Shivering and feverish, Tesara pulled up Persife outside the house at Forty-seven Kittredge Mews. There was a crowd here too, and she gave an exasperated sigh. There were constables on guard, and the neighbors, some in their nightshirts and holding umbrellas against the ever-present mist, were standing about in hushed little knots, discussing the events of the night.
Tesara scanned the situation. Neighbors. Constables. The clanging of the firewagon bells, as if it were not enough that the constables were on the scene. And reporters. Of course. The scourge of Port Saint Frey, she thought. Can nothing happen in this town without them? She moved Persife closer.
“Hey,” she croaked out to a man in striped pyjamas, a threadbare robe, and gumboots instead of house slippers. “What’s going on?”
The man started at the outlandish voice coming out of the night, and looked twice at the boyish figure on the back of a well-bred horse. “The constables have the Gentleman Bandit cornered in the house.”
An electric spark of alarm shot up her spine. Persife shied in response to Tesara’s reaction, and it was all she could do to keep from falling from the saddle. She clutched the horse’s mane and hung on.
“What are you doing here?” the man asked, but she was already reining Persife around. The mare charged forward and Tesara held on tight. For the first time that night she broke her own rule against galloping, and Persife burst forward as if she were running on turf. Tesara heard alarmed shouts over the clattering hoofbeats.
At the sound of the cries, Persife leapt sideways at the crowd. This time it was too much for Tesara’s feverish, weakened state. She slid out of the saddle onto the hard cobblestones.
“Ow!” The sharp pain in her hip brought tears to her eyes. Persife kept running, and disappeared into the night, and Tesara felt a pang of guilt. She reminded herself that horses know how to find their way home, and Persife seemed bright. The redheaded woman would not need to come after Tesara over her horse.
“Are you all right, boy?” someone said, helping her up. The young man’s eyes widened as he saw that Tesara was female. “…I mean, miss?” She winced, and nodded, rubbing her hip.
“Yes. Thank you. Most kind,” she managed, and hobbled toward the house.
“You shouldn’t go in there,” the young man called out. “The Gentleman Bandit has the constables at bay!”
Tesara didn’t bother to answer, busy scanning her approach. There were two constables on the front steps, and several more along the sides of the house, near the garden gate. The firewagon and its hellish bells came up the street, lanterns blazing, its team of six horses blowing hard at a fast trot. Men dropped off the wagon sides, carrying billy clubs.
Tesara cast around for a plan of attack and her gaze focused on the lanterns held by the constables and those that were hanging off the wagon. She centered herself, drew in a breath, and blew gently along her hand, guiding and amplifying the breath with her power.
Hardly discernable at first, the small breeze she created gathered strength, and the lantern lights flickered and then whooshed out.
People cried out in alarm, and men cursed. Amid shouts of, “what’s happening?” and “I need a light!” the constables guarding the gate on the side of the house hoofed it around to the front to see the cause of the hubbub. Tesara let them come forward and then darted back to the gate.
It was open. She let herself inside.
She waited a moment in the small kitchen, listening. There were sounds coming from the parlor at the front of the house, and she crept along the dark narrow hallway, following the light spilling out from the open parlor door. Now she could make out voices. Several men and her sister, Yvienne’s voice low and bright and reasonable among the angry men.
Tesara centered herself again, and gathered her power, when someone pounded on the front door of the house.
“We’re under attack!” came a muffled cry from outside. “Men on horseback, and they’ve got us on the run.”
Now she could hear the chaos outside. There were shots being fired, people screaming, firehorses whinnying in terror. When she had doused the lights, it had set off a panic. Good, she thought. Easier to get Yvienne away. She centered herself again and went to push the air into the room, when something struck the back of her head. It was the last straw. Any attempt at control was lost. The last thing she remembered was her power, unleashed, shooting into the room and all of the lamps exploding.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Doc pushed Elenor into the room in front of him, keeping a hold on her arm and kicking the door closed.
