Agent of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  As she gazed at the lamp, wondering how she might convert it to a Device, the day’s exertions caught up with her. She barely managed to change into her nightgown and turn off the lamp before sinking into a deep, troubled sleep.

  Chapter Five

  The first sunlight creeping over her windowsill woke Telaine the next morning. Her back hurt, her legs ached, her arms felt as if she’d done nothing but lift rocks for ten hours, and her feet were sore in a way that said they’d be even sorer once she tried to use them. She had no idea how poorly prepared she was for physical labor. She sat up and realized there was a part of her body that desperately needed to be relieved of its burden. Where could the facilities be?

  She got out of bed and pattered down the stairs in her bare feet, hoping not to be seen, but unable to wait long enough to dress. The great room downstairs with the loom. A tiny formal drawing room, full to bursting with a couple of uncomfortable chairs and a table with chipped legs. The kitchen, dominated by the black iron stove. A store room filled with bolts of woven cloth. No toilet. There had to be a toilet somewhere. Every home needed one. You couldn’t—or could you? She’d seen a chamber pot under her bed, but it was old and dusty and looked antique. That left…

  …oh, no. Surely not. Longbourne couldn’t look so prosperous without having basic amenities, right? She went out the back door, crossed the yard to the second shed, and opened the door. It swung open and revealed a wooden bench with a hole cut into it. Apparently Longbourne could be that prosperous without basic amenities. Or maybe it was Aunt Weaver’s peculiarity. Either possibility was irrelevant.

  She shut the door, hiked up her nightgown, and made use of the… facilities. It crossed her mind that this might be a huge joke, that somewhere nearby was an actual toilet and this was a relic, but the smell was too ripe to be antique. She hurried to finish her business, washed her hands at the kitchen sink, and ran back upstairs to her room.

  Telaine sat on her bed and thought through her plan. Part one involved making the Baron aware of her presence. Step one of part one was, unfortunately, making herself known to the good people of Longbourne. Remembering her reception the day before, she cringed. But she didn’t see any other option short of setting up shop as a Deviser, and she had a feeling that would be seen as arrogance by those same good people.

  She picked up her shirt and trousers from where she’d dropped them the night before. She would have to care for her own clothes now, too. There was so much she took for granted, like laundry service, and her maid bringing her breakfast and making her bed, and even having her day scheduled for her. The most she’d ever done along those lines was find time to sneak away to Mistress Wright’s workshop. Having the whole day free was, contrary to sense, stifling.

  Thanks to her exertions, her shirt was too dirty to wear again, but her trousers were fine and she did have one other shirt. She’d have to humble herself and ask Aunt Weaver what to do about laundry, and put up with that disdainful look that said quite clearly what she thought of uppity wealthy girls not knowing how to do for themselves. Telaine was starting to appreciate the Princess’s life a lot more than she’d imagined.

  She dragged her hair into a braid. That, at least, she’d practiced, and she didn’t think she’d look too much like a city girl trying to fit in in the country. Not that it matters, she reminded herself. Don’t let all this get to you. Remember why you’re here.

  Downstairs, Aunt Weaver was finishing off her meal of scrambled eggs and bread toasted on one side. Of course she wouldn’t have a toasting Device. “Morning,” she said with her mouth full.

  “Morning,” Telaine replied. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Whatever you feel like making for yourself,” the woman replied, putting emphasis on the last two words. “I’ve got no time to wait on you.”

  “Oh,” said Telaine, completely taken aback. She hadn’t expected to be waited on, but cook her own food? She had no idea how to begin.

  “Eggs and milk in the cool room,” Aunt Weaver said. “Bread in the bread box. No meat today. Guess you never had to do for yourself in the kitchen?”

  “No,” Telaine said, then in a firmer voice, “but I suppose I’ll learn.”

  Aunt Weaver gave her a measured look. “You will at that,” she said. “Supper’s at six. You’re on your own for dinner.” She relented somewhat and added, “Happen you’ll find a meal at the tavern around noon.”

