The Sisters Mederos

by Patrice Sarath

  “Authors don’t like to be called out,” Brevart said. “They like to be able to say what they want without censure.” He grunted. “Here’s a new one, from a fellow calling himself Arabestus. Haven’t heard of him before.”

  “Arabestus!” Alinesse repeated, striving for a devil-may-care tone. “Oh, now that’s too rich, taking as a nom de plume the famous ghost ship of Port Saint Frey.” She dabbed her lips. “What on earth does he say?”

  With a chuckle in his voice, Brevart began to read out loud. The amusement was quickly replaced with concern – and fear.

  “‘If the Guild of Port Saint Frey were a ship, the magistrates would be her helmsman, the laws her compass, and the sails the industry and wisdom of the merchants who give her purpose and meaning. This ship traverses the seas and is respected and no little feared by the countries in which she docks, unloads her cargo of goods material and immanent, and is an ambassador of the ideals of governance and fair dealings. How many countries of savage nature, who live by the law of buyer and seller beware, these wildernesses of rapacity, have been tamed by the influence of Guild ships and Guild laws? Ah, they say, we see where we have erred. Men can profit where they do not ravage, and all can benefit from commerce.

  “‘But! In contracting with these nations and these merchants, the influence has all been the other way. A sickness has crept aboard this vessel, a sickness that has caused the hand to weaken on the wheel, and to slacken the lines, and to neglect the care and keeping of the Guild itself. For when laws are applied inconsistently, or capriciously, or maliciously, they do not hold up the Guild but let it rot from within. And thus, it is with the charges against that House that has never before been anything other but a vital, growing, strong, businesslike arm of the Guild and one of its best representatives. A scapegoat has been made of this House when all who partook in the tragic venture were at fault, and those who are behind the charges are hiding in plain sight, behind a veil of respectability.

  “‘Where is Guild justice now? It cannot be believed that the Guild will not turn her eye on all who colluded and cry to them, “For shame! You have erred, and you must pay.” –Arabestus.’”

  Brevart finished. The family sat in silence, their porridge cooling. “Brevart?” Alinesse said, staring at her husband.

  “It wasn’t me,” Brevart managed.

  Samwell shrugged. “Nor me,” he said. “Someone is playing tricks.”

  “A trick that could well backfire on us,” Brevart said heavily. “Do you think they’ll lay it at our feet?”

  “We’ve just gotten our judgment,” Alinesse cried. Tesara started; her mother sounded on the verge of tears. “Why now, after six years, why now?”

  “It’s someone who knows the Guild is at fault,” Yvienne said. She looked most odd; her face was pale except for points around her nose. Her eyes were very dark. “Whoever wrote it knows the Guild has something to atone for and must be stopped.”

  “Treacher must know who wrote it,” Tesara pointed out what she thought was the obvious. “After all, he printed it.”

  “Not if whoever wrote it posted it to him anonymously and paid him a guilder to print it,” Brevart said, with an irritated air. Tesara sighed. Well, she tried.

  “No matter who it is, the Guild will soon put a stop to it,” Alinesse said. She looked a bit relieved at the idea. “We certainly don’t need this kind of talk. Not when we’ve just gotten the judgment.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out down at the docks,” Uncle said. “We’ll be the talk of the town again, and no mistake.” He looked cheerful at the idea.

  “Let’s pray not,” Brevart muttered.

  Chapter Nine

  He printed it. He printed it. Yvienne’s first response was euphoria – right now, her words were being read at breakfast tables all across the city. Her second response was recognition. Treacher had added a line: hiding in plain sight, behind a veil of respectability.

  He knew who was behind the fraud.

  She could barely contain herself, sitting sedately and spooning porridge while her family bickered. The thunk of the post hitting the doormat broke her reverie. Alinesse and Brevart froze, like rabbits in a poacher’s lantern light – letters meant bills and bad news. In the two weeks that Yvienne and Tesara had been back, the ritual of the morning post had been one of panic and recriminations.

  They could hear Mathilde’s measured footsteps as she went to fetch the post. There was a pause, and then she came in to the dining room, dipped a brisk curtsey, and handed the letters to Alinesse.

