She began on one side of the street, working her way to the gate. By the third shop she had a formula down.
First she would enter the shop, poke around a little, as if amazed by how lovely the place was. Then, first opportunity, she would go and introduce herself.
“Good day. My name is Tasmin Bey, I’m William Almsley’s intended; we own the chocolate shop on this block.” And she would stop and listen to commentary on the foolishness of opening a chocolate shop, or how unlikely it would be a success now that William was considered a murderer, or how it must be so hard for her, poor dear.
The next step would be for Tasmin to formulate the most tactful responses, which usually involved managing to survive, hopefully with the shopkeeper’s good advice, and by the way, did they know anything about the night the Bishop died that could help?
None of them were overly helpful. In fact, by the time she got halfway through she was so frustrated that she stood, fuming, for several minutes outside the door of a shop before realizing it was her own. Sighing, she went to the next shop, which had a jolly display of hats with every imaginable decoration on them. There were feathers and flowers and stuffed birds and preserved butterflies, but there were also broad straw hats with scenes depicted in miniature. One made sense: it was a garden with lovely figures meandering along cleverly suggested paths; there was even a lady on a swing. At least it was more sensible than the hat with the reenactment of some obscure sea battle being fought, round and round on a straw-and-cotton sea, forever.
The twin ladies who owned the millinery cooed and pitied over her in that sort of smarmy, back-handed-feeling way that could be honest but most likely was not. “Your intended is a fine, fine man,” one said, “I wouldn’t have minded the bowl picking him for me, would you have, sister?”
“Oh, not at all.” The twin picked up a hat and placed it on Tasmin’s head. “Except for this unfortunate business, that is. How are you managing, dear?”
“I am trying my best to stay strong, but my faith in my God, my intended, and justice shall help me persevere.” It was exactly the right thing to say, which was the only thing that kept her from rolling her eyes at herself. Instead, she stared more intently into the mirror, as if trying to decide if she really wanted a hat with iced cherries on it.
They both nodded appreciatively, twin heads of spiral curls bobbing sympathetically as the one on the right, the forward one, Tasmin thought, plucked the hat off her head and brought forth one made of silver shot cotton. “Did you happen to purchase your wedding clothes before you came?” the one asked, playing with the bonnet, adjusting it just so.
She didn’t know what to say. To say yes would involve a long story, but to say no would make matters worse.
“Sister, you’re not trying to sell this poor, distraught thing a bonnet? Why, the wedding may never occur!”
“That is most unkind. Don’t listen to her, Miss Bey. And forgive me if I seem inopportune, simply the ribbon on this warms your eyes. You would look the perfect dream in it.”
How would a silver ribbon warm anyone’s eyes? “It is fine, very fine work, but I fear that... ”
“See? You were inopportune.” The less bold one said, smacking her sister on the arm, lightly, with a pair of matching gloves.
“Though I am overwhelmed by your kindness, I must allow my future mother-in-law’s opinion to inform my choices in the matter.”
They looked at her. They looked at each other. They tried not to break out laughing. They would not say what they found so funny, and she excused herself and continued on, breathing gratefully of the outside air.
She had real hopes for the chemist’s, for it was right across the street from the shop, and she was certain he must have seen something worthwhile. It was not the best chemist’s she had ever been in, for while it was extremely clean, there was not a great deal of variety. The small, dark-haired customer who was arguing with the clerk wasn’t apparently impressed, either.
“But you promised that the lenses would be here in a month, sir, and ‘tis now going on two.”
“The lenses for your type of microscope, sir, are quite rare, and so the shipping will take longer. After all, we cannot be responsible for how long things take to come from across the sea. Wind, weather.” He shrugged.
“The lenses are supposed to come from the capital, my good man, and though there are a few formidable rivers between here and there, I do not think one can call them seas.”
She barely managed not to laugh, partly because she was worried that the apothecary, when her turn came, would not be so kind.
“Very well,” the customer said, “I shall look and see if there is anything on your shelves I can possibly use.” His tone was doubtful.
She was not mistaken in her fears. The apothecary stared at her across the counter, in his sharply ironed black and white stripped apron, while she began her overtures, looking quite unimpressed. She did not get far.
“I saw nothing. I do not wish to have any part in this.”
She stopped abruptly. The man was rude, much more so than he needed to be. “But William of Almsley...” she began, hoping to coax him around.
“Has managed to bring down the value of our district. My business has suffered greatly because of him! And he’ll be bringing a Tarnia Hag in to be his wife. Imagine, a hag and a murderer, on our street? We’ll be lucky if we can keep our doors open past Light Day!”
Tasmin blinked. She blinked again. “I come from the North. A little town under the dominion of Tarnia. I also have the honor of being William’s intended.” Her voice, if the sprites had been around, would have caused them to react by freezing every liquid in the shop.
“Well.” He sniffed and rubbed the pristine white counter with a pristine white cloth. The customer, looking at a display of powdered roots, snorted.
