Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

  The two Alcestri brothers and their sister stood at the dumbwaiter shaft, looking up and talking amongst themselves. They all looked remarkably alike with dark eyes and dark hair and aquiline noses. The physiognomy was only slightly more female in Miss Alcestri, because her brothers’ faces had a feminine structure about them. They were a wonderfully handsome family.

  “You can’t imagine how grateful I am to see you all,” Yvienne exclaimed. “Miss Alcestri, thank you all for coming to our rescue.”

  “Of course,” Miss Alcestri said. “We were surprised it failed – the engineering was superb. But retrofitting is a tricky business. We’ll soon have it set to rights. Of course, you’ll have to engage another tradesman to stop up the hole where the animals get in. That’s what the smell is, you know – a nest of squirrels, no doubt.”

  “It’s wonderful how they get into houses,” said a brother, peering up at the shaft. He gave Yvienne a look. “Them and rats. The smallest opening and they worm right in.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Yvienne promised. She steeled herself and peered up at the shaft. A rush of fetid cold air whooshed down at her and thick twisted rope cables disappeared into the darkness above. The shaft was as narrow as a chimney, set in between the walls. She could scarcely believe she fit in the dumbwaiter car. Though I was half-starved back then, she reminded herself. The younger Alcestri brother squirmed in next to her, holding up a lantern, pressed up tight by her.

  “Here, let’s take a look,” he said, and opened the brass window over the glass. Now she could see further up the shaft – the bottom of the dumbwaiter loomed above them. Something caught her eye.

  “Wait – move the lantern slightly to the left,” she ordered, forgetting the ill-mannered nearness of young Mr Alcestri. Now she could see something half out of the dumbwaiter. It was large and it was stuck.

  “That’s no squirrel,” Yvienne said. Horror dawned.

  “Where is that?” Mr Alcestri asked. “Second floor?”

  “Caught between the second floor and the attic,” Yvienne said. She squirmed to get out, and for a second they were stuck, until he held her still with one arm and backed himself out first.

  “All right now, Miss Mederos,” he said, and she ducked out, and looked at them, indecision in their faces.

  “Well?” she said. “What are we waiting for? To the second floor, people. Hurry.”

  They thundered after her up the stairs to the blank surprise of Noe, who was descending with the carpet sweeper. The door to the dumbwaiter came out in what was once Trune’s office, now restored to Alinesse’s study. They slid open the panel in the wall, and looked up. Yvienne grabbed the lantern and thrust it up the shaft, peering as it illuminated the darkness. They were closer now, and she could see a bulky coat and trousers. The smell of decomposition was stronger, and she had to fight the reflex to gag. She pulled her head and shoulders out of the shaft and faced the others. They were all somber.

  “Albero,” Yvienne said. She had trouble speaking. “Go send the gardener’s boy for a constable. Give him a note – do not tell him – you know what to do. Then come right back.” He nodded and ran. She covered her mouth, and then regained her composure. Miss Alcestri laid a comforting hand on her arm. “Miss Alcestri,” Yvienne said. “How do you propose we manage this?”

  “Well,” Miss Alcestri said, “Ludo is the smallest. We can access the shaft from the attic. Ludo can climb down and see what – I mean, how – we can best extricate – well. Ludo?”

  No one could speak of it. How extraordinary, Yvienne thought, that none of them could speak of what was caught in the dumbwaiter shaft.

  Ludo nodded bravely. His big brother patted his shoulder. They had to go down to the back of the house and up the servant stairs to reach the final flight to the attic. No one spoke. Old trunks and broken household furnishings loomed in the twilight under the eaves. The only light came from the fanlights under the gables at the end of the attic.

  Here there was no concealing door – the cables were attached to a massive pulley system bolted into the attic ceiling between the rafters. Ludo, encumbered by a formidable toolbelt, stepped between the timbers and began to shinny down the cable. They heard a thump as he landed on the top of the dumbwaiter, and a strangled noise of disgust.

  “Hey,” he called up a moment later. “I can free him. I’ll attach the rope, and you’ll have to haul him up.”

