The Sisters Mederos

by Patrice Sarath

  In a flash, Jone was off his stool. He said nothing, but the man’s leer faded. He glanced at the ringleader, but the ringleader just scratched a match and lit another cheroot. The offending man looked down and rearranged his cards, holding them close to his vest, and Jone sat back on his stool. It felt rather nice to be defended, Tesara admitted.

  The next hand was dealt. Tesara could see she had something. It was a good hand and she knew how to play it. But in the long game she was playing, she knew she couldn’t win, not yet. She rearranged the cards and then, as if she suddenly saw what she had, she said, “Ooh!” She threw in big and sat back.

  The other players seized to a halt at the size of her bet. Then one after another, they folded.

  “Wait!” Crushed, she turned to Jone and Mirandine. “But that’s not fair. I could have won a lot more.” Jone and Mirandine were laughing at her, and so were the hard men.

  “I’m sorry, Tesara,” Jone said, still laughing. “But now you know not to do that.”

  “And you’ll never do it again,” the ringleader said. “Not that there ain’t just a bit more to learn. Loosen the reins, you two – she’ll never figure it out with you holding on so tight.” He gave an avuncular smile. It was rather frightening.

  “Oh, no no no,” Tesara said, just as Mirandine said, “He’s right. Tesara, we’re holding you back. It’s just a bit of money, nothing serious – you play for however long it takes, then come find us.”

  Tesara half bolted to her feet. “Wait, no!” she said, but they walked away laughing, Jone saying, “It’ll be all right. We’ll be in the gallery and we’ll check on you later.”

  She fumbled back into her seat, her heart pounding. This was it. The men waited for her with expressions ranging from amusement to hard disinterest. Indeed, one fellow snorted, “Are we going to play or keep on with this babysitting?”

  Tesara said, “It’s not as if I’ll keep you that long, sir. Perhaps another hand at most.”

  They all laughed, and she relaxed a small bit. She stripped her gloves and set them next to her on the table. There was a silence as they all looked at her crooked fingers. The man Terk glanced down at her hands and then up at her face. There was something in his eyes – recognition perhaps, or pity. She kept her gaze level, and after a moment he looked away.

  “There,” she said lightly, flexing her fingers and settling down to business, and again the gentlemen laughed at her. Good; let them laugh. It would make them underestimate her that much more. The less they thought of her, the more likely they would believe in luck, rather than card counting, as the reason for her success. And it would be a good thing, too; cheating against these fellows would be more than just a lark. She remembered Uncle’s lurid stories of the docks. Tesara kept her smile fixed on her face as she took up her new hand and arranged her cards.

  She folded her next two hands and then threw in for the next one. If the men thought anything strange about her sudden change in skill, no one remarked on it. She lost, but it didn’t unsettle her. She glanced at Mirandine’s dwindling stake. She had to win soon and she had to win big, because once she did, the jig would be up for sure.

  She folded her next hand, and then she got the hand she knew she would win with. Tesara settled in. Her focus narrowed to the table. She was mindful of nothing but the cards and the clink of coins, the whisper of bills, the smell of tobacco and spirits. One by one the gentlemen dropped out except for the ringleader. She glanced up once at him and he was scowling at her over his cards. The other gentlemen sat down watching.

  He made his decision and threw in a couple of silver coins. “Call,” he said.

  She laid out her cards.

  There was silence, and then the other gentlemen began to curse in low-voiced astonishment. “Beginner’s luck,” said one with disgust, but the ringleader silenced him with a look.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think we’ve been played.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, stumbling a little. “Nonsense,” she said more loudly. “What are you accusing me of, sir?” She wondered nervously where Jone and Mirandine were. The gaming tables were still as busy with diehard gamesters among the well-dressed guests. Would any of them come to her help if the men got dangerous? “I don’t like what you are insinuating, sir. I won, fair and square.”

  It was lovely, the pile of money on the table that was all hers. Food, firewood, rent, new clothes. No, she knew she was lying to herself. It was the fun of it, the sheer fun. She had to thank Uncle Samwell when she got home. She stood, swaying a little after sitting for so long, and the man grabbed her wrist.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.

