“Albero,” Yvienne said. “Miss Elenor and I are going out for a walk.” It was shocking to address a married lady by a girl’s name, but Elenor seemed both pleased and regretful.
“Yes, miss,” Albero said, as correct as if the night’s escapades had been nothing more than a fever dream.
They walked along arm in arm, two young merchant women taking the air on a fine day. The length of the Crescent had a carnival aspect to it, the unexpected sunshine reviving spirits of everyone, servant and master alike. It would make it difficult to vanish down the trail to the sea cave, but Yvienne knew from experience that if one only walked as if one were allowed, one could go almost anywhere without notice.
Halfway down the Crescent, she steered Elenor onto the trail. At the girl’s questioning eyes, she put a finger to her lips and only hurried her down the uneven ground. Elenor followed gamely, and the Crescent and the rest of the traffic was left behind them. Here the trail looked out over the blue harbor, the gulls wheeling and crying overhead, a fresh wind ruffling their hair and tossing their skirts. It brought color to Elenor’s fair cheeks, and here, in the shade, they lost some of the comforting warmth of the sun.
The trail went down into the cliffs, behind the camouflaging shrubs, and Yvienne fumbled for the lantern and the matches.
“You’ve been here before,” Elenor said, following in her footsteps into the cave.
“Yes,” Yvienne said. “It’s been my secret for some time.”
Elenor said nothing more, and Yvienne could tell she was putting things together.
She knew before they even stepped foot into her lair that the cave was empty. The lantern light fell on the blankets and the firepit, glinting on the dark waters of high tide. The smell of the sea was strong, the sound of the waves muted but constant, a rushing noise like blood pumped by an unquiet heart.
“But… there’s no one here,” Elenor said, confused and disappointed.
Yvienne’s keen eyes told her another story. The blankets had been folded, and the fire had been doused, and still smelled nastily of wet ash. And the clothes…
He had taken his clothes, leaving behind the boys’ clothes she had lent him. Her mind must have played tricks on her; she swore she caught a whiff of his unfamiliar scent, and then it was gone.
“My mistake,” Yvienne said. “I’m sorry, Elenor. I don’t know where he is.” Which was true, after all.
At the top of the trail, the air had gotten brisker and the clouds gathered. The small reprieve was almost over and Fog Season had returned. The cry of the gulls was more raucous than joyous, a warning rather than a celebration.
“Thank you,” Elenor said, holding her coat tight around her. “I know you tried, and I appreciate it very much.”
“What will you do, Elenor?” Yvienne’s heart broke for her friend. Elenor took a breath.
“I plan to remove to Ravenne. I had a long talk with Mother, and though she pressed me to stay, in the end she gave me a letter of introduction to some colleagues of the House. I can work well enough as a clerk, and all anyone has to know is that I’m taking on a traditional year of apprenticeship with another House.” A tremulous smile. “Ravenne has its own gossip and can hardly be bothered with mine.”
Yvienne embraced her, holding her dear friend tight. “Write to me. Tell me where you land and find safe harbor. Promise me, Elenor.”
Elenor nodded. “I will try.”
“Elenor,” Yvienne said. She tried to find the right words. “You did well.”
She expected Elenor to say something self-deprecating as usual, but instead the young woman said, “Do you know what Abel said, when that horrible man had him on the ground, prepared to deliver the killing blow?”
Yvienne shook her head, forehead creased in confusion.
“He cried out for his mother, Yvienne, not for me.”
They went their separate ways then, Elenor to the foot of the Crescent, Yvienne to the head.
Shivering, aching all over, Abel watched from the stand of trees as the two women took their leave. His few hours’ sleep in the sea cave, rolled up in the wool blanket, warmed by the fire, had been too short a respite. He managed to bind his leg, but he was still tormented by the pain, and he needed a splint or it wouldn’t heal straight. He needed rest and time and a place to go to earth, and he had none of those things.
Last night he had watched the Bailet blaze until it collapsed in on itself, and he had not seen Doc stumble from the building. He knew better than to believe Doc Farrissey was dead, but just maybe Abel had a head start. He had a few guilders in his pocket, salvaged from his stash in the room. He could catch the mail coach up the coast, and if he were lucky he could head east, through the Chahoki Empire. Not even Doc would be able to find him there, once he disappeared in the vast cities of the Great Plains and the horse soldiers.
