Agent of the Crown (10 page)

Mistress Richardson’s home was bigger than
Aunt Weaver’s, with a second story that extended the full width of
the house. Telaine rapped on the door frame and called out,
“Hello?”

A small child—Telaine wasn’t good with ages
younger than her twelve-year-old cousin Jessamy, but she guessed
four or five—came to the door. “Ma’s busy,” she said. She had a
cloth doll which she dragged by one arm.

“I’m here to see if she’ll do some laundry
for me,” Telaine said.

The girl looked at her without comprehension.
“Ma!” she called out. That lovely lilt again, “mawr.”

A woman with red hair and a careworn
expression came to the door. “Yes?” she said in a neutral tone.

“My aunt said you do washing?” Telaine asked
politely.

“Yes?”

“Um…I have this shirt…it…” Telaine stumbled
to a halt. It was like talking to an unfriendly red-headed
wall.

“Your name on it?”

“My name? No. Should it be?”

The woman curled her lip. “If you want to see
it again. Wash all goes in together.”

Telaine defaulted to helplessness. “I’m sorry
if I seem foolish, but how do I mark it?”

“Sew it in,” the woman said.

Telaine’s heart sank. She’d always been
terrible at needlepoint. The woman seemed to sense her despair, and
her unfriendliness faded slightly. “I can do it for you,” she said.
She took the shirt from Telaine’s hands. “Your name Bricker?”

“Lainie Bricker.”

“Bricker’s good enough. I’ll have it for you
tomorrow.”

“Thanks so much. I’m grateful to you.”

The woman held out her hand. “Rather have
coin than grateful.” Telaine took out a few coins, held them out to
Mistress Richardson, uncertain of how much to pay. The woman took
one and tucked it away in a belt purse, then went back into the
house without a farewell. Telaine pocketed the rest of her coins.
If the laundress could clean her shirt so Telaine didn’t have to,
she was welcome to whatever payment she wanted.

At the general store, Telaine decided she was
tired of making friends, and simply approached the shopkeeper with
“Mistress Weaver needs some honey.”

The man nodded and said, “What size?”

Figgin, my eye
. “What sizes are there?
I don’t remember what she said, but I’ll know it when I hear
it.”

“There’s double-dram, pint, figgin, bottle,
and jug.”

Telaine blinked at him. “Figgin, then,” she
said.

“One minute,” the man said, and disappeared
into the back room. Telaine leaned against the counter of knotty
pine and kicked her heel against the counter. She’d never seen any
store that carried such a wide variety of goods—copper-bottomed
pots and pans, bins of spices, a barrel full of nails with a
silvery steel scoop standing upright in it, a child’s rocking horse
with a mane of real horsehair. Dust floated through the air,
visible when it passed through the light coming through the
windows. The place smelled of flour and cinnamon.

“You’re Agatha Weaver’s niece, aren’t you?” A
woman dressed in a cotton gown printed with blue roses approached
from the far side of the store. “How’re you settling in?” The
woman’s smile looked pleasant enough, but her eyes had a nasty
gleam to them.

“Lainie Bricker,” Telaine said, offering her
hand. The woman ignored it.

“Agatha ain’t said much about you,” she said.
“You had some… trouble in the city?”

Telaine wished again she dared ask what kind
of trouble Aunt Weaver had invented for her. Or maybe she’d been
circumspect and kept her explanation vague enough that anything
Telaine said wouldn’t contradict her. “I thought Longbourne would
be a good place to visit.”

“It’s a nice town. Guess you wouldn’t know
that yet.” The woman scratched the side of her nose. “Staying
long?”

“I’m not sure. As long as I need to, I guess,
Mistress…”

“Rose Garrity,” the woman said. “Agatha
treating you okay?”

“Um…yes?” Mistress Garrity was angling for
something, but Telaine had no idea what it was. “She’s been…very
welcoming,” she lied.

“Of course she has,” Mistress Garrity said.
“Could’ve been a lot less understanding about your…trouble.”

“I guess,” Telaine said. Mistress Garrity
smiled unpleasantly, as if she’d scored one off Telaine. It was the
strangest of all the strange interactions she’d had in Longbourne
so far.