  “Thank you, Mathilde,” Alinesse said with a regal nod.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Even Brevart watched as Alinesse flipped through the letters. “Well,” she said finally, and set them aside. She looked up at everyone, still silent, waiting to hear the news. “Yes,” she snapped. “They’re bills. What did you expect – correspondence from our former associates upon the favorable judgment? You would think, wouldn’t you, that such would be the case? But no. Not one word.” She drew breath to continue. Yvienne braced herself for what was coming next. Alinesse had gone down this well-worn path before, the previous tirades digging ruts in the pathways of her thoughts.

  Samwell was the first to escape. He pushed back his chair with haste, and got up. “I’m for the docks. Coming, Brev?”

  For all that Brevart detested his brother-in-law, he looked wistful at the thought of escape. Under Alinesse’s glare however, he subsided. “No, I’ll finish the paper. I may be down later. Yes, that’s the thing.”

  “I’ll clear,” Tesara said, and stood and began collecting plates. “Vivi?”

  Feeling a coward, Yvienne took her up on her invitation. Aware she was thwarted, Alinesse opened up the letters with a grim expression.

  Mathilde looked up from the stove as they came into the kitchen. Her face was startled, and then she smiled at them.

  “Goodness, you don’t have to clear the table, Miss Yvienne and Miss Tesara,” she said. “It’s what you’re paying me for, after all.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Tesara said.

  “We’re used to hard work,” Yvienne said. Mathilde kept smiling at them, but now her smile was fixed.

  “You see, if your mother thinks I’m shirking, she may turn me off,” Mathilde said. “And my family needs the money. So, if you please, Misses Mederos, let me clear.”

  Yvienne felt her face flame with embarrassment. Tesara set down her plates next to the sink and backed away.

  “Yes, of course,” Yvienne said. “Of course.”

  Once again, they fled.

  Another knock came at the door, and relieved to have something to do, Yvienne opened it.

  A child stood there, in a dirty shirt and coat, dirty cap, and a runny nose. He looked suspiciously at Yvienne. It was so exactly what she felt on seeing him that she almost laughed. She didn’t think the child would appreciate being laughed at though.

  “Are you her?” he demanded.

  “That depends. Who is she?”

  He took a breath and recited from memory. “Viv – ee – n Merados.”

  Close enough. “Yes. I am she.” She was intensely curious. Who would be looking for her? Surely not Mastrini’s. The boy thrust a grubby letter at her and she took it. He gave her another gimlet-eyed expectant stare. “Oh dear. I have not a single groat, I’m afraid.”

  “He said not to expect one but I should ask anyway. He said I should get used to being told no, so it wouldn’t stop me.”

  “Well, he was right. Thank you.”

  Without another word the boy ran off the way small boys do, with great purpose and having already forgotten her for the chance to be free of the schoolroom, chores, and expectations, and having a whole city to run around in. She felt an unexpected envy of the child, so much more free at his age than she had ever been. Yvienne looked down at the letter and thumbed under the seal.

  Miss Mederos,

  All right. You convinced me. Come by my shop tonight a
t 8 pm. Be wary – let no one know or follow.

  T

  Postscript. Nice work on the editorial.

  Chapter Ten

  “I knew it,” Yvienne whispered. He knew; he was going to help her. She hastened up the stairs, only to see her mother and father come out of the parlor.

  “Oh, there you are, Vivi. Who was at the door?” Alinesse said.

  “A street urchin. I sent him off,” Yvienne improvised without a pause.

  “This neighborhood,” Alinesse tsked. “I meant to say, Yvienne, Mathilde is a treasure, an absolute treasure. Not such a housemaid on the Crescent, I dare say.” It was a meager satisfaction, but Yvienne had no doubt it warmed her mother in these difficult times.

  “She asked me very particular questions about the brewing of coffee,” Brevart agreed. He brightened at the thought of it. “Perhaps I’ll go down to the harbor after all, just to see that Sam isn’t getting into trouble. Yes, that’s just the thing.”

