The Oracle Glass by Judith Merkle Riley

dressing gown, and slippers. He did not wish to be introduced.
    From the kitchen beyond came good smells, the shouting of serving maids, and the rattle and crash of dinner on the way. Suddenly, I remembered that I was famished. The luxury, the lavish use of firewood impressed me. This is a household with money, I remember thinking. It was not until sometime later that I knew my patroness well enough to begin to guess at her income: more than all but the wealthiest of the aristocracy, about the same as a minister of state. The girl I remembered, Marie-Marguerite, the daughter of her husband by a previous marriage, now taller than I was, crossed our path carrying a cup of chocolate for her father. At that point, I would have signed over my soul for a cup of chocolate. Madame Montvoisin, whose sharp eyes never missed anything, smiled as she saw the look on my face.
    Wordlessly, she led the way into her cabinet, and I recognized the little room I had seen in the glass. It was lined with locked cupboards, and the heavy red curtains were pulled back to reveal the little window, all white with frost. On the opposite wall, a warm little fire sat behind a pair of soot-blackened andirons that were made like cats. In one corner, an ornate writing desk was covered with odd things: a half-drawn horoscope, a little hand made of silver, an ink pot shaped like a satyr, and, amidst a rubble of loose papers, a little cat’s face carved in amber that seemed to glow with light reflected from an unknown source.
    â€œSit down here.” She pointed to a cushioned stool beside the writing table. I hoped she could not hear my stomach growl. Sensible of the drama of the moment, I didn’t want to spoil it with such a common noise. “We need to have an understanding before we begin.” Good. She hadn’t heard. “For the first year, I will provide you with bed and board, clothing, instruction, and a little allowance for necessaries. You will return to me all that you earn.” She took out a little key from her bosom and unlocked the door of one of the tall cupboards that constituted the little cabinet’s chief furniture. I saw inside on the shelf a row of green ledgers, each labeled with a letter of the alphabet. She took down the P ledger, and a folder tied with string labeled “contracts,” and turned again to me.
    â€œAfter the year of training, if you show enough aptitude, I will set you up in a nice little establishment of your own, for which you will repay me over the next five years out of your income, plus twenty-five percent of your overall income.” She took a sheet out of “contracts” and laid it on the table. It was already written up in a legal hand, with blank spaces in it for appropriate facts. I remember being impressed with her foresight and organization. Even though she was dealing in superstition, she did it like a lawyer or an important merchant, not like an old crone in an attic. She looked up from the contract and smiled, that odd little v .
    â€œYou will also perform certain little…professional reference services for me, carry occasional messages or packages. After that, our partnership will include reference work alone. I will offer you my standard agreement, a fee based on a percentage of a referred client’s payment. And, of course, I will continue to offer you whatever assistance and consultation you need, absolutely free.” She sat down, took out a pen, uncorked the satyr ink pot, and queried, “Your full baptismal name, dear?” Squinting slightly, she filled in the first blank space in the contract. Then she looked up at me as if she had just remembered something. Later I realized that she never forgot anything. But she believed that everything must be presented correctly, like an important dish by a great chef. She raised a finger and cocked her head slightly.
    â€œAh, yes,” she said, “but first, before we go any farther, you must