She felt the lurch as the well-sprung coach turned a corner and began the ascent up the Crescent. She leaned back against the seat and tried to breathe. She could feel the tugging as the four horses pulled steadily up the hill, and she knew how their muscles strained.
Some things one never forgot. The time it took for the coach to reach her old home at the top of the Crescent was remembered in her bones and muscles. We should be there by now, she thought, and almost looked out. When the coach leveled out and turned, she knew they had come to the House and were entering its circular drive. This time she lowered the window blind and looked out. There were only two glowing spots by the front door, and one light in the window.
Despite expecting as much, Tesara froze with fear. She yanked at the door but it stayed fast. It was not just latched, but locked. The coach had by by now turned into the stables. Tesara could tell because the clip clop of the horses’ hooves had changed from crunching on gravel to hollow clopping, and the wheels of the coach rang on stone.
She was to be escorted in through the back door. Tesara braced herself.
This time she recognized the extra sounds of a key turning, and the door opened. The coachman lifted out the step and then held out his gloved hand. She gathered herself and took it and hopped out.
She took the time to look around.
“My, Guildmaster Trune surely knows how to impress his guests,” she said in a clear, ringing voice. Her bravado did not impress. The coachman snorted with derision and took her upper arm, not exactly squeezing but not gentle either. He pushed her in front of him and she had to move quickly to avoid being dragged.
He took her to the scullery. There was a roaring fire and a small number of dishes set to be taken up to the dining room, and the food looked and smelled lovely. Mrs Francini took pride in her handiwork. So, there was to be a party, she thought, but it was a private one.
The coachman led her to the small cubby and handed her a familiar uniform. The navy pinstriped dress of heavy material weighed in her arms. So, Trune thought to humiliate her first. Keep it coming, she promised him. The angrier you make me, the worse it is for you. She had to keep him occupied long enough to let Yvienne do her work.
“You promised his Excellency that you would serve him at dinner,” the coachman said. He gave her a little push toward the cupboard where she had changed last time.
She closed the door behind her and undressed in the dark, yanking off her long gloves and silk gown and folding them neatly. She pulled up the servant’s dress and buttoned it up by feel, hating the smell of the harsh detergent and the starch. All the time her heart was pounding like a tightly wound clock, and her fingers were vibrating with energy.
She took a moment in the dark to compose herself. Her carefully curled and upswept hair had not survived the change of clothing, and she took out the pins and redid it as a severe bun coiled at her neck. She took a deep breath and opened the door. The coachman stood far away from the door, smoking a thin cheroot, the sweet, strong smell of tobacco wafting over her. He looked her up and down and then jerked his head to follow him up the stairs.
She could see a blaze of light coming under the doors to the dining room. The coachman did not drag her or force her; she walked forward alone, knowing that if she tried to run or struggle, he would pick her up and throw her into the room. She caught the eye of the butler, waiting at the door. He gave her a disapproving look, and then opened the door for her.
Seven men sat at the table, Trune at the head, his lean death’s head face rising above a starched white collar and black jacket. The rest were similarly attired, and she recognized all of them. She totted up the names – Iderci, Sansieri, TreMondi, Havartá, Lupiere.
And Uncle Samwell’s old friend, Parr.
Chapter Sixty-Two
“And here, gentlemen, is the treat that I promised you,” Trune said. “Marques, you may go. Send the courses up in the dumbwaiter.”
“Yes, sir.” Marques bowed and retreated.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Tesara said, her voice remarkably steady. “Do your wives know you’re here?”
She noted who looked away – Havartá and Lupiere – and who remained stone-faced. Parr looked drunk already, the red-faced man she remembered from her childhood an even more disheveled drunkard than before.
Trune on the other hand looked pleased with himself. Tesara forced herself into a curtsey, a gesture filled entirely with contempt. It did not appear to have an impact on Trune’s self-satisfaction. “Wine, please,” Trune said.
She brought around the bottle that the butler had uncorked and left resting on a platter with a pristine white napkin next to it. She poured carefully, filling the glasses and wiping each tiny drop, serving as correctly as she remembered Charle serving her parents.
She heard the sound of a creaking rope, and a bell tinkled. Despite herself she was a bit interested in how the dumbwaiter worked. She slid open the panel and pulled out the tureen, struggling to grip the heavy silver handles. It sloshed unevenly, and she had to work to keep it level, cursing her crippled hand.
It would serve Trune right if she dumped it in his lap, but she supposed he would only pull down her parents’ cottage and salt the earth around it, she thought grimly. It was hard to carry the