  “Oh good, Papa!” Yvienne burst out. Perhaps Brevart was regaining some of his old spirit. Perhaps all he needed was a dish of well-made porridge and some weak tea. If so, Alinesse was right – Mathilde was a treasure. If we aren’t careful, she will quite take over the family, Yvienne thought. “And you, Mama?”

  “I have accounts, dear,” Alinesse said, but she looked wistful for a moment, or as much wistfulness as the fierce Alinesse ever let herself indulge in. “Even this household needs to be managed. Speaking of which, where is your sister?”

  “I’m sure she’s getting dressed for her day. I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”

  With that, Yvienne continued up the stairs.

  Tesara wasn’t in their bedroom. Yvienne scanned the letter one more time, committing it to memory, and then tore it up and tossed the pieces on the fire. It had almost gone out but she blew life into the embers, enough to brown the letter, and then blacken it beyond recognition.

  Now she had to get ready.

  Yvienne headed toward the half-sized hatchway at the end of the hall that led to the attic. As she expected, the little hatchway was locked; she had seen the keys on her mother’s belt, and there was no filching them or guilelessly asking her mother if she could use the key to get into the attic. She pulled a hairpin from her hair, and bent it into position. In seconds she had the door opened.

  Her stint at Madam Callier’s had been fruitful in many ways, just not in the ways that either Madam herself or her parents had ever expected. For instance, who knew that a hairpin could be so useful? As the girls in the upper school always said, sometimes being a fast girl had its merits. All the upper school girls knew how to sneak in and out of the dorm. Out was through the dormer windows overlooking the mournful elms, swinging out onto the branches and down to the ground. In was back through the scullery door, and for that a girl needed a hairpin and a skeleton key to bump the lock just so. While most of the upper girls met boys they fancied, or had trysts with another girl they pashed on in a doomed romance that was all the more exciting for being forbidden, Yvienne put her new-found talents to an entirely different use.

  She had investigated Madam’s office, looking through her papers for all matters concerning the Mederos sisters. There were intriguing letters and monthly payments, carefully written down in the accounts ledger, and all of it led to one thing – she and her sister had been sent to the dreadful academy and Madam was being paid to watch over them. Even their old nurse Michelina had come in for a small finder’s fee, though the nurse had not lived long enough to enjoy the fruits of her betrayal, dying of a fever a year after their arrival. But Madam and her contact were cagey – there was never anything to indicate who was doing the paying. Once, Yvienne stayed so long rummaging through the accounts that she had been surprised by the gardener’s boy, come to replenish the firewood, early in the morning. She’d had to kiss him to keep him from tattling. Not that that had been a hardship – the gardener’s boy had known quite a lot about kissing.

  Once inside the attic, she could barely stand up, except right in the center. There was a high window across the small, dusty room. A cold wind blew in from the dirty glass, and the attic was damp and musty where the rain got in. The room was full of rubbish from their old lives. This was where they stored the few things that the Guild had let them take from the house on the Crescent, that which was too poor and useless to fetch even the smallest price. She couldn’t imagine the trunk of old clothes had gone to the auctioneer.

  And there it was – the old trunk was pushed against the wall.

  Resolutely ignoring the spider webs and the inconvenient tickle at the back of her neck, she knelt and opened the trunk. It was full of old clothes from a bygone age, and she and her sister and their friends had played dress up and theater in the schoolroom of their old house, donning the boys’ clothes or the evening dresses and played at dancing. The trousers had been too big for her then, and even though she had gained in height, she thought the clothes would still fit. She had never been a stout girl like her sister, and the privations of the last six years had only emphasized her skinny frame. She barely had a bust that needed stays, and her hips were lean. I am sure that a waistcoat and trousers will do much to hide my sex, especially at night, she thought.

