The Chocolatier's Wife

by Cindy Lynn Speer

  It was well after the middle of the night when the guards came to get him. He’d been fast asleep in their bed (at this point, he paused to apologize for beginning to sleep in it without her, at which she smiled and assured him it was fine, especially since she would be using it for the next few days without him. Both parts of this aside were, to Andrew’s ears, quite beyond the pale, and he had to be talked down from a fit of abused propriety before William was, at last, allowed to continue) when the guards pounded at his door.

  He went down to answer, worried that someone had been trying to break in, when they grabbed him and threw him into a prison carriage without another word.

  “Where am I being taken?” he asked calmly. He was not overly worried, for he could not think of anything he could have done, and that didn’t change even when he was led up the steps to the barracks, because he knew that it was more than a prison house.

  (“Did you think, at that time of night, that it was a social call?” Andrew asked.

  “You asked that the last time,” William pointed out.

  “You didn’t answer me then, either.”)

  He was taken to a room and escorted to a chair. “It was expensively decorated, and I knew it belonged to someone important, or at least someone who considers himself to be so.” He waited, then, but the waiting did not worry him because he knew it was supposed to do exactly that, fluster him and make him recount every possible sin. Instead he considered whether he wanted to import hot pepper or not. Would people, used to the idea of chocolate being strictly sweet, be interested in the idea of hot pepper being added to it?

  (“That’s what you think of when you’ve been kidnapped out of your home at 3:00 in the morning?” Andrew said. “And besides, that would be disgusting—a complete waste of your product.”

  “I think the idea sounds quite interesting, and I shall order some as soon as I get back to the shop,” Tasmin said.

  “May I continue the story, now?” William asked, giving her a small smile of thanks, and then, when both nodded for him to continue, did so.)

  Anyway, after spending about an hour contemplating the future of the shop, a man came in, one William had known from his days at sea. He was Port Admiral Eric Lavoussier, and he was in charge of all martial concerns dealing with Azin shore. In his short time as Port Admiral, floggings and hangings alike had become much more commonplace.

  “Are you prepared to explain to me what’s going on?” William finally asked.

  The admiral fiddled with something on his desk and, not looking up, said, “Can you explain your whereabouts this evening past, Mister Almsley?”

  “I supped with my family until seven-past, and then made my way home. I did some cleaning in my shop, checked the stock for tomorrow, and then went upstairs to read. Soon after, I retired to my bed.”

  “A strangely large and ornate bed for a single man,” he said. “One might say extravagant.”

  “I propose to have my wife join me very soon, and I wished her to be pleased with it.”

  “Your wife is from the northern town of Caris?”

  “Yes,” he answered in a “what the devil does that have to do with the price of tea in Pandroth?” sort of tone.

  “I wonder you’ve not sent for her. I believe she turned eighteen years ago?”

  “It seems you are the one with all the information, sir.” William shifted in the chair and yawned. Rudely and hugely.

  “Do you know Bishop Kingsley?”

  William wanted to say that since Lavoussier knew all the details of his life, maybe he should answer the question himself, but instead, “Aye, I’ve met with him on several occasions. He loves dried fruits from exotic lands, and I often provided him with the fruits of my travels.”

  “Out of friendship?”

  “Nay, twas a service he paid well for. I do not believe he would consider me a friend; I am not from his circle.”

  “Earlier in the evening, a box of chocolates was delivered to the Bishop’s home. Would you care to see?” The admiral brought out a box that could have been one of William’s, thin wood that he had manufactured and stamped on the lid with the shop’s insignia of a locket on a chain draped around a sea anchor. A gift box, then, not a casual buy, which was not surprising. He doubted anyone would buy a linen cloth bag of chocolates and present them to the Bishop. He frowned when he saw the contents. “The chocolates on the left, with the dark brown powder, those are mine. But the others, well, I didn’t make them.”

  “Really?”

  William arched an eyebrow. “Would you buy a gift box filled with something that misshapen and ugly? I am trying to start a thriving concern. No one would eat that, it looks like something a particularly dirty child made.”

  He was over emphasizing his point somewhat, more because he was trying to gain thinking time.

  “Odd that you should say so, for the Bishop ate several of them. In fact, that is what killed him.”

  William blinked, and shook his head. “Killed? Who would kill the Bishop?” The words did not make sense.

  “Oh, you do feign shock and confusion well, Mister Almsley, but we know that you manufactured these chocolates, and are responsible for the death of the Bishop.”

  “You can’t be serious. I never would put anything harmful into my candies. Besides, how do you know? You’ve hardly had time to look into the situation.”

  “And yet he is dead, and you and I are here.” The admiral took up a note from the desktop. “Your handwriting?”

  “Perhaps.” William threw the note, which merely said, “Dear Bishop, I pray you enjoy the enclosed gift, with thanks for your multitude of kindnesses ... William of Almsley” back onto the desk, as if it mattered little. “My handwriting is far from unusual. But I will say that that is not from my hand, and that if I were to deliver anything to the Bishop’s house, I would do it personally in an attempt to make it seem more like a social call than as an attempt to curry patronage.”