  “Thank you. I mean, thanks, Aunt Weaver,” Telaine said, her spirits rising. But when the woman had left the kitchen, she became depressed again. Cook her own meal. As far as Princess Telaine was concerned, eggs came out of the chicken already boiled. Lainie Bricker, on the other hand, was competent enough to figure it out herself.

  She looked around the room. The fireplace had a small fire lit in it and the ubiquitous stew pot hung from a spit over the flames. There were cupboards on either side of the boxy iron stove. One contained the cleaning supplies she’d made use of the previous day; the other held heavy jars filled with flour, sugar, salt, some kind of grainy meal, and other basic kitchen supplies.

  The cold room was behind a narrow door and it was indeed chilly. So either Aunt Weaver wasn’t totally opposed to Devices, or there was some natural feature that kept the room cold. Among other things, the cold room contained a basket of eggs and a covered pitcher of milk. She wondered where they’d come from. She left them alone for the moment and continued exploring.

  Other cupboards yielded pots, pans, plates and cups, flatware (neither silver nor stainless steel but finely carved wood), and other kitchen tools. There was also a big porcelain sink next to a wooden counter with a rack Telaine guessed might be for drying dishes. A towel hung over the side of the sink. Telaine turned the tap and fresh cold water poured out. There was only one spigot, and it had only one handle—no hot water. This combined with her toilet experience made her wonder, horrified, how she was ever going to get a bath. She turned the water off.

  Now, food. Boiling an egg shouldn’t be too difficult; it would be edible even if she boiled it too long. She hoped. The stove had three doors, two small, one much larger; Telaine opened that one and discovered it was an oven, warm but not overly hot. She couldn’t figure out how to open the smaller doors, but they, too, were warm to the touch. She held her hand palm-down over the stove top and felt heat radiating off it, but not enough to burn.

  She didn’t know how to boil water.

  She had no idea how to light a fire.

  She didn’t even know what fueled the stove.

  At home, she knew, the ovens and stoves were all Devices that turned on and off with a flick of the finger. Telaine stared at the stove, insanely hoping it might ignite simply from the power of her increasingly distressed mind. She could ask Aunt Weaver—no. She would not ask Aunt Weaver. Tonight, maybe, but she wasn’t about to go out there in front of those two girls and reveal she couldn’t even light a fire in the stove. That story would get around town quickly.

  She cut two slices of thick, nutty bread and poured herself a cup of fresh milk. She would kill for coffee right about now. She would settle for bread and milk. Just like a five-year-old.

  Having eaten her fill, Telaine went back upstairs and hid in her room. She pretended she was inventing a plan, but she knew she didn’t want to face those townspeople with their unwillingness to meet her eyes or their all too willingness to insult her. She dug in her chest and pulled out her roll of tools. Should she take them with her? Reluctantly, she put them away. Today was about meeting people. She checked her hair and clothing in the mirror, gave her reflection a stern look, and left the room.

  Aunt Weaver and her two apprentices were hard at work. “You want me to do anything for you, Aunt?” she called out over the noise of the loom.

  “Could use a bottle of honey over at the store,” she replied. “Ask for a figgin.”

  Telaine caught the young apprentices exchanging laughing glances. “I’ll do that, Aunt. Be back later.” If there was suc
h a thing as a figgin of honey, she’d eat the straw hat that had been on her floor.

  Having closed the door behind her, she stood on the stoop, closed her eyes, and prayed for endurance. How many days would this take? Five? Five would be nice. Ten would be bearable. Any longer than that, and she might not survive to go home.

  Stop whining, Telaine. This is no different from moving through a ballroom looking for signs that two supposed strangers are conspiring. You’ve been playing a role your whole adult life. This is just a new one. She opened her eyes and strode in the direction of the poor, out-of-place gazebo.

  She passed a lot of people on her way, nodded cheerily to every one regardless of how they looked at her. Most looked away when she greeted them. So much for the friendly small-town welcome. She stayed off the street to avoid the horse-drawn wagons that went in both directions, northbound ones carrying crates of varying sizes, southbound ones laden with lumber or stone. There were quite a few of the latter. No wonder Longbourne was prosperous.