“I suppose,” she said, “it is most fortunate that there is a chemist just a road over, is it not?” And she turned on her heel and left.
She was so angry as she walked down the street that one of the sprites, drawn by her obvious upset, raced around her, kicking up leaves and dirt in her wake, angrily diving through a tree, shaking loose a last few leaves and some twigs. Worthless, useless day! Would that she had never awakened to it. Other sprites joined the one, for they rarely ran singly, and she realized that she was leaving a wake of dust and debris. Andrew, waiting on the shop’s back doorstep, looked quite taken aback, and she forced herself to calm down, hoping her sprites would, as well. They flew ahead of her and threw the door open, ever helpful.
He paused, looked back at her, and then looked at the huge stack of papers and books in his arms before stumbling inside. She marched up the three steps and into the room, the door slamming behind her dramatically as the sprite took out the absorbed anger on it. Andrew jumped, and papers went scattering throughout the kitchen. She felt the corner of her lips tighten, then forced herself inward, forced the passions surging around her heart to become calm, tranquil, imagining her spirit as a deep, peaceful lake. When she opened her eyes she felt a tiny bit better, enough to attempt some façade of calm. Sheets of paper were floating through the air and stacking themselves, somewhat askew, on the table.
“My God. You are a hag. I tried not to think poorly, because of William, but... ” He seemed terrified.
“Hush. I am not a hag. I shall make us tea, and you, you shall clear off the table so that we may sit at it in peace.”
“But surely your familiars can do such a mundane task for you?”
She gave him a shocked look. “Never, ever ask a wind sprite to make tea. Or cook. Not unless you love the idea of having a charred pile of rubble rather than a home.”
“Wind sprite?” he asked, as she opened the stove door and knelt in front of it, coaxing the banked fire back to life with some fresh kindling and a little nudge. Soon she was able to put in a log, and then shut the door, adj
usting the draft in the front. William had a dented copper kettle bearing the name of his last command on it in faint script that she always kept filled with water, so all she had to do was slide it onto the burner. She didn’t answer Andrew, so he began moving the rest of William’s paraphernalia that had not yet gotten put into a cupboard. Her tea things took up part of one shelf, and she reached for a blue glazed clay pot that looked out of place next to William’s selection of ivory and gold porcelain.
“They are sprites, the fae, fairies, you know.”
“Yes, I just can’t believe you have them tame as pets.”
“I would never call them tame. Pets, yes, in the fact they are affectionate towards me and I adore them, but that’s about as close as one can get.”
William had a set of cups that were obviously not for the customers, for they were dark and heavy. She hefted one and decided to use them for their tea.
“How did you manage to form a relationship with wind sprites?” Andrew took them off her and placed them on the table.
“I found them holed up in an old castle that was being demolished. They were miserable. Sprites need to attach themselves to something, a building, a person, it doesn’t matter what; they need a focus. So they were all frightened because their anchor was being destroyed around them.”
She could still hear the eerie, pained cries as she climbed the rubble to the tower. They had made themselves known to her, though she wasn’t able to hear them at that time, just sense things from them. So, standing by herself in the castle tower shell, the sound of the wind screaming through the chinks in the stone, she had felt pain and sorrow and fear so dense that she’d thought she would collapse.
“I thought maybe they were hungry, I felt they were hungry, and so I took some chocolate ... your brother has sent me enormous amounts of chocolate of every kind over the years ... and gave it to them. And they decided that anyone who always has chocolate and who seems to understand their thoughts was good enough for them. So they sort of attached themselves to me. ‘Tis highly unusual, and a little morally wrong, as when I die they will be without focus again.”
She sighed, and kept working. She dropped the sugar tin and bent down to retrieve it, pleased to see the lid had stayed on.
“First bit of luck all day,” she said, showing him.
“So, your interrogations did not go well?”
She shook her head. “Word travels fast. How did you know?”
She was just now discovering the sugar tin lid had remained on because it was stuck fast, not by virtue of luck, and so he took it from her and began working the lid off.
She took her tea pot and rinsed it in hot water.
“As you said, word travels fast. I’ve made it a point to keep an eye on you, not for any bad reason, but because you are essentially alone.” He managed to get the lid off, and put the tin on the counter.
“How kind,” she said, though she knew he was more concerned with the family name being further sullied than for her own safety. “Is that why you have come to visit?”
He shrugged it away. “I am quite worried about William, and bethought that you might like to help me sort through some papers. The charges against William have been applied because of three what they call Undeniable Factors.” He gently pushed her aside so he could check the stove. “First, the chocolate in the box marked with his logo. Chocolate is not impossible to find, but no one else boxes it and sells it. It’s usually sold to the public as a material for drink making, not as a product, do you understand?”
She nodded and poured them each a cup of tea before settling herself at the kitchen table.
