Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

  “Where am I?”

  Mirandine turned up the palm of her hand, and the small box of matches was stamped with two names elegantly intertwined. Depressis-St. Frey. “It’s… it’s part of my marriage portion. Papa gave Jone and me a townhouse to start our married life together. I thought, well, it’s mine, and private, so it would be the best place for you to recuperate. When it’s dark, we’ll take you home, and your enemies will be none the wiser.”

  “I have an even better idea,” Tesara said. “I’ll go home now. Don’t bother to call me a hack. I can manage,” she added, with stuffy grandeur. “I imagine my sister must be very worried.”

  Something flickered in Mirandine’s expression – hurt. Tesara felt a pinprick of shame. Then the hurt turned to sulkiness, and Mirandine went to open the cigarillo case, but remembered and put it back in her purse. “Well, you can’t go home in daylight and that’s final. It’s too dangerous. Trune may have missed you at the Saint Frey house but he will no doubt track you down. You’re safe here. He may even have a guard on your house.”

  A chill swept over Tesara. Of course. What was she thinking?

  “Then I have to leave at once, Mirandine!”

  “No,” came a new voice from the doorway. Both girls turned toward it, and Tesara felt a leap of fear. “You won’t be going anywhere, Miss Mederos. Thank you very much for your services, Miss Depressis. I’ll take it from here.”

  It was Trune.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It had become natural for everyone in the household to eschew upstairs-downstairs divisions and convene in the kitchen. They all sat at the long, scarred worktable, surrounded by wonderful aromas and warmth, and united by a shared mission – to find Tesara.

  No luck, Albero reported, after a midday recon at the Conch and Sail. The servants’ gossip was about the Mederos family, and he was plied with many offers of spirits and beer if he would only spill the details on the scandalous house. As for the fire at the Saint Frey mansion, there was plenty of avid speculation but no true news. There was no word of the wayward Mederos daughter in any of it.

  Uncle Samwell had no more success. He returned from docks smelling of the sea, cigars, and brandy. “You know, Vivi, I am beginning to think the Names’ reputation is entirely overrated,” he said, disgruntled, as he helped himself to a tot of the wine Mrs Francini used for cooking. The woman gave him a steely glare and he gave her an abashed look in return. “Just a whole lot of nonsense about the Harrier and – well, never you mind,” he added. “Gossip unfit for anyone. I gave it up,” Samwell went on. “I ended up in conversation with a fascinating gentleman from out of town. Most sympathetic,” he said.

  Yvienne’s heart sank to her toes. “Oh, uncle,” she said. “Oh, no.” He looked at her, surprised. “What did you tell him?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he protested. “I didn’t tell him a thing. He just said I looked full of trouble and bought me a drink, and I told him, in a most general way…” his voice trailed off as his memory came back to him. “I might have mentioned that Tesara was missing,” he said. “And I might have talked about Trune, but vaguely, quite vaguely. And we talked about the Harrier…”

  He sat down heavily on the bench. “I’ve ruined everything,” he said. He dropped his head in his hands. “Oh Vivi, can you ever forgive me?”

  She sighed. “The damage is done, uncle. Are you sure he was a stranger? Did he give his name?”

  “Never saw him before. And he was a medical gent – he said just to call him Doc.”

  Only Noe, it seemed, had any success. Shortly after the other two had returned with disappointing news, the maid came panting back to the house, letting herself in the servants’ door.

  “He said he’d come, miss!” she said with triumph. “I told him what you told me, that you would send for the coppers, and he said he’d come only to teach you a lesson.” She faltered a bit at that, but Yvienne had to laugh.

  “At last, someone calls my bluff,” she said. “Good work, Noe.” To her surprise the maid brightened at her praise, and despite her distrust, Yvienne thawed toward the girl. Poor thing, she thought. When this was over, she would do everything she could to extricate Noe from her handler’s clutches. “Right,” she said out loud. “Now, let’s seal this deal.”

