“Good. Yvienne. I like that.” Mathilde patted her hand and bent her bonnet toward Yvienne as if they were having a lovely cose. “Don’t look about you, and just keep walking. There’s a man following you, and I think he means mischief.”
Chapter Six
The dark and quiet kitchen suited Tesara, and she reveled in her solitude. Yvienne had gone off to Mastrini’s, and her parents and Uncle retired to their usual corners: Brevart in the parlor to read from week-old papers by the light of the window, Alinesse to sit with him, and to respond to his commentary on the stale news with snide remarks. Uncle went off in a snit to his bedroom upstairs, though she knew from experience that he could stand his own company for only so long.
Alone, Tesara examined her hands as best she could in the dim light from the small window over the dry sink. The fingers on her left hand were gnarled and clawed, and though she tried over the years to straighten them, they remained twisted as tree roots. Madam Callier’s punishment had been most effective. For six long years she had been unable to summon up the power that she had so casually wielded during her childhood, associated as it now was with the sound and pain of her fingers cracking. The memory sickened her as it always did, bringing on a wave of nausea that had not lessened over the years. Six years, and she had forgotten that gathering current, the mischievous tingle. She couldn’t even remember how it felt to make papers blow through the hall or candles to light with a single easy thought. Half-heartedly she tried to concentrate on the small stub of unlit candle on the kitchen table. She flicked her fingers at it. Nothing.
Do you really want this?
That was the crux, wasn’t it? It was one thing to be able to light a candle with a single thought or snuff one out, or make papers sail through the hallway on a single puff of wind. But sinking three ships with all hands in a violent storm – that was a different kettle of fish. If she had blown the papers off the desk, then she had also created the storm.
And if she had created the storm, she had destroyed her family.
The door to the kitchen opened and Uncle Samwell came back in. Yes, five minutes alone was about as long as he could manage it, Tesara thought waspishly.
“Standing watch, Monkey?” he said, full of good cheer, oblivious to her blue devils. She rolled her eyes. Couldn’t he see that she was in the deeps and didn’t want to be called by her old pet name?
Without waiting for a reply, he rummaged in vain in the pantry, his large behind in the doorway. He mumbled a coarse epithet when there was nothing but a sack of old porridge and crumbs of tea leaves. In the old days, he could ring the kitchen and Cook would bring him a tasty dish at all hours of the day or evening.
It’s been six years. You would think he’d be used to it by now. “There’s nothing in there, remember?” she called out to him, resting her chin on her hands and staring at the candle. It remained cold and unlit.
“Thank you, I know,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Perhaps you could do something about that.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. Finally, Uncle gave up his fruitless quest and pulled out of the pantry. He sat down at the table with her, a shadow of his former ebullient self, and spread out in a slack kind of way. He drummed his thick fingers on the table. Funny, she thought, they had been partners in crime when she was younger. They were the two black sheep of the family, egging each other on in mischief until her mother snapped at both of them, crying at her brother, “You’re worse than she is!”
He’d taught her how to play cards, unrepentantly stealing all her sweets money in the process. “What’s the state of your holdings, Monkey?” he’d ask, and then he’d cajole her to play, telling her she was getting quite good, and this time he knew she would win, and then once again he’d win all of her allowance for the week, all the while telling her lurid tales of his narrow escapes from the gaming hells on the waterfront. She sighed.
“Didn’t you girls learn housekeeping at that school?” he said, still with the air of annoyance.
“I can net you a purse, Uncle, or dance a rondeau, but I can’t make you a snack.” That was completely untrue, of course, but she had no intention of setting a precedent.
He laughed. “Useless.”
“And I’m sure you are quite industrious down at the docks,” she purred.
“Business, girl. Business.” He canted a sly look at her. “I’ll make your fortune yet, you’ll see. I’ve been talking with the Colonel, you know. Colonel Talios. Yes, indeed.”
Another one of Uncle’s impossible schemes. “Don’t trouble yourself,” she said with the same deep sarcasm. “Really.”
He bridled as always at the suggestion that he was no good at business. The good-natured teasing fell away.
“Oh, well, look who’s too fancy for business now. That school did you no favors, if it made you forget you’re a merchant’s daughter. This whole family has gone to pot. Your parents have made a right mess of the whole thing, from start to finish. And the least we could do is have some food in the house,” he finished, a cry from the heart.
It was so blasted unjust, coming from him, that she snapped back, “Perhaps if you had insured the fleet, we would have.”
Uncle Samwell went red-faced in an instant. Her blow had landed, and now she felt terrible. It always happened. They would squabble, she would turn on him, and then she would feel horrible. No matter how bad he was, he somehow always managed to make her
