Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

  The world began to spin. Tesara grabbed the back of a chair. Oh no, she thought. Not now. She couldn’t…

  By dint of sheer willpower, she kept upright. “Perhaps I will sit after all.” She managed to make her way onto a wooden end chair, hoping to mitigate the damage as much as possible.

  There was a sound behind her and she turned with great difficulty. Mrs Fayres emerged from her bedroom, wrapped in a magnificent red robe. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and despite the threads of silver, and the softer lines of her face, she looked more youthful than dressed in her usual fierce attire. She fought a yawn as she looked down at Tesara, as if she had been up all night and slept the day away – which, Tesara suspected, she likely had.

  Mrs Fayres’s first words were unexpected.

  “Oh, kid,” she said. She shook her head. “The entire city is looking for you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Wet broadsheet clutched in her hand, Yvienne began to run. She lifted her skirts, muddy water splashing up from the streets and spattering up to her thighs. Her lungs burned and her side ached but she labored on, stopping now and again to press her hand against the stitch in her side.

  She reached the bottom of the Crescent and had to walk again, but she was nearly home. At this hour, the fashionable street was still deserted, but that would soon change as the early evening bustle brought home merchants from their offices and took tired servants and tradespeople to their own homes and families. So the only traffic – a plodding one-horse flat cart – caught her attention. She stepped aside, almost in the line of trees that bordered the road. The fog concealed her, and she watched undetected as the cart loomed out of the fog up the hill.

  Two men whom she did not recognize sat on the front seat, and the back of the cart was covered with a tarpaulin. The tarpaulin moved. It’s a body, she thought. It has to be. Whoever it was, was still alive.

  Tesara, she thought, sharp with panic. Yvienne kept to the side of the road and followed the cart up to the top of the hill, past her own house and the crowd at its gate. The Crescent ended in a circle, where stood the Edmorency and Lupiere mansions. Past those houses was a narrow alley, almost a footpath, and it was this route that the cart followed. Yvienne made a decision and instead of crossing the open circle and risking exposure, she skirted the area and picked her way around the rocks.

  Up here was the highest Port Saint Frey headland. The well-groomed houses along the Crescent, with their fine marble and brick, and elaborate wrought-iron gates, faced the wildness of the sea. The ocean crashed below, the surf a constant roar. Seabirds soared overhead in the mist, unseen, their raucous cries a call from a wild country. Yvienne was soaked through as she clambered over the rocks. She struggled on.

  At the top of the headland, the cart stopped. At this height they were above the fog, and the air cleared, though the drizzle was constant. Yvienne perched behind a jumble of rocks and brush as the men threw back the tarp and pulled a man roughly out of the cart. Not Tesara, she thought with guilty relief. A moment later, she recognized the hapless fellow. The Harrier.

  They manhandled Mr Fresnel’s limp body over to the edge of the cliff and heaved him awkwardly into the air. A second later, she heard the splash.

  Yvienne bottled up her shriek and was already moving, scrambling down the rock, half-sliding, half-scrabbling, angling toward where they had thrown him. Speed was of the essence and she no longer bothered to try for concealment. Down she slid, breath coming in gasps. When she reached the shore, and the dangerous upthrust rocks, she scanned for his body.

  The cold saltwater had woken him up, because he thrashed listlessly, going under again and again, dangerously close to being battered on the rocks. Yvienne threw off her coat and hat and scrabbled at her boots, yanking at the buttons until she was able to draw them off and throw them aside. She ripped off the skirt, leaving herself in shift and shirtwaist. She stood up, took a breath, and dove in.

  The cold water took her breath away, and she gasped. She had to work extra hard, but the surf helped her, driving Mr Fresnel into her. She rolled over on her back like an otter mother and held him against her chest. The waves rose over them and she coughed out water as he fought her instinctively.

  “Stop,” she managed. “Stay calm. Please.”