Better get walking, Abel, he told himself, and supporting himself on a stick, he began the slow trek up the trail.
Tesara sat at her dressing table and listened as the wind picked up and a light rain spattered against the window, as Fog Season resumed after the short respite. Night had fallen, and a cold wind came in through the window and the shutters. She had a fire and it kept her room warm, and she felt almost well. She had gotten out of bed, and Yvienne had helped her to the water closet. She glimpsed herself in the mirror, and she winced. Gone was the stout rosy girl and the healthy young woman. Her hair had turned gray, and her eyes looked too big for her face. She took a pair of scissors from her dressing table and she cut her hair, clipping it round in a rough boy’s style, and threw the rest in the fire, where it smoked and crackled with an abominable smell. Now her hair stood out from her head, but it pleased her to see less of it.
A knock came at the door, and Yvienne let herself in, holding a dinner tray. “Feeling bett–” She stopped short at the sight of Tesara with cropped hair.
“A little,” Tesara managed. “Not ready to come downstairs. Thanks.” She nodded at the tray. Yvienne’s expression was a mixture of sadness and relief.
“All right. When you’re ready. Just ring for me, if you need anything. And there’s a letter for you.”
“Thanks.”
Yvienne let herself out. Tesara could tell without her sister even saying the words that she was hiding her from the rest of the household. Vivi, who was afraid of nothing, was afraid for her.
Tesara didn’t fight it. She didn’t want to be seen. The power continued its vibration just under her skin, and she could feel it fluttering in her heart, and pulsing with every breath she took. She had used her powers on herself and it had taken its toll, just as the Harrier had warned.
It was consuming her.
I once thought I was strong enough to destroy a fleet of ships from my bedroom window, she thought. All those years of useless guilt and shame. I was a foolish child; of course I didn’t sink the fleet. I had nowhere near the power.
I could do it now, though. Oh yes, she could do it now.
She had to accept the Harrier’s offer. If she didn’t, she would destroy everyone she loved. She would travel to Harrier headquarters in Great Lake, and offer herself up, no matter the cost. She pulled out her writing desk and opened up the lid, taking out paper, pen, and ink.
The letter from Jone, in his well-bred handwriting, caught her eye. She picked it up. She knew what it would say without opening it. He would declare his love again, he would tell her of his adventures, he would complain once more about his mother and Mirandine – Mirandine who loved him fiercely, and who had tried to save Tesara from Trune.
Tesara held up the letter between her fingers, tears thick in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she croaked. “But I am too dangerous for you, Jone Saint Frey.” She breathed on it, barely pushing the air between her lips. The letter caught fire at the other corner, and it curled up. She held it until the last minute and then let the final scrap drop into her soup.
Then she pulled the paper toward her, dipped her pen, and began to write.<
br />
Dear Dr Farrissey…
Acknowledgments
As always, many thanks to my agent Jennie Goloboy for believing in the sisters and their story, and Marc, Lottie, Penny, Phil, and Nick, who, from the moment they welcomed me as the newest member of the Robot Army, have been professional and supportive and wonderful to work with. For Cryptopolis – the best little writer’s group in Austin. And finally, for Louise Fitzhugh, author of Harriet the Spy, and winner of the best use of a dumbwaiter in fiction.
About the Author
Patrice Sarath is an author and editor living in Austin, Texas. Her novels include the fantasy series Books of the Gordath, and the romance The Unexpected Miss Bennet. Her numerous short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies, including Year’s Best Fantasy of 2003 and Best Tales of the Apocalypse.
patricesarath.com • twitter.com/patricesarath
By the Same Author
The Sisters Mederos
Books of the Gordath
Gordath Wood
Red Gold Bridge
The Crow God’s Girl
The Unexpected Miss Bennet
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ANGRY ROBOT
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Lost in the fog
An Angry Robot paperback original 2019
Copyright © Patrice Sarath 2019
Patrice Sarath asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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UK ISBN 978 0 85766 777 9
US ISBN 978 0 85766 777 9
EBook ISBN 978 0 85766 778 6
Cover by Paul Young.
Set by Argh! Nottingham.
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ISBN: 978-0-85766-778-6
Fog Season Page 28