“Sit,” he ordered, pushing her at the bed, and she complied, her eyes wide and frightened as she took in Abel’s state.
“How dare you, sir?” she said, with all the courage she could muster. “Who do you think you are? What are you doing to Mr Fresnel?”
“Quiet,” Doc said, with hardly a glance at her. “If you scream or make any noise, I’ll kill him. Do you understand?” That broke her, and she slumped, nodding. “What is your name?”
She hesitated, and then, “Elenor… Sansieri.”
He looked at Abel. “Is she the one you slept with?”
No point in lying to protect her honor. Abel nodded. Doc made a face of disgust.
“Fool. Idiot boy. I didn’t raise you for this.” He glanced at her. “Do you know where the younger Mederos girl is?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide, pupils so big as to swallow up the color.
Doc looked her over, and shook his head. A gentle expression came over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice filled with compassion. “You don’t deserve this. Love makes all of us act against our own better natures.”
To her credit, Eleanor remained wary, but she nodded. She never looked at Abel, keeping her gaze fixed on Doc. Working only with the tips of his fingers, Abel worked the scalpel at his wrists and palm. Slick, warm blood flowed from the cuts, the small abrasions stinging and sharp.
Doc tsked, a disappointed father who was pained by needed discipline. Elenor swallowed.
“I’m– I’m so sorry,” she managed. “I didn’t mean to distract him from his task.” She sobbed.
The handcuffs slid over Abel’s bloody wrists. He worked them over his palms.
“Shh,” Doc said. He sat down on the bed next to her, taking her chin in his hand, looking deep into her eyes. “I understand. It’s not your fault. A good girl like you…”
Elenor yanked her head away, her face transformed from tears to anger.
“Don’t touch me, you monster!” she shrieked. She gave him a ringing slap.
Doc’s eyes flew wide, and the second of startlement was all Abel needed. He pulled his bloody hands free and surged upward with a shout. In the instant in which Doc was about to snap Elenor’s neck, the man had to go on the defensive against Abel. It was an infinitesimal space of a second in which Abel had to make his move, that shift from attack to defense.
Doc had trained him well to act in such fractions.
Abel flew at him. They fought without words: hands and feet kicking and slapping, a brutal dance. For all he was a big man, Doc was light on his feet, almost delicate in his bruising punches. Abel was like a bee and Doc a bull, but the bull gored him time and again.
Abel gasped, the pain in his ribs making it impossible to take a full breath, and at the same time he controlled his breathing and stayed calm, finding the place inside himself that gave him strength. Doc gave him training and brutalized his spirit, remaking him into a weapon, taking away his free will – except for the cool stone of himself at the core of his body.
With a powerful blow from his heel, Doc snapped Abel’s leg, and he went down.
Abel cried out then, a single name, and Doc loomed over him, disgust and contempt in the man’s expression, and by that Abel knew he and Elenor were as good as dead.
And that was when Elenor lifted the heavy lamp from the dressing table, spilling sweet camphene oil across t
he floor, and bashed it over Doc’s head.
Hard on the sounds of rising madness outside the house, the lamps were extinguished with an explosive whoosh of wind from the hall. Many of the constables were knocked off their feet, shouting and cursing, voices pitched high with fear. Under the cover of the chaos, Yvienne moved. She grabbed a pistol from one of the constables and darted for the open hallway. She collided with someone rushing in, shouting, “I have the she-devil, sir! She’s in the hall!” She twisted around him, elbowing him hard in the ribs with a sharp blow, and he bent double with an oof. She reversed the pistol and came down hard with the butt on his skull. The man went down with a thud.
Renner’s voice rose above the chaos. “Somebody relight the God-damned lamps!”
Yvienne didn’t know where Malcroft was and dared not call out for him. There was no light coming in anywhere, Tesara having doused the streetlamps as well as the lights inside the house.
She stumbled over a groaning body. “Tes?” she whispered. She knelt and helped her sit up, casting a look back at the chaos in the dark parlor.
“Vivi?” Her sister could barely speak.
