“I have every faith in you, Mathilde,” Alinesse said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mathilde replied.
“Good-bye,” Yvienne said. She closed the doors to the parlor and then stepped outside with Mathilde, putting on her bonnet and wrapping a shawl around her.
“Off we go,” Mathilde said and walked primly down toward the town with brisk steps, the empty market basket held in her serviceably gloved hands. Yvienne fell into step next to her, looking back once at their little house. The house was set back from the street and had its own wall and front gate, although the iron was rusty and the gate askew on its hinges. It was crooked, a bit battered by the wind, and the once bright blue paint had peeled, but it was cozy and warm with a bit of smoke curling up from the chimney. All it needed was some tender loving care, which she supposed also went for its occupants, especially for her parents. That was why Mathilde’s presence affected them so deeply. It had been a long time since they had been cared for.
The colorful market near the wharves was a vast array of sound and sight. The aroma of cooking oil rose above everything, making Yvienne’s mouth water. Stall after stall, their bright canopies flapping in the breeze, brimmed with goods, fruit and vegetables, along with barrels of beans and jerky and salted pork for last-minute ship provisions. Vendors called out to shoppers, their voices stretching the patter into a song.
Yvienne marveled at Mathilde’s prowess in the crowded market. The girl had only the most meager housekeeping money, but she didn’t let it make her apologetic.
“Now, you listen to me, sir, I want only the three strips of back bacon and none of your weighting the scale. And I’ll take those bones off your hands, if you please, and you can wrap them right up with the bacon.”
“Ma’am, if you please, a half-pound of flour and the heel of that cheese – yes, that small slice.”
“The apple cider vinegar, yes, just a half cup, thank you, and oh dear, those small wormy apples – no, no – you won’t sell those. I can take them and it would make your display look ever so much more attractive.”
She was getting for free almost as much as she paid for. At first Yvienne couldn’t see how Mathilde was going to make a meal of any of it – she bought only tiny quantities. But when Yvienne overheard Mathilde get into a conversation with one of the stall keepers over the quality of the fine taste that the dried mushrooms imparted to any dish, with the stall keeper enthusiastically handing over three small eggs and urging her to report back as to the dish’s success, she understood. Mathilde was buying the most tasteful and aromatic foodstuffs, the better to turn the basic boiled meat and plain potatoes and porridge they had into something lovely.
While Mathilde went at the market with the skill of a professional housekeeper, Yvienne became aware that she kept glimpsing a figure in a buff coat and dark trousers off to her side. It finally impinged on her consciousness enough that she angled herself around the edge of one booth so she could look behind her. She picked up a greenish-yellow orange to smell it, looking up over the fruit like a coquette, and casually looked over her shoulder.
There. The same figure. He slipped outside her line of sight.
That was deliberate.
The back of her neck prickled. If he had not tried to be stealthy, she wouldn’t have given him a moment’s notice. He looked like half the men in the market, what little she could see of him. Yvienne made her decision, and dropped the orange. It rolled under the booth.
“Oh, dear,” she said to no one, and ducked down to retrieve it. She waited a moment and stood straight up, looking in the direction she expected him to be. The man stared back at her and then walked off in the stiff-legged way people do when they’re trying not to run.
Chapter Eleven
Yvienne pushed through the crowd and followed him. She spared a thought for Mathilde but she knew the girl could take care of herself. Her world narrowed to the man she followed and at the same time she did her best to heighten the rest of her senses so she could take in as much information as possible.
Her bonnet got in her way. She stripped it while on the move, leaving it on top of a barrel. The shawl was her next victim – and she had a pang of regret because it was one of the last beautiful things she owned from her old life, but she thought with grim determination that she could always buy more shawls, once she took back her House. This man who was following her, and who she had put on the run, could be the first step toward that redemption.
Now she dropped back but she could still see him in the crowd, his passage like a ship’s prow running through the sea. He didn’t look back, as he concentrated on putting distance between them. If he reached the street, she would lose him, so she began to calculate where he might come out.
Her love of maps helped; she might have been a sheltered child but she knew the streets of Port Saint Frey as well as anyone who lived high above them could. The market stood in the center of a wheel of streets that terminated in Market Place. The man was heading toward the Esplanade, which led along the harbor itself. He could take his choice of Barrel Street or Souzeran or Cathedral Boulevard in this direction.
He took a turn to the left and she angled toward him. It had become more crowded, and she gave up all gentility and pushed and jostled, throwing her elbows with the best of them, ignoring angry cries and insults. Dimly she heard someone laugh behind her and say coarsely, “Run, Johnny, yer girl’s on yer tail!” and only hoped the man hadn’t heard.
For a heart-stopping moment she thought she lost him, then turned and there he was. He had stopped at the edge of the market, scanning the crowd for her. She remembered how she had first noticed him because of his stealth; instead of ducking or hiding, she stood still and pretended deep interest in a collection of garlic braids, keeping sight of him in her peripheral vision.
He scanned again, and then to her great relief, he merely put his hands in his pockets and sauntered away without a care in the world.
