to retrieve their meager chattels and returned as the full reach of heaven was gilt by the slanting day. Rossamund could not look them in the eye as they deposited their belongings to be packed. In their turn, the two old vinegaroons seemed all a-sea for words, and it was a great relief when Kitchen brought summons for them to repair inside to further discuss the terms of their service with Europe.
When the stowing was near completion, there came a commotion at the front of the house. Joined by Wenzel, one of Europe's footmen, Rossamund walked up the short drive to see. Three glossy coaches driven by heavy-harnessed lentermen rattled to a halt in the narrow, shadowed coach yard. Doors were flung wide as each conveyance disgorged its plush belly of passengers. Most numerous were the more than half a dozen serious men in the sleek green harness of the Broken Doll, all firelocks and bludgeons and bristling hostility as they made a cordon about the carriages. With them came legal gents in their frilly legal solitaires, wads of paper firmly under arm.
Rossamund's soul sank to knock in his knees. So soon had last night's consequences caught up with him.
'Bother me!' Wenzel cursed, and immediately scurried back down the side way.
From the press of manly green strode Pater Maupin, proprietor of the Broken Doll, stakeholder in the rousing-pit. Still handsome despite gaining age, he was an elegant man with oddly sallow papery skin, dressed in a long-frocked coat of shimmering purple, ruffles of silk spraying out about his throat and over his hands. Beneath his curling periwig he had a genial face with kindly eyes, yet Rossamund thought he glimpsed cold steel in the soul that schemed behind them.
A strange burbling twitter in its throat, Darter Brown emerged from the pencil pine in the middle of the yard to land staunchly on Rossamund's hatless head.
Coming as protector at Maupin's side was the very sabrine adept who had hacked at the Handsome Grackle, clad in his eccentric harness, his eyes yet raw from the glister thrown in his face. At the proprietor's other flank sashayed the deadly dexter woman, Anaesthesia Myrrh, dour-faced and festooned in black, thrusting before her the most startling arrival of them all. For there in her cruel grip, still dressed in his carmine coat and black longshanks, was Rookwood, downcast, defeated and utterly ashamed.
'Is this the little selt-kisser, then?' Pater Maupin demanded coldly of his white-haired hostage, his voice smooth like cream, his sneer like a blow. 'Was this your worrisome guest of yesternight?'
Rookwood's harried glance flicked over Rossamund.
Becoming glassy-eyed, submerging any guilt, the young factotum simply blinked at him.
Rookwood shrugged, and at a signaling flick of Maupin's silk-shrouded and violently jolted, contracting in on himself under the dexter's brief encouragement. Sagging in the woman's grasp, Rockwood nodded. 'Yes… yes, it is…'
The old proprietor's eyes slitted in silent, vengeful fury.
Ears ringing, Rossamund tautened, ready for desperate deeds.
'Pitter-Patter Maupin, Needle of the Dogs,' Europe's voice purred from behind.
Rossamund's shoulder tingled at the firm touch of her hand.
'What remarkable occasion has provoked you to shift from your seamy couch to belabor me at my own door?' Europe's feigned sociability was the barest mask. 'I see you have brought your full menagerie,' she continued. Wholly ignoring the swordist, she regarded Rookwood fleetingly, then cocked a dismissive brow to the dexter and said, 'Anaesthesia,' dipping her alabaster brow in mock courtesy to the black-clad lahzar.
Jerking the forlorn white-haired fellow aside, the dexter peered at the fulgar steadily, eyeing her as an untested rival. About her and her master the sturdy fellows closed, inflating their brave bosoms and glowering meaningfully. Watching Rossamund closely, the swordist fondled the broad strapping of a bautis-the heavy wooden cylinder that held the deadly therimoir-hanging across his back.
The young factotum shivered at the thought of the virulent white blade.