  “All right, Ludo,” his sister called. “Icci, the rope.”

  The elder Alcestri brother quickly dropped the thin, strong rope down the shaft.

  “Ready,” Ludo said. “He’s free. He’s, uh, dead weight and there’s a lot of him, so – I’ll guide the body from here, and you pull.”

  Yvienne ranged herself behind the Alcestris. Albero burst into the attic, breathing hard, eyes wild.

  “Sent the boy on the double,” he said, and without another word he got in place behind her. They gripped hard, pulling slow step by slow step, with Ludo shouting instructions, his voice hollow and strained. Finally she could feel the body move more smoothly, and they got into a rhythm, pulling hand over hand as the rope coiled behind them.

  “Almost there,” Ludo shouted, and Yvienne caught sight of the massive four poster bed, carved of mahogany, a relic of her grandparents’ life.

  “Tie the end of the rope, quickly,” she said, and Albero, proving that every young man in Port Saint Frey dreamed of the sea, tied a sailor’s stopper knot as if he did it every day. Now they could pull without worrying about losing the body, or Ludo.

  Finally the dead man appeared at the top of the shaft. Miss Alcestri and her brother ran forward and pulled the body out and laid him on the floor. As one, they all gave cries of disgust and horror. Shinnying up the rope came Ludo, all but forgotten.

  Yvienne took a deep breath to calm her heart and edged forward. The dead man was dreadfully decomposed, but there was no mistaking his features.

  It was Uncle Samwell’s old friend and nemesis, Barabias Parr.

  Chapter Twenty

  The gray light of Fog Season could scarcely be distinguished from noon or evening. Abel lay entwined with Elenor Charvantes, the second assignation in as many days. She drowsed in the crook of his arm. He cursed himself for a fool. This was too dangerous; Doc would kill him if he knew. And though he was not afraid of Jax Charvantes for himself, he knew the lieutenant would be brutal to Elenor if he found out.

  He was restless, jumpy. As carefully as he could, he slid out from under her and left the bed, the cold air a slap against his nakedness. In the bed, Elenor murmured, but continued to doze. Abel went to the window and looked out. It was midday but the streetlamps of the fog-shrouded city were nothing but smears of light in the mist.

  Some other light caught his eye. Red and yellow flames from across the city, high on the western headland. Abel frowned and looked closer. Fire.

  “Aren’t you cold?” said Elenor sleepily behind him.

  “It feels good,” he said, without turning to her. What could be burning so high above the city?

  “What are you looking at?” She was fully awake now. Her bare shoulders almost glowed in the dim lamplight. Her hair had fallen from its prim bun and was tousled and wild. She was lovely and he was an idiot. She got out of bed, wrapped in the blanket, and peered out the window. Her gaze sharpened. “My God. That’s the Saint Frey place.” Almost as soon as she remarked upon it, the fire dwindled, and finally disappeared. The mists closed in as if there were nothing there.

  “Oh, my goodness. I hope no one was hurt. Madam Saint Frey lives alone, mostly, but I understand her niece has been living with her lately. Oh, there are the bells. The firetrucks are on their way.”

  Abel could hear them now too, the clangor rising up to the third floor of the Bailet. Elenor put her arms around him, pulling him inside the blanket with her. He closed his eyes, the sensation of her desire overwhelming him, overpowering his nerve endings.

  “I’
ve often thought that it would be a wonderful thing if my friend Tesara married Jone Saint Frey,” Elenor mused, her cheek resting against his shoulder. “They’ve always liked one another. He could get away from that awful mother of his, and Tesara would be happier, I know it. But then again, I haven’t seen Jone in society at all these past months. But they used to be thick as thieves at the salons, not six months ago. I’m sure his mother put her foot down – the Saint Freys tend to look down upon merchant families.”

  Interesting, Abel thought. Interesting that a girl who had extraordinary capabilities and powers should like a boy who had not been seen in society for months. Interesting that his mother should stand against the match. And interesting that her house should catch fire.

  “I have to go,” Elenor said, sighing against his skin. He turned to face her, and she rose on tiptoes to kiss him. He felt himself helpless under the onslaught of need, hers and his.

