The Sisters Mederos

by Patrice Sarath

  She walked for hours, avoiding her inevitable return and the conflict she would find there. If I had any skill, she thought, I could bring in money, help the household, even as Yvienne was doing. Her sister could be a governess, but Tesara didn’t see how she herself could be anything, not even a scullery maid. One look at her hand, and no prospective employer would hire her, a cripple.

  Tesara stood at the front gate, taking in the fresh, biting wind from the harbor, unable to decide where she should go rambling. She could just see the blue of the waves beyond the roofs of the houses on each street below her. She could hear Alinesse puttering in the small back garden. Her mother had never been the placid domestic sort, so it had surprised everyone when the neglected garden became a battlefield on which she waged bitter, unceasing war against weeds and fallow ground.

  Overhead, seagulls squabbled, and clouds scudded across the sky. She missed her view from the townhouse on the Crescent.

  You should go home.

  The thought came to her complete, a message dropped into her mind as if it were a communication from beyond. Why not? In the weeks since they returned from school she had resolutely stayed away from the Mederos mansion on the Crescent. She hadn’t wanted to go near it or be reminded of it. Now she felt a powerful need, a pull stronger than homesickness. She needed to go back to the beginning.

  Surely the house where she had first used her dangerous powers would be the place where she could learn how to use them again.

  There was just the small matter of who owned the house now.

  It had been a constant question since she and Yvienne had come home. She had wanted to ask, but it never seemed the right time. Her parents knew, no doubt, to whom the Guild sold the house. It must burn horribly to know which of their old friends or rivals now lived in their home and who refused to bow to them. She couldn’t ask them; she mustn’t ask them; but she had to know for herself. So, she had pretended it didn’t matter until now – at this moment, it did.

  Tesara took one more glance back at the small, rickety, blue house, and made her decision. She let herself out the gate and began the long walk up to the Crescent.

  Even with the wind at her back it was a stiff hike up the cobbled streets. Her legs burned and her breath came short. The street was filled with traffic, the horse-drawn coaches with the brake set on the downhill to prevent the coaches from oversetting, the men carrying the closed palanquins bearing rich merchants or their families, or the carters and deliverymen who provisioned the great houses day and night.

  She kept her eyes straight ahead, but she could tell that the occupants of the carriages and the litters were carefully pulling aside the curtains to get a better look at the younger Mederos girl striding about wild in the street. She could imagine the tittering behind pale white hands as the gossip spread. With a sense of defiance she kept up her fast walk, head up and eyes forward. The exercise soon cast all thoughts of shame from her, and the red that spread in her cheeks was because of the wind and the exercise. The cold air was even brisker this high up overlooking the harbor.

  The houses marched up along the road, their ornate facades brooding down and casting her in shadow. Each house was different, some with columns, others with cathedral-like carvings, and still others with black wrought-iron window grates and brass lamps, each mansion a symbol of the family whose fortunes raised it.

  And there it was. House Mederos. She stopped in front of the huge gate with its iron spear points thrusting at the sky. The gate was closed, the wrought-iron “M” in the center mocking her with its inaccessibility. The short circular drive had been graveled with a reddish stone – expensive, she thought. It must have come from the granite quarried in Marble Falls. There were gold brocade drapes in the dining room windows. Thin smoke came out two chimneys; Alinesse’s old study on the western side of the house, and the kitchen.

  Walking toward the servants’ entrance, she made her way around the huge smooth stone and mortar wall. At the servants’ gate she hesitated, but she knew she couldn’t loiter. She would just ask the housekeeper who owned the house now. And if they asked her business, she would say she had been a governess at House Mederos once and wondered what happened to the family. Goodness knew there had been enough governesses; who could keep track? And who knew what she might find out, so long as they never knew she was Tesara Mederos.

