The Sisters Mederos

by Patrice Sarath

  Chapter Sixty-One

  From the top of the stairs Tesara looked down at the small hallway. The liveried coachman filled the doorway. He wore a many-caped gray coat, tall boots, and carried a whip at his side. He towered over Brevart and Alinesse. Uncle Samwell watched from the entrance to the parlor.

  “Guildmaster Trune offers his carriage to Miss Mederos,” the coachman rumbled. Tesara felt a pinprick of fear. It was one thing to know the invitation was a trap. It was another to walk straight into it.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Brevart demanded, in a thin sort of way. “Tesara!”

  She gathered her courage and went down the stairs, holding up the skirt of the pink gown with her gloved hands, the wrap around her shoulders doing nothing to keep her warm. Her hair had been piled high on her head, and tendrils fell around her face. She knew she had never looked in better form. Her parents looked at her in her finery, aghast.

  “Explain yourself,” Alinesse hissed.

  “I expect that after the Iderci salon, I am quite the thing,” Tesara managed. “The Guildmaster was quite kind to invite me to his party.”

  “Absolutely not,” Brevart said. He was gathering strength, and at the same time, it looked as if it would be the ruin of him. He could only repeat himself. “Absolutely not.”

  The coachman gave Brevart a raised eyebrow look and then a meaningful side glance at Uncle Samwell. “It is a special request of the Guild.”

  Her uncle paled and backed away against the wall. The coachman smirked.

  In the crowded foyer, Tesara took her uncle’s thick clammy hand and pressed it. She wished she could comfort him, wished she could tell him that she understood. At what a terrible cost that he had to close off that part of himself, no doubt making him the sad, unlucky old boy that he was. She had cut off her powers for six long years. What if she had never regained it? Would she, in time, become as weak and ineffectual as her uncle?

  He gave a grimace more than a smile, but he squeezed back, and just like that, they were friends again. She stepped forward.

  She felt sorry for Alinesse and Brevart, standing there so broken and frightened. They wanted to protect her, but it was far too late for that. She and Yvienne were protecting themselves now, and the family with it. I have my powers, she thought. Trune cannot know that I have the upper hand.

  She gave her mother and father both a kiss on the cheek, and then, whimsically, she turned to Uncle Samwell and gave him a wink. He grinned back, but it was a sickly sort of smile. She turned with all her dignity back to the coachman. After all, she was a Mederos. He was just a lackey.

  “Thank you,” she told the coachman. “You may lead the way.”

  In the cold night air, he handed her into the coach and closed the door behind her. There was a warm brick for her feet, and a velvet wrap. She settled down onto the comfortable seats that were the new kind that were more like a bucket than a straight upholstered bench, put her slippers on the brick, and settled in for the ride.

  The comfort did little to quell her nerves. She closed her eyes, pressed her hands together, and hoped she wasn’t going to be sick. Tesara took deep, even breaths, and marshalled the electricity in her fingers, hoping to store it up to have it at the ready. Trune wouldn’t know what hit him.

  She felt the lurch as the well-sprung coach turned a corner and began the ascent up the Crescent. She leaned back against the seat and tried to breathe. She could feel the tugging as the four horses pulled steadily up the hill, and she knew how their muscles strained.

  Some things one never forgot. The time it took for the coach to reach her old home at the top of the Crescent was remembered in her bones and muscles. We should be there by now, she thought, and almost looked out. When the coach leveled out and turned, she knew they had come to the House and were entering its circular drive. This time she lowered the window blind and looked out. There were only two glowing spots by the front door, and one light in the window.

  Despite expecting as much, Tesara froze with fear. She yanked at the door but it stayed fast. It was not just latched, but locked. The coach had by by now turned into the stables. Tesara could tell because the clip clop of the horses’ hooves had changed from crunching on gravel to hollow clopping, and the wheels of the coach rang on stone.

  She was to be escorted in through the back door. Tesara braced herself.