  To her relief, he could hear her. He settled down, fighting only a little when they sunk beneath the waves but he soon got into the rhythm of holding his breath when they went under and taking big gulps of air when they came up.

  Yvienne was tiring but she kept at it gamely. She kicked and aimed for the side of the cliffs, around the headland. The waves helped again, the waves and the tide, carrying them against the steep cliff. And there it was, the sea cave that she had made her lair, so many months ago.

  The waves were softer inside the dark cave, and the roar of the sea was muted. She grounded them both on an underwater shelf and she was able to half-sit, half-lean against the wet rock. She was shivering with the cold. She had to get the both of them up on the shelf, above the water, and into the dry part of the cave. She hauled him up as high as she could and squirmed out from under him.

  “Wait. Stay.”

  She didn’t know if he heard her but pulled herself free and climbed up onto the dry shelf. She bent down to pull Mr Fresnel up the shelf, hauling him up by his armpits. She was shivering hard, barely able to apply her strength to the task.

  Again and again she almost lost him back into the sea, and it wasn’t until he could feebly use his legs to push himself against the underwater shelf that she was able to get him onto land.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Abel came to with stinging cuts all over his body and throbbing pain in his ribs and his abdomen. He took stock of his surroundings while lying still, eyes closed. He heard the crackling of a fire and felt its distant heat. He lay on sand and was covered with a scratchy wool blanket, which was good because he was naked.

  He could sense the presence of Miss Mederos and he gave up the pretense of unconsciousness to turn his head toward her. She had another wool blanket wrapped around her, but from her bare shoulders he knew she was also naked underneath. Her long wet hair was bound in a loose braid and hung over one shoulder. His clothes and hers were laid out alongside the fire.

  “How do you feel?” she said.

  “As if I were run over by a beer wagon,” he said. She made a noise rather like a laugh. “Thank you for rescuing me,” he added, and she lifted her shoulder.

  “Not at all. Why did those men throw you off the cliff?”

  “I expect it was because I had an affair with Elenor Charvantes,” he said. He winced as soon as he said it.

  He could see the shock in her expression change to anger. “Why would you do that?” she cried. She caught herself. “You must think me quite naive. But God damn it, Mr Fresnel. She’s a friend and he’s a terrible man.”

  He didn’t answer directly. “If it helps, I am very sorry for it,” he said at last, knowing how weak that sounded.

  “No, it does not help. It was beastly,” she retorted. “Did you – do you love her?”

  His silence was answer enough for both of them. She gave a long sigh and shook her head. “Never mind. I need you to help me find my sister,” she said. “Why were you looking for her at the Saint Frey mansion?”

  Self-trained, Yvienne Mederos was as smart and intuitive as any Harrier. He’d known that from the first moment he had laid eyes on her. He didn’t answer.

  “Mr Fresnel, I am quite angry with you, and more than capable of throwing you back into the sea. Do you know where she is?” Her voice caught. “Is she in danger?”

  “I don’t know where she is. But yes, she is in grave danger.”

  “Then help me.”

  Tesara Mederos wasn’t the only one with special talents. Her sister’s quickness was as valuable. If I bring both of them to Doc, I can save myself from his wrath. Maybe. Hating himself, Abel nodded slowly. �
��I’ll help.”

  The little clock that Yvienne kept in the cave had long since wound down. She had a good sense of time, though, and calculated that it was now close to eight o’clock, nearly three hours since she pulled Abel Fresnel from the sea, built a fire, and undressed him and covered him with the old blanket. Her household would be out of their minds with worry. She found the extra clothes that she kept on a high ledge in the cave, wrapped in oilskin to protect them from the damp. She and Abel were nearly the same height and he was so skinny that she knew he would fit into her old Gentleman Bandit attire. And she had a skirt and shirtwaist that would do for herself.

  “Can you move?” she asked him. He had been thoroughly beaten and even now was half-conscious. He roused himself.