  Steeling her spine, she took a breath, smoothed back her untidy, wind-blown hair and tried to tuck it beneath her bonnet, and rang the bell at the kitchen door. There was a pause, and then marching feet came down the hall and the door opened.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The housekeeper took one look at Tesara standing in the servants’ doorway and snapped, “Well, it’s about time you’ve come. Don’t think that just because you don’t live in you can be as late as you please. I swear to Saint Frey himself, the girls nowadays! Thinking themselves too good to work, that’s what it is. Cook, did you ever?”

  “I never,” called an agreeable, if disembodied, voice from the kitchen.

  “And do you think you will be wearing those things?” she said, nodding at the gloves Tesara wore to hide her hands. Tesara gave a start. “Take them off at once. Just what do you think you are, putting on airs? Now don’t just stand there, girl.”

  The housekeeper was a big woman. She towered over Tesara and her enormous bosom filled out her pinstriped lavender dress with the white apron straining to keep all contained. She advanced dangerously on Tesara, who struggled to find something to say to stop the torrent of speech, all the while hastily stripping off the offending gloves.

  “Good glory,” the woman cried out when she saw the damage. “Can you even work, girl?”

  “I–” Tesara began.

  “Poll!” the woman yelled, with no regard for Tesara’s attempted response.

  “Coming, Mrs Aristet,” a breathless voice called back, followed by a young woman carrying an enormous kettle, bending sideways to counter its weight. “Oh, goodness, she’s here at last,” she said with a sigh and set down the kettle on the old kitchen table with a heavy thud. She swiped back wisps of hair and tucked them under her cap. She eyed Tesara up and down with a dubious expression.

  “That’s what I’ve been saying,” Mrs Aristet griped. “She’s a cripple, but she says she can work. If she can’t, I’ll let the agency know how displeased I am, and no mistake. Run and fetch a uniform from the closet. Mind you, girl, it comes out of your wages, and you must wash and mend it yourself. Too stained and you’ll have to buy another. Stop gaping like a grouper. The only thing you have to say for yourself in this house is Yes, Ma’am and No, Sir, and that goes for the staff and the master. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Tesara managed meekly. Her surprise first gave way to an instinct to explain, then surrendered to a bubble of laughter, fiercely suppressed. Oh my. Oh my. Could she do this? Yes, she would. If Yvienne could be a governess, then she would spy all about this house and see who it was who had benefited most definitely from the downfall of House Mederos.

  Thanks to Madam Callier and her housekeeper, she had been well-trained in the domestic arts of cleaning, scrubbing, scouring, dusting, and laundry.

  “Well-spoken enough, I suppose,” Mrs Aristet grumbled. Poll came back and thrust a dress and apron at her, along with a little cap. “Off you go, girl, to the pantry. None will bother you there. Mind you make it quick. And tomorrow you are expected to be here at daybreak and not a moment later, with your uniform on and your boots shined.”

  Tesara bobbed a quick curtsy and started through the door.

  “Wait – oh, yes, that way and then it will be the first door on the left.”

  Drat. She had to be more careful.

  The pantry was dark and smelled pungently of vegetables and sacks of flour and baking powder. A tub of starter with a towel over the top, its yeasty sour aroma permeating the air, sat on the old rickety table in the middle of the tiny space. Tesara undressed quickly. She pulled on the thick navy,
pin-striped dress. It smelled of sweat and harsh detergent and starch. It was a servant’s dress, with buttons up the front. She pulled on the apron, smoothed back her hair, and gathered up her old dress.

  The only person in the servants’ workroom was Poll, wrestling with the giant kettle to put it on the hook over the fire. Tesara dropped her clothes on the table and went over to help her. Together the two girls muscled it onto the hook, and then swung it over the fire.

  “That’s the ticket,” the other girl sighed. “I must say I’m glad you’re here. The Master is having a dinner party tonight with his cronies, and there’s a lot to do to make the house ready. I’m Poll. Pollina, that is, but everyone calls me Poll.”

  “I’m Tes – just Tes,” Tesara said. “Where should I put my day dress?”

