In a trembling whisper, the pendant confided, ‘No.’

‘Why?’ Pain hushed my voice. I recalled my grandmother’s resigned eyes and feared I already knew the answer.

‘I do not know. I will never understand it. Her friends urged her to confront him, to bring a complaint against them. When she spoke with them, she was strong. But whenever she was alone and set pen to paper, she lost her resolve. Weeping, she would confess to me that she loved him still. She would spin tales that he had been drugged or was bewitched by the woman. Her hands would shake and she would wonder aloud what she herself lacked, what was wrong with her that the Jamaillian woman could steal Howarth from her. Never, ever did she see him for the scoundrel and the cheat that he was. I could not make her see that the man she loved had never existed; that she persisted in loving an idealized image of Howarth, that the real man was worthy only of her contempt. She would sit down, pen in hand, to denounce him. But always, her accusing letters somehow changed into pleas to him to come back to her. The worst was the night that she went by darkness to his door. She sought entry there, like a beggar, pleading with a servant to let her in so she might speak privately with the master of the house. The servant turned her aside with disdain, and she, Aubretia Lantis of the Bingtown Traders, crept away weeping and shamed. I think that night broke her. The next evening she packed the few possessions that remained her own, and we left Bingtown, walking away in the dimness while her friends were at dinner. She did not even bid them goodbye. She felt she had lost all standing with them and could never be seen as anything but a fool.’

I felt ill, dizzied with the dirty little story. It twisted my memories of the gentle old woman I had tended for the last two years. I had believed her contained and stoic. I had deemed it strength, that she had endured my grandfather’s harsh ways, and tolerated the disrespect of her step-son. Now it seemed something else. The implacable little voice went on.

‘She left Bingtown. Just walked away. She said she did not care what became of her, just so long as she could escape everyone telling her she should confront Howarth. She came to the countryside, and floundered through work as an inn-maid until she married a man she did not love, to tend his son and bear him a daughter. Shortly after your mother was born, she set me aside, for I was the final reminder of the life she had abandoned.’ The tiny face pressed its lips together in a flat line. ‘I begged her to listen to me, even as she wrapped me in linen. I could not stand to see her raise her daughter in submission to her brutish father and that loutish boy of his. She should have her birthright, I said. I told her it was not too late to go back and reclaim her inheritance. But she muffled my voice and shut me away.’

I thought of all the years the pendant had waited in the box. ‘Why did you tell me this?’ I asked it in a low voice.

For the first time, a question seemed to give the pendant pause. It lifted its brows as if amazed I did not know. ‘Because she lives on in me, as do all the women of your line who have worn me. And I would see things set right. I would see you regain what is rightfully yours.’

Rightfully mine. The concept seemed almost foreign. It frightened me. ‘But how? I have no proof, I do not know him, if Howarth still lives and -’

‘Hush. I will guide you. You have the empty ring on your hand and me at your throat. You need no more than this.’

My head so whirled with stories, I do not know how I slept that night. But I woke, still clutching the wizardwood pendant in my hand. Stiff in every joint, I rose, and donned the silver necklace and made my way to Bingtown.

In the next few weeks, the pendant became my guide. My ears swiftly became attuned to its soft whisper. The advice it gave me was difficult to follow, and yet when I listened to it, I found that my life progressed. In Bingtown, I sought and found a position caring for an elderly Trader woman. The food at Trader Redof’s table was better than any I had ever eaten before, and the cast-off garments of her grand-daughter were the finest clothing I had ever worn. My years of caring for my grandmother served me in good stead. I became a willing ear for any gossip Trader Redof wished to share, and despite all the difficulties of escorting such an old woman in Bingtown, I saw to it that she visited her friends often.

Tending to her, I soon came to know well the bustling trade city. Supporting her elbow and carrying her foot-cushion, I moved invisibly amongst Bingtown society. I saw the power of the Bingtown Traders, power based not solely on wealth, but on heritage. I marvelled at all my grandmother had abandoned, all that might have been my mother’s life. From marvelling at it, I grew to hunger for it. I changed my country manners to mimic hers, and flattened the twang of my speech. Schooled by my pendant in the evening, I changed how I carried myself in public and how I dressed my hair. I took on the mannerisms of a Bingtown woman, where women who were Traders for their families held as much power as their male counterparts. Seeing all that my grandmother had surrendered made my hatred of Howarth grow. I longed to seek him out and confront him. Yet month after month passed, and still the pendant bid me bide my time in patience.

My yearnings for vengeance surprised me. My grandmother and mother had both schooled me in selfeffacing resignation. I had thought it the lot of all women. Only in Bingtown did I come to see that a woman might live alone and manage her own life. I looked back on how Tetlia had robbed me of my grandmother’s necklaces, and could not recall why I had not challenged her. I recalled the liberties Hetta’s husband had attempted on me, and wondered why I had not vigorously resisted him. My old self in the countryside faded to a young woman whose docility was as incomprehensible to me as my grandmother’s fatalistic surrender of her life.

I listened to my pendant. I never spoke Howarth’s name aloud nor asked after him and his family. I was a devoted servant, well nigh invisible. Twice, other families tried to hire me away but I kept my place. And finally, one day as I hovered near my mistress’s chair at a tea, I heard his name mentioned, in connection with some other tattle about a Jamaillian family that had moved to Bingtown and was putting on airs. ‘A page from Howarth’s book,’ someone said with a sniff, and I knew then that he still lived and that my grandmother’s scandal was still recalled by these old women. I listened as they chewed through that old tale, and gained tidings not only that Howarth still lived, but that knowing Traders in Bingtown still regarded him with disdain.

That night, in my small chamber off my mistress’s room, I consulted with my pendant. ‘Are we ready now to take revenge? To confront Howarth and demand that he return all he stole from my grandmother?’

The small lips pursed as if tasting wine that had gone to vinegar. It gave a tiny sigh. ‘I suppose it is time you saw the man. In some ways, that could be the culmination of your education.’ The little eyes narrowed and glittered speculatively. ‘When we go, you will take the empty ring. Let me pick the day, however. And on that day, you must do and say exactly what I tell you to. In this, you must trust me, or all will be for naught.’

Twice every forty days, my mistress granted me a half-day to myself. My pendant chose a day for me. It was one my mistress was loath to grant me, for it was a day of celebration in Bingtown, but I persuaded her to allow it, promising her that I would return early to help her with her evening preparations. It was the anniversary of the Traders arriving at Bingtown Bay. In the evening, there would be parties and dinners hosted by the wealthier Traders. But earlier in the day, the whole city would celebrate. There would be speeches and dancing in the centre of the Great Market, food and drink would flow free to all, and the streets would be thronged with folk of all persuasions. Although the evening festivities were reserved for Traders and their families only, all the folk of Bingtown would join in the municipal celebration. From all the gossip I had heard, I knew it was a day when more recent arrivals to Bingtown courted the Old Trader families. Those who did not share Trader blood would seek to make more secure their social alliances with the powerful Traders. Howarth and his family would certainly be there.