“So, that is damning.” Andrew joined her, staring pensively at the cup’s contents. “Then, there are no witnesses establishing that he was, indeed, home. The last people to see him that evening were his family, and they would, of course, be willing to lie about the time. But lastly.” He looked at the ceiling beams. “The previous owner of this place was the Bishop himself. I know William bought the place through an agent, but the agent’s name isn’t in the paperwork, which it should be, for him to get his commission. It looks like William brokered the deal for this shop directly from the Bishop himself.”
“But a man like the Bishop would never sully himself with such a thing.”
“True. Add in the fact that there is no reason for him to have owned a shop in the first place. He was always in the Service of Light, he’d never have a reason to own a building on this street, and clergy are not allowed to take part in secular affairs, such as selling goods. What is even more disturbing is that the logged price that William paid was abysmally low. Our lawyer says it looks like a classic deal where payment from one party to another is expected to be in a different form, or that part of the party ... William, in this case, is being paid off or bribed. I think it sounds rather foolish, but Lavoussier is chewing on that angle like an overeager terrier. My bet is that the agent stole the money and re-wrote the paperwork to cover it up.”
“How can those be called undeniable? Any of them can be considered deniable!” she said. “All right, perhaps not the times that he was at home, but anyone could have made a box that looked roughly like the ones William uses.” She pointed to a pile of thin wooden boxes. Several sizes, different colors. They all had the locket and anchor logo burned into them. “We never actually saw the box. Are we sure it’s one of his? And the whole supposed deal between the Bishop and William sounds like utter nonsense.”
He raised his hands as if defending himself. “You are asking the wrong man. Or the wrong brother, at least. I don’t know. And when I asked William about it, he could give me no clues. Just that he went through an agent named Terrence Derbyshore, who, as far as I can tell, doesn’t exist.”
She sighed. “William kept ledgers; maybe they would say what he actually paid? Would that be proof?”
“No, because ledgers are easier to fake than papers. Yet I would still like to see them. Where are they?”
“In the bedroom. Nay, don’t get up; it is far more improper for you to go into an unwed lady’s boudoir than it is for me to go into my intended’s bedroom.” She went to get them, leaving Andrew to clatter about helplessly in the kitchen. There were three large volumes and a partial, and she regretted not letting Andrew carry at least one. More than that, she thought uncharitably, they would have doubtless caused his willowy form to bend in twain. She felt the weight lift a little, her hands feeling warm as the sprites lifted from underneath. The steps were a threat until she felt someone lift her skirts from in front of her feet, but finally she made it to the table, where the books made a dense bang as they landed.
“Only three and a half? Are you quite sure this is all?”
She glared at him. “Perhaps your brother writes small. All we need is the sale of the shop, anyway, for now.” She dragged the newest one off the top of the pile and opened it, feeling as if she were invading something very private.
“Then why did you bring them all?”
She hoped William was never so pedantic. “In case we needed them. There might be a key or something we need to reference, or we might think of something else we might need to look at. You are serious about investigating?”
He glared at her, and she ignored him, turning her attention to the neatly written page in front of her. “Ah, thank heavens, he kept them in order. See? Here are the business expenses.”
William had marked the first page of the ledger with his key and some notations carried over from the previous book. Shipping, shop, family, Tasmin, children—all had their own little accounts in his book.
“I think this one covers the last part of his time in shipping.”
The code was not easy to make out, so she just looked for large numbers, since William seemed to use an odd form of short hand, and he did write tiny. Finally she found a number in the expenditure column (at least she thought it was, it said, at
the top of the page, exp, and the other was pft.) that was so large it had to be the shop.
“Maybe this is it?”
“Ah, yes.” Andrew took the ledger. “He did pay much more than the contract said. Of course, a really good forger could take William’s and the Bishop’s signatures and transfer them anywhere. Once the document was registered at the court of deeds, who would look at it again?”
She sipped her tea and took another ledger. She could make nothing further out of them; William had used some obscure accountant’s code that doubtless he and Andrew had been taught from the cradle. She looked at Andrew when he grunted, shuffled through a couple of pages, pointed to something, and went and did it again.
“What is it?”
“Everything looks quite clean, everything adds up, but so far there doesn’t seem to be any room for incidentals. Where is he keeping his walking around money listed? These books are like private journals. He can be completely honest, he must be or he might forget some important transaction and ruin himself.”
“Maybe he’s just putting it aside. Perhaps if I searched the mattress I’d find bank drafts or a pouch of coins?” She thought he was being ridiculous; whatever few pennies William kept in his pocket would not make or break them.
He gave her a scandalized look, and said, “My brother is a clever business man. He would never put such funds aside when they could be earning their keep in a bank.”
She was trying to come up with a clever response when someone rapped on the door.
Andrew leaned back in his chair, looking through the glass of the window. “Ah, it’s one of my servant’s sons. I keep him as a messenger.” He gestured and yelled, “Come around the back!” The boy nodded, and a moment later he was coming in through the back door.
He bowed. “Sir! Your brother! He’s being released!”
Tasmin let out a breath of relief and grinned at Andrew. He didn’t look surprised. “What happened, child?” she asked, wondering why Andrew wasn’t grinning like she was.
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