  This time she recognized the extra sounds of a key turning, and the door opened. The coachman lifted out the step and then held out his gloved hand. She gathered herself and took it and hopped out.

  She took the time to look around.

  “My, Guildmaster Trune surely knows how to impress his guests,” she said in a clear, ringing voice. Her bravado did not impress. The coachman snorted with derision and took her upper arm, not exactly squeezing but not gentle either. He pushed her in front of him and she had to move quickly to avoid being dragged.

  He took her to the scullery. There was a roaring fire and a small number of dishes set to be taken up to the dining room, and the food looked and smelled lovely. Mrs Francini took pride in her handiwork. So, there was to be a party, she thought, but it was a private one.

  The coachman led her to the small cubby and handed her a familiar uniform. The navy pinstriped dress of heavy material weighed in her arms. So, Trune thought to humiliate her first. Keep it coming, she promised him. The angrier you make me, the worse it is for you. She had to keep him occupied long enough to let Yvienne do her work.

  “You promised his Excellency that you would serve him at dinner,” the coachman said. He gave her a little push toward the cupboard where she had changed last time.

  She closed the door behind her and undressed in the dark, yanking off her long gloves and silk gown and folding them neatly. She pulled up the servant’s dress and buttoned it up by feel, hating the smell of the harsh detergent and the starch. All the time her heart was pounding like a tightly wound clock, and her fingers were vibrating with energy.

  She took a moment in the dark to compose herself. Her carefully curled and upswept hair had not survived the change of clothing, and she took out the pins and redid it as a severe bun coiled at her neck. She took a deep breath and opened the door. The coachman stood far away from the door, smoking a thin cheroot, the sweet, strong smell of tobacco wafting over her. He looked her up and down and then jerked his head to follow him up the stairs.

  She could see a blaze of light coming under the doors to the dining room. The coachman did not drag her or force her; she walked forward alone, knowing that if she tried to run or struggle, he would pick her up and throw her into the room. She caught the eye of the butler, waiting at the door. He gave her a disapproving look, and then opened the door for her.

  Seven men sat at the table, Trune at the head, his lean death’s head face rising above a starched white collar and black jacket. The rest were similarly attired, and she recognized all of them. She totted up the names – Iderci, Sansieri, TreMondi, Havartá, Lupiere.

  And Uncle Samwell’s old friend, Parr.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  “And here, gentlemen, is the treat that I promised you,” Trune said. “Marques, you may go. Send the courses up in the dumbwaiter.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marques bowed and retreated.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Tesara said, her voice remarkably steady. “Do your wives know you’re here?”

  She noted who looked away – Havartá and Lupiere – and who remained stone-faced. Parr looked drunk already, the red-faced man she remembered from her childhood an even more disheveled drunkard than before.

  Trune on the other hand looked pleased with himself. Tesara forced herself into a curtsey, a gesture filled entirely with contempt. It did not appear to have an impact on Trune’s self-satisfaction. “Wine, please,” Trune said.

  She brought around the bottle that the butler had uncorked and left resting on a platter with a pristine white napkin next to it. She poured carefully, filling the glasses and wiping each
tiny drop, serving as correctly as she remembered Charle serving her parents.

  She heard the sound of a creaking rope, and a bell tinkled. Despite herself she was a bit interested in how the dumbwaiter worked. She slid open the panel and pulled out the tureen, struggling to grip the heavy silver handles. It sloshed unevenly, and she had to work to keep it level, cursing her crippled hand.

  It would serve Trune right if she dumped it in his lap, but she supposed he would only pull down her parents’ cottage and salt the earth around it, she thought grimly. It was hard to carry the tureen and walk in her heavy skirts. Her tiny slippers gave her very little support, and her thick skirts caught around her legs. Still, she made it over to Trune and lowered the soup for him to serve himself. He ladled the soup into his bowl and then she carried the tureen to the next guest.