The shopkeeper returned with a round
container about the size of her doubled fists. “Afternoon, Rose,”
he said. “Six coppers, miss.” Telaine handed over her money, nodded
politely to Mistress Garrity, and left the store. So. One more
person who believed…what? Something bad, anyway. Maybe she should
have just asked. No, she hadn’t liked the look in the woman’s eye,
as if she were waiting for Telaine to make a fool of herself, and
Telaine had enough trouble without looking like a fool.

She managed to suppress a laugh at her
paranoia over the figgin until after she was halfway up the street.
It was smart to be cautious, though,
she told herself,
nodding at the people she passed and smiling. So Aunt Weaver wasn’t
totally trying to humiliate her. Yet she’d definitely said
something that had everyone in town suspicious of her. Should she
confront the woman, or pretend she had no problems? So far, her
pride was winning; she’d not give Aunt Weaver the satisfaction. But
it was past time for her to start investigating what “trouble” she
was supposed to be escaping.

Telaine passed through the weaving room with
no comment and set the figgin on the kitchen table, then went up to
her room. Time for something just for her. She spread a spare
handkerchief on the dressing table and disassembled the oil lamp,
spilling a few drops of oil despite her care. It was a simple
object that would be less than simple to alter, but the result
should be worth the work.

She had just fitted the lamp glass to the
altered base and was contemplating the unnecessary oil when Aunt
Weaver said, “Supper’s ready.” She turned away without waiting for
a response. Telaine followed her to the kitchen. This time the meal
was bean soup, bland but filling. They ate in silence. When Aunt
Weaver took her bowl to the sink, she said, “Fiddling with my lamp,
are you?”

“It’ll save you the cost of oil,” Telaine
said, sensing a chance to cut her irritated “aunt’s” objections off
at the root.

“Don’t have much use for Devices here,” the
woman grumbled, after a tiny pause. “Nobody to maintain ’em, and
you won’t be here long.”

“I can put it back the way it was before I
go.” Telaine hadn’t realized she had professional pride until it
was challenged.

“No matter,” Aunt Weaver said. She rinsed her
bowl and, after another pause, held her hand out for Telaine’s.
Telaine surrendered it, feeling surprise at the woman’s willingness
to do any chore for her. Which reminded her of something else.

“I need to ask a favor,” she said. “I—don’t
know how to use the stove.”

Aunt Weaver gave her a look of disbelief
married to disdain. “Don’t know anyone can’t use a wood-burning
stove,” she said.

“Aunt Weaver, there are a lot of things I
don’t know how to do,” Telaine said wearily. “Can you at least give
me credit for wanting to learn?”

Aunt Weaver gave her a long, hard look.
“Happen I might,” she said. She opened the small drawer below the
top of the stove, revealing a narrow, deep cavity dusted with ash.
“Start a fire in here,” she said. “You know how to start a
fire?”

“No.”

Aunt Weaver sighed. “Balled-up newspaper
first,” she said, “then twigs. Matches are here. Wait for it to
start burning strong, then put in the wood.” She opened a box
beside the stove and took out a couple of short, stubby chunks of
wood. “That’s about it. Can blow air through here—” she worked a
bellows that was a miniature version of the one Garrett had in his
forge—“to make it hotter. Pot goes on the top.”

“Thank you,” Telaine said, though she wasn’t
sure she’d be able to start a fire quite so easily as Aunt Weaver
had. Still, it was a start.

“Thank me once you’ve made it work,” Aunt
Weaver said gruffly. “You going out tonight?” she added, seeing
Telaine head for the back door.

“I’m going to the tavern to meet more
people,” she said.

“Don’t see why you need to. You won’t be
staying long.”

“I’m hoping one of these people will get word
back to the Baron. Trust me, I don’t want to be part of this town
any longer than I have to. They obviously don’t want me here.” She
paused, leaving a gap in the conversation for Aunt Weaver to fill,
but the woman shrugged and turned away.

The sun had almost set, leaving the town hazy
in the twilight, but lanterns along the main road guided Telaine
toward her destination. She couldn’t tell if they were actual lamps
or Devices; there were districts in Aurilien where the light
Devices were made to imitate flames. Based on Aunt Weaver’s
attitude and what Abel had said, she guessed the former.

Most of the businesses along the main street
were dark, but lights burned in the house attached to the forge, in
Mistress Richardson’s laundry, and in a few other places. Music
drifted toward her on the slight breeze from the direction of the
tavern. A pianoforte was going strong and some beautifully melodic
singing accompanied it.

