The Three of Spades

The DressI stepped upon the sidewalk in front of Madame Biltcliffe’s Dress Shop, the golden sandstone of Clubb quadrant fine and smooth beneath my boots. The day was blustery and cool, the sky threatening. Moving my recently purchased forest green and gold paisley carpetbag to my other arm, I rubbed my right palm. It was times like this that I regretted hitting Charles Hart: the cast was off, but my hand still ached at times. As usual, the glass window-front to Madame’s former shop was engraved in gold. But the words, “Miss Tenni Mitchell, Proprietress” had been added underneath the shop’s name. Inside, the shop gleamed: polished oak paneling, shiny brass fixtures, elegant mannequins displaying gowns of the finest fabric. Two very well-dressed women conferred near the back corner to my right, where the fashion books were kept. At the glass counter to my left, Tenni’s younger sister Oma stood behind the counter dressed in a shop maid’s uniform. She beamed, curtsying when she saw me. “Mrs. Spadros! Oh, it’s good to see you.” I went to the girl — now almost a woman — and took her hand. “It’s good to see you too. Is all well?” Oma went into a long description of the plans for her upcoming wedding to some police detective back in Spadros quadrant. Briscola, if I recall correctly. As she spoke, her cheeks bloomed, her eyes grew bright. Whatever Tenni might have thought about Oma’s feelings for the man, the girl was at the very least excited for the wedding. I envied her. She suddenly stopped. “You didn’t come here to listen to this; how might I help you?” You might say I had an ever-growing problem. None of my charcoal dresses fit anymore: one was too tight in the bodice, another too tight in the waist, the third wouldn’t button at all. They couldn’t be mended and patched much further, and did I really need to stay in mourning? I didn’t want to accept new dresses from Tony: I’d be returning to my apartments soon. So I had my lady’s maid Amelia Dewey take in Anna Goren’s purple dresses, then as time passed, let them out again. But I couldn’t put this off any longer. After numerous entreaties from my husband Tony and his mother Molly over the past few weeks to pick someone, anyone, as dressmaker, I decided Tenni was someone I could trust. Tony assured me that I might have anything I wanted. It seemed such a waste. “Is your sister available?” She turned to the office behind her and knocked. “Tenni,” she called out, “Mrs. Spadros is here to see you.” Tenni Mitchell came forth, a woman of one and twenty. Curly red-brown hair, light brown skin; for many a day I’d used her as my double when going to my cases. Of course, now she was too tall to fool anyone who actually knew me. “Mrs. Spadros! Come in.” She ushered me into her office. The oak wood had been painted white, with black trimming around the door and windows. The cabinets were black with iron fixtures. “You’ve redecorated! Very nice.” White was my least favorite color, but it pleased me that Tenni had made the place her own. Tenni smiled. “I suppose it’s my Spadros quadrant upbringing: I grow tired of looking at brass and golden-brown all day.” She gestured to a chair beside her desk, black leather and gun-metal gray. “Please, sit down.” Tenni crossed one leg over her knee and folded her hands upon it. “How might I help?” “What I tell you must not be shared with anyone,” I said quietly. “Not even your sisters.” Tenni nodded. “You have my word.” I bit my lip, heart pounding. “I carry the Dealer’s Gift.” Tenni’s eyes grew wide, her mouth open. “Good gracious! Congratula —” Then she looked at me. “Oh.” My former housekeeper Mrs. Claudete Crawford had conspired to switch my morning tea — which prevented me from bearing children — to one with no effect whatsoever. And now I was trapped. I took a deep breath, let it out. “I need something discreet; no one must know.” For a high-card woman to be on the streets whilst pregnant was scandalous. For the Lady of Spadros to be discovered doing so would bring the sort of attention none of the Family wanted right now. She nodded, eyes fixed upon mine. “I have something you might like.” She rose. “Come with me.” Tenni led me out to the shop area, locked the door to her office, then brought me to one of the green-curtained dressing-rooms. Much like the rooms in Madame Biltcliffe’s old shop back in Spadros quadrant, this one had a raised area for women to stand upon whilst their dresses were being altered. But these rooms were painted white, the inner curtains in deep blue. She gestured to one of the chairs set at each corner. “Wait here.” Then she left through a curtained area to the rear. I surveyed myself in the wide full-length mirror before me. I now wore one of Anna Goren’s deep purple walking dresses. An older style with an empire waist, along with a loosely laced outer-corset, it was perfect for hiding the changes in my body. I sighed, slumping into