  She paid attention to the layout of the main street. Longbourne didn’t seem to care about separating businesses from homes, though most of the buildings lining the main street appeared to be stores and the side streets seemed mostly houses. Aunt Weaver’s lack of a sign was an anomaly; most of the businesses sported boards declaring in word or image what could be sold, traded, bought or borrowed.

  A large number of the businesses were related to weaving or sewing. Telaine wondered if Aunt Weaver’s name was a coincidence or a conscious declaration of her trade. From what little she knew of the woman, it wasn’t impossible she’d invented weaving and named the whole trade after herself.

  She saw the general store, but passed it by, deciding to explore the town without hauling around a non-figgin of honey. Was there a laundry? She didn’t see a sign. If she got up the courage, maybe she’d ask someone. Or—horrors, might she have to wash her own clothes? She was willing to try almost anything, but her instincts told her she would make a terrible mess of that experiment.

  She stopped to examine the gazebo, wondering what Longbourne used it for. Maybe it was just some kind of civic decoration. The town hall faced the gazebo on the southwest corner of the crossroads; it had a peaked cupola and two stories’ worth of gleaming windows. The shorter building across the street east of it had a sign that said POST OFFICE above the door; Telaine hoped the mail bag had found its way there eventually.

  The building on the corner north of the town hall was a school, which surprised Telaine, then she was ashamed of her surprise. Of course people who lived on the frontiers had schools. There was no reason they shouldn’t. She remembered Aunt Weaver’s younger apprentice and wondered why she wasn’t in school. Telaine herself had been tutored and knew almost nothing of actual schools, but she thought there were rules about what age you had to be before you left. She shook her head. She was letting this town get to her. Still, what would it hurt to find things out, while you’re waiting on the Baron’s notice?

  The fourth building, standing next to the forge, looked empty, not exactly abandoned but not in use either. It was built entirely of wood rather than the stone and oak of its neighbors, and its dark brown stain was weathered as if it hadn’t been cared for in years. Large-paned windows lined both stories, lighting it clearly despite the thin clouds blocking the sun. Telaine gazed up at it, wondering what it might have been used for once.

  “You thinking of buying it?” said a drawling voice. Telaine identified it as belonging to Scarface. She put on a cheery smile and turned to face him. No fear.

  “Why, are you selling?” she asked, and heard with relief a chuckle from Scarface’s cronies. “No, of course not, I was just wondering what it was for,” she added quickly, in case Scarface got angry at being the object of ridicule. What were all these men doing in town in the middle of the day, instead of at work?

  “Not for anything, not now,” said one of the others. He had a barrel chest and skinny legs. “Been empty these seven years. Used to be a weaving factory, ’fore the local weavers drove it out.”

  “Happen you don’t need to bother your pretty face about it,” Scarface interrupted.

  Yesterday he’d scared her. Today, she got angry. “You never said your name,” she said.

  “That’s right,” he said, leaning toward her. His breath smelled of whatever meat he’d had for breakfast.

  “He’s Irv Tanner,” said another man with black hair and rosy cheeks. A fourth man, the tall burly one who’d spoken to her yesterday, shoved him a bit. “Well, he is.”

  “Mister Tanner, do you really think I’m pretty?” Telaine said, dimpling at him. Scarface Tanner looked confused. “Thanks for making me feel welcome. It’s so sweet of you. It’s hard, being a stranger here, and I’m glad to know you.” She stuck out her hand and reflexively he took it. She shook it hard, trying not to think about how much bigger his hand was than hers.

  “I was so hurt when you told me I might need to leave town when I’d only just arrived, I thought maybe you didn’t think so highly of me. But now I see you were hiding your true feelings!” She put on a shy, downcast look. “I’m flattered, Mister Tanner, I really am, but I’m afraid I can’t return your regard for me, since I won’t be staying long and I’d hate to build your hopes up like that. But I’m sure we can be friends.”

