We have only the Guild we deserve.
Arabestus
The question of whether Treacher was Arabestus was answered when a single broadsheet appeared in the hands of newsies all along the Mile and down by the docks. The saucy urchins said only that a “young fella” gave them the papers to sell, and they were quick to do so. Everyone was talking about it, from the docks to the Mile. Each installment was eagerly awaited.
That was not the only news.
“Listen to this,” Brevart said at dinner that night. He read from the Gazette, the remaining paper after Treacher’s death. “‘The good merchant folk of Port Saint Frey have once again been terrorized by the Gentleman Bandit. Last night at the Kerrills’ salon for the eighteenth birthday of Master Amos Kerrill, the larcenous bandit came in through the garden, availed himself of the purses of several guests, and vanished into the night before the constables could be sent for. Guests were terrified and several ladies – and one gentleman, we have been told – fainted and had to be revived with strong spirits. Mr Kerrill called out the dogs and many guests went out in pursuit, but it was in vain.
“‘“It is getting so that no one wants to even hold a salon,” Mrs Kerrill said in tears. “It is infuriating that such a low fellow breaks in, thieves wantonly, and disappears. Our evening was ruined. The police must do something.”’” Brevart ruffled the pages of the paper. “I don’t know what this city is coming to. Treacher’s death, the fire that almost burned down the entire block, and now this.”
“The fellow has quite a mode of operation, I’ll give him that,” Uncle Samwell said. He sounded almost as if he wished he had thought of it.
“An entirely criminal one,” Alinesse said. “I wonder that the police can’t apprehend him.”
“He’ll stumble soon enough. These fellows always do,” Brevart said. “They get ambitious, and the next thing you know, they’ve been nabbed. Hubris.”
Uncle Samwell naturally took the other side. He ticked off his points. “One. He knows what house to hit, and when. Always knows when there is going to be a big do. Two. Never takes jewelry. Always cash, because then he don’t have to worry about fencing any of it. Three. Always knows how to get in, and most importantly, how to get out. I wager the Sansieris will never be touched; their place backs up onto that great back wall.”
“And I say it’s only a matter of time.”
“And I say it’s a good thing Tesara never accepts any of these invitations,” Alinesse said. “Goodness knows what would happen if this fellow is about.”
Tesara shrugged. “It’s not as if he would get anything off me,” she pointed out. “I haven’t a purse to cut.”
“Could be worse,” Uncle Samwell said, but with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Fellow like that might slit your throat out of spite.”
“Sam!” Alinesse said, exasperated. Despite her mother’s annoyance, Tesara snorted a laugh, and that emboldened her uncle.
“Give over, Alinesse, I didn’t mean it. Look, even Tesara’s laughing.”
“Oh, well, if Tesara laughs then it’s all in line,” Alinesse said with deep sarcasm.
“Oh, I see, if I laugh, then I’m in the wrong automatically?” Tesara said, but with mock insult.
“That’s not – oh for heaven’s sake. I liked it better when you two were out of sorts with each other.”
But that was it, Tesara reflected. Things were back to normal, brought on by good food and warm fires and general household indulgence.
The dining table had undergone as substantial a transformation in the last weeks as the breakfast table. There was a tablecloth now, and the dishes of dented tin had been replaced with a set of quite pretty crockery. Alinesse’s gardening skills had borne fruit, as it were, and tall stalks of dragonsnaps interspersed with pale pink wild roses, their delicate scent perfuming the air all day, adorned the sideboard from an empty can that once held cooking oil.
There was plenty of food – a small leg of lamb dressed with mint jelly, potatoes with dill, sweet peas and a tossed salad of spicy bitter greens, and biscuits that were as high as the gunwales, as Mrs Francini would say. A bowl of trifle waited for dessert.
Yvienne continued to provide the fiction that the additional money for the household came from her salary on advance, as she had still not been paid for her first month. They had been supplementing the budget with Tesara’s purse but had been a bit profligate. The money had gone to their heads. We need to scale back, Tesara thought. Alinesse was growing suspicious. Their mother had taken to going over the accounts and questioning Mathilde about the marketing. That worried Tesara. Mathilde had allayed Alinesse’s suspicions, which was a relief, but it only meant that now the housemaid knew something was afoot with regards to the money she and Yvienne were slipping her. It was a dreadful tangle. If Alinesse found out that the groceries cost more than the pittance she gave to Mathilde for marketing, supplemented with Yvienne’s pay, and if Mathilde found out the money came from somewhere other than those sources, the jig would be up.
It’s ridiculous, Tesara thought. First we didn’t have any money, and now we have too much. She and Yvienne would have to sort this out. Laundering the money through the household accounts was no longer working.
“You know, I was thinking,” Uncle Samwell continued, as the family lingered over the remains of their meal. Brevart groaned but even his hostility was muted. “We could have a dinner party now, don’t you think? We have the girl after all, and she does marvels, I’ll grant you that. Be a great catch, that one – for a shopkeeper, that is.”
Tesara and Yvienne exchanged glances but looked away before they could laugh. After Uncle had tried on his usual with Mathilde and had been
