“Oh good, Papa!” Yvienne burst out. Perhaps Brevart was regaining some of his old spirit. Perhaps all he needed was a dish of well-made porridge and some weak tea. If so, Alinesse was right – Mathilde was a treasure. If we aren’t careful, she will quite take over the family, Yvienne thought. “And you, Mama?”
“I have accounts, dear,” Alinesse said, but she looked wistful for a moment, or as much wistfulness as the fierce Alinesse ever let herself indulge in. “Even this household needs to be managed. Speaking of which, where is your sister?”
“I’m sure she’s getting dressed for her day. I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”
With that, Yvienne continued up the stairs.
Tesara wasn’t in their bedroom. Yvienne scanned the letter one more time, committing it to memory, and then tore it up and tossed the pieces on the fire. It had almost gone out but she blew life into the embers, enough to brown the letter, and then blacken it beyond recognition.
Now she had to get ready.
Yvienne headed toward the half-sized hatchway at the end of the hall that led to the attic. As she expected, the little hatchway was locked; she had seen the keys on her mother’s belt, and there was no filching them or guilelessly asking her mother if she could use the key to get into the attic. She pulled a hairpin from her hair, and bent it into position. In seconds she had the door opened.
Her stint at Madam Callier’s had been fruitful in many ways, just not in the ways that either Madam herself or her parents had ever expected. For instance, who knew that a hairpin could be so useful? As the girls in the upper school always said, sometimes being a fast girl had its merits. All the upper school girls knew how to sneak in and out of the dorm. Out was through the dormer windows overlooking the mournful elms, swinging out onto the branches and down to the ground. In was back through the scullery door, and for that a girl needed a hairpin and a skeleton key to bump the lock just so. While most of the upper girls met boys they fancied, or had trysts with another girl they pashed on in a doomed romance that was all the more exciting for being forbidden, Yvienne put her new-found talents to an entirely different use.
She had investigated Madam’s office, looking through her papers for all matters concerning the Mederos sisters. There were intriguing letters and monthly payments, carefully written down in the accounts ledger, and all of it led to one thing – she and her sister had been sent to the dreadful academy and Madam was being paid to watch over them. Even their old nurse Michelina had come in for a small finder’s fee, though the nurse had not lived long enough to enjoy the fruits of her betrayal, dying of a fever a year after their arrival. But Madam and her contact were cagey – there was never anything to indicate who was doing the paying. Once, Yvienne stayed so long rummaging through the accounts that she had been surprised by the gardener’s boy, come to replenish the firewood, early in the morning. She’d had to kiss him to keep him from tattling. Not that that had been a hardship – the gardener’s boy had known quite a lot about kissing.
Once inside the attic, she could barely stand up, except right in the center. There was a high window across the small, dusty room. A cold wind blew in from the dirty glass, and the attic was damp and musty where the rain got in. The room was full of rubbish from their old lives. This was where they stored the few things that the Guild had let them take from the house on the Crescent, that which was too poor and useless to fetch even the smallest price. She couldn’t imagine the trunk of old clothes had gone to the auctioneer.
And there it was – the old trunk was pushed against the wall.
Resolutely ignoring the spider webs and the inconvenient tickle at the back of her neck, she knelt and opened the trunk. It was full of old clothes from a bygone age, and she and her sister and their friends had played dress up and theater in the schoolroom of their old house, donning the boys’ clothes or the evening dresses and played at dancing. The trousers had been too big for her then, and even though she had gained in height, she thought the clothes would still fit. She had never been a stout girl like her sister, and the privations of the last six years had only emphasized her skinny frame. She barely had a bust that needed stays, and her hips were lean. I am sure that a waistcoat and trousers will do much to hide my sex, especially at night, she thought.
One by one she pulled them out – the old linen shirt, the trousers, a pair of old-fashioned boots, and a waistcoat. There was the coat at the bottom, smelling of mothballs, and she pulled on it, wrinkling her nose at the odor. It caught on something and she felt around with one hand, following a crack in the bottom of the trunk until she found where the fabric was snagged on what felt like a small metal latch. A tide of curiosity washed over her. Yvienne yanked the coat out and tossed it aside. Her arm getting tired holding up the lid, she cast around for a solution. There was an old three-legged caned stool crammed under the dusty window. She pulled it over, twisted a dowel from the seat, and used it to prop open the lid. It gave her a few more inches and the ability
