Heart bursting, wheezing for air, Tesara put one hand out and pushed open the double doors into the dining room. Behind her Trune recovered, and grabbed her nightdress, yanking her backward. He turned her around, gripping her forearms so hard that she lost the knife.
“I’ve got you now,” he gritted, and his face was so close to hers she could see the red veins around his nostrils and the spittle at the corner of his mouth.
A great welling rose up from below her abdomen. The power exploded in her like a soundless sun, and for a moment all went still, all except for Trune’s widening eyes as he experienced the great expansion of her power. First the bandages loosened, and then the scraps blew off her hands in tatters. Tesara’s eyes bored into Trune’s and she lifted her released fingers only the smallest bit.
The explosion was like a thunderclap between her palms. Trune flew backward through the doors, carrying them off their hinges. The great exultation of energy threw Tesara backward too, and she landed painfully on her behind, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She struggled for breath and hearing, and a part of her wondered at the predicament she now found herself in, once again undone by her own strength.
Then with a whoosh, breath and senses came back to her. Tesara looked up at a ring of faces looking down. A respectable butler bent down to help her to her feet, and she waved him away. She could still feel the buzzing that suggested she was not finished yet – or that her power was not finished. He stepped back with alacrity, as if aware of the danger. She struggled to her feet and looked around.
More servants appeared – a charwoman, a footman, and a groom, staring in shock and curiosity. Tesara noted them while she took in the rest of her surroundings, taking stock. With the doors blown off, she could see across the hall into the kitchen. The nurse and the cook were covered with soup and soot. The blast had blown the pots and pans off their racks and had killed the fire, from the looks of the smoke rising out of the ovens.
But most important of all, Trune lay on the hall floor, blood coming from his head, but groaning. It sickened her to see it, even more than any momentary jubilation.
The clanging bell of the fire department and the constable wagons caught her attention. Tesara held up her hand, fingers trembling, magic sparking.
“Don’t follow me,” she said.
The butler nodded nervously, and with a gesture held back the brave footman and groom who looked ready to play the hero for the constables.
Tesara fled back to the kitchen and out into a tiny garden. There was a locked gate leading to the alley. With a flick of her fingers she pushed air at the gate and it snapped the sturdy iron links as if they were made of thread. She began the long walk home, trembling with the effort to control her powers. Her skin crawled, itching from the inside, and she thought she would go mad. She was hungry, dizzy, weak, and in pain. She stumbled against the wall and vomited, retching until it felt as if her stomach must come up too.
Home. I must go home.
She had to warn Yvienne.
Chapter Thirty
“Right,” Malcroft said, rubbing his hands together with cheerful glee. “Show me around. What are the defenses of the place?”
For the love of Saint Frey, what have I done? Yvienne’s heart sank. In the resounding silence as everyone stood about, uncomfortable at the new situation, Malcroft rolled his eyes.
“Now look, I only signed on because you had my bollocks on a leash. Only fair to hold up your end of the bargain.” He gave her a wink, which caused Albero to sputter in fury and Yvienne to be torn between laughter and a blush. She chose the former.
“Mr Malcroft, you are absolutely right. Let’s begin the tour.”
As they all trooped through the house, including Mrs Francini, who professed a keen interest as she said she hardly got to poke her nose out of the kitchen, a statement that Yvienne noted and filed away, Malcroft scanned the house with the expert eye of a house breaker or estate appraiser, causing the young butler to sputter again.
“First, we need to put pins in all the window latches,” he said, demonstrating with a simple piece of metal he drew from a pocket in his voluminous cape. “None of your run-of-the-mill thieves will get through that.
“Next, we need to set up patrols, inside and out of the house,” he added. He looked at Uncle Samwell and Albero. “Just the two of you? No coachman or gardener? Just as well. Too many, especially amateurs, and it can be worse than nothing.”
“When it comes down to it, you can add me to your roster of guards,” Yvienne said.
He gave her a keen, assessing look. “I don’t think so,” he said. “No. Can’t have you in the thick of it.”
“He’s right,” Mrs Francini said. She folded her arms over her bosom. “Miss Vivi, you are our employer. You need to let us get on with our jobs.” As Yvienne protested, she cut her off. “No. I’ll brook no opposition. You are the face of House Mederos and you need to know your place.”
Malcroft gave a low whistle of admiration. “Mrs Francini, if there is no Mr Francini in the picture, allow me to apply for that position.”
“Oh, go on,” Mrs Francini said, but she was pleased.
“I yield to Mrs Francini’s evident good sense,” Yvienne said, knowing when she was beaten. “Carry on.”
They reconvened in the foyer. Malcroft was serious now. “Noe told me some of your problems. Wayward little sister, old enemies, new enemies, and the chief constable on your tail. Now I can’t do nothing against him – that’s beyond what you’re paying me for, and if he knew you hired me it will make it go worse for you. So who are these enemies and what should we expect from them?”