  Trune began speaking to the men, telling some light anecdote, and everyone laughed heartily, forced. The soup served, she put the much lighter tureen back in the dumbwaiter, slid closed the door, and pulled on the ropes to send it back down to the kitchen. She stood by the sideboard, hands clasped in front of her, and waited until it was time to serve the next course.

  Her demurely clasped fingers pulsated with power, even as they throbbed with habitual pain. She could feel the gathering of power, rather like the priming of the neighborhood water pump, the growing pressure eager for release.

  Not yet, she told herself. Not yet.

  “Girl, stand here,” Trune ordered. He gestured next to his chair, and with all her composure she stood next to him, though his proximity nauseated her. He leaned back, and waved a hand, displaying her to the rest of the Guild.

  “Behold the youngest daughter of House Mederos. She’s not what you expect, gentlemen. A spoiled child yes, but so much more. Much more.”

  With an effort she focused her gaze on Mr Lupiere. He had the grace to redden over his whiskers.

  “I’ve been interested in this girl for a long time, ever since she had an interesting reaction to the loss of the Mederos fleet. I asked around. Governesses are eager to talk, if you ask them the right questions – and give them the right coin.”

  Ah, so that had been her old governess, who, just like Michelina, had sold the family out. There was general laughter around the table, but she noticed that some of the men looked uneasy.

  “I made sure the daughters were sent away to a particular school, and gave the headmistress particular directions. Sadly, she was overzealous in her correction. Nonetheless, I think that we can still make use of what we have here.”

  He knew. He knew what she had done, what she could do, and he intended to use it.

  “Trune,” Mr Havartá said. “I know you’re enjoying yourself, but if you could bring this to a close, I would appreciate it.”

  Trune glared at him. “Forgive me. I do get carried away. We’re merchants. We deal in the known world and everything has a price. But what if I told you, gentlemen, that this young lady has power at her fingertips – power that can move waves and start fires? What price would you put on that?”

  They all looked around uneasily, and she almost laughed at their easily read faces. What in the name of Saint Frey have we gotten ourselves into? she could imagine them thinking.

  Parr licked his lips and jumped up. “I’ve seen it!” he cried. “I tell you, I’ve seen what she can do. She did it that night, when I was over for dinner. I watched her do it.”

  They all stared at him. Tesara gave a little shrug and spoke to the rest of the table. “He’s quite disordered, clearly,” she said. “I do hope you realize that.” There was a mutter of laughter and Parr’s face went red.

  “Quiet,” Trune said, through gritted teeth. “You will not speak unless told to.”

  “Trune,” Mr Havartá said. He set down his napkin and pushed back his chair. He looked livid. “I’ve had enough. There will be a meeting of the Guild to discuss–”

  “She’ll demonstrate.”

  Havartá stopped in mid-sentence.

  With barely disguised impatience, Trune licked his fingers and pinched the flame from the taper at the end of the table in front of him. The candle went out, sending up a tendril of smoke. He grabbed Tesara’s wrist and twisted it slightly.

  “Light it,” he said.

  She gave him a bland look, and went to take a still-lit taper to relight the other. He yanked back on her wrist. She cried out.

  “Not that way,” he said. “You know what I want.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” she said. Her fingers were really throbbing, and now a buzzing in her temples had begun as well, the resonating power spreading throughout her body. She was having trouble keeping the energy in check, and she was growing light-headed.

  “Light it!” he roared.

  She flinched despite herself. “I can’t,” she managed. She turned to the table. “Mr Havartá, please. I don’t know what he wants.”

  “Light it, or I’ll break your other hand, you little bitch.”

  The men shifted uneasily.

  “Trune…” Havartá began.

  The creaking of the dumbwaiter took them all by surprise, and the sound of the bell sang out in the dining room. Everyone remained frozen, as if wondering what to do, including Trune. Tesara shrugged, and went over to the dumbwaiter, her trembling fingers undoing the latch.

  When she slid open the panel, Yvienne crouched in the small space, peering over a platter of sauced meat. Tesara stared at her in utter astonishment. Then she grabbed the platter by its handles, wrestled it out of the compartment, used her shoulder to slide the dumbwaiter door closed, and set the platter down on the sideboard. The dumbwaiter began cranking again, and she knew it was going upstairs.