Tesara was unbearably light, all of her childhood stoutness burned away. She was clammy and feverish, and Yvienne’s heart sank.
“Here,” said Malcroft, suddenly at her side. He lifted Tesara, making nothing of the slight burden.
“Go,” Yvienne said. “I’ll handle things here.”
Carrying Tesara, Malcroft ran off down the hall toward the kitchen, as men bounded in the front door, and the chaos in the parlor came under Renner’s control.
Under the chief constable’s firm orders, the lamps were relit, the warm glow bouncing off the scene in the parlor. Yvienne watched from the dark hallway, a play unfolding in front of her. Everything in the parlor was knocked about, knick-knacks broken and paintings askew. A constable helped Mrs Francini to her feet, holding her steady. Trune was spitting with fury, berating Renner in a non-stop barrage of invective. His coachman stood behind him, stolid and grim. Dr Reynbolten looked astonished, but not shaken, scanning the room. The lawyer was the first to note that Yvienne was missing. She turned around, taking everything in, when she saw her standing in the hallway. They locked eyes. Yvienne came back into the parlor, emerging out of the darkness into the light. Now everyone turned to look at her. She handed the pistol over to Chief Renner; the hapless constable she had taken it from looking embarrassed in front of his superior. Renner took the pistol but absently; his expression was piercing, as if he were trying to get to the bottom of who she was with only his wits.
Trune’s eyes bugged out. “Where is she?” he shrieked. “Where is that fiend of a sister of yours?”
Yvienne channeled her temper and let it forth as her weapon.
“Chief constable,” she said, starting with a low voice and letting it rise in crescendo. “I have had enough of Guildmaster Trune’s attacks and insults on my sister and my family! We have been the victims of his abuse for long enough! Now you, sir, must do your job and arrest this man for fraud, kidnapping, and murder!”
“You little bi–” Trune spat.
“ENOUGH!” Yvienne shouted. The anger exploded in her, and she was astonished by her own power. A kind of light came into her head, and a distant part of her marveled. My goodness, does it run in the family? But whatever Tesara could do, Yvienne could only use her particular gift, that of words.
“Enough,” she said again. “Enough.” She swept her arm out to the hall. “My sister is not here, as you all can plainly see. Trune’s phantasm is the weather, the bugbear of his fevered imagination.”
“Chief,” said a constable in a low voice, as if afraid of attracting attention. “Malcroft Shy’s escaped.”
There came a groan from the floor, and Marques the butler came to. He was helped to his feet, and he moaned in pain, clutching his head. Even by the dim lamplight, they could see that his eyes were unfocused. Mrs Francini made room for him on the pouf and he sank down. She patted his hand, but a little brisk, still disgruntled. Trune practically leaped on him with eagerness.
“Here. My man will prove it to you. Marques,” said Trune, his voice urgent. “Marques, look here. No, here,” he sdai, as the man turned in an entirely different direction. “Marques, you said you had her. Who was she? Tell them who was here. What girl was here, Marques?”
Marques didn’t answer for a long moment. Finally he turned to his employer.
“Girl?”
Renner’s voice rumbled as if it came from the depths of the earth.
“Mr Trune. You are under arrest for fraud, embezzlement, kidnapping, and the murder of Barabias Parr.”
Trune shrieked and fought but he was easily restrained, as was his coachman and the hapless Marques.
Dr Reynbolten looked at Yvienne and Mrs Francini and sighed. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you a lift.”
Chapter Fifty
Fire and Calamity Overtake Port Saint Frey!
Gentleman Bandit is captured and escapes!
Tornado touches down in Kittredge Mews!
Former Guildmaster Trune arrested and detained!
Bailet Hotel burns to the ground!
A tornado was observed to touch down on Forty-seven Kittredge Mews last night, just one of many catastrophes that rocked the city. Several constables were guarding the house, said to be the holdout of the Gentleman Bandit, and in a desperate gun battle, in which shots were fired in exchange with the man, he escaped once again into the night. Witnesses said a mysterious youth – some say a girl – brought the bandit’s horse for him to make his escape into the night.