“Our old enemy is Guildmaster Trune,” Yvienne said. “We know he’s back. He made one attempt on my sister so far, and now that she is missing we fear he may be involved in her disappearance. Our new enemy may be the Harrier, engaged by the Guild to uncover Trune’s whereabouts but with some interest in Tesara himself. As the Guild has implicated House Mederos in that disappearance, the Harrier has been troublesome.” She stayed mum about the Gentleman Bandit. “I know that Trune has a manservant who is his bodyguard and muscle. The Harrier is dangerous by reputation and I believe it is well-deserved.”
“Harriers always get their man,” Malcroft agreed. “They can be nasty little buggers. Did you know they don’t hire ’em if they’re over five foot seven?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “All right. That gives me some idea of what I have to work against. I need to go back to my flop and get my kit. Trust me on that?”
“No,” Yvienne said. He acknowledged that with a sly wink. “But I’m sure if you keep our agreement and its consequences in the forefront of your mind, you will behave. Albero and my uncle will go with you to help carry what you need. How long will it take?”
In the end, it took an hour to fetch his kit from his home in the squalid Hell’s Soup Pot, as the part of town near the warehouse district was known. Uncle and Albero came back wide-eyed and impressed, helping Malcroft carry a sack of implements – brass knuckles, a weighted truncheon, and a lovingly hand-crafted spiked mace that looked as if it was made by inmates of the Port Saint Frey gaol.
The real treasure was a long gun covered in a narrow sock. When Malfcroft pushed the sock off, Yvienne was struck silent. It was a gleaming, gorgeous Chahoki repeating rifle, the likes of which made her own pistol look as serious as a child’s pea-shooter.
“May I?” she asked.
He didn’t look surprised, merely handed over the rifle. It was heavier than she expected, and she held it pointed away, inspecting the mechanism. It was fascinating and simple and entirely deadly, and the source of the Chahoki’s great strength. The gunsmiths of Ravenne had been making their own version of the Chahoki cannon, as it was known, for years, but there was nothing like the original workmanship. “I would like to use it sometime,” she said, before she looked up at all their frozen stares. She had forgotten that Miss Yvienne Mederos was a proper merchant’s daugh
ter. For the moment, the Gentleman Bandit had taken over completely. She handed back the rifle with a sense of reluctance.
“Aren’t you happy to be using your powers for good, Mr Malcroft?” she said, and he rolled his eyes in response. “Right,” she said. “I’m off to visit the Harrier at the Bailet.”
“You just said he was an enemy,” Malcroft pointed out.
“It is rather complicated, I agree. But he may have news of my sister, and as you are well aware, I have no problem with unconventional allies.”
“Fair enough,” Malcroft said with a grin.
“Is it safe to go alone?” Albero asked, worry creasing his brow.
“I think it’s best,” Yvienne said. “Plus, I need you to watch Malcroft, watching the house.”
“My wounded heart!” Malcroft protested. “I signed a contract.”
“Yes, you did. And I will thank you to leave the silver where it is, and stop testing the locks on the cabinets. When this is over, you will be well-compensated for your time.”
The Bailet lobby bustled with travelers, as a coach had just come in from the north, its six-mule team being unharnessed and led around to the stables at the back, while the redcaps and baggage handlers unloaded the luggage from the top of the equipage. Rather than alert the clerk to her presence, Yvienne took advantage of the chaos to slip up the stairs to the rooms.
The card the Harrier had given her on his first visit to her office was creased, smudged, and well-worn. Yvienne took it out while she knocked on Room Twenty-three, waiting in the dimly lit hall. The hotel was well-appointed but gloomy, the oil lamps hardly turned up. She went to the window at the end of the hall to look at the card. It was printed and engraved, and said simply,
Abel Fresnel
Detecting Man
Harrier Agency, Great Lake
She flipped the card over and there were notations on the back, as if someone had jotted down a code, but it was unintelligible to her. She shrugged and walked back to his room, and knocked again. There was no answer. After five minutes of knocking and waiting, she gave up. Another fruitless errand, she thought, heading back down the stairs to the lobby. She glanced at the clerk at the desk and walked over. He looked up without any recognition.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Yes, miss?”
“You have a gentleman staying here – a Mr Fresnel? May I leave a message for him?”
The very correct young man’s expression changed to one of distaste.
“Mr Fresnel is no longer staying at the Bailet, miss,” he said. “And might I say that… that, good riddance to him?” His throat bobbed.
“I’m sorry – did you say he is no longer at the Bailet?”
“Yes, miss.”
How odd. Had he finished his investigation? It made no sense.
“Thank you,” she said to the clerk, smiling with as much goodwill as she could muster. He gave her a judgmental look in return, and she barely kept from rolling her eyes. The Bailet had once been the best hotel in Port Saint Frey. Perhaps supercilious clerks were the remainder of its long-waned mystique.
As she went back through the lobby she caught the eye of a large, well-dressed gentleman checking in. They gave each other civil nods, and she had the impression of a formidable countenance and great strength. Yvienne even turned back to look at the man, and he watched her as she left. She flushed and hurried out into the weather.
Naturally there was no hack to be had. It was late afternoon, and the drizzle fell harder as the day darkened, and the lamplighters began their shift. Most people were hurrying home after a long day of business and commerce, and all the hacks were occupied. Yvienne resigned herself to walking.
