Whoever it was had been taking notes. She dusted around the handles on the desk, trying to move them if she could, but they were locked, each and every one.
Foiled, she went over to the glass-front bookcase, but the binders were unlabeled. She tried the latch on the glass door, but it too was locked. She jiggled it to be sure.
“Are you looking for something?”
Tesara whirled around so fast the feather duster flew from her hand.
The man standing there was tall, lanky in his gray trousers and cutaway coat, his maroon cravat wrapped loosely around his long neck. Long, cadaverous lines were grooved into his face, clean-shaven except for sideburns down his jawline.
It was Trune, the Guild master.
Chapter Eighteen
Tesara bobbed a curtsey and retrieved her feather duster.
“I’m sorry, sir, I was dusting. I’m new – just come today – and wasn’t sure what to clean and what not.”
“Clearly… not.” He gestured around the room, indicating everything locked up and inaccessible.
“Yes, sir.” She waited to go by him. She clutched the duster in front of her, hoping he couldn’t see how her hands were shaking. His eyes flicked down to her hands and she felt a rush of shame.
After a moment he nodded and stepped aside, letting her go by, and she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her thick, starched dress. She grabbed up her pail of supplies and slipped through the door, keeping her eyes down as she went to close the door behind her.
“Wait.”
She stopped, heart hammering. Would he recognize her? She had been a child the last time he had seen her. I’ll be watching you… He might not recognize her but would he recognize a Mederos if he saw one?
“Will you be serving tonight?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know what Mrs Aristet has in mind for me.”
He nodded. “Serve tonight,” he said. “I’ll make sure that Mrs Aristet knows.”
“Yes, sir.”
He let her go then, and she walked away, trying not to run or to look back. Serve? What on earth was she going to do? She hadn’t meant to stay very long; just a quick look around and then back into her clothes and away she went, with Mrs Aristet and Poll bewildered. She had already stayed far too long. Sooner or later the girl she was impersonating would show up, and then Tesara would have some explaining to do.
And if she served at dinner, it would very quickly come out that she was an imposter. Never mind her work as a scullery maid at Madam Callier’s; serving at a formal dinner was not the purview of the everyday housemaid. Nor was it useful to have been served every night as a child. All the nuances that Charle handled so competently so that nothing ever went wrong came about because of his well-trained servants. It was a dance, and she had only ever been the audience. She didn’t know the steps.
She couldn’t possibly serve; if Trune found out who she was, it would put her family in grave danger.
She had to escape as soon as she could.
Escape was harder than gaining entrance. Tesara hurried down the stairs, and saw that the door to the back smoking salon was open. There were glass doors that opened onto the garden, and thence to the street. She glanced surreptitiously around her. She could duck in there and once through, hie herself home to Kerwater Street. Too bad about her own dress and the servant’s uniform; perhaps she could send it back by post, anonymously. Except then she would be short one dress… Tesara, think, she scolded herself. She needed to escape, not be concerned with dresses.
She forced herself to concentrate. She peeked into the salon. It was unoccupied. This room was one of the prettiest and warmest in the house. It was brightly lit from the sunshine pouring through the glass doors that overlooked the garden, and it faced away from the Crescent and the harbor, from which the cold winds blew. The windows sparkled in their mullioned framework. Brevart had bragged about the glazing to many of their guests. Tesara headed straight for the glass doors.
“There you are,” Poll said, coming around behind her. Tesara practically jumped out of her skin and at the same time, experienced exasperation. How did she keeping doing that?
Poll was covered with dust and her hair straggled even more from under her cap. “Did you finish the upstairs rooms?”
Willing her heart to slow down and trying to hide her frustration, Tesara replied, “Yes. But I went into one of the studies by mistake and the master found me. I won’t be turned off, will I?” She watched Poll closely.
Poll shrugged. “You never know, with masters.”
For the love of Saint Frey… Tesara kept from rolling her eyes with all of her strength. Why did the girl have to be so taciturn? She had hoped that Poll would have asked her for more details, and then in return, she could have found out who was the master. She fell in behind her and probed a bit more.
“He’s a bit of a scary gentleman, don’t you think?”
Poll shrugged again. “Mrs Francini wants us to help in the kitchen now that we’re done with the rooms. Have you done cookery?”
She looked Tesara directly in the eye and Tesara took the hint. She had probed too far; Poll was not answering questions.
“Not for a grand household like this one.”
“Not many have. Mrs Francini will show you what to do.”
Cook – Mrs Francini – was as amply bosomed as Mrs Aristet but far less imposing since the top of her head only came up to Tesara’s shoulder. She was a quick dynamo in her kitchen. She made the girls wash their hands and faces and tuck their hair under their caps, and
