“We need the money. And you have to admit that I would be good at it. Better than housework at any rate.”
“Are you mad?” Tesara asked. She rose up on one elbow to look down on her sister. “Don’t you know what it’ll be like, teaching the spoiled brats of some merchant household who’ll be naughty just because they can? You have to remember what it was like, Yvienne.”
“I rather liked some of our governesses.” Yvienne’s voice was reflective.
“And besides – who would have you? I mean, they would be foolish not to – you’re the smartest girl in Port Saint Frey – but you know how they treat us now.” She didn’t want her sister to be snubbed or mistreated. She felt her anger burn just thinking about it.
“Well, that’s just it,” Yvienne said in her thoughtful way. “There are two types of Houses that would hire me. One type is those who know that we’ve been unfairly scapegoated. They would do it out of kindness. The Sansieris, for instance.”
“The Sansieris might be all right,” Tesara muttered reluctantly. The Sansieris were old friends.
“And the other type are the ones who would love to have a dishonored Mederos at their beck and call. I wouldn’t take that position, though,” Yvienne said.
“I should think not!” Just the thought of it made Tesara flop back down onto the thin mattress. “How shameful of them.”
“Yes, well, I’ll make sure not to run afoul of them. So, we’ll see. And there are plenty of other households in Port Saint Frey. Some of the shopkeepers are practically merchant families themselves.”
“They’re a little rough, aren’t they?” Tesara was dubious. There was just something about the shopkeepers…
“They’re just like the merchant families, just with less money and less sense of entitlement. Anyway, there’s no saying that I’ll get a job. Miss Mastrini told me she would send me a letter.” Yvienne yawned. “It was a busy day.”
They lay quietly and companionably, each to their own thoughts. Yvienne’s breathing deepened, and Tesara could tell when she fell into sleep. In the stillness of the night and the darkness, she rubbed her hands together. A little spark, the usual kind cause by rubbing, arced under the cover, and faded just as quick.
When Tesara woke, she had a moment of disorientation. Cold spring sunlight streamed through the window. She and Yvienne were warm though, warm and cozy, because a fire burned on the hearth. The little fire did not smoke. She sat up in bed, blinking. A memory of the bedroom door opening in the early morning came back to her, but fled as distant as a dream of the old days. The fire kept crackling away. The logs were made of tightly wrapped scrap paper from Brevart’s day-old gazettes that he gathered up from the streets. They burned as cheerfully as wood. It wouldn’t last long, but it would make it that much easier to get up and dressed in the morning. And the smells – the heavenly breakfast smells. It smelled as if Cook had come back to them. Her mouth watered in anticipation.
She nudged her sleeping sister. “Wake up,” she said. “Yvienne. Up.”
Yvienne muttered and then roused, pushing her sleep-tousled hair out of her eyes. She pulled the cap from her head and made a single under-the-breath noise of wonder.
“Mathilde came,” Tesara said. It was as joyous as early morning on Saint Noel’s Day in midwinter. She threw back the covers and pushed herself out of bed, hurrying into her clothes. “Let’s eat.”
Chapter Eight
The Mederos family stood at the doorway to their dining room as if they had never seen the place before and were afraid to enter. The breakfast table was clean and wiped down and laid with their simple breakfast things. The lovely smell was porridge, but it was neither burnt nor bland as the other housemaids – or any of the Mederos women themselves – usually made it. Mathilde came through the door with a pot of tea wrapped in a tea towel. She set it down at the foot of the table, where Alinesse sat. Mathilde wore a black dress with a white apron that was crisp and ironed, and a little cap perched over her dark brown braids.
“Good morning,” she said. “It’s not much but I can do a bit of shopping in the market and see about getting some spices and such to make things interesting. I’ll write out a list and you can look it over and tell me if it’s all right, Madam.”
Alinesse made her way to the foot of the table, open-mouthed. She managed to say, faintly, “Yes, of course. That will do quite well.” Remembering herself, she slid neatly into the chair, picked up the napkin, and laid it on her lap. The rest of the family hastily followed suit, Brevart at the head of the table, the girls on one side, and Samwell on the other. Alinesse held up the teapot and started pouring out tea, passing around cups.
“Oh,” Brevart said faintly. He unfolded an ironed copy of Treacher’s Almanac from next to his plate. He touched it with wonder.
“If you prefer the Gazette…” Mathilde began.
“It will do,” Brevart said, pretending to be curt about it but fooling no one. He snapped it open with authority, a satisfied smile curving his lips. Mathilde bobbed a curtsey and let them be, and the family had their first wholesome meal in six years.
The porridge had a small pool of butter on top, and Mathilde had spiced it with cinnamon and cloves and the merest pinch of barley sugar. The tea was smooth, not