On the long walk home, she remained deep in thought. Where now? Tesara was last at the Saint Frey mansion. The fire was out; the mansion was empty. The city gossip was mum on the subject of Trune. And now the Harrier had left town. She stopped suddenly, oblivious to the jostling crowds, a chill going through her that had nothing to do with the weather. Had the Harrier left because he had completed his mission?
Had he taken her sister with him?
Yvienne hadn’t even really heard the newsies’ cries for the afternoon edition until they impinged upon her consciousness.
“Fugitive from justice! Attacks on the quality! Read all about it!”
Yvienne fumbled into her purse, pulling out a half-guilder. “Here. Right here, boy!”
The cheeky urchin in the ragged clothes gave her a gap-toothed grin and thrust the broadsheet at her. Yvienne stopped with her back to the brick wall of a sundries shop, under the awning to keep the rain off the fresh ink, and read.
Fugitive From Justice!
The younger Miss Mederos is wanted by the Constabulary of Port Saint Frey for questioning in the matter of the fire at the Saint Frey mansion, according to our sources. The girl has been involved in a series of attacks in the city, including most recently an unusual affair at a private townhouse in the West Side. A cook there described an assault on an unnamed gentleman and said it was a young merchant lady with alarming tendencies.
“She had no respect for other people’s belongings that they use to do their jobs,” the outraged artiste said. “And she hurt that poor fine gentleman something awful.” Cooks are not to be insulted, as anyone who has ever wished to dine well has always known. We fear for the residents of the house until Cook’s bruised feelings are salved.
The owner of the house, a young lady of the Depressis family who is connected by blood and a rumored engagement to the Saint Freys, was seen venturing to the Chief Constable’s offices in what our ladies in the Home Department said was a most advanced mode of dress. Will trousers take Saint Frey by storm next season?
The Gazette
“She’s alive,” Yvienne breathed, garnering glances from passers-by. She barely registered the attention.
Tesara was alive, but she was on the run.
Chapter Thirty-One
Tesara came to consciousness wedged under the protective embrace of a rocky outcropping on the western headlands. Her throat was still thick with pain and, to top it all off, she shivered with aching muscles. She pushed herself upright to find her nightgown drenched, bedraggled, and covered with dirt and vomit. She could smell the sea and hear the distant crash of waves, but her world had narrowed to a small patch of mist-shrouded rocks spattered with white and green lichen. The distant bell of a warning buoy clanged; a gull answered with a raucous cry.
After her encounter with Trune at Mirandine’s house, she had been hounded by the city’s constables, chased from hither to yon, until finally, now that it was coming on to evening, she had ended up on the headlands, hiding under an outcropping, curled around herself for warmth. In her panic, she had made her way there through instinct, rather than any planned design. She had sought concealment, not safety.
It had been a stupid idea, to follow that instinct. If she wanted to live, she needed to start thinking, instead of reacting. She couldn’t go home. The constables would be waiting for her. She needed to find a place where she could get word to Vivi to beware and at the same time be concealed from prying and official eyes.
She thought of Trune and his machinations, his delight at finding her and his attempt to control her. She thought about Mirandine. Was she in league with Trune? But mostly she thought about the blazing strength of her power, when she knocked Trune backwards, the great expulsion of energy that was like a volcano erupting in her soul. She couldn’t control it any more if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to.
The anger was good; it sustained her for the cold walk back into town.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, Mrs Fayres’s establishment was locked up and silent. It would not come alive for another six hours. Tesara stood shivering on the wet portico, and rang the bell, waiting. There was no indication of life within. She gave the bell another push. Finally, she thought she heard footsteps, and a moment later the door was
pulled open. It was one of the burly gentlemen who served as security during the gaming.
“Yes?” His voice was deep.
Tesara tried for a charming smile and knew she managed only a ghastly grimace. When she first spoke she made only a wordless croak, and had to work her throat to get the words out. It felt as if she had swallowed glass shards.
“Is Mrs Fayres at home to visitors? Please tell her that Miss Mederos wishes to see her.”
He frowned and then made his decision. “Wait in the foyer.”
She followed him in thankfully, and sank down on the spindly chair just inside the entranceway, before hopping up after remembering where her nightgown had been. It was too late. She had left a bottom-shaped smudge on the beautiful embroidered cushion. Tesara closed her eyes in despair.
Footsteps again. The burly gentleman took one look at the cushion and gave a deep, disgusted sigh. “Follow me.”
She had never been inside Mrs Fayres’s inner sanctum. Tesara had expected a suite draped with silk and strewn with gifts from the colonel and her other admirers, decorated with frills and a giddy sensibility. Instead, she was led into a crisp sitting room. There was a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, a wall lined with books, a massive desk with several ledgers, and a beautiful world globe on its stand that would have turned Yvienne green with envy. A maid was setting out a simple evening tea of soup and greens. She took one look at Tesara and exchanged speaking looks with the burly gentleman.
“Mrs Fayres said you should help yourself to tea, miss,” the maid said, casting a dubious glance at her.
“I– I probably shouldn’t sit,” Tesara croaked. “I just need to ask a favor of Mrs Fayres.” Perhaps if she could just borrow stationery to send word to Yvienne…
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