  “I can.” His voice was thick and his eyes, as far as she could tell in the dim light, were unfocused. He tried to sit, the blanket sliding from his shoulders, and hissed at the pain.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” she said. “I can’t stay.”

  “I can manage,” he said again, and for a moment he closed his eyes. When he re-opened them, his expression was sharp. He was himself. My God, she thought. He managed the pain by sheer will. She felt sickened to think of the effort that took.

  “Turn your back, please,” she said, and he obeyed, lying down and turning onto his other side. Yvienne dressed while still half-draped under her blanket, working hastily to button her blouse. She had neither stays nor bandeau, but the warmth of the dry, slightly musty linen was heavenly. She flinched at the thought of putting on her wet boots, but she knew it had to be managed.

  “Done,” she said, when she had finished the buttons. She would have turned her back in turn, but while he might have managed his pain through extreme willpower, he could not knit broken ribs. She had to help him with the shirt, waistcoat, and coat, moving slowly but causing him pain nonetheless with every movement. He was so skinny, she thought, with a sympathetic pang. His hips jutted out from the waist of his trousers, and despite her anger at him she bit her lip at the sight of his abused torso. She helped him get his arms into his shirt, and then buttoned him up, her fingers grazing his chest in an intimate way.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, suddenly shy.

  “No worries,” he said. “Thank you for the dry clothes.”

  She looked directly into his eyes. They were of a height. “Why…?” she started, and then shook her head at herself. “None of my business.”

  “If it helps, and I know it doesn’t, I knew it was stupid from the start.”

  It was so inadequate it infuriated her. “Yes,” she snapped. “Very stupid. I pray you’ve come to your senses, sir. We have my sister to rescue.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The pain of the rough climb through the long cave to the surface made Abel regret every step. He moved like an old man, halting almost every few feet. Yvienne kept a slow pace, the lantern throwing light on the rocky walls as they squeezed through the passageway.

  He wondered why she didn’t just leave him. She didn’t trust him; he saw it in her face, even in the dim light of the cave, and because he had touched her, he could read her as easily as if they embraced. But she read him too, with a quickness that was startling in its accuracy.

  Or maybe I’ve just lost all of my abilities to conceal myself, he thought. Doc had spent years training Abel to efface himself so thoroughly his essential self all but disappeared. If it didn’t hurt so much he would have laughed at how, in less than two months, he had sloughed off that carefully established protective skin. He was raw, vulnerable, and frightened, the same little boy he had been at the start of his apprenticeship. He didn’t like feeling this way; it made him clumsy, angry, and prone to mistakes.

  Abel felt fresh air on his face before he saw the cave mouth. Yvienne set the lantern down, extinguished the light, pushed aside the brush pile at the entrance, and helped him through it. Then she set the camouflaging brush back into place.

  It was full dark now, hours having passed since that afternoon. Abel shivered. The fog had cleared, and a swath of distant stars shone down on them. The sea roared and the surf was white in the starlight. Above, he could see streetlamps of the Crescent, still a good climb.

  She faced him, a dark shape in the faint light, and pointed to the west. “You take this path along the sea; the footing is good enough but in your state take care you hug the hillside. This will take you out to Kerwater Street and then you can find your way to the Esplanade and the Bailet, although they think you’ve checked out.”

  What? Abel had a very bad feeling come over him. His gear was all in that room. Everything I own in the world.

  Her voice turned rough. “I must go home. My household will be worrying about me. I’ll come to you later tonight. We need to combine our resources if we are to find my sister.”

  He nodded. “I have some leads. If the Guildmaster is back and he has your sister, we can track him. But we’ll have to move fast.”

  “What leads?”

  He didn’t want her rescuing her sister without him. And in his state, he couldn’t take Tesara alone, not if she were at her full strength, and not if she were a prisoner of someone else. So instead of answering, Abel said, “Miss Mederos, you saved my life. I owe you – immeasurably.”

  “Indeed. But I’m not sure, Mr Fresnel, whether acknowledgement of a debt is the same as a promise to repay it.”