  “Elenor,” he began, knowing it was no use.

  “I know. It’s not safe. I know. I won’t come back here. We’ll think of something else.” She was trying to be brave; he could tell. She gave him a smile, touched with rue.

  “We will,” he promised, cursing himself for his own weakness. He had to end it, for both their sakes, and at the same time he knew he would not be able to withstand her.

  She dressed quickly and wrapped herself up against the cold, her scarf muffling her face. He made sure the hall was empty before she left his room and scurried down the hall to the stairs.

  Abel dressed and went downstairs to the Bailet dining room for an early lunch, nursing a glass of beer along with a thick garlic and beef stew, and instead of wondering how to find Trune and kidnap the Mederos girl, he spent his time trying to determine the best way to protect Elenor Charvantes from her brutal husband, and still be able to see her. And still, in the back of his mind, he wondered about the fire at the Saint Frey mansion, so quickly put out, and its odd, almost inconsequential connection to Tesara Mederos.

  Water trickled into Tesara’s mouth and she coughed it out, her throat so constricted she thought she would never breathe again. She could hear nothing, see nothing, could only feel the cold compress at the back of her neck, the horrible constriction of her lungs and throat, the smell of vomit and blood and soot.

  She heard voices as if from far away, dreadfully stretched out and odd, as if they were songs from a distant land. Someone sat her up and thumped her back and it helped a bit as the pain in her lungs and chest cavity eased. She was still unable to see or hear.

  Dear God, if I live, can I stand to live like this?

  When she woke again, she could see and hear, though her head still buzzed, and her vision was hazy. Tesara looked through the film in her eyes at an indistinct ceiling. She reclined in a bed, propped up against a pillow. It was musty and the sheets were clammy. She moved a languid hand over the coverlet, and sensed that her hands were bandaged. There were people in the room with her, though she could see nothing but shadowy blurs. Someone with a firm touch that was not unkind spooned a vile-tasting liquid into her mouth. She coughed and almost cried out at the pain, but managed to swallow.

  “There. That will take care of her for now while you transfer her. You must keep her quiet and make sure she has bone broth to warm the humors,” came a voice, albeit one that sounded as if the speaker dwelt at the bottom of a well. “We won’t know if she will retain her sight and hearing – only time will tell.”

  I’m going blind? Tesara tried to cry out and even the small sound she was capable of tore at her throat as though sawing at it with a serrated knife.

  “Thank you, doctor.” That was Mirandine, speaking from the bottom of the same distant well. “You’ve been most helpful. She will be well cared for.”

  The doctor harrumphed. “She should be in hospital, not in this drafty old pile. Are you sure you don’t want to bring her to my surgery in Ravenne?”

  So she was still at Jone’s house. And Mirandine had sent for a doctor from Ravenne? Ravenne was twelve miles away. What about Dr Melliton? He had taken care of all the illnesses of the Mederos family since she and Yvienne were in leading strings.

  “I’m afraid we can’t,” Mirandine said. Something about her voice alerted Tesara. Was Mirandine worried? “I’ve engaged a nurse. She will be taken care of. Thank you for coming so far, doctor, and on such short notice. Let me make sure you are well compensated. And I’m sure I have no need to tell you that your discretion is of the utmost importance.”

  They kept speaking to one another, but they moved away, and Tesara couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation. Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. She was going deaf and blind. She was dying, and Yvienne would never know where she was.

  Mirandine returned, sitting on the edge of the bed, just out of Tesara’s sight. She smelled of tobacco and scent.

  Tesara tried again to speak. “What?” There was the same knife edge, and she gave up.

  “Oh, good. You’re back among us. You’re at the Saint Frey house for now,” said Mirandine. The girl moved to where Tesara could see her and sat at the edge of the bed, her stylish trousers rumpled. She was no longer play-acting and her eyes held strain. She took Tesara’s hand. “By the time we smelled the smoke and broke down the door, you were both unconscious but the fire was out. Did she set it?”

  Tesara nodded.