  Her fingers tingled, and she looked at him, a swelling of anger rising in her. Don’t. She didn’t say anything, only waited. If she had to be angry, to lose control to gain her power, then so be it. If he saw her anger, it didn’t stop him, but it made the others nervous.

  “Terk,” one said unhappily. “Settle down now, so we don’t get kicked out.” He let go, leaving marks on her wrist, his eyes narrowed. The other gamblers scraped back in their chairs. “I’m off,” one said. “That’s enough for me.”

  Before he could say anything more, Jone and Mirandine swooped back in, laughing and drunk, hanging on each other’s shoulders.

  “There you are!” Jone cried. “Right where we left you! And look, you have done splendidly.”

  “Good God!” Mirandine said, thunderstruck at the winnings in front of Tesara.

  The ringleader did not move. He didn’t bluster or berate. He gave Jone a hard look. “Very interesting, Mr Saint Frey,” he said in a soft voice. “Very interesting, indeed.”

  “Oh come on, Terk, you of all men know that she didn’t cheat, and we didn’t bluff you. It was beginner’s luck, and it came through.”

  “Funny how that happens though,” Terk said.

  Jone stopped laughing. He leaned in close, pushing away Mirandine’s careless arm. “Funny how you don’t complain when you win.”

  Jone was thinner, lighter, and shorter than Terk. Terk’s hands were raw-knuckled and huge, and he had the shoulders of a boxer. Tesara wondered how Jone was not afraid of him. She glanced up at Mirandine, who no longer looked drunk.

  “Come on,” Jone said. “Let me buy you all a drink and order a cab to take you home.”

  Terk didn’t move at first, but then they all did, the men gathering up what was left of their coins and following after Jone. Just Tesara and Mirandine remained. Tesara stood, exhausted and light-headed. She felt stupid with weariness and confusion, and her hands were tingling again.

  “Well done,” Mirandine said. “Here, we’ll split it three ways, does that sound right? I must admit, I had no idea you would do so well. Well done.”

  “Nor I,” Tesara said. “Thank you so much for teaching me. I never expected it to be so much fun.”

  Mirandine counted the money efficiently. “It is fun, isn’t it?” the girl said lightly. “I do hope your parents won’t be unhappy that we’ve debauched you. Now you’ve got a taste of winning, it’s easy to want to keep on playing.”

  An invitation?

  “Oh, you haven’t debauched me,” Tesara said, just as lightly. “Please don’t worry. I’ll be sure to bring my own purse next time, so you won’t have to stake me.”

  “If you do as well as you did tonight, I might continue to stake you,” Mirandine said with a little laugh. She scooped up a third of the winnings, the bills folded neatly in a bundle, and put it all in the little purse. “Here. Take the purse for now, since you forgot to bring yours. I have dozens, and I’ll just borrow one from Jone’s mother.”

  Tesara knew better than to demur, so she just thanked Mirandine and took the heavy purse. I’ll buy one of my own and give her this one back, she thought. The idea of spending her own money was heady.

  She followed Mirandine out of the gambling salon and into the gallery. It had grown late. The hour was past two in the morning, and the oil la
mps burned low. The crowd had thinned, and most of the remaining guests were gentlemen, with a few stalwart ladies of a certain age to accompany them, in their cozy wraps and yawning behind their gloves. She and Mirandine were by far the youngest of the remaining guests.

  Jone came back to them, alone. He looked feverishly bright-eyed, as if it were not at the end of a long night, and he had not just fleeced several men using Tesara as a pawn.

  “I’ve sent a runner for a cab for Terk and his cronies, but for you, old friend, I’ve engaged our coachman and the carriage. You’ll be quite comfortable. And next time, let me send him round to fetch you so you don’t have to walk. No, I won’t have any protests,” he said. “You’re one of us now.” He slipped his arm around her waist and Mirandine’s, hugging them both close. He smelled of spirits and sweat and a faint aroma of cologne. She closed her eyes, drinking in the scent.