  Poll showed her the cupboard. There were small cubbies for personal items. Tesara folded her dress and put it on an empty shelf, with her little gloves rolled up on top. With a belly full of butterflies, she told herself, in for a groat, in for a guilder, and went out to follow Poll around her old home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tesara had to brace herself against the wave of emotions at seeing her old house. Since her parents had sold most of their furnishings, the house had been redecorated by the new owners, but was no less opulent.

  “Will you take to the dining room?” Poll said. “I’ll take the downstairs parlor and the billiards room.”

  “We don’t–” have a billiards room, Tesara almost blurted, stopping herself at the last moment. Poll gave her a curious look. “I mean, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be happy to clean the dining room.”

  Poll just nodded, making it clear that Tesara’s happiness was not the issue. It was with relief that she took her bucket of materials, struggling with her broom and duster, and fled Poll’s curious regard. Tesara left the double doors to the dining room open, and just stood for a moment, taking in the changes. Gold brocade curtains hung in the windows. White bone china graced the sideboard, and the silver was even more ornate than her family’s had been. The dining table was larger and made of dark mahogany, not the pale chestnut wood that her parent’s furniture had been. A curious door had been cut into the wall; Tesara investigated and found it was a clever dumbwaiter, large enough for the kitchen to send up the soup and the food for all the courses and for the butler and footman to send down the dirty dishes. Charle would have loved this, Tesara thought. And Albero the footman and Cook – it would have made their work so much easier. She was irked at herself for finding something to like about the new dining room.

  The whole house was silent, except for the ticking of the large grandfather clock in the entryway. Tesara sat for a moment, looking around, remembering.

  She had hated dining with guests, especially when they were business associates and not friends. That night it was Uncle’s friend, Parr. Brevart never bothered to hide his disgust for any of his brother-in-law’s friends, and he particularly disliked Parr, calling him a red-faced chancer. Parr’s voice grated and his breath smelled of liquor. He had thick fingers with hairy knuckles that both repulsed and fascinated her.

  To make matters worse, Uncle Samwell studiously ignored Tesara, lavishing all of his attention on his friend, plying him with wine, softening him up so he would invest in Uncle’s shipping expedition. Tesara tried to catch his attention with their old “see food” joke but all it did was get her an elbow in her side from Yvienne.

  It didn’t help that she had been distracted by her talents. The light reflecting off the silver plate and making rainbows in the chandelier made her fingers pulse with energy. She clenched her fingers around her fork, she sat on her other hand, she did everything she could to manage the sparks, but to no avail.

  “For goodness sakes, Tesara, will you stop wriggling!” Alinesse snapped, clearly at her wits’ end with her bothersome daughter.

  Tesara remembered her face flaming with embarrassment, as everyone’s attention turned toward her.

  “Wool-gathering again,” Uncle Samwell snorted. “Don’t know where she gets it from; changeling child. She’s not a Balinchard.”

  I wonder, Tesara thought. I wonder what would have happened if Uncle had not so casually exposed her that night? He had used her, mocked her to make himself look bigger to his friend. It had been cruel, thoughtless, childish – in short, it had been an Uncle Samwell sort of thing to do. She didn’t remember much about that night but she remembered the anger and the shame. She was angry at her uncle and her mother and father, who didn’t stand up for her, and ashamed that she had been exposed in front of Parr, a stranger.

  It was too much. She had jumped up, spilling her water glass, candlelight catching the crystal with little explosions of brightness.

  “Leave me alone! I hate you! I hate all of you!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  Tesara jumped at Poll’s accusing tone. “I–” She started. The housemaid had come in to the dining room and was staring at Tesara.

  Poll sighed. She gave Tesara a level look. “I can’t do it all, you know. Mrs Aristet needs both of us to get the house ready, or the master will be displeased.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tesara said, meekly. “I just sat for a minute. I’ll do it now, I promise. And what next – upstairs?” She suddenly wanted very much to see her old bedroom, even at the same time dreading what changes might have been made to it.

