Treacher raised a surprised brow and gave a little grunt. “I must say, you’ve surprised me, though I can’t imagine how you could go about it. And even assuming you can get me items I can use, I can’t pay you. Can barely pay the printer’s devil, and he’s my sister’s grandson.”
“That’s all right. You can give me something in return.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
She pressed on in the face of his skepticism. “My family was framed. I would like to prove that.”
“Oh, you do.”
“I want to see the transcripts from the hearings of my uncle’s and my parents’ testimony and the testimony against them.”
Treacher laughed out loud. “You’ve come to the wrong printer. The Gazette won that business. Underbid me, the bastards.”
“You had it six years ago.” She remained steady.
“Damn it, girl. If you know all that, you know that the hearings are closed. Even if they left me the transcripts, which they didn’t, mind you, they’re printed under guard of Guild agents and delivered directly into their hands when the ink is dry.”
“But you have to see them to transcribe them. So, you could tell–”
He stopped laughing. “Tell what? Those records are under lock and key in the Guild offices, where they remain under guard night and day. If I had anything to tell you, there isn’t a single magistrate in Port Saint Frey who would take the case of my word against the Guild’s. I could crow like a rooster for all the good telling will do.”
“Mr Treacher, you print the truth and make sure all men know it. Surely you can help me.”
“The truth is no good to a dead man, Miss Mederos. Or a dead maid. Take my advice – don’t poke the Guild.” He meant it. He was no longer avuncular or jolly or patronizing. He would not be moved. She understood no when she heard it. She curtseyed again, hoping it conveyed her Alinesse-worthy level of disapproval.
At the front door, she paused, and then drew another piece of paper from her reticule. This page was grimy and wrinkled; it had lived in her purse for two weeks. She had written it the first night back with their parents. The paper had been cadged from a torn eviction notice, and she had written in as small and neat a hand as she could, scraping the last of the ink.
He still watched her, a funny man with a large belly scarcely contained by his straining trousers and drooping suspenders. With sudden determination she unfolded the paper and left it on the counter by the door, giving it an extra pat for emphasis. If he threw it on the fire, so be it. She could write it again, if need be, though she knew she would never be able to recreate each loving, angered word. She let herself out, and the sewer smell rose up into her throat, sickeningly.
She felt dullness with the letdown of her foiled errand. She had been so sure that Treacher would join her crusade. He was a fire breathing muckraker. His alter ego Junipre was read and condemned by everyone in the city for his audacious editorials that took on the Guild, the merchants, the Constabulary, and the society of Port Saint Frey. Instead, the reality was that for all Junipre’s bluster, Treacher was as cowed by the Guild as everyone. She almost imagined the Guild telling him, Not this, Treacher.
The Guild files were under lock and key as he had said, and they might as well have been on the moon for all the chance she had to get at them. The Guild headquarters was a grand, multi-columned, gargoyled, copper domed extravaganza that overlooked the harbor from a long block of the Esplanade. It was guarded night and day. If she found her way inside, she would need to find the record room. And once she found the records, how to find the ones pertaining to the Mederos affaire? I need someone on the inside, she thought. Could she flirt with a guard or a young clerk? She knew little of flirting, but that didn’t matter. Girls at the academy flirted all the time, with the unlikeliest of candidates – it didn’t look that hard.
A harsh shout broke her reverie and made her jump and look around her. In her plotting, she had walked into the street, as bustling as ever with carriages, carts, and teeming humanity.
“Don’t just stand there, move it, move it!” a burly fellow yelled. “God, you idiot woman, move your arse!”
Hastily she jumped back as two men came running through, one blowing a whistle to clear the way, the other carrying a messenger’s satchel. A street urchin laughed as she was almost bowled over, and Yvienne scowled and straightened her bonnet, loathing the impertinent brat.
“Miss Mederos!”
Yvienne turned. It was Miss Angelus, carrying her basket, standing under Mastrini’s white hand. She must have finished giving her vitae to the agency.
“Oh!” she gulped. “Miss Angelus. How good to see you again.” How embarrassing, for her new housemaid to see her naive employer almost get run over by a messenger and mocked by a street brat.
“Are you lost? What were you doing in that alley? This part of Port Saint Frey is hardly safe.”
Yvienne sighed. “An errand. However, it didn’t go as planned.”
Miss Angelus held out her arm and Yvienne slipped her hand around it. “Let’s walk together, all right? You can catch your breath and we can become comfortable with each other.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Miss Angelus.” Yvienne had the extraordinary feeling that she had just been rescued, but Miss Angelus was so tactful about it that it felt more as if they were two friends meeting for a stroll.
“Call me Mathilde.”
“And I’m Yvienne,” she said. Not Miss. Not Miss Yvienne. Just Yvienne. She felt herself relax. If Uncle meddled with this one, he would have Yvienne to answer to, not just the formidable
