Chapter 4: The Inventory

The bailiffs were already in the parlor when Ianthe got downstairs.

One was tying a paper tag to Papa's long-case clock.

The other was holding the candlesticks up to the window to see if they were silver.

They weren't.

Orlian stood in the middle of her mother's rug in a new blue coat, reading from a list.

"Clock, long-case, walnut. Clock, mantel, gilt. Clock, carriage, brass." He looked up. "How many clocks does one man need?"

"Papa mends them," Odalie said from the doorway. "People never come back for them."

"Then they're ours too."

Ianthe came in with her hair still half down and the print of the broadsheet on her cheek.

"Get out of my parlor, Orlian."

"It isn't your parlor. That's rather the point."

He made a mark on his list.

"Harp," he said. "No, don't tag the harp. I'll take the harp myself."

The bailiff with the candlesticks looked at him.

"My betrothed plays," Orlian said. "Not the way your mother did, but she has the hands for it."

"Your betrothed?" Ianthe said. "It's been one day."

"She's a banker's daughter. Her dowry could buy this street."

He smiled at her.

"I work quickly when I'm not being humiliated."

Papa came in behind Ianthe in his dressing gown.

He saw the tag on his clock and stopped, and didn't say anything at all.

That was worse than if he had shouted.

Ianthe took the list out of Orlian's hand.

He was so surprised he let her.

"When is the loan due?" she asked the older bailiff.

He cleared his throat.

"By the first snow, my lady."

"Has it snowed?"

He glanced at the window.

"No, my lady."

"Then what can you take today?"

"Well." He looked at Orlian. "Nothing, strictly. Today we only list."

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