a chair. I hated it all. Tenni returned carrying a mass of navy blue, which she hung upon a rack standing nearby. “This is ready to wear.” Then she snorted. “The woman decided at the last minute that she didn’t like the fabric. Fortunately, she’s near enough your height that the hem won’t need changing.” The fabric was very fine and thin, a soft and light wool. The color matched Jonathan Diamond’s uniform as Keeper of the Court. Jon still hadn’t returned to his duties. Tenni stood watching me. I fought to keep myself steady. “I’ll try it on.” The dress hung from the shoulders and neck with many soft pleats and gathers. Tenni moved the gathers to the back. “Wear this under a corset in the earlier stages.” Then she moved the material to the front. “Your maid can arrange these to expand the waist as you need.” She smiled warmly at me. “You can wear this until it receives its hand.” “I’ll take it.” I had no intention of letting the form growing inside me draw breath. But I needed something to wear, and this was as good as anything else. “Make two more of the same.” That would appease everyone, and I could cancel the order when I’d finally managed to take care of matters. “Thank you for your help, Tenni; I truly appreciate it.” She took my hand, face suddenly concerned. “Whatever’s going on, mum, I’m here for you.” * * * We returned to Spadros Manor, the navy blue dress boxed prettily beside me. I put my feet up on the bench seat across from me and took Anna Goren’s old brown leather notebook from my carpetbag. Each time I did so, it reminded me that she was dead. But I kept peering and searching through it, though, for some clue as to what her spidery scrawling meant. After I’d discovered Anna’s notebook, I perused many books on the topic of codes. None helped in any way. I'd tried peering at Anna’s notebook in a mirror, thinking that perhaps she’d hidden the meaning of her words that way, but to no avail. One book I'd found spoke of a cipher using symbols in place of the alphabet. So I'd been noting how many of each symbol I found on a slip of paper, as a way to deduce which symbols meant what letters. Her handwriting was difficult to read; I did what I could, marking with a pencil where I questioned my interpretation. I hated to mark her book, one of the last things I had of her. But if I were to learn what Anna knew, maybe I would be able to understand why she was killed. I missed her. This — and the purple dresses I now wore — were mementos of her. The last bits of a lovely life, snuffed out by ... who? There had to be a reason her killer came into her shop, some reason she let him into her back rooms, into her basement. She must have known him, or at the very least trusted him. Anna never harmed anyone. She only ever wanted to know, to understand. Who could have done such a thing? The streets beyond the thin black curtains blurred, wetness falling upon my cheeks. Anna meant more to me than I realized, and her death seemed a key log releasing the vast river of my grief. I couldn’t recall a day where I hadn’t wept in the months since she’d gone. And I had few people I might speak to. Tony would hold me when I wept. But he wished nothing more than to speak of the coming child. He and his mother Molly happily considered how the nursery might be set up, or plans for including the child into his will, or the hiring of a nanny. Most things I supposed in normal homes the mother might do, but I wanted none of it. Movement deep inside, sharp, like little elbows. It didn’t hurt, really, but a deep angry grief pressed on me. I didn’t want a child. I never wanted to return to Spadros Manor. But it was either that, or go to the Pot. I’d be free in the Pot. But after I’d been banished from the Cathedral and forbidden to return, my freedom would be the freedom to starve and freeze on the streets. Was this what the Director of this Red Dog Gang wanted for me? My complete and utter ruin? He’d taken my reputation, my friends, my home, and he’d threatened my life more than once. What had I done to him to make him treat me so? Why did he kill Anna? I focused on Anna’s notebook, trying to understand. Trying to find some sense in what was happening to me. My life then felt so much more desperately wretched than even the grief at my friend’s untimely death. You see, for over three months, I’d been searching for someone who had blood tea. The major ingredient for this tea — which prevented childbirth — had taken blight, and supplies were out. Midwives had been scrambling to locate stores of it in other cities, and failing. I’d not realized how many knew of it, not to mention the demand. All the servants spoke of the tea. Men in the city were cross, both high and low. Women were frightened, close-lipped, traveling in even larger packs than usual. This had explained my inability to find any. Somewhat. Now, I would never harm an actual baby. That went against everything my people in