conspicuous among them in kitchen-white. Rossamund sat back bashfully, suddenly nervous.
The door to the carriage was opened by a wan-looking man with iron-gray hair who handed Europe stiffly from the cabin. 'Welcome, gracious lady,' he said with a solemn smile, his voice a sour-humored rasp.
'Hello, Mister Kitchen,' Europe declared to her hander, continuing with a wry turn in her mouth. 'Raise the flag-your mistress has returned.'
Mister Kitchen responded with the ghost of a smirk, as if some small jest had been exchanged.
Senses reeling from the crossing upon the Widgeon, clothes still bearing the stains of the thalasmache, Rossamund clambered clumsily from his seat, rocking the takeny-coach as he dismounted.
'This young fellow'-the fulgar's slight smile became a little more sincere as she gestured fluently to him-'is now my factotum. His name is Rossamund Bookchild. Lodge him in the factotum's set and accord him all the usual privileges. Rossamund, this is Mister Kitchen, my steward-the rest of my staff you shall discover later.' She took in her humbly waiting servants in a glance.
In their turn, the senior staff eyed Rossamund evenly while footmen and the takeny driver tackled luggage.
Rossamund gave them all a short and awkward bow.
If any had thoughts upon his unfortunate name, his youth or the grime of battle on his clothes, these serving folk did not betray them.
'Mistress Clossette,' Europe continued as Fransitart and Craumpalin alighted, speaking to a black-haired servant woman with a severe face. 'We shall have a late meal in the solar, and these old salts-Messrs Fransitart and Craumpalin-shall be eating with us.'
Barely exited from the takeny, Rossamund's old masters nodded first to Europe and then her servants.
'Thank ye, miss,' Fransitart muttered.
Mister Kitchen, Mistress Clossette and the knot of staff eyed them somberly in return. Some strange new boy as a factotum was one thing, but tired, scabrous and aged vinegaroons was clearly another.
'As you wish it, gracious lady,' responded Clossette flatly.
Guiding Rossamund before her, the Branden Rose strode into the house, staff in tow, Fransitart and Craumpalin following after.
Through a narrow black door was a cold obverse of marble in a green so dark it was almost black, whorled with pallid coils, the night's fumes made solid. Complete with stoppered loopholes, it existed more by tradition than need, a lingering feature from isolated high-houses built out in threwdish wilds.Through this Europe led them into a grand vestibule hall of equally somber marble, where in a line on either side, the junior staff awaited their mistress.
The heels of Europe's sturdy equiteer boots clapped clear upon the slick floor of checkered black basalt and green serpentine as she strode to the stair.
'This, Rossamund,' she said, pivoting arms out, palms up, 'will be your home whenever we are in this infamous city.'
Framed by white fluted pilasters and broad lintels, white doors stood stark in the dark walls on either hand. High above, the ceiling was a blatant sanguineous red, its wide moldings and cornice-works of glistening gold. There was no furniture here, just this empty, ponderous space. Dominating the opposite end of the hall was a broad stair of the same swarthy stone with a carpet intricately woven in reds and fawns and golds running up its center.
Astounded, Rossamund thought himself inside the great hall of one of the historied Attic queens and their fabled black palaces where moments of history played. He drew in a breath, filling his senses with the faint yet distinct savor of Europe's perfume, her essence lingering like some watchful presence.
Sending her staff scurrying to draw baths for her and for Fransitart and Craumpalin too-'to soak out the sea- stink before eating'-Europe summoned Rossamund to follow.
Exchanging parting glances with his old masters, wide-eyed at this gauntly palatial setting, Rossamund let himself be hustled upstairs, his mistress ahead, Kitchen coming after. The next floor was little more than a landing before a rather heavy door set back in an alcove painted a rich mossy green and figured with golden flowers. The panels of this door were intricate with snarling, leering bogles gamboling amid leaves and budding blossoms.
'Through here is my file,' Europe declared, standing before this astonishing portal, 'and beyond, my boudoir. You may not enter here unless I have summoned you or you come bearing my treacle. However, the front rooms of the next floor are for you,' she declared, nodding to the next flight of stairs. 'They are your quarters, the factotum's set. No other servant may enter unless on established routine or at your bidding. As for you, Rossamund, you answer to me only; not even Mister Kitchen has say over your affairs.'
Uncomfortable in the authority of such a position, Rossamund nevertheless nodded gravely. He looked sidelong at Mister Kitchen but could discern nothing in the solemn steward's blank face.
Her hand on the green-copper handle of the door, Europe fixed Rossamund with an appraising eye. 'You will reconcile yourself to your new lot quickly enough, little man,' she offered with smooth irony. 'Now up you go and organize yourself, then you and your masters may join me for a proper meal to make up for the thin fare they called food aboard the Widgeon.' With that she retreated through the carven door.
Kitchen gestured to him to climb once more.
On the next floor he was shown right down a moss green passage almost as long as the house was wide. At its end Rossamund was ushered into a vast room with ceilings easily as high as those in the Master-of-Clerks' file at Winstermill.
'The factotum's set, sir,' Kitchen intoned.
The set was as pristine as every other part of Cloche Arde Rossamund had so far seen, yet there was a gloom here, something ineffably oppressive. Its walls were wood panels so stained they appeared black, hung with tiny thick-framed images too small to read from where he stood. Three tall windows dominated the opposite wall, admitting a panorama of a field of roofs hunkered beneath the gray day, yet their generous light did little to dispel the murkiness of the room.
For furniture there was a cupboard, sideboard, side table, writing desk, tandem and coat stand. Each piece was lacquered in glistening black just like the fulgar's treacle box, some finished with gilt edges and fine swirling patterns of a foreign design.Yet all this profusion of furnishings seemed little more than minor detail in the inky expanse of the room. The one relief of color was a broad yet delicate screen erected in the farthest corner. Made of five panels, it was painted with some elaborate scene in a disturbing yet refined, imported style. Rossamund could not make it out clearly; the general impression was of a woman about to be beset by some kind of slavering nicker.
'Is-was this Licurius' room before?' He frowned at the memory of Europe's former factotum, his cruel grip, his hissing voice muffled by the sthenicon he never took off.
'Yes… it was,' Kitchen replied evenly.Though the steward's voice was flat, Rossamund sensed deeper meaning: What is this to you? 'And now, sir, it is yours.'
Rossamund frowned, uncomfortable at occupying the chamber of a dead man, of sleeping in the place of someone who had actually tried to kill him. It was then that he realized there was no bed. