Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

  Tesara cocked her head. “What are you doing?” she said at last.

  “Here?”

  “In general. Mirandine, you’re acting as if you’re in a stage tragedy.”

  “I am in a tragedy,” Mirandine said, sounding more like herself. “You would be too, if you were shut up in this house.”

  Just like that the mood was dispelled. She led Tesara over to a large bow window and threw open the mildewed velvet curtains. A powerful cloud of dust rose, setting them both coughing, but the dimness gave way grudgingly to gray daylight. They sat on the threadbare cushion of the window seat.

  Tesara inspected her friend. Mirandine was as beautiful as always, her lips painted red and her eyes lined with kohl, but there was strain at the corners and her forehead wrinkled with concern.

  “Why are you confined here? Why haven’t you gotten in touch with me? And why are you–” she gestured “–acting like this?”

  “Well, I could ask much the same of you, but I’ll answer first. I’m shut up here because Mama Saint Frey has threatened to off herself because of Jone’s disappearance. I haven’t gotten in touch with you – and mind you, you can pen a letter too, can you not? – because I thought the Mederos family was far too busy restoring its fortunes to bother with the likes of me. And I’m acting like this because I thought I might take it up. Papa Depressis has been carrying on with an actress and she said that I was a natural for the stage.”

  “What?!” Tesara could not believe her ears.

  “No, it’s true. Apparently all the historical drama we had to learn at school paid off.”

  “I meant about Jone’s mama. She isn’t really going to kill herself, is she? She can’t. Mirandine, I know where Jone is.”

  She had a slight sense of satisfaction at Mirandine’s shock. She hurried to explain. “He’s at sea. I saw him on board the Empress when my parents sailed. And he sent me a letter, explaining everything.”

  “Oh, Tesara, this is marvelous news!” Mirandine seemed genuinely happy. “Do you know what this means? I can finally leave my post!”

  “And that Jone is all right,” Tesara pointed out.

  Mirandine made an impatient face. “I always knew that. I had faith in him, dear boy. He had to get away from that woman, somehow.” She waved an elegant arm to illustrate.

  “Is that why she asked for me?” Tesara asked. “Her letter was quite… terse.”

  “It must be, but she doesn’t confide in me,” Mirandine said. “I must admit, I’m rather surprised that she called for you.”

  “That makes two of us,” Tesara muttered.

  “And Jone didn’t confide in me either,” Mirandine said, and something in her voice made Tesara look at her in the dim light. It took her a moment to realize that it was hurt that sounded in her sophisticated friend’s expression. Then Mirandine gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, Jone. When I see him next, I’ll scold him. What did he say?”

  Tesara didn’t miss a beat. “He didn’t say much. He told me he wanted to seek his fortune. He didn’t want to be Jone Saint Frey of Port Saint Frey any longer.” She smiled at a memory. “When I saw him aboard the Empress, he already looked like a sailor.”

  “Jone with muscles. Who would have imagined?” Mirandine opened a cigarette case and selected another cigarillo. “Did his letter mention me?”

  “Only in the most general way – about the good times we had last summer.”

  “Ah.”

  I hate this, Tesara thought crossly. Why did Jone have to put me in this position? “When did you start smoking?” she asked, to try to avert more uncomfortable questions.

  “About the time Jone proposed to me, so I expect about, mmm, four months ago.”

  Tesara stared at her. “Oh,” she managed. That was not how Jone had put it.

  “Yes, I had the same reaction. I can’t imagine why he did it – unless his mother put him up to it. I always thought he loved you. And it wasn’t as if I wanted to marry him. We’ve been good friends since we were kids, you know. Best cousins. The slightly awkward, slightly fast, not like the rest of the family set.”

  Mirandine lit the cigarillo but did not smoke it, just watched the smoke curl into the gloomy hall.

  “So he proposed – did you accept? I mean…” Tesara stopped.

  “I did. I didn’t mean to, but when one’s cousin proposes, and one loves the cousin like a brother – well, it doesn’t sound likely but yes, I said yes. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. As soon as I did, I could tell he regretted it. I think he thought that he had done his duty, and if I had been thinking I would have said no, and he could have gone back to Mama, and told her, ‘well, I tried.’”

  “Ah,” Tesara said. “That never seems to work.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Mirandine smiled her brilliant smile, and Tesara could have sworn her eyes were bright in the gray daylight. “But now you’re here to save the day. You can show Mama Saint Frey the letter, and she’ll know Jone’s alive and well and becoming muscular and tanned, and I can go home to Ravenne.”

  “Miss Mederos,” said the butler and they looked at the man as he loomed out of the shadows, a skeletal figure clad in black, only his white hair and old gray face showing above his collar. “Madam will see you now.”

  “Jolly her up, will you, Tesara? I’ll be here.”

  Tesara followed the butler down the dark hallways, the sweet smell of tobacco trailing along behind her as if Mirandine trod along in their path.

  As soon as Tesara stepped into Madam Saint Frey’s sitting room, she was reminded of Madam Callier’s Academy for Young Ladies. But it wasn’t the strong-willed, wicked headmistress she was thinking of, but of her old nurse, Michelina, when she died their first year at school. The room had the same sickroom stink to it, as if the sheets had not been washed in a long time. The fire burned hot, and Tesara felt uncomfortably warm in her coat, which the butler had not taken when she arrived, and for which she had been thankful in the drafty hall. She dared not take it off here, and she remained standing ill at ease, as Madam Saint Frey waved a languid hand to her manservant.

  “Savain, light the lamp in the window, please.”

  “Yes, madam.” With the same stiff, slow care, the butler set up the lamp, filled it with camphene from a metal tin, and lit it, the camphene oil sweet in the odorous sick room. It was almost too much for Tesara; she swallowed the nausea that rose up at the combination of thick, cloying smells, and put her sleeve against her nose and mouth to gain control. The lamp shone in the window, a beacon of light in Fog Season. Sitting as it was in the window, it barely lifted the oppressive twilight of the sitting room.

  At another wave of Madam Saint Frey’s languid hand, the butler backed out of the room, closing the doors.

  Jone’s mother sat up on an ancient chaise longue. Despite the immense heat of the room she had a rug across her legs. She wore a pink silk robe, and her unbound hair was twisted in a thick loose braid that trailed over her shoulder and down the front of her gown. Her hair was surprisingly full and shiny, a warm chestnut brown. With a shock, Tesara identified what it was – a wig.

  Tesara remembered her manners and bobbed a curtsey.

  “Ma’am–” she began, but Madam Saint Frey held up a hand. She closed her eyes, as if listening to an inner voice. Tesara kept from rolling her own eyes. The sooner she relayed her message the sooner she could make her exit. “Ma’am,” she repeated in a rush, wanting nothing more than to get out of the stifling room. “Your son sent me a letter – he is aboard the Iderci Empress, and he’s sailing round the world. He doesn’t know when he will return, but you may write to him by packet mail.”

  “You wicked, wicked girl,” Madam Saint Frey intoned.

  “I– I beg your pardon?”

  “You will never marry him,” Jone’s mother declared in throbbing tones of high emotion. She shook her fist, as if it held a fistful of dice, and then sank back, her arm draped across her forehead. Her out
burst had caused her wig to shift, and a bit of gray, tangled hair peeked out from beneath the chestnut tresses.

  “He was meant to marry his cousin Mirandine,” Madam Saint Frey went on. “And then he met you, a good-for-nothing merchant girl, of no consequence to a Saint Frey, and all of a sudden, a Depressis was not good enough for him. As if the bloodlines of the Saint Freys could stand to be so polluted. I hounded him, I tell you! I harangued, I argued day and night and I told him of your true nature, and he still would not budge. I told him I would have old Savain thrash him, as he used to do when Jone was a child, and do you know he laughed at me? He laughed!” Her eyes flashed again. “And I am happy he’s gone! Happy, because it means he will not marry you! I would rather my son, my flesh and blood, my name, be gnawed by the leviathans of the deep than throw away his name and his nobility on you!”

  She gasped, her tirade leaving her breathless, and sat back triumphantly. She smacked her hand against the upholstered chaise, raising a cloud of dust.