the Pot believed in. Back there, even striking a child would bring immediate execution, those who witnessed the foul deed beating the villain to death. But according to the Holy Writ, the form inside me was not yet truly alive. Instead, it was more closely related to a self-building mechanism. It only awaited the Holy Hand, the Cards the Dealer would give the form as it first drew breath to transform — like Pinocchio — from soft doll-like construct to living mind. So while I still had time, I didn’t have much. The midwives I’d spoken to said that with my liver ailment and the stage of my pregnancy it would be too dangerous to help me without the tea’s assistance. I needed a better plan. But until I understood how this all worked, I wasn’t sure what I might do. Tony had given me run of his library, when he wasn’t using it. Yet I found nothing on the subject there. Anna had many more books even than Tony, and none had anything about the matter. But then she never cared for marriage, and I doubt even men. She’d treated me like her own daughter. Did she ever wish that she’d had one? The carriage crossed the wide gray river into Spadros quadrant. Staring out at the water, I wanted to blame the Red Dog Gang for Anna’s death, very much so. But we’d never found a trace of them at the scene. The only clear signs I’d seen of them so far were the kidnapping and ruin of David Bryce, and the multiple shootings perpetrated by a woman people called Black Maria. The most recent shooting had been part of an ambush which left a noted attorney (Mr. Hambir Dashabatar) and his entire family dead. A blank business card stamped in red with the silhouette of a dog was found tossed upon Mr. Dashabatar’s body. A woman with black hair and a group of men were seen leaving the scene, yet those who came forward to speak of them were now also dead. But then there were the bed strangulations of old men: the former Bridges Stable-Master, and Army recruiter Major Wenz Blackwood. As no card was left at the scenes, it seemed unclear who was behind these men’s deaths. The circumstances, though, suggested to me that these men knew some truth that the Red Dog Gang — particularly their lackey Frank Pagliacci — wanted kept silent. In each case — whether shooting or death in bed — I couldn’t help but feel that my investigations of the Red Dog Gang had forced their hand. Or that, like Madame Biltcliffe’s shooting, the timing of it was intended to distract and torment me. Too many had died right in front of me to make me believe anything else. I didn’t count the strangulation deaths of young men, almost certainly by the Bridges Strangler. These seemed to be more of a hobby now, coming at more random intervals and further apart. I believed Frank Pagliacci and the Bridges Strangler to be one and the same. My guess was now that my father-in-law Roy Spadros had demanded the case be reopened — against the Mayor’s wishes — the police were hot on Mr. Pagliacci’s trail. Or the Director of this group had censured Frank for his reckless abandon. I wished I could understand this Director’s goal. Was it simply to torment us, as Roy did to Mr. Charles Hart — now, apparently, my father — by seizing me in the first place? Or was this just leading up to something much worse? The Red Dog Gang hated the Families, in particular the Spadros Family. They tried to split the Spadros Family and succeeded, although all those men who left us were now dead. Black Maria had won the hearts of the High-Low Split, the only children’s street gang in the Spadros Pot, then was seduced by Frank Pagliacci. She’d made alliance with the Red Dog Gang and brought the entire High-Low Split with her. Many quadrant-folk didn’t understand, but in the Pot, you didn’t leave the High-Low Split, not really. You grew up, took your position in your brothel. All the younger men and women were now likely to be loyal to the Red Dog Gang, and many of the older ones as well. My friends Joseph and Josephine Kerr used to lead the High-Low Split. I was sincerely glad their grandfather had taken them from the Pot, so they wouldn’t have to see the devastation Black Maria had already wrought. The Old Plaza, destroyed. Children, used as discards in Black Maria’s sick game. I looked forward to the day when we’d understood and uncovered the Red Dog Gang’s plot, when we’d revealed their villainous Director and executed him. I’d ask Roy if I might be the one to kill Black Maria and Frank Pagliacci. I thought I might truly enjoy it. The carriage turned left onto 192nd, passed the mansion that used to belong to Dame Anastasia. Another woman I loved like a mother, dead. I wondered who owned that place now. We passed our fields to the right, the stately homes of Tony’s main men to the left. The lovely park on the corner across from our home appeared as we approached Spadros Manor. My driver Zeus spoke through the brass calling-tube. “Looks like you’ve got a visitor.”