Agent of the Crown (8 page)

…oh, no. Surely not. Longbourne couldn’t look
so prosperous without having basic amenities, right? She went out
the back door, crossed the yard to the second shed, and opened the
door. It swung open and revealed a wooden bench with a hole cut
into it. Apparently Longbourne
could
be that prosperous
without basic amenities. Or maybe it was Aunt Weaver’s peculiarity.
Either possibility was irrelevant.

She shut the door, hiked up her nightgown,
and made use of the… facilities. It crossed her mind that this
might be a huge joke, that somewhere nearby was an actual toilet
and this was a relic, but the smell was too ripe to be antique. She
hurried to finish her business, washed her hands at the kitchen
sink, and ran back upstairs to her room.

Telaine sat on her bed and thought through
her plan. Part one involved making the Baron aware of her presence.
Step one of part one was, unfortunately, making herself known to
the good people of Longbourne. Remembering her reception the day
before, she cringed. But she didn’t see any other option short of
setting up shop as a Deviser, and she had a feeling that would be
seen as arrogance by those same good people.

She picked up her shirt and trousers from
where she’d dropped them the night before. She would have to care
for her own clothes now, too. There was so much she took for
granted, like laundry service, and her maid bringing her breakfast
and making her bed, and even having her day scheduled for her. The
most she’d ever done along those lines was find time to sneak away
to Mistress Wright’s workshop. Having the whole day free was,
contrary to sense, stifling.

Thanks to her exertions, her shirt was too
dirty to wear again, but her trousers were fine and she did have
one other shirt. She’d have to humble herself and ask Aunt Weaver
what to do about laundry, and put up with that disdainful look that
said quite clearly what she thought of uppity wealthy girls not
knowing how to do for themselves. Telaine was starting to
appreciate the Princess’s life a lot more than she’d imagined.

She dragged her hair into a braid. That, at
least, she’d practiced, and she didn’t think she’d look too much
like a city girl trying to fit in in the country.
Not that it
matters,
she reminded herself.
Don’t let all this get to
you. Remember why you’re here
.

Downstairs, Aunt Weaver was finishing off her
meal of scrambled eggs and bread toasted on one side. Of course she
wouldn’t have a toasting Device. “Morning,” she said with her mouth
full.

“Morning,” Telaine replied. “What’s for
breakfast?”

“Whatever you feel like making for yourself,”
the woman replied, putting emphasis on the last two words. “I’ve
got no time to wait on you.”

“Oh,” said Telaine, completely taken aback.
She hadn’t expected to be waited on, but cook her own food? She had
no idea how to begin.

“Eggs and milk in the cool room,” Aunt Weaver
said. “Bread in the bread box. No meat today. Guess you never had
to do for yourself in the kitchen?”

“No,” Telaine said, then in a firmer voice,
“but I suppose I’ll learn.”

Aunt Weaver gave her a measured look. “You
will at that,” she said. “Supper’s at six. You’re on your own for
dinner.” She relented somewhat and added, “Happen you’ll find a
meal at the tavern around noon.”

“Thank you. I mean, thanks, Aunt Weaver,”
Telaine said, her spirits rising. But when the woman had left the
kitchen, she became depressed again. Cook her own meal. As far as
Princess Telaine was concerned, eggs came out of the chicken
already boiled. Lainie Bricker, on the other hand, was competent
enough to figure it out herself.

She looked around the room. The fireplace had
a small fire lit in it and the ubiquitous stew pot hung from a spit
over the flames. There were cupboards on either side of the boxy
iron stove. One contained the cleaning supplies she’d made use of
the previous day; the other held heavy jars filled with flour,
sugar, salt, some kind of grainy meal, and other basic kitchen
supplies.

The cold room was behind a narrow door and it
was indeed chilly. So either Aunt Weaver wasn’t totally opposed to
Devices, or there was some natural feature that kept the room cold.
Among other things, the cold room contained a basket of eggs and a
covered pitcher of milk. She wondered where they’d come from. She
left them alone for the moment and continued exploring.