The constables arrested former Guildmaster Trune, a fugitive from justice and perpetrator of the Great Fraud. Chief Constable Renner would not speak on the capture of the former leading light of the Guild and refused to say whether he had been in league with the Gentleman Bandit all along.
Several firewagons were called out to the Bailet Hotel on the Esplanade last night, and despite a valiant effort by the fire brigade, the establishment burned to the ground. The firewagons pumped water from the local water supply, and managed to prevent the spread of the conflagration. Most of the guests were accounted for, but rumors of a suspicious nature emanating from Room Twenty-three were said to be the source of the fire.
The hotel manager would not comment on the night’s events, and was seen to harshly silence a clerk who appeared willing to discuss the terrifying scene.
The Gazette will continue to investigate until we get to the heart of these matters.
The Gazette
Yvienne woke up to full daylight. She groaned and stretched, aching all over. It had been a long night, and she and Mrs Francini had not gotten home until nearly dawn, seated in Dr Reynbolten’s carriage, which the lawyer drove herself.
Malcroft and Tesara had gotten home first, and Tesara headed straight for bed, with Albero and Uncle Samwell rising to the task of nursing her. Afterwards, Malcroft and Noe were nowhere to be seen, and Albero said they had been vague about where they were going but certainly appeared in a hurry to get there.
Yvienne did not expect to see them ever again, and only hoped they had left town safely and with rather less of the House Mederos’ silver than could be expected under the circumstances, considering that she had not been able to pay either of them their contracted wages.
She sent Mrs Francini to bed, and the woman was only too glad to go. By the time Yvienne had gotten her sister into a warm nightgown, with a mustard plaster on her chest, her face washed in mint and lavender, and the worst tangles combed out of her hair, the clock had struck half past five. She had such nervous energy, brought on by exhaustion and exhilaration, that it wasn’t until she realized that she was asleep on her feet, that she took herself to bed.
Her brain was still in a fog of weariness. Yet there was something different about the quality of the day that she couldn’t put a finger on, and she puzzled over it even as she
dressed in her robe, her muscles protesting, and fumbled for her slippers at the side of the bed with her toes. She slumped on the edge of the bed, staring at her left foot in a diamond of sunlight. At first she couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing. Then Yvienne gave a shriek and scrambled for the window, pushing back the curtains.
The sun had broken through. Sunlight poured down over the land, and she could see out over the harbor, the blue sea with its whitecaps painfully bright on her fog-dulled eyes.
Yvienne cranked open the window, and the crisp air flowed into the room. She raised her face to the sun, almost weeping. She had never felt anything so good – it was as if the sunshine had gotten beneath her skin and was warming her from the inside. Even her aches were gone.
“Oh,” she said over and over. “Oh.”
She scanned the grounds by the gate. It was quiet for the first time in days. Trash hung on the gate, and there were two abandoned firepits, but no onlookers.
At last, another story had bumped theirs from the pages of the Gazette.
Still in her robe, Yvienne padded down the hall to her sister’s room, leaving her bedroom door open to allow sunlight to pour through the second floor hall. She knocked on Tesara’s door, then pushed it open.
Her sister turned at her approach. Tesara was propped up in bed, still so thin and pale, her fingers bony, and her cheekbones jutting out. Her hair, once white blond as a child and then a lovely golden brown as a young woman, was streaked with white and gray, and she looked startling, as if she were neither boy nor girl but somehow a mix of both. Her eyes were a darker blue than ever Yvienne had seen them. Yvienne eased down onto the bed and took her sister’s hand, bracing herself for the inevitable spark. It had been happening all night long, and she could tell that it pained her sister whenever she flinched at the shock.
The room stank of the sickroom, a combined smell of unwashed body, the peculiar stench of fever, the rank aroma of the chamberpot, and the smells of mustard plaster and flannels and herbal tisanes, and medicinal powders.
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