  “Just come find me and I’ll tell you what next to do.”

  Poll disappeared back out the door, and Tesara sighed with relief. She got up and began sweeping.

  The work was hard enough to be absorbing, and mindless enough to allow Tesara to notice all the changes, and even more unsettling, where things had not changed at all. As she and Poll dusted and swept and polished and mopped, struggling with large water buckets and heavy string mops, she was distracted by the changes. The stairways carpet, for instance, was new; the banister was polished to a fare-thee-well, but the little worn area at the bottom from where she and Yvienne used to slide down it in their bloomers showed through the polish.

  “I don’t know why we have to clean the bedrooms,” Poll said, huffing and puffing as they struggled with stuffing a duvet in one of the guest bedrooms. “No one stays over.”

  “We might go faster if we divide up the work,” Tesara suggested. She swept back her hair from her forehead, making a face at how grimy her hands had become. “I can take the front bedrooms.”

  Poll gave her a look as if she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t find Tesara on one of the beds having a lie-down, after her false step in the dining room. But the desire to get through the work overcame her, and she finally allowed grudgingly, “All right. I’ll take the carpet sweeper over the hall.” Poll left her to it.

  I don’t want to do this. But she knew that this was what she had come for – to see her old room, and to see what had become of it, and to remind herself what had become of her. The new owner had repainted the walls a creamy blue with white molding. The fireplace was unlit and unlaid, the hearth swept clean. The bed was piled high with thick blankets, the curtains pulled back for air. She had never had curtains on her bed. Tesara looked around. There was her cupboard. She opened the door and peeked inside. It was scrupulously bare of any clothing or toys and smelled of dust. There was no remnant of her past She swiped at it with her feather duster in case anyone came in to see what she was doing, and closed it up again.

  The window seat still had its same embroidered cushion, threadbare and faded from the sun. She dropped her dust mop and dust rags and sat down on it, feeling the warmth of the sun, the glazing keeping out most of the brisk sea wind. She half-laughed, imagining what Poll would say, were she to pop in on Tesara, once more being shockingly un-housemaid-like.

  She drew up her knees in the thick, ill-fitting dress, and propped her chin on them, looking out the window. She had loved this view. She could see over the Crescent and down over the city, out over the harbor
of green and blue, the spiky masts of merchant ships poking into the sky. The air was so clear she could see the smudge of the lighthouse at Nag’s Head. There were the distant mountains on the other side of the harbor, and there, dots near the horizon, were the Dolphin Islands.

  It was from here, when she was twelve, that she had destroyed her family and its fortunes. The night of the dinner party.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She had run from the dining room, brushing past Albero, the footman. Tesara caught a glimpse of his round-eyed expression. She slammed the door to her room and flung herself onto the bed, closing her hands into fists underneath her. She didn’t cry, though her throat ached with the lump in it and her eyes burned. It wasn’t fair. The words thrummed to the beat of her heart. It wasn’t fair. She and Uncle were friends. He always took her side. He had turned on her to make himself look good in front of his friend, in order to get Parr to give him money.

  I hate him. Tesara sat up and stared at her reflection in the window. She was drawn to the points of candlelight floating in the image, candlelight that glowed steadily behind her. She reached out to the cold glass, unlatched it, and pushed it open. The wind rushed in with the smell of the sea behind it. It whipped at Tesara’s hair and touched her lips, cold and wet.

  All those little breezes that she made inside the house were a part of this great sea wind. Electricity built up in her fingers and she opened her fingers to let the charge go. The wind reacted with a whirling gust and pushed her back a step.

  Oh, no you don’t. Following an instinct, she made two fists and smashed them together. The wind rose with a wintry shriek and blew her off her feet, blowing out all the candles and plunging her into darkness. She landed hard on the floor, her breath knocked out of her. Then, as if changing its mind, the wind suddenly rushed out of her bedroom, leaving the shutter banging crazily in its wake.