She slowed as she neared the building, whose
windows all blazed with light. This could be an enormous mistake,
if everyone there decided to be antagonistic. However, if she
wanted to draw the Baron’s attention without actually walking up
and knocking on his door—a move that would likely make him more
suspicious of her than not—she needed to make more contacts. She
firmed up her chin and her resolve and stepped through the open
door.

The noise lessened when she entered, but
didn’t die off entirely. The pianoforte player, his back to the
door, kept on playing. Telaine smiled and nodded at the few faces
she recognized, saving an extra-friendly grin for Irv Tanner—he
blushed, and she was satisfied at discomfiting him—and went to sit
at the bar. An unfamiliar young barman got her a beer. She was
starting to like the unsophisticated beverage. Wouldn’t it shock,
for example, the d’Ardens if she asked for beer at their next
supper party?

She surveyed the crowd covertly, amused that
so many others were watching her without bothering to make a secret
of it. There were a lot of unfamiliar faces, probably those
quarrymen and sawmill workers who’d been absent at dinnertime. They
were, in general, large and heavy men with deep voices who kept to
themselves and paid her no attention beyond a couple of curious
glances.

“Hey there, you’re new in town,” said a young
man. She looked up and blinked; there were two of him. She hadn’t
had all
that
much to drink. As she took a second look, she
realized although they looked similar, with red hair and pale blue
eyes, one had a long face and the other was broader across the
shoulders.

“Welcome to Longbourne. I’m Trey Richardson
and this is my brother Liam.” The young man thrust out a hand.
There was nothing at all angry or disdainful in his expression. On
the contrary, he had a light in his eyes she hadn’t seen for days.
It warmed her. She shook his hand, and that of his brother, and
introduced herself.

“Oh, we all know who you are. Been waiting
for you to show up for days,” broad-shouldered Liam said.

“Didn’t think you’d be so very pretty,” said
a third young man. “Jack Taylor, miss, at your service.” He was
extremely handsome, blond and dark-eyed and tall, with a smile that
could compete with the most accomplished flirts of her
acquaintance. After a moment, Telaine identified him as the
pianoforte player.

“I was enjoying your music,” she said.

“We’re a musical lot here in Longbourne,” he
said with a wink. “Happen you’re here for a wedding, you’ll hear a
real concert.”

“Hope you won’t leave for a while,” said Liam
Richardson. “Never sad to see a new girl in town.” He leaned on the
bar, a little too close, but Telaine had too much practice
diverting overly-attentive young men to worry about it. She smiled
at him flirtatiously.

“Jacky, you said you’d play for me.” Aunt
Weaver’s apprentice Alys inserted herself beneath Taylor’s arm. She
gave Telaine a hateful look. Oops. The new girl in town was
stealing away all the young men. Telaine smiled back at her
politely.

“I’d love to hear you sing,” she said.
“Shouldn’t you take to your stool, Mister Taylor?”

“Jack,” he said. “If you promise to come over
and listen.” He held out his hand; his arm dropped away from Alys’s
shoulders. Telaine knew she shouldn’t interfere with their
relationship, wouldn’t have done so even if she were the person she
claimed to be—Taylor was too consciously handsome to be interesting
to her—but after the day she’d had, it was nice to be appreciated.
And it was fun to annoy Alys, who was clearly under the impression
that beauty was all it took to attract a man.

Telaine could feel eyes on her, unfriendly
eyes, calculating eyes, appraising eyes, but she chose to ignore
them and settled herself against the pianoforte, arms crossed on
its tall top. “Play ‘Late in Spring,’” Alys instructed.

She gave Telaine one more glare as Taylor
played a few introductory bars, then opened her mouth and sailed
into the song with an extraordinary soprano voice. It startled
Telaine enough that she couldn’t conceal her astonished reaction.
Unpolished her performance might be, but Telaine had heard
professionals who didn’t have half the range this country girl had.
It seemed Alys had more than just her looks going for her.

The room went quiet out of respect for her
singing, and burst into applause when she finished and curtsied,
her color high. She darted a glance Telaine’s way, triumphant, and
her smile widened when she saw Telaine’s expression. “Didn’t think
we had anything worth hearing, out here?” she said.