Other cupboards yielded pots, pans, plates
and cups, flatware (neither silver nor stainless steel but finely
carved wood), and other kitchen tools. There was also a big
porcelain sink next to a wooden counter with a rack Telaine guessed
might be for drying dishes. A towel hung over the side of the sink.
Telaine turned the tap and fresh cold water poured out. There was
only one spigot, and it had only one handle—no hot water. This
combined with her toilet experience made her wonder, horrified, how
she was ever going to get a bath. She turned the water off.

Now, food. Boiling an egg shouldn’t be too
difficult; it would be edible even if she boiled it too long. She
hoped. The stove had three doors, two small, one much larger;
Telaine opened that one and discovered it was an oven, warm but not
overly hot. She couldn’t figure out how to open the smaller doors,
but they, too, were warm to the touch. She held her hand palm-down
over the stove top and felt heat radiating off it, but not enough
to burn.

She didn’t know how to boil water.

She had no idea how to light a fire.

She didn’t even know what fueled the
stove.

At home, she knew, the ovens and stoves were
all Devices that turned on and off with a flick of the finger.
Telaine stared at the stove, insanely hoping it might ignite simply
from the power of her increasingly distressed mind. She could ask
Aunt Weaver—no. She would
not
ask Aunt Weaver. Tonight,
maybe, but she wasn’t about to go out there in front of those two
girls and reveal she couldn’t even light a fire in the stove.
That
story would get around town quickly.

She cut two slices of thick, nutty bread and
poured herself a cup of fresh milk. She would kill for coffee right
about now. She would settle for bread and milk. Just like a
five-year-old.

Having eaten her fill, Telaine went back
upstairs and hid in her room. She pretended she was inventing a
plan, but she knew she didn’t want to face those townspeople with
their unwillingness to meet her eyes or their all too willingness
to insult her. She dug in her chest and pulled out her roll of
tools. Should she take them with her? Reluctantly, she put them
away. Today was about meeting people. She checked her hair and
clothing in the mirror, gave her reflection a stern look, and left
the room.

Aunt Weaver and her two apprentices were hard
at work. “You want me to do anything for you, Aunt?” she called out
over the noise of the loom.

“Could use a bottle of honey over at the
store,” she replied. “Ask for a figgin.”

Telaine caught the young apprentices
exchanging laughing glances. “I’ll do that, Aunt. Be back later.”
If there was such a thing as a figgin of honey, she’d eat the straw
hat that had been on her floor.

Having closed the door behind her, she stood
on the stoop, closed her eyes, and prayed for endurance. How many
days would this take? Five? Five would be nice. Ten would be
bearable. Any longer than that, and she might not survive to go
home.

Stop whining, Telaine. This is no
different from moving through a ballroom looking for signs that two
supposed strangers are conspiring. You’ve been playing a role your
whole adult life. This is just a new one.
She opened her eyes
and strode in the direction of the poor, out-of-place gazebo.

She passed a lot of people on her way, nodded
cheerily to every one regardless of how they looked at her. Most
looked away when she greeted them.
So much for the friendly
small-town welcome.
She stayed off the street to avoid the
horse-drawn wagons that went in both directions, northbound ones
carrying crates of varying sizes, southbound ones laden with lumber
or stone. There were quite a few of the latter. No wonder
Longbourne was prosperous.

She paid attention to the layout of the main
street. Longbourne didn’t seem to care about separating businesses
from homes, though most of the buildings lining the main street
appeared to be stores and the side streets seemed mostly houses.
Aunt Weaver’s lack of a sign was an anomaly; most of the businesses
sported boards declaring in word or image what could be sold,
traded, bought or borrowed.

A large number of the businesses were related
to weaving or sewing. Telaine wondered if Aunt Weaver’s name was a
coincidence or a conscious declaration of her trade. From what
little she knew of the woman, it wasn’t impossible she’d invented
weaving and named the whole trade after herself.

She saw the general store, but passed it by,
deciding to explore the town without hauling around a non-figgin of
honey. Was there a laundry? She didn’t see a sign. If she got up
the courage, maybe she’d ask someone. Or—horrors, might she have to
wash her own clothes? She was willing to try almost anything, but
her instincts told her she would make a terrible mess of that
experiment.