  When she opened them again, looking over Jone’s shoulder, she looked directly into the lean, wolf-like face of Trune.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The clock on the Saint Frey Cathedral Tower boomed ten of the clock by the time Yvienne made it home, taking a circuitous route to avoid any pursuit. The city rang with the bells of the fire wagons, punctuated by the whistles of the constables. Her three drunken revelers had not wasted any time in raising the alarm.

  The excitement of the night, coupled with the grief and shock of Treacher’s death, caused Yvienne’s blood to run hot. She felt a creature of the night, wild and dangerous. She sought to avoid notice not just to evade capture but to prevent another outburst of violence. What had she become, and why did she not fear it? She had robbed three men at gunpoint and it was intoxicating.

  Down near Kerwater, she had the city to herself again. The fog had drawn in, and she was in darkness. She shivered, both from the chill and from the waning reaction to her night. She drew her cap down over her hair and rubbed her hands to bring some warmth to them. Abruptly, she thought of her bed, lumpy mattress and all. She wondered what Tesara had thought of her disappearance and her ruse?

  What shall I tell her?

  The last thing she needed to do was to involve her sister in the night’s escapades. She would have to dissemble convincingly.

  Yvienne let herself in the front gate, easing slowly so the rusty hinges wouldn’t shriek. She tiptoed to the kitchen door and felt for the key in the narrow crack between the doorjamb and the wall. She unlocked the door, replaced the key and slid inside. The kitchen held a bit of warmth from Mathilde’s cookery from earlier in the day, the banked fire breathing red beneath a pile of coal. Yvienne’s muscles relaxed in the small bit of warmth. She listened for sounds of her parents or her uncle, but the house was silent except for the dripping of rain from the eaves and the creaks and settling of such an old house.

  She took off her boots and carrying them in one hand and her bulging satchel in the other, she tiptoed up the stairs to her bedroom. The door was unlatched and Yvienne felt a twinge of worry. Not that Alinesse had ever been so maternal as to creep in and check on her sleeping daughters, not even when they were children, but this would have been the night she would have felt the need to, and she would have found one daughter missing.

  Or rather, both daughters. Even in the dark, Yvienne could tell at once that she was alone in the room. She lit a small candle stub and set it in the candleholder. The flickering light confirmed what she knew – two cleverly disguised lumps under the bedclothes. Tesara had flown the coop too. She, however, had not left a note.

  Just as well, Yvienne thought. She set to work, hiding the pistol with its mate under her side of the mattress, along with her ill-gotten gains. She shed her clothes and shoved them to the back of the wardrobe, frowning as her fingers encountered a soft package. But she was cold and tired, and her whole body and soul wanted nothing but rest and sleep. She would ask Tesara about it in the morning. Yvienne got into her night gown and her socks, pulled on her cap, and snuggled down into the cold bed.

  Drat Tesara, she thought, even as she yawned. Now it would take forever to warm up enough to go to…

  Tesara rapped the front panel of the coach and the coach drew up. In a moment the Saint Frey coachman came round and opened the door.

  “Thank you ever so much. I can walk from here,” Tesara told the man as they reached Emery Place. It was but a few minutes’ walk to Kerwater. She had no wish for him to tell Jone where she lived.

  “Are you sure, miss?” the coachman said. “It’s a cold night and you don’t want to be out by yourself.”

  It was kindly meant, but Tesara detected a busybody edge to the man’s voice.

  “It’s not far,” she told him. “I live on a cul-de-sac, and it’s difficult to turn and back a coach. Our coachman curses it terribly,” she added. He raised a skeptical eye – then why didn’t your coachman drive you to the party? And you live in this part of the city, no less? – but, evidently used to the vagaries of young ladies, he didn’t argue. He rolled out the step and gave her his hand.

  The city was dark and foggy here, with the clamor of fire wagons and constables muted in the distance. She watched the coach roll off into the fog, disappearing into the lamplit mist. Then she gathered her skirts and hurried home, wishing nothing more than to be in her bed and to forget the last few minutes at the party.