Idiot, she thought, and dropped in behind him, staying as far back as she could. She felt a rush of power. Now she was the stalker. He went down Barrel Street, the crooked little back way leading between tall tenements and old buildings, with some of the oldest mercantile names in the city picked out in gilt that had faded in the cold and damp sea air. This had once been the heart of Port Saint Frey, but the stone buildings had become so weathered that the fine carvings were just dirty lumps of marble, the lovely detailing that had made the buildings proud no longer visible. Yvienne slowed, awed at the history that stood before her, and then with a start remembered what she was doing.
Unease pricked her. The man was up ahead, but there wasn’t a crowd anymore. There were only the two of them on the street. If he looked back…
She was the idiot. She had been a lamb led to slaughter. She realized her danger at the same time that two men came out of the alleys between buildings and stopped in front of her.
“Well, look what we have here,” one man said. He was ill-shaven and coarse, his eyes bright and his necktie florid and awry. He smelled of drink. The other man just grinned at her, his teeth yellow and tobacco stained, his fingers in their dirty gloves curled like claws.
Absurdly, she looked up ahead to the man she had been following, but he had disappeared. She felt a rush of anger that he had led her into this danger and then abandoned her.
“Let me by,” she ordered. She did not say please. She acted like Alinesse, as if she had every right to be there.
They just laughed. “Pretty girl like you, all alone – are you sure you don’t need someone to protect you?” The first man reached out and lifted up a tendril of hair that had fallen out of her braid in her flight. She yanked away and raised a hand in a threat.
“Do not touch me.” She kept her voice low to keep it under control. He flung back his hand in exaggerated fear.
“Oooh, kitty scratches. Best watch out.”
It turned her stomach. Just go, she told herself. Just turn around, and go straight back to the
market. She turned on her heel, the back of her neck prickling, bracing herself for a hand to pull her back. She walked off, head high, the men laughing and mocking her as they kept pace. She took a breath to keep from trembling, knowing if she stopped she would never leave the street without harm.
Their words rolled over her, their epithets and scorn coming faster and louder, now cursing at her and her refusal to stop.
She could smell them, could hear them on her heels. Yvienne tensed, then burst into a run. She made it two steps before one of them yanked her backwards by her braid, and wrapped a strong arm around her neck. She could scarcely breathe, her nose assailed by the smell of filth and whiskey.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he grunted in her ear.
She lifted her weathered little boot and slammed it down once, twice on his instep. He only laughed, his thick boots protecting his feet. She took a breath and let it out in a scream, the sound rippling down the street. It startled the man, and he loosened his hold. Immediately she jabbed her elbow into his ribs. This time he grunted in pain and stepped back. Yvienne wriggled free. He grabbed her again, but she tore away with a determined yank. Yvienne picked up her skirts and ran for her life.
Her breath came hard and she couldn’t hear over the sound of her gasps and her footsteps whether they followed her. She ran, accelerating despite her skirts and her genteel ladies’ walking boots and risked a look back only once–
Whereupon she ran straight into someone, knocking herself off her feet and onto her bottom.
When she could see straight she saw it was Mathilde. She had knocked her down too, and they stared at each other from the pavement at the mouth of the street, on the outskirts of the market, a few people turning to look curiously at them and then a crowd gathering. Voices rose in concern, but Yvienne was so dazed she scarcely heard herself assuring people she was quite all right, it was nothing.
A man helped her to her feet and she thanked him, still in a daze, the lifelong manners instilled in her coming to her aid. Mathilde, too, had been helped up.
“All right, girls?” the man said, and she nodded. Mathilde nodded, too, and they were left alone, the busy people of Port Saint Frey all going back about their business. Yvienne’s head throbbed and so did her backside. Her neck hurt where the man had grabbed her and she could still smell his tobacco and sweat-laden scent.
Mathilde spoke first. “I know a tea shop.”
Chapter Twelve
A sturdy mug of tea steaming between her hands, Yvienne kept swallowing back tears, wincing each time, her throat sore where the man had squeezed her windpipe. Mathilde gave her time to compose herself. They had taken a table farthest from the door, near the kitchen. The tea shop bustled with afternoon shoppers and excursioners. These were good, solid folk, not like the well-off patrons of Miss Canterby’s on the Mile. No one was fashionable, and the tea was strong, served in heavy crockery, the sandwiches filling, on thick pumpernickel.
“What happened?” Mathilde said, sipping her tea. She had paid for the tea and sandwiches and Yvienne tried to keep her embarrassment to herself, that her housemaid had more money than she did. She spoke as dispassionately as she could.
“Do you remember when we first met and you said you thought someone was following me? I didn’t see him then, but I did this time. He was watching me and trying not to be seen.”
Mathilde set her tea down. “I didn’t want to pry then, but I think now it’s fair to ask – why would someone be following you?”
There were too many answers to that question and they all jumbled together. Her natural caution made her wary of saying too much. “It’s complicated,” she said at last, throwing up her hands with a sigh.