  “I see. But you said you were not friends?”

  “There is a difference. You should know that.”

  “I see.” The admiral sat on the edge of his desk. William chose not to break the silence, and though, he had begun to feel a little twitchy, reminded himself to relax and not play along with Lavoussier. “If you will not help with the investigation, then we shall remand you to the public jail. Guards, take him to the capital cells.”

  William stood of his own accord, stared at the other man, and said, imitating him precisely, “I see.”

  “And then they took me to the jail cell, where I passed a rather unpleasant night, and waited for my family to come.”

  Tasmin sighed. “Is he really that disagreeable a person, or do you have a reason to dislike him?”

  William tried to balance his fork on the cross piece of the cell bars. “Both,” he said quietly. “He and I have locked horns from time to time, when we were both on the waves, and I do not care for how he does things.”

  “Wonderful,” Andrew said, taking the bowls and stacking them back in the basket.

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand what the Port Admiral has to do with a murder investigation. Isn’t the Bishop’s death more a matter for the Governor?”

  “Nay, since the Burghers were burned for betraying the city a hundred years or so back, we’ve been under Martial Law.” Andrew pointed at his older brother with a fork. “But I think Lavoussier is simply looking for an opportunity to make William’s life a misery. My brother is not a politicor tactful person.”

  William shrugged. “Sometimes I’m not. But I value honesty above all.” Tasmin smiled at him, comfortingly. “As do I,” she said, and he looked away so she would not see how much that pleased him. “So, why are they holding your brother so long with no further action? The box of chocolates is not exactly a signed confession.”

  “No, but close enough
if they want to hold him, which neither I nor the esquire can find out the logic of.” Andrew turned to William. “They confiscated your stock completely, but I have men waiting to offload the next ship due with your supplies into one of the better warehouses.”

  “Cross Street Warehouse?”

  “Father would have a fit. Angel’s Head.”

  “Good.” William nodded, knowing that to be a fairly dry, safe place, well away from the water.

  They continued discussing business details, until Andrew, realizing that his wife must be missing him, made his excuses and left. The prison was starting to grow dark. “You should go,” William said, holding Tasmin’s hand through the bars.

  “I know.” She tucked an imaginary stray hair behind her ear, looking uncomfortable. “I have spent years waiting for the day we would meet and now that the day has come…” She looked at him in that intent, direct way of hers. “When were you planning on sending for me?”

  His thumb ran over her knuckles. “Soon. It’s why I’d already bought the bed.”

  “I’d hoped so, but…” She looked away. “I had expected to hear from you sooner, I suppose. I’ve been eligible for the wedding table for six years now. Six years!” She gave him a glare. “You do know that there are many, many women my age or younger with children already?”

  “I thought that you would have considered that you had better things to do?” Which was, in its own way, quite true.

  Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t know. I just thought ... I didn’t say I was sorry. By any means. I just... ” She looked up, as the clock began to chime. “You’re right, it is getting dark.”

  Still, he held onto her hand, reluctant to let it go. It was slender and delicate, despite the calluses that she had developed during her trade. He played with the ring of coral that banded one finger, smiling when he recognized it. He’d had no idea that she truly treasured the things he’d given her. “Will you be safe?”

  “Of course,” she said, and got up.

  He let her hand slip from his, and she stood there, awkwardly, as if waiting for who knew what. He smiled at her. “Stay safe, promise me?” Even though he’d asked her earlier, he could not help but ask again. He was afraid for her, a little, because he didn’t know what Lavoussier might do.

  She nodded, took her basket, and began walking down the shadowed corridor. She turned once and looked back at him, and he waved at her, until she turned, reluctantly, and went through the iron bound doors. Did she regret leaving him here? Did she regret coming, and wanted to tell him she would not be back? He doubted he would ever know, fully, what she was thinking, but he did not find that he minded that at all.

  Chapter 9

  Ferou Second, Sapphire Moon Quarter 1788

  Dear William,

  Of course I loved your necklace! Gratified, indeed! I do not have the fortune to send such grand things to you, so I have worked a healing cast, and now from it I can offer you an amulet that will ward off—supposedly, do not put too great a store in it—greater injuries, and two potions for healing, and a warming poultice for fever that needs boiling water added to it.

  I would have done so sooner, but it is just now that I have been permitted to lead a group to conduct such a weaving, and the first time I have been allowed to create spells to be kept at hand. It means that I am considered, if not at the top of my craft, very near to it. I have even received a handsome letter from a town asking me to consider becoming their Wise Woman, but I have turned it down, saying that I lack the talent of sight. I do—my sight has never been predictable—so it was not quite a lie. The amulet will come in a separate letter, for it needs to sit for one more week, but I did not wish to wait to send the rest.

  I do hope you will keep these at hand and instruct someone trustworthy in how to use them. I also hope you will keep them for yourself, but somehow I doubt it.