  At five minutes before the two o’clock hour, a large and wide figure loomed in the doorway of the kitchen entrance of the townhouse. Yvienne remained seated at the kitchen table as the dockside thug stepped over the threshold, ducking his head under the low lintel. Albero, Mrs Francini, and Uncle Samwell ranged themselves around the kitchen, with Noe crammed into the corner, making herself small. The only one obviously armed was Mrs Francini, with a formidable rolling pin. Yvienne had her pistol in her lap, under the table.

  Noe’s ringleader scanned all of them with admirable aplomb that just masked a vee of concern between his eyebrows. He was a large and imposing figure, made even more imposing by his wet great cape, large boots, and broad-brimmed hat. His black eyes were keen. He was rough-skinned and tanned, and obviously had spent time at sea as well as along the docks. His nose had been broken at least once, and there were red veins alongside it that indicated a fondness for drink. He grinned, and his teeth, though yellowed, were straight, and he had all of them. He looked directly at Noe, and she shrank back in fear, all her earlier confidence drained away.

  “Well, Noe,” he said. He removed his worn leather hat and slapped it against his great cape. “You brought me here. And I don’t like playing games, not with the quality. So tell me true – are we playing games now?”

  “No– no,” Noe stuttered.

  My turn, Yvienne thought. “How good of you to come, Mr Malcroft,” she said. “As you will soon learn, I have a proposition for you that I think you will find it prudent to accept. You halt your activities as the head of the housemaid’s ring, and work for me. If you choose not to accept…” She put her hand on the piece of paper in front of her. “I’ve called you here to say this little game of yours ends now. Noe has signed an affidavit and will swear to that effect in court that you are running a housemaid’s ring, and furthermore that you have implicated the dock boss Cramdean in your wrongdoings. That affidavit is with my lawyer. If anything happens to any of us here, or to Noe’s family, it goes straight to the chief constable and the courts. You can play dumb all you like, but if you try anything you will spend a great deal of time in gaol, where no doubt you will be at the mercy of Cramdean’s inside men and their boss’s displeasure.”

  His expression darkened. Yvienne kept her breathing easy, though her heart was racing, and her hand on the pistol was wet with sweat. He looked straight at Noe again, and she swallowed hard.

  “You stupid little cow,” he said. “You think they’ll be able to protect you? You better say your prayers, little girl, because when I get through with you, you’ll wish it was Cramdean you were dealing with.” He jutted his chin at Yvienne. “She’s nothing but a fine bit of silk and lace, playing at her daddy’s business, and she’ll turn you off at the first sign of trouble.”

  Yvienne felt a great swelling of anger. “Mr Malcroft,” she said, her voice soft. “Do you know who House Mederos is?” She stood up, though he still towered over her, and she cocked the pistol and pointed it at his nose. She didn’t know who gasped – Albero, Samwell, Mrs Francini, or Noe.

  It got the man’s attention most thoroughly. He was almost cross-eyed in keeping his eyes on the pistol. He held up his hands and took a step back.

  “Let me remind you, Mr Malcroft, with whom you are dealing. We ruined Guildmaster Trune and drove him from this town. We took down the Merchants’ Guild and we restored our family to its proper place. House Mederos rid this city of the corruption and filth at the top, and there is nothing to stop us from ridding it from the filth at the bottom. Do you want to go back to Cramdean? Be my guest. But you take this message to him if you dare. House Mederos will not rest until Cramdean and his ilk ar
e served as thoroughly as we served the Guild.

  “And I am House Mederos.”

  There was a thrumming silence. She could practically see the man’s calculations going on in his head as he weighed his two fates – throwing in with her or returning to Cramdean and trying to explain what had happened. After an interminable interval, Malcroft broke. He glanced down at the paper on the table.

  “All right, all right,” he said, smiling an obsequious smile. “All right. No need to get hasty. How can I help House Mederos?”

  She gestured with the pistol and he fumbled backward and sat down on a stool by the door, looking like a chastened and overgrown schoolboy.

  “First you can acknowledge here that Noe is no longer a part of your gang and her family will face no repercussions from you.”