  After her moment of shock at coming face to face with Trune, she had closed her eyes and continued to hug Jone and Mirandine, and when she opened them again, Trune was out of her line of sight. She knew better than to think that he had disappeared entirely. She stayed by Jone’s side until her coach came, and then he handed her in, and she waved to him and Mirandine until she couldn’t see them any more. With her heart in her mouth, she settled back into the coach, the warm brick at her feet, and wished that she could rid herself of the sick, unsettling lump in the pit of her stomach.

  Trune had recognized her, that much she was sure of. He knew she had posed as a servant, and he would gleefully use that against her and the family. I need my powers back, she thought. I need them to protect my family.

  As if in response to her desperation, or perhaps because she was a bit drunk, entirely tired, and despairing, she felt a tiny frisson of energy rise out of her fingertips. A promise – or a tantalizing reminder of what she had lost?

  Tesara groped for the key hidden in the crack in the doorjamb, and let herself into the kitchen. She hurried up the stairs, stumbling a little as her feet slid inside the shoes. Some of the cotton had escaped, and they were once more too big for her. At the noise, she heard someone – her father or her uncle – snort and then snore once again. A bed creaked as someone turned over. She waited, barely breathing, until all was silent.

  Then Tesara was in her room. She could feel the presence of Yvienne, lying on her side, a dark lump under the covers. Tesara undressed quickly, tumbling the gown into the back of the wardrobe, telling herself she would shake it out and blot it the next morning. Shivering, she got into her nightgown, socks, and bed cap, and slid into the other side of the bed. Moving as silently as possible, she stuffed Mirandine’s purse under her side of the mattress.

  The bed was warm from Yvienne’s body heat. Her sister said not one word, by which Tesara knew she was wide awake and had heard everything.

  “Yes,” Tesara said out loud, her voice just above a whisper so as not to travel beyond their small, damp bedroom. “You do have a lot explaining to do.”

  There was a pause, and then she heard Yvienne give a small snuffle, as if she were holding back tears.

  “Good night, little sister.”

  “Good night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Constabulary notes: A fire destroyed the Almanac print shop, and two engines responded to the alarm. After a long battle, the firemen were successful in putting out the blaze. “The new pumps did the trick wonderfully,” said the chief of the firemen. The pumps were paid for by the new municipal tax levied under Guild recommendation. $$ Three merchant gentlemen were
relieved of their wallets by a masked gunman last night along Waters Street. City police have stepped up patrols to thwart any more robberies. If anyone has any information pertaining to the identity of the malefactor, the police ask him to come forward and report.

  The Gazette

  The Gazette reported the fire, but not the murder, and the robbery but not the description of the thief. Interesting, Yvienne thought, as her father read out the day’s news. She looked down at her breakfast of eggs with biscuits with herb butter and a small bit of summer sausage. Mathilde had outdone herself on her meager budget. Yvienne only wished she had an appetite. Tesara looked much the same as she felt, hollow eyed and almost feverish. They had not had time to debrief each other that morning. They had instead slept in until the mouthwatering aroma of breakfast had woken them, and their mother called on them to get out of bed, for goodness sakes, or did they mean to sleep all day? Gladly, Yvienne had thought, but she got to her feet anyway.

  Uncle Samwell’s seat was vacant, and Mathilde brought them the news with their breakfast that he had woken early and gone down to the docks for a morning stroll. But she left a little note by Yvienne’s plate. Yvienne palmed it and unfolded it in her lap, reading:

  He tried his usual with me and I relieved him of his nonsense. I told him to get his breakfast at the docks if he could, and locked the doors against him. He’ll not try it again.

  MA

  Yvienne smiled wanly despite herself, and put the note in her pocket.

  As Alinesse poured the coffee, Brevart was buried in the day’s papers, which Mathilde had brought him, saying she found both the Almanac and the rival Gazette on her way in that morning. If by found Mathilde meant purchased from a newsboy, Yvienne thought. The girl’s care for Brevart’s dignity was sweet, she had to admit.