  Tesara stood like stone. What a ridiculous old woman; she felt nothing for her except sadness. She had driven her own son away in her madness and need, and her insults were pathetic and absurd. It was stupid to have answered her summons. Nothing she said would get through to Madam Saint Frey; she clearly wished to wallow in her grief and indignation.

  “I see,” she said at last, and curtseyed again. “Good day, ma’am. I wish you well. I will not return.”

  She turned on her heel and fumbled for the doorknob. It didn’t budge. Frowning, Tesara twisted the giant knob again. It was locked. She was shut in with a madwoman. A flash of panic ran through her and she turned back to Madam Saint Frey.

  “Madam,” she said, fighting for calm. “Ring for your manservant.”

  “Insolent girl! I will not be ordered about. You will leave at my pleasure.”

  Tesara’s tone turned to ice; Alinesse’s daughter would not be denied. “I cannot imagine, madam, an instant at which my presence is your pleasure. Release me, ma’am, and I won’t pollute your home any further.”

  Madam Saint Frey stared her down. “You little fool. You’ve no idea of the net you’re tangled in. You’ll wait here until it’s time for you to be taken away.”

  Confusion, followed by realization, overcame her. Of course. Whatever her feelings about the unsuitable nature of merchant daughters, Madam Saint Frey had no qualms about dealing with the Guildmaster. She had been sold.

  Tesara ignored the madwoman on the chaise and cast about for a way to escape her prison. She wiggled the doorknob again, to no avail. She crossed the room in two steps and went over to the window where the little beacon cast its light onto the city – no doubt the signal to Trune or to his henchman that his quarry had been run to ground, she thought, bitter. What a little fool indeed. She and Yvienne had underestimated Trune after all. Furious, she plunged the lid down on the lamp, extinguishing the flame. The room was plunged into a deeper twilight, only the fire on the grate providing any light.

  “No!” cried Madam Saint Frey. “How dare you!”

  “Madam, if you do not call for your manservant to release me, I will dare much more,” Tesara said. She was coldly angry now, and her hands trembled. Madam Saint Frey’s frail condition be damned – she would use her powers on her if that’s what it took to escape. Of course! Tesara, you idiot! She whirled and thrust her hands at the ornate doors. With a whoosh, she pushed air at them. They rattled, but did not budge. Despairing, Tesara tried again, and this time, the air impacted against the door with a boom that shook them but they did not shatter, or blow off their hinges. Sweat sprang out on her forehead and the now-familiar nausea rose in her throat. She stopped, waiting for the physical reaction to subside.

  At least they will hear that downstairs, she thought. She hoped.

  Madam Saint Frey glared at her. “I demand that you listen to me!” she cried, and full of anger she picked up the tin of camphene oil from the table next to her and threw it petulantly on the fire.

  With a whoosh, the fire roared up, and flames licked out of the fireplace. Soot and smoke billowed in its wake. Jone’s mama shrieked at what she had done, scrambling off the chaise with more alacrity than Tesara would have thought she possessed. “See what you made me do! Put it out! Put it out!”

  Tesara snapped, “You blasted madwoman!” She grabbed the drapes from the window and pulled them down, choking at the dust, and threw them over the fire. Surely the heavy velvet would suffocate it, she thought. And at first the flames were extinguished, heavy dark smoke leaking around the fabric. She had a moment of relief, and then to her horror the fire caught again, fueled this time by the desiccated, shredded fabric. Coughing, she stepped back, one arm over her face. Madam Saint Frey was backed against the wall, shrieking at the approaching flames.

  “Open the door! Open the door!” the old woman sputtered.

  “I would if I could!” Tesara shouted back. “You idiot! That’s why I said to call for your man!” She yanked again at the doorknob, and this time, to her horror, it came off in her hand. Oh my God, she thought. The door wasn’t locked. It had jammed, due no doubt to the general disrepair of the household. Unless the butler or Mirandine were standing right outside the door, the fire could quite easily go unnoticed until it was too late.

  Madam Saint Frey’s answer was to wail louder.