'Well-a-day, Lady Bramble,' Pater Maupin answered smoothly. 'Is that the fashion in which one greets an old compatriot in the ancient struggle? I have come only to recoup grave losses,' he said, lingering darkly on the word, 'incurred through no provocation of my own-or that of my associates-by a member of your own staff, namely that stunted mewling there.' He flicked a ruffled gesture Rossamund's way.
'Truly…' Europe's word dripped sugary malevolence. 'And how, pray, has that to do with me?'
Maupin smiled with his own cunning. 'Perhaps you did not know the full and base character of such a fresh- appointed employe,' he said sidlingly. 'I know only too well that one cannot reckon every facet in a person before engaging them, and as such I-we-do not care to hold you personally indemnified…'
'How kind,' Europe murmured, and regarded him languidly, a deadly kind of smirk fluttering at the sharp edges of her ruddy lips. 'Yet I know the full character of this one full well, sir. If you have found exception with it, the fault can only lie with you.'
The owner of the Broken Doll possessed himself enough to refrain from choking on her words. 'If this were simply damage and depletion, I might accept such unkind expressions so ungraciously given and move on.' Though he kept his voice even, a heavy passion lurked under it. 'Yet it also involves the vanishment of a much valued deputy who had, this night gone, set out to fetch yon brat'-a glare for Rossamund-'and present him to proper justice.'
'Vanished, is it?' The fulgar's gaze flicked for the briefest inquiring glance to her young factotum. 'How careless of you, Pitter-Patter, to lose dear people so…'
The proprietor's mien darkened. 'It is more than this, sparking hag. My deputy is, I suspect, undone. Not slot nor drag nor particle of him can be found.'
Rossamund swallowed.
'Even less will you discover here, sir,' the Branden Rose said coolly.
'I little doubt it.' Lifting his chin, Maupin peered down his cheeks at her, his expression plainly telling that he believed her the reason for the dandi-dressed wit's end.
The tingling in Rossamund's shoulder where his mistress' hand rested became a needling.
'Surely you have more useful pastimes,' she said, 'than to impugn me and my staff upon the witness of confessions swingeingly extracted from some tetter-faced obsequine. You waste both our days, sir!'
Forgotten and slinking slowly to the fringe of the threatening host, Rookwood cringed at his mention and, with a bitter glance through the gang of roughs to Rossamund, slunk yet farther from the epicenter of conflicting wills.
'Waste makes for want.' Maupin smiled dangerously. 'And I-and my associates-want fair due. Let this one'-he sneered once more to the young factotum, who balled his fists and scowled in return-'sit beneath a telltale's gaze. If he is condemned by his own words, I shall, as I said, not charge you as responsible. You can hire yourself another runt-there are plenty to be had.'
'I happen to like this particular runt,' Europe returned with utmost calm. 'He shall stay with me.'
Maupin's two spurns stepped forward, the swordist with bautis-box open, the dexter Anaesthesia smirking, her dark lace and black frills prickling with static.
The Branden Rose did not shift, yet her own menace seemed to magnify.
Staying his ground, Rossamund wished he had more than his clenched fists for weapons and a simple weskit for proofing.
Here Maupin chose to raise his hand, the slightest sign for his own staff to yield. 'No need for such vulgar behavior, I think,' he said calmly.
The genteel clearing of a throat sounded from on high.
The young factotum-and everyone with him-looked above to find the windows on several floors of Cloche Arde thrown open, the slender barrels of several firelocks protruding from them with menace of their own. Among the various house staff Rossamund spied Fransitart at the window of his set, a particularly heavy musketoon raised to his shoulder, and at the very next casement found Craumpalin, potives clearly in hand. The dispenser threw him a wink. Even Pallette was there, glowering down as if this were weapon enough. Below them, in Europe's file, stood Mister Kitchen, blunderbuss firmly under arm and trained squarely upon the proprietor of the Broken Doll.
'Might I humbly suggest m'lord choose more fulfilling activities for himself today,' the steward offered steadily.
Pater Maupin's brows rose slightly, his eyes passionless as they took in the situation. He smiled an empty