  One by one she pulled them out – the old linen shirt, the trousers, a pair of old-fashioned boots, and a waistcoat. There was the coat at the bottom, smelling of mothballs, and she pulled on it, wrinkling her nose at the odor. It caught on something and she felt around with one hand, following a crack in the bottom of the trunk until she found where the fabric was snagged on what felt like a small metal latch. A tide of curiosity washed over her. Yvienne yanked the coat out and tossed it aside. Her arm getting tired holding up the lid, she cast around for a solution. There was an old three-legged caned stool crammed under the dusty window. She pulled it over, twisted a dowel from the seat, and used it to prop open the lid. It gave her a few more inches and the ability to use both her hands.

  The little trapdoor in the bottom of the trunk didn’t want to unlock, no matter how hard she tugged. Yvienne pulled out another trusty hairpin from the careful knot at the nape of her neck, and worked it into the crack. Finally, the latch came free and she opened the trapdoor, reaching inside. Her fingers encountered a heavy package, wrapped in thick oilcloth. She sat back and unwrapped her treasure.

  Two elegant pistols, faintly gleaming in the dim light, lay in her lap.

  Voices alerted her from her wide-eyed astonishment, startling her with their nearness. A moment later she understood they weren’t near. Alinesse and Mathilde were talking in the kitchen and the sound traveled up the walls straight into the attic.

  “Here’s a list of a few things I think the house could do with, madam,” came Mathilde’s voice.

  “Oh, very good, Mathilde. However, is it possible to wait until next week?” By which Alinesse meant until the quarterly annuity was paid. They were scraping by at the end of every three months.

  “Well, ma’am, we could, but I can do better than that. I know how to drive a bargain like a coach-and-six. Three half guilders and a groat will get me almost all of what you need here, including a bit of the coffee the master was asking so wistfully about. Perhaps Miss Yvienne would like to come with me and learn the marketing?”

  “Wonderful idea, Mathilde. Let’s fetch her.”

  Yvienne scrambled into action. She tucked the pistols back into their wrapping, gathered them up with the clothes, and had her hand on the attic door when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Her mother stopped halfway.

  “Yvienne?” her mother called.

  Yvienne held her tongue, scarcely breathing. Then, slowly, she opened the hatch the slightest and peered through the crack. Through the narrow slice, she could see her mother at the other end of the hall at the top of the stairs, Mathilde behind her, peering into their room.

  “Well, what on earth?” Alinesse said with exasperation. “I have no idea where either girl is. But gather wha
t you need and if she comes back in time, she can go with you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mathilde followed Alinesse, casting a backward glance down the hall, her sharpened gaze almost piercing the gloom at the end of the hall, as if she could see Yvienne crouching behind the attic hatch. Then she was gone. Yvienne stayed put, then when she deemed it safe, she opened the hatch, scrambled through with her bounty of clothing and pistols, and ran for her room.

  Alinesse was gathering up her wide-brimmed hat and her gloves and rusty gardening tools from the little shelf in the hall. She glanced at Yvienne, who had dusted herself off, smoothed her hair, and made herself presentable. The pistols and the clothes were tucked under the mattress on her side of the bed, lest any uncomfortable lumpiness disturb Tesara.

  “Did you want me, Mama? I was in the water closet.”

  “Well, but I knocked – anyway. Mathilde wondered if you wanted to do the marketing with her. Learn the ropes, as it were.”

  “I’d like that,” Yvienne said, feigning surprise.

  “Good. Now mind, don’t annoy her with lots of questions.”

  Yvienne hid a smile that was part annoyance. Alinesse just confirmed what she and Tesara thought – in the eyes of their parents, the new housemaid could do no wrong.

  “I promise I won’t beg for sweeties,” she said.

  Her sarcasm was lost on Alinesse, who said at the same time, “And where is your sister? Goodness, it’s very irritating to try to keep up with her.”

  Yvienne shrugged. “No idea.”

  “It’s just as well that you learn the marketing first. Goodness knows what Tesara would come home with.”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  Mathilde came out of the kitchen with a market basket. She brightened at Yvienne’s appearance.

  “Ah, there you are. Good. I like the company, and I think you’ll like to get out a bit. I went over the list again, ma’am, and I don’t think I’ll have any problem picking up these items. You can be sure none of the stallholders will try anything with me. There will be no sawdust in your cinnamon, you can be sure of that.”