  How high up were they? Tesara ran to the window and despaired – they were high over the rocky cliffs. Her powers were one thing, but she couldn’t fly, not even without Jone’s mother to save. She had a special affinity for fire, because somehow fire and light and waves and air were all related. But she didn’t need to call up a fire – they had quite enough fire at the moment. She had to extinguish it.

  She spared a glance for Madam Saint Frey. The woman was terrified, struggling for breath, and her long chestnut wig was beginning to smoke from errant sparks. Tesara grabbed her and pulled her close to the window, dragging the wig off her head and throwing it across the room. It snaked along the ground, smoking, and looking alive.

  Despite the danger Madam Saint Frey shrieked at the insult, clutching her gray, balding locks. “How dare you?” she cried out. “You terrible low-bred girl!”

  Tesara ignored her. She tried to lift the sash but the wood frame had swelled after so many years of wet weather and neglect. She still had the doorknob in her hand. She swung hard, and it shattered the window with a satisfying crack, glass falling outward over the cliff. Cold air rushed in. The small lamp teetered on the windowsill and then fell over the edge. She hoped savagely that it clunked Trune or his coachman on the head when it landed.

  Now they could breathe, but so could the fire. And they still couldn’t get out.

  Think think think. She had to be able to stop the fire.

  She closed her eyes, feeling the heat against her face, hearing the crackling of the approaching flames. But she also felt the growing energy in her fingers. She didn’t need to push air at the fire, because that would just feed it.

  She had to pull the air away from it. She had to create a vacuum, and seal the fire inside. She and Jone’s mother would be sealed in too, but perhaps they could be revived once the fire was extinguished.

  The searing flame made it hard to concentrate but Tesara closed her eyes and began to pull. Her nausea increased, and she forced herself to ignore it. She had to work delicately; she had to pull the air, but not the fire. She worked at the edges of the flames even as they licked closer to her and Madam Saint Frey. It helped to imagine a dome pressing down from the ceiling, and the air escaping beneath it. She lowered the dome over all of them, the smoke and the lack of air making her desperate to breathe. Madam Saint Frey crumpled beside her with a look of ghastly distress. Tesara fell to her knees, choking for air even as she pulled it from the room. As she lost consciousness, she imagined the fire dying along with them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  All in all, Yvienne thought, returned from her visit with the Meder
os attorney and Inigho Demaris and his advocate, it had been a most successful meeting. Dr Reynbolten had been entirely helpful in going over the prospective contracts, and Inigho had been the perfect gentleman while he was also the picture of a smart merchant. He had only once let his wolfish nature slip, during negotiations over a particular clause, and she found herself sparring warmly for her House’s rights, and at the same time wondering what it would be like to continue their acquaintance. If her intellect was focused on the contract, her body was most agreeably intent upon the other game they played. If I am not careful, she thought, I am in danger of losing my head and my heart over this man.

  Now she settled down in her study with a cup of tea and paperwork, her stockinged feet up on an embroidered footrest, going over the rest of the House business. This had been a little-used room when her parents were here, more of an architectural afterthought than a study, or a solar, or a breakfast room, or any other of the named rooms in the large house. Yvienne claimed it for her own after her parents set sail, because it hadn’t seemed right to make herself at home in their offices. Her study was a cozy room, filled with old charts and almanacs, and warm wool rugs from other climes, and end tables that invited one to set down plates of scones and tea cups and curl up on the sofa and doze. Even without a fire, it was comfortable, because the thick drapes held in the warmth.

  There came a knock at the door, and Albero poked his head in. “The Alcestris are here,” he announced.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” she said, throwing on a shawl against the chill held by the rest of the drafty house. She thrust her feet into her shoes. “Hurry, Albero. It will be splendid to be able to breathe in this house once again. Where’s Tesara?” She would want to be here for this moment, she was sure.

  “She’s out on errands, Miss Vivi.”

  Ah well, they could celebrate when she returned. They all would – the smell had truly permeated the house. It had, if anything, worsened, now that they had opened the elevator shaft several days ago to try to assess the situation. It was a combination of rotten food and death, and mildew and must. She covered her mouth and nose with one end of the tasseled shawl and hurried after Albero.