  He glanced at Noe. Something passed between them, some communication that Yvienne could not read. He returned his gaze to her and nodded.

  “Second, you work for me now, Mr Malcroft. Not Cramdean.”

  She pushed the paper over to him, wondering if he could read it. He could, and she saw the comprehension in his expression as he scanned through the contract, his eyes widening at the terms. She nodded to Albero, and he produced a pen and ink. Malcroft wrote a credible signature and pushed it back over to her.

  For a second there was something shrewd in his expression although it was gone in a flash. But I saw it and won’t forget, Yvienne thought. Contract notwithstanding, she had no doubt he had no intention of being bound by it. She lowered the pistol and released the hammer, and he let out his breath.

  “You’ll be amply rewarded, provided that you don’t return to your old tricks,” she said. “If you double-cross me or steal anything, then we turn you over to your old master.” In response, he crossed his heart and yanked his ear. “Welcome to the team, Mr Malcroft. You are now head of security for House Mederos.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The small gamekeeper cottage clung to the cliffs overlooking the rough sea along the lower Crescent, and a bit of smoke curled up from the chimney into the fog. Abel could smell the wood smoke. It was a pretty place, well-kept. This was Elenor’s idea. The cottage was part of her portion, given to her by her parents on the eve of her wedding. The small note, delivered to the hotel front desk, was written on her personal stationery and in her elegant hand, and it told him to come to the cottage that afternoon at two o’clock. As we discussed, the note said, and left it at that. So she had come up with a safer place for them to meet, since there were too many prying eyes at the hotel.

  He was going to break it off, gently but firmly, and he would not touch her or sleep with her, or take her with him, no matter how much she pleaded. This affair had cost him too much already, and the note on her stationery – for God’s sake, he wanted to scream at her. Even the smallest bit of commonsense would have told her that was a foolish decision. She’s young and inexperienced, he thought, and he felt a pang. A more sophisticated woman would have known how to keep their affair a secret. Instead, Elenor was barely older than a schoolgirl, and this was her first affair of the heart.

  You idiot, Abel told himself. He had to extricate himself, for her as much as him. He was overwhelmed by her desire every time they were together, and it clouded his senses. He could no longer untangle his emotions from hers, and their desires fed on each other, until he was spent with the effort to keep his sense of self intact. Doc would kill him if he knew that Abel had let himself become entangled with a woman, losing himself in the process, undone by the very sensitivity that gave him such an advantage as a Harrier.

  At least the ever-present accursed fog hid his approach. He went down the path to the cottage, noting the pretty winter roses and the curtains at the window, which shifted as he neared, as someone lifted them from the side.

  The hair rose at the back of his neck and he stopped.

  Abel, you idiot, he told himself again, but this time he put his hand to his pocket and palmed his pistol as he resumed walking forward. Elenor was young and she was inexperienced but she wasn’t stupid. He was the stupid one, for taking the note at face value. He was walking into a trap.

  As stupid and brutish as Jax Charvantes was, it was too much to hope that he had come alone to ambush Abel. He could expect at least two and possibly three men lying in wait. The problem wasn’t going to be the ambush – it was the aftermath, in which he faced Doc and had to confess that he had not only lost the target, he had become embroiled with another man’s wife, and failed to complete his mission.

  At least you know who the Gentleman Bandit is. Which gave him some leverage, he acknowledged, as he knocked on the door of the cottage and braced himself for battle. He might not have the girl now, but he had a hold over her sister, and he could deliver both of them up to Doc.

  If he survived the next half hour.

  The door opened, and he faced Jax Charvantes. Not only was he flanked by Alve TreMondi, Amos Kerrill, and a couple of mates from the Navy, behind them stood Elenor, sobbing brokenly, with a purpling bruise across her cheek.

  Abel moved first, in the style of eastern fighting that used feet and fists. Jax’s bullies were big but inept, and Amos Kerrill was soon screaming in pain on the quaint rush-strewn floor, holding his broken knee. One of the sailors was efficient at seaman brawling, and pummeled Abel with savage brutality, but he was fouled by his own eager mates before he could get more than two or three solid hits.