  Yours, eventually,

  Tasmin

  The day should have been wonderful, for the sleep certainly had been. The night before, Tasmin had spent a long time lying in their bed, staring at his side—she knew it was his, because the table on that side had a cup, a partly used candle, and a book. It was also closest to the window. It made her smile, because she had told him once, in a letter, that though she liked sleeping near a window, she hated to be next to it, because when she slept she got chilled. Maybe he didn’t remember; maybe he just wanted that side of the bed because he was used to it. Yet she buried her face partly in his pillow, one eye looking out at the night sky, and daydreamed that perhaps he had positioned it so on purpose, to give her the side that she favored, to use his own form to protect her from the cool of the night. After awhile the one eye dropped shut, and she slept the night through. When she opened her eyes again she felt wonderful and set out on her day, determined that she would begin setting things right.

  It was not to be.

  “And what exactly do you mean that I cannot have William of Almsley’s stores? Do you think they are infected?” she asked the officer in charge of evidence. She was several floors beneath William’s cell, which was fortunate because she would not have wanted him to hear her yelling like a fishwife.

  The young man at the desk blushed. “No, miss. But they were confiscated and put under quarantine for a reason.”

  “And that would be—?” she asked, her voice a sugar-coated dagger.

  “Because of the murder of the Bishop, Miss.” He was so earnest looking that she barely managed not to kick him.

  “I can understand keeping the prepared things for the investigation, but I do not see why you need to hold all the materials. If I had some of the chocolate, for example, I could make some candy for the shop.”

  “Even if I could allow that, which I cannot, you could not open the shop for business anyway,” he frowned, as if wondering what she was trying to pull.

  “Why not?”

  “Because only the owner can re-open a business after a criminal investigation.”

  “What about his wife? Could his wife re-open it?”

  “Well, of course. But you’re not. His wife, that is.”

  “So, as his future wife I could re-open the business, and since I am his future wife in desperate need to make a few pence you’d happily allow me some of the confiscated cacao so that I can do so?”

  “Good try. No.”

  Tasmin drew herself up and nodded graciously. “Have a good day, then.” And left.

  She paced the corridor twice, burning off energy, before ascending the stairs to where they were keeping William.

  William looked up from his book and smiled. “You’re early,” he said.

  “We’re getting married.” She sat on the barrel, shook her skirts agitatedly, as if trying to remove a leaf from the hem.

  “Yes,” he said, and slowly shut the book. “That was my understanding of our relationship from the beginning.”

  “Today.”

  “Ah.” The book was placed down, and he came over to her. “But you see, dear, I am in jail, and while it is possible for us to wed, it might create a rather depressing memory.”

  “Oh, that it might, but I am simply not letting them beat me. Do you know they won’t let me open the business again until you’re my husband? Every day those shelves stay bare is another day your business is closer to being unrecoverable.”

  “I hate to tell you this but... ” and she pointed at him and hissed, so he closed his mouth and waited a few beats. “So what will you sell, since they won’t allow you to have the chocolate?”

  She started pacing. “I don’t know. Tea! Little frosted cakes! Herbal potions! I don’t care, as long as the doors are open. Your brother thinks the next shipment of supplies will be soon, so I can start from there. They did not take your recipe books, thank the Heavens, and Cecelia thinks she can figure things out, having watched you work. All we need is a few simple, hard to
ruin recipes and we will be in the clear.”

  He reached through the bars and grabbed her arm, stopping her. He tugged her closer.

  “Tasmin. No. I appreciate the thought, but consider. You’ll be cheating yourself. Cheating yourself out of your wedding day, cheating yourself out of being able to run. If you wed me, and I am executed, what will that do to you?”

  “It will hardly do anything to me.” She shrugged slightly. “I shall just continue with the shop, as a constant reminder to them of how they wronged us. Or I shall go home.”

  “Your ... what is it called, Council of the Sphere? Is that what they call the leaders of your mages? That avenue will be closed to you. All you will be is a professor teaching people who don’t really want to know how to use herbs, and I know from your letters you do not care much for that life.”

  “I will find something else.” The truth was, the wife of an executed murderer wouldn’t be allowed to teach. “I don’t want to miss my wedding, either, but we must think of the practical issues, here.”

  He stepped back. “I will not trap you.” End of the matter, his stance said. But to Tasmin, it was a challenge.

  “I am only an effective tool if you allow me to be. I’ve spoken to people all morning. They won’t let me do this or that because I am not your wife.”

  “Most of those very things can be done by my brother.”

  “Ah.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means I understand and am letting the subject drop,” she said, a little sharper than she intended to.

  “I see.”

  “It’s not like I was trying to push you into matrimony. I do not wish to force you into something you obviously find utterly repugnant,” she said, feeling a little peevish.

  “Of course not,” he said, looking annoyed. Not overly, but in his eyes she could see something.

  “It’s not like I’m dying with love for you,” she said, unable to shut up, pride-stung.

  “Of course not, how could you?” It was a simple statement, but something of it smacked of sarcasm.