  “I thought so. She was always one for the grand gesture.” Mirandine sounded bitter. She fumbled for a cigarillo and a match. Tesara watched with faraway horror. She worked her throat and managed to ask,

  “Alive?”

  Mirandine turned to her, the smoke curling up from the cigarillo. “Yes, but she’s worse than you. We thought we lost you both. When we opened the door it caused an explosion of air. If the fire hadn’t already been out it would have caused a conflagration. What happened in there? No, don’t answer that. Your voice can’t handle it.”

  Tesara moved her bandaged hand in pantomime.

  “Oh, of course!” Mirandine scrambled for paper and a pencil. Tesara looked around, blinking to clear her vision. The room was like the rest of the house – grand, shabby, ill-cared-for, clammy, and falling down. But it had been kept up in its way. There was a chest of drawers and a wardrobe and sports equipment in the corner. She could make out a bat and a leather ball. Someone had also hung a pair of boxing gloves and pugilist’s bag in the corner. She turned her head the other way and there were schoolbooks on a desk, through which Mirandine was rifling for paper and pencil. She was in Jone’s room.

  How extraordinary, she thought, still far away. Does Jone’s mama know? She wondered if the woman would have allowed such a liberty if she did know. If she could smile she would, but she could still barely breathe.

  Mirandine handed her the paper and the pencil and Principles of Geometry to lean on. It was hard to grasp the pencil with only her fingertips, but Tesara made do.

  does my sister know?

  “Not yet,” Mirandine said. “We haven’t had the chance to send word.”

  what date

  “The afternoon of the fifteenth.”

  So she had been gone for hours. Vivi would be worried. She hadn’t told her where she would be.

  I need to go home

  “Tesara, that’s not possible right now. You’re very ill, and–”

  Tesara made a wordless noise of frustration and jabbed with the pencil, her letters jagged and dark.

  send word to my sister to come for me

  “Tes, listen. You’re alive, and you’re safe and sound. Just be patient. I’ve sent for help. We’ll have you out of here soon.”

  Tesara underlined her last sentence.

  “No!” Mirandine stood up and threw the cigarillo onto the floor. “There’s no time. We have to get you out of here.”

  Tesara stabbed her pencil at the page, writing furiously, fighting an insistent languor that grew with each passing moment. She thrust the paper at Mirandine’s
face.

  My sister will be worried. Tell her that I’m alive. Tell her, Mirandine.

  “I will. I promise. But Tes, Jone’s mama did a terrible thing, and the first thing we must do is remove you from the House. You have to be patient and come along without a fuss, please.” Mirandine tried to smile as if she were pleading with a child.

  Tesara tried to think but she was completely muddled. She tried to write, but her hands could barely lift the pencil. Is is Trune? she scrawled. What had the doctor given her?

  Mirandine had no time to answer. The door to the sickroom opened and Savain the ancient retainer came in. “The carriage is ready for madam, and the gentlemen you hired are here,” he said in his old, quavery voice.

  “Oh, at last,” Mirandine said, almost breathless. “Be a dear and have them come in with the litter.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Wait! Tesara wanted to cry out. Instead, she grew duller and duller, unable to think with any clarity. They were moving her, but to where? How would Yvienne find her?

  “This is for the best, Tesara,” Mirandine said. “I promise you, they’re carrying you to safety. Soon you’ll be safe and warm.” She dropped a kiss on Tesara’s cheek and then straightened. “Savain, to the carriage, please, with madam. I’ll take care of Miss Mederos.”

  Though Tesara remained awake as the burly gentlemen transferred her from the bed to a stretcher, she could do nothing more than lie limp and helpless. They carried her through the long passageways of the Saint Frey house, descending down short stairs and turning corners, the torchlight throwing odd shadows on the walls and ceiling. After a while the air grew cold, and she shivered, though she was warmly wrapped. They stopped as someone fumbled out keys and unlocked a creaking, heavy iron gate, and then the rest of the way they were in a rough tunnel, the pathway rocky. She could smell the sea, and she knew that waves crashed just outside the limit of her damaged hearing.