  With that, she turned and began her long climb upward to the Crescent. Abel watched her for a moment, and then turned the other way, toward the city.

  The elegant mantel clock in Mrs Fayres’s dining room chimed eight. The elegant casino owner regarded Tesara over a simple dinner of fruits of the sea and sauced potatoes. The wine was excellent, a silvery white from Ravenne that tickled Tesara’s nose and slipped down her sore throat. The bubbles captured the light and she had to work hard on tamping down the electric reaction in her fingertips.

  She had been bathed and given clean clothes – a simple cotton gown that she suspected belonged to Mrs Fayres’s maid rather than the splendid woman herself, and a warm shawl – and her hair was clean and up rather than falling in tangles around her shoulders. Despite all these advantages, she knew she couldn’t rest and she couldn’t wait.

  “I’ve made inquiries,” Mrs Fayres said, sipping her wine. “We’ve heard nothing about the return of the Guildmaster. Not that it means anything,” she said, forestalling Tesara’s croaking protest. “And, in fact, the complete stonewalling of our questions is suspicious. But we don’t know where he is. Why would he be a danger to your sister?”

  “Revenge,” Tesara managed.

  “I don’t doubt it, but wouldn’t he be more out for revenge against the Guild Council? They were the ones who threw him to the wolves.”

  “Complicated,” Tesara said, after casting about for the least painful, least incriminating explanation. Mrs Fayres responded with a quick smile.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Did you get the message through at least?” Tesara croaked. Tears leaked, and she dabbed at them with her napkin. They had tried all day, but Mrs Fayres had reported that the house was locked down, and with the crowd out front, plus constables surrounding the house from all points, there was no way to get a message through without attracting attention.

  “We’re trying now that it’s night, and I should hear something soon,” Mrs Fayres said. “And as annoying as the constables’ presence is, surely they will prevent any mischief by Trune.”

  It hurt to snort a laugh, but Tesara managed. The constables had done little to prevent any of Trune’s mischief in the past, as Mrs Fayres called it. What was to make them do their jobs now?

  Almost as soon as Mrs Fayres finished speaking, a knock came at the door, and a burly gentleman entered. He leaned over and whispered in his mistress’s ear, and she nodded.

  “Thank you. And please tell my friends I will be down shortly.” When he was gone, she said, “Well, an
d there you have it. Message delivered.” She paused to contemplate her wine. “It’s best for you to stay here tonight, Miss Tesara. Get some rest, recuperate. My staff will check on you periodically.”

  “Thank you,” Tesara said, working her throat. “You have been most helpful and kind.”

  Mrs Fayres smiled, and stood. “I only ask that you don’t tell anyone or my reputation will suffer.”

  As soon as she was gone, Tesara pushed back from the table. She drank some water, crisp and cold, so cold she almost wept at the pain, but it cleared her head a little. She flexed her fingers, feeling the power flicker through them. It didn’t matter that she was sick, that her head ached, and her skin was so sensitive that even the light gown was painful. None of that mattered, because Vivi was in trouble, and with the heightened senses her fever gave her, she clearly heard the burly gentleman whisper in Mrs Fayres’s ears – the young lady wasn’t at home, ma’am, and the butler and uncle were alarmed.

  The first thing she needed was practical clothing. The cotton gown and the shawl were fine for a cozy evening spent indoors, but were not sufficient for a mid-Fog Season night. She had to find better clothes, warmer clothes. Fortunately, she knew where she could find some. She had been gambling at Mrs Fayres’s casino long enough to know that gaming wasn’t the only entertainment.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The pain had receded somewhat, Abel was relieved to discover, by the time he made it to the Bailet lobby. The shock with which the night clerk greeted him took his mind off his lingering bruises.

  “Mr Fresnel!” the young man said. “You’re back!”

  “Yes,” Abel said, grim. “Were you expecting otherwise?”

  “No… that is, I mean… your bill was settled up and they took away your things…”