  Tanner looked bewildered now, and afraid. “See, I told you she couldn’t be nothing like herself said,” the black-haired man said in a loud whisper. He stepped forward. “Ed Decker, miss, and these here is Mikey Kent—” the tall burly man—“and Hal Johnson—” barrel chest. “Good to know you.”

  “Good to know you,” she replied, retrieving her hand from Tanner’s massive grip and shaking Decker’s. “Now I’ll know your names to say ‘hey’ next time.” Kent and Johnson showed no interest in shaking her hand, so she waved at them and added, “Goodbye for now, fellows,” and continued past the gazebo. She could feel them watching her go and suppressed the urge to put a shimmy in her walk. That wasn’t the sort of interaction she had in mind.

  As she passed the forge, Garrett glanced up from his work, then looked down without comment, but she saw him smile, the faintest curve of his lips but unmistakably a smile.

  So, “herself” had said things about her, had she? And unflattering ones, it seemed. For someone who was supposed to be her ally, Aunt Weaver was turning out to be something closer to an enemy. What could she do about it? Not much, as yet. She’d have to watch herself around her “aunt.”

  A sign ahead bore the picture of a mug of beer, much faded by time and weather, but Telaine would have recognized the tavern anyway. It had a porch broad enough for a crowd of friends to gather, windows that were single sheets of glass five feet square, and a door flung open to welcome all comers. Telaine thought about passing it—it was still mid-morning, after all—but then decided if anyone in this town was likely to be friendly, it would be the tavern owner. It was practically part of the job description.

  When her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw a large room crowded with tables and chairs cut from what Telaine guessed was local timber. The style was unfamiliar, a streamlined, minimalist approach to furniture that suited the uncluttered look of the taproom. The bar took up one corner an L-shaped curve of much-notched oak that matched the furniture, clean and brightly polished. A broad, short woman stood behind it, wiping glasses with deft gestures. She looked up, assessed Telaine with one long glance, then bent her head to her work again. “We’re not open till past noon,” she said.

  “I thought I’d drop by and ask you about dinner,” Telaine said. “My aunt told me I could get a good meal here, come dinnertime.”

  “Your aunt not feeding you?”

  “She’s busy. I’ve hardly seen her, she’s so much behind the loom.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “No, she’s a hard worker. It’s impressive.” Would the barkeep consider that a big word? The woman’s terse answers were making Telaine nervous.
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  The woman was silent for a moment. She put down one glass and picked up another. “I serve plain fare starting at one o’clock. Happen you’re not used to it, fancy city ways and such.”

  “I like plain food,” Telaine said, her temper rising. “I like Longbourne. I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t.”

  The woman looked at her, this time with her full attention. “Heard you had to come, because of getting free of your trouble,” she said.

  “Well, I could have gone anywhere, but I wanted to come here,” Telaine improvised. The woman had gone from terse to uncertain. “I wanted someplace different.”

  “You from the capital?”

  “Yes.”

  “Happen you won’t get any more different from there as here.” She went back to polishing the glass. “You’re not what I expected,” she added.

  “You know who I am, but my name’s Lainie Bricker, just in case,” Telaine said.

  “Maida Handly,” the woman said. “I’d shake hands but mine is full, as you can see.”

  “No problem, Mistress Handly.”

  “It’s Miss Handly,” she said, but without rancor.

  “Miss Handly. I’ll see you around one o’clock, and thanks.”

  Telaine left the tavern and stood for a while on its porch, breathing in the fresh air and thinking. Aunt Weaver had given a negative impression of her, and the people of Longbourne were unfriendly when they weren’t being downright antagonistic.

  This was all too strange for her to ignore, even if it wasn’t her primary goal, and it made her angry. Nobody was better than Telaine North Hunter, in any guise, at making people do what she wanted, and by heaven she was going to make these people like her. It would be something to occupy herself while she was trying to make contact with the Baron. That reminded her she’d forgotten to make sure everyone knew she was a Deviser. The dinnertime crowd at the bar would be a good time to start.