  Now she had to keep the gentlemen here as long as she could.

  So Trune wanted a demonstration, did he? Tesara smiled.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Yvienne had found the key under the half-buried rock in the shrubbery, exactly where it was hidden in the old days, and let herself in through the garden gate. The trapdoor to the cellar glistened from the wet night air and reflected light from the kitchen. It groaned as she lifted it open, and she shut it carefully over her, feeling claustrophobic in the dark, cramped space. She paused, listening to muffled male voices in the kitchen above her. A glimmer of light at the other end of the cellar came in through the uneven staircase that led up to the kitchen. She crept up the stairs and lightly pushed at the door with her fingertips, putting her eye to the crack.

  She had a limited field of vision and at first could see no one, but the voices suddenly got louder and a footman and a butler came into the kitchen. She ducked back into darkness and listened.

  “I don’t like it, Marques,” came the familiar voice of Albero. “I think it’s a shame.”

  “And it’s not our place to judge, young man,” the other man retorted. “This is Guild business.”

  “She’s a merchant’s daughter. This just isn’t right–”

  “The family has been judged and found wanting. Besides, the rest of the Guild will keep him in line. Ready the next course, and mind you don’t forget the chutney for the roast. Mrs Francini will be livid if you send up the meat wrong in her absence.”

  The cook wasn’t here then. Had Trune sent away all the female servants? That could be bad, very bad; did Trune mean to be beastly to Tesara? Could her sister’s powers save her?

  She heard the sounds of the two servants go into the next room and carefully opened the door again. The kitchen was empty except for a neatly arrayed set of platters with enticing courses, ready to be sent up in the dumbwaiter, a new addition to the kitchen. She palmed a butter knife and an oyster fork from the table and slipped them into her pocket.

  She pulled the scarf over her face again, cocked her pistol, and waited. They walked back in, still arguing, Albero carrying a small silver dish mounded high with the cream. As they registered her presence, their voices faded. The expression on Marques’s face was vastly more com
ical than Albero’s.

  The butler goggled as if his eyes would pop out of his head. Albero’s mouth dropped. The butler made to shout and she swung about and aimed the gun between his eyes. He turned pale and began to sweat and stutter.

  “I-I- you-you… my m-master is upstairs…” He continued to gawp unintelligibly, making many false starts.

  She sighed. She was going to have to talk, as it was clear he was in no condition to understand gestures. She glanced at Albero.

  “Gag him and tie him,” she said, trying to keep her voice low and masculine.

  He did as he was told, setting down the cream and grabbing up a linen napkin and stuffing it into Marques’s mouth. He used kitchen twine to bind his hands. Marques whimpered. Yvienne winced. Albero was being very thorough.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she said, exasperated. She remembered and hastily lowered her voice. “Can he breathe?”

  Albero loosened some of the napkin and the man groaned in relief.

  “Put him in the cupboard,” she ordered, and Albero dragged the butler into the little closet.

  There lay the silk dress and gloves at the floor. Yvienne was thankful for her mask – she knew she paled behind it.

  “Where is she?” she said, no longer caring that her voice was her natural one. Albero glanced at her and she knew he recognized her.

  “Upstairs. He made her dress in a housemaid’s uniform and she’s serving the men.”

  Odd, but perhaps not as bad as she first feared. She would need to hurry though.

  “On your knees,” she ordered the footman, and he obeyed. She tied him with the rest of the twine and gagged him with another linen, taking care that he could still breathe. For a second their eyes met, his over the napkin, and hers over her scarf, and he gave her a questioning look. She glared back. Then she pushed him in the cupboard. They huddled in there. She knelt to look Marques in the eyes, her pistol cocked and aimed at him at very close range. She could smell their sweat and the scent of the heavy wool and cotton of their black coats and white shirts. She growled as low as she could.