it’s all right, Madam.”
Alinesse made her way to the foot of the table, open-mouthed. She managed to say, faintly, “Yes, of course. That will do quite well.” Remembering herself, she slid neatly into the chair, picked up the napkin, and laid it on her lap. The rest of the family hastily followed suit, Brevart at the head of the table, the girls on one side, and Samwell on the other. Alinesse held up the teapot and started pouring out tea, passing around cups.
“Oh,” Brevart said faintly. He unfolded an ironed copy of Treacher’s Almanac from next to his plate. He touched it with wonder.
“If you prefer the Gazette…” Mathilde began.
“It will do,” Brevart said, pretending to be curt about it but fooling no one. He snapped it open with authority, a satisfied smile curving his lips. Mathilde bobbed a curtsey and let them be, and the family had their first wholesome meal in six years.
The porridge had a small pool of butter on top, and Mathilde had spiced it with cinnamon and cloves and the merest pinch of barley sugar. The tea was smooth, not bitter at all, and she had infused it with additional spices. The table was sparse but the food was more satisfying than anything they had eaten in weeks – years, Tesara thought, when she counted in the six years of boarding school gruel. And it must have been the same for her parents.
Tesara ate with concentration and slowly, trying to savor it all. This was a skill that more merchants should have, she thought. It humbled her, but the food was balm to the sting. Mathilde knew exactly what they needed, and her food was redemption. They could hear her singing in the kitchen, as cheerful as a wren.
This is magic, she thought. It was wonderful.
“Listen to this,” Father announced, and she braced herself. He had taken to reading out loud bits and bobs of news as he came across it.
“‘In a five-four judgment, the Guild High Court has ruled in favor of House Mederos’,” Brevart read. “‘The House has cleared all of its fiduciary, civil, and criminal obligations and all injured parties h
ave been made whole. Justice has been served, saith the Guild in its wisdom; lesser mortals take a more jaundiced view. “In my opinion, they have gotten off far too easily,” said one peeved gentleman. “They’re bound to turn to their old tricks, as soon as they think they can get away with it.”’”
They all sat, for a moment. After six long years, they were finally – free? Tesara discounted it. No, they would never be free. It was only one less burden upon the family. It’s up to us, she thought, to remake our own fortunes, if we can.
Then, Alinesse broke the silence, the bitterness evident in her brittle laugh. “Hardly needed to keep him anonymous; we all know who he is.”
“You don’t know for sure,” Uncle Samwell protested, but his voice was weak.
“Don’t be a fool, Sam,” she said. “If you can’t tell that it was your old friend, Parr, I don’t know what to say.”
Uncle Samwell muttered something and ducked his head. There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Brevart rattled the newspaper and began reading again.
“‘With the ruling, House Mederos is once again free to conduct trade according to all Guild and city laws. However, under new bylaws established under Guildmaster Trune, any new ventures undertaken by House Mederos will have to be approved by the Guild before the Bank of Port Saint Frey could extend credit and financing.’”
There was another silence. Even I know what that means, Tesara thought. Free to make money – but without credit, there would be no seed money, and without seed money – no business. In other words, their punishment continued. She wondered if Trune established the bylaws expressly for them.
In a more subdued voice, Brevart read out the less important news, that of the notices of ships and cargo from the column Dockside Doings, by the mysterious Junipre. Junipre was widely understood to be the nom de plume of Treacher, and Tesara waited for the observation that she knew would come next.
“Everyone knows it’s Treacher himself,” Uncle Samwell said, hasty to change the subject. “Don’t know why he doesn’t just come out and say it.”
The Sisters Mederos Page 4