She stopped to examine the gazebo, wondering
what Longbourne used it for. Maybe it was just some kind of civic
decoration. The town hall faced the gazebo on the southwest corner
of the crossroads; it had a peaked cupola and two stories’ worth of
gleaming windows. The shorter building across the street east of it
had a sign that said POST OFFICE above the door; Telaine hoped the
mail bag had found its way there eventually.

The building on the corner north of the town
hall was a school, which surprised Telaine, then she was ashamed of
her surprise. Of course people who lived on the frontiers had
schools. There was no reason they shouldn’t. She remembered Aunt
Weaver’s younger apprentice and wondered why she wasn’t in school.
Telaine herself had been tutored and knew almost nothing of actual
schools, but she thought there were rules about what age you had to
be before you left. She shook her head. She was letting this town
get to her.
Still, what would it hurt to find things out, while
you’re waiting on the Baron’s notice?

The fourth building, standing next to the
forge, looked empty, not exactly abandoned but not in use either.
It was built entirely of wood rather than the stone and oak of its
neighbors, and its dark brown stain was weathered as if it hadn’t
been cared for in years. Large-paned windows lined both stories,
lighting it clearly despite the thin clouds blocking the sun.
Telaine gazed up at it, wondering what it might have been used for
once.

“You thinking of buying it?” said a drawling
voice. Telaine identified it as belonging to Scarface. She put on a
cheery smile and turned to face him.
No fear.

“Why, are you selling?” she asked, and heard
with relief a chuckle from Scarface’s cronies. “No, of course not,
I was just wondering what it was for,” she added quickly, in case
Scarface got angry at being the object of ridicule. What were all
these men doing in town in the middle of the day, instead of at
work?

“Not for anything, not now,” said one of the
others. He had a barrel chest and skinny legs. “Been empty these
seven years. Used to be a weaving factory, ’fore the local weavers
drove it out.”

“Happen you don’t need to bother your pretty
face about it,” Scarface interrupted.

Yesterday he’d scared her. Today, she got
angry. “You never said your name,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said, leaning toward her.
His breath smelled of whatever meat he’d had for breakfast.

“He’s Irv Tanner,” said another man with
black hair and rosy cheeks. A fourth man, the tall burly one who’d
spoken to her yesterday, shoved him a bit. “Well, he is.”

“Mister Tanner, do you really think I’m
pretty?” Telaine said, dimpling at him. Scarface Tanner looked
confused. “Thanks for making me feel welcome. It’s so sweet of you.
It’s hard, being a stranger here, and I’m glad to know you.” She
stuck out her hand and reflexively he took it. She shook it hard,
trying not to think about how much bigger his hand was than
hers.

“I was so hurt when you told me I might need
to leave town when I’d only just arrived, I thought maybe you
didn’t think so highly of me. But now I see you were hiding your
true feelings!” She put on a shy, downcast look. “I’m flattered,
Mister Tanner, I really am, but I’m afraid I can’t return your
regard for me, since I won’t be staying long and I’d hate to build
your hopes up like that. But I’m sure we can be friends.”

Tanner looked bewildered now, and afraid.
“See, I told you she couldn’t be nothing like herself said,” the
black-haired man said in a loud whisper. He stepped forward. “Ed
Decker, miss, and these here is Mikey Kent—” the tall burly
man—“and Hal Johnson—” barrel chest. “Good to know you.”

“Good to know you,” she replied, retrieving
her hand from Tanner’s massive grip and shaking Decker’s. “Now I’ll
know your names to say ‘hey’ next time.” Kent and Johnson showed no
interest in shaking her hand, so she waved at them and added,
“Goodbye for now, fellows,” and continued past the gazebo. She
could feel them watching her go and suppressed the urge to put a
shimmy in her walk. That wasn’t the sort of interaction she had in
mind.

As she passed the forge, Garrett glanced up
from his work, then looked down without comment, but she saw him
smile, the faintest curve of his lips but unmistakably a smile.

So, “herself” had said things about her, had
she? And unflattering ones, it seemed. For someone who was supposed
to be her ally, Aunt Weaver was turning out to be something closer
to an enemy. What could she do about it? Not much, as yet. She’d
have to watch herself around her “aunt.”