Mathilde’s expression was disinterested, as if Yvienne’s actions and her secretiveness were hardly anything to be in a lather about. “I won’t pry, then. It’s always better to give these jobbers what for instead of fainting. But the streets down here are dangerous, though most fellows are good ’uns, and now you know.” She did not say, better not run off by yourself again, you innocent, silly girl. Just, now you know.
And I do know. The next time I come down here, I’ll be armed. Yvienne sipped her tea, swallowing carefully. She would not be able to eat anything, more’s the pity, because she was hungry now, and breakfast was a long time ago.
Now it was her turn to think quietly, and once more Mathilde let her be. If she saw the man she had been following again, she would recognize him. Sturdy build, about Uncle’s height, with a trim brown coat and brown trousers. Ginger hair and whiskers. He wore a cap and she had an impression of curly hair around the brim. She had never gotten a good look at his face, but she knew she would be able to recognize him.
They – whoever they were, if it was not the Guild – might not send this same man after her, but if they did, she would know. And the next time she encountered him, he would not get away from her, and he would answer her questions about why he was following her.
Her fright was subsiding. The experience had steeled her, and a part of her marveled at her newfound confidence. Yvienne had never been afraid of knowledge. On the contrary, knowing had always given her a sense of security. She wouldn’t rest until she knew everything; why had the Guild destroyed her family, and why was she being spied on?
The answers were in Treacher’s head. She would also ask him about the ginger man when she went to see him that night.
“Did you see him?” she asked Mathilde, her voice still raspy. She added more honey and lemon to her tea and sipped. The sweet warmth was soothing balm to her abused throat. She would have to tell her family that she was coming down with a cold.
“I caught a glimpse of him, nothing more,” Mathilde said.
“If you see him again, let me know. Don’t approach him, don’t follow him. Just tell me.”
Mathilde raised one eyebrow with calm surprise. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Probably. “I don’t think so,” Yvienne said, hoping she sounded convincing. “I think they just want to keep an eye – on my family.” Probably there was a tail on Uncle as well, and one on Tesara. It wouldn’t require much to follow her parents, since they rarely left the house.
Mathilde didn’t look convinced.
“I’m not worried, I’m angry,” Yvienne said, still trying to reassure her.
“Well, for goodness sakes, don’t let your anger lead you into danger,” Mathilde said.
“I won’t,” Yvienne said, at the same time formulating another plan. The man appeared to have lured her into a trap by giving her what she wanted. That had been very educational. “Do you think I should just let it be?”
“Yes,” Mathilde said decisively. “Until you know what you’re getting into, I think it’s best if you stick close to home. You were lucky today, Yvienne.” She smiled her lovely smile. “You know you can rely on me if you need any help.”
Yvienne sipped her tea, trying to keep her expression bland. Ever since that morning she had been wrestling with a suspicion of Mathilde. A treasure indeed, and to be sure, she had revived Brevart’s spirits, and that was most gratifying. But why would the best housemaid in Port Saint Frey work for the disgraced Mederos family? Hiding her distrust, she smiled back.
“Please don’t worry about me. I spent six years in the wilds of Romopol in a girls’ finishing school. The streets of Port Saint Frey don’t mean much to me.”
Mathilde laughed a little. “Goodness, you are stalwart.”
Again, there was something in her tone that made Yvienne hesitate. Then she laughed too, accepting the teasing.
“You have no idea,” she said dryly.
“All right,” Mathilde said. She poured the rest of the tea into Yvienne’s cup from the brown betty on the table. “But if, say, you wanted me to check on anything, I could do it without raising any attention. They wouldn’t be following me.”
“Perhaps,” Yvienne said noncommittally. It was good she didn’t live in, because trying to sneak past her a
t night wouldn’t be easy. She tried to imagine the housemaid following her, and couldn’t. Mathilde wouldn’t be able to stop her.
She sipped her tea and looked longingly at the sandwiches, which had gone untouched. With absolutely no furtiveness, Mathilde took the napkin from her market basket and wrapped up the sandwiches, tucking them inside.
“For your mother and father,” she said. “It just means I won’t have to make their dinner tonight.”
This time the lump in Yvienne’s throat had nothing to do with her bruised windpipe. “I’ll repay you,” she croaked. “I promise.”
“Stuff,” Mathilde said bracingly. “Let’s go home; I’ll see if I can find a flannel for your throat.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tesara waited out the morning bustle, staying out of the way of her family. She heard her mother calling for Yvienne and giving orders to Mathilde for the marketing. Her father had made much of the fact that he intended to go down to Æther’s that morning, but for all his loudly stated intentions he remained in the parlor.
He’s choosing his prison, she thought. It saddened her. Her father had been distant and focused when she was growing up, and they had become strangers over the last six years. Now the man who once owned much of the city and commanded respect wherever he was, had become too frightened to walk out of the small room in the small house on a small street.
She, on the other hand, had to escape.
In the fortnight since they returned from exile, Tesara had been restless, at odds with her parents. They had changed so much; she had changed so much. Alinesse had always been brittle and hard-edged, but now she was apt to turn her sharpness on everyone around her. Even Yvienne wasn’t immune. So, each morning Tesara stayed out of the way until she could make her exit.
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