  Jax Charvantes saw the way the fight was going and grabbed his wife by the arm, and holding the muzzle of his pistol against her temple. She screamed.

  “Stop,” Charvantes said, his voice pitched to carry over the mayhem.

  “Abel,” she sobbed, and he halted. The two remaining bullies held him with his arms behind his back, and one had him with a chokehold. It still wasn’t enough, and he could have extricated himself, but for the poor girl with the gun to her temple. Elenor tried to catch her breath, and managed brokenly, “Jax, please. Please don’t hurt him.”

  “Don’t you goddamn plead for him!” Charvantes shrieked and she sobbed harder. “You need to beg me to take you back!” He thrust her from him and she fell to the floor, crying. He looked at Abel and cocked the pistol and aimed it at him. Ah, Abel thought, curiously calm. At least Charvantes had the courtesy to not hold a cocked pistol at his wife’s head. I should have known. I should have expected. But everything in Port Saint Frey had upended him, from the moment he arrived in town. A Gentleman Bandit who was a woman. Her sister, with vast power. And this ordinary girl, who had taken his heart by storm.

  When Jax, instead of shooting him, smashed Abel across the face with the pistol, the Harrier wasn’t surprised at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Tesara pulled out the pottery shard and grabbed Mirandine, pulling the girl in front of her. Mirandine shrieked. She was as light as a bird; under the drapey silks and languid air, she was skin and bones. Tesara held the girl against her, the shard at her throat.

  “Get back,” she ordered Trune. Oh, I wish my hands weren’t bandaged. Nausea be damned; she had blasted Trune once six months ago, and she longed to blast him again. Her fingers throbbed with pain, and she knew that her power, though muffled by the bandages, was beginning to gather.

  Trune smirked as if knowing she was hobbled and he was safe. He looked the same as she remembered. Tall, saturnine, with deep lines grooved into his face. His hair was swept back and artfully oiled, and his collar points gouged dimples into his cheeks. His black coat was impeccable, his trousers crisp and lined, and his shoes gleamed. He looked good for a fraud, a cheat, a disgraced collaborator, and a thief. He has not suffered at all. Her heart sank.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “I know you won’t hurt her.”

  Tesara dug the shard deeper into Mirandine’s throat, and the girl whimpered. “Tes, please,” she whispered. Mirandine sagged against Tesara but there was an expectant tightening of her muscles. Tesara braced herself an
d pushed as hard as she could, both with her muscles and her power, throwing Mirandine forward. The girl windmilled in an ungainly way, and crashed into Trune, managing to tangle both of them in her long trousers and silk scarves. Trune staggered backward, pinned against the wall by the leggy debutante, and they both screamed and cursed.

  Oh, well done, Mirandine! Tesara bolted, darting between Trune and the door. He grasped for her with long, knobby fingers, but missed, and she ran down the stairs, praying Mirandine could keep him tangled for as long as it took.

  Tesara kept her head and her balance, even though she was still sick and shaky. Down to the next landing, and she slid on stockinged feet to the next flight. From the sounds upstairs, Trune had disentangled himself from Mirandine and was pelting after her.

  Tesara pushed through the door at the bottom of the stairs and burst into the kitchen. A cook looked up at her in surprise, and so did the nurse, who was adding something from a brown bottle to a bowl of soup. The nurse reacted first.

  “Hey!” she shouted, rounding the table. Tesara grabbed a battered pot off the wall and threw it at her. The nurse batted it away with a forearm and came at Tesara with a snarl.

  “HEY!” the cook shouted louder at the abuse of her cookware. Tesara grabbed a knife from the butcher’s block and scanned for her escape. She feinted toward the pantry; the nurse went the other way round the work table to cut her off; and Tesara jinked right with a flash of satisfaction. She burst into the hall just as Trune came down the stairs, trailing torn silk, followed by Mirandine. He screamed in frustration and reached for her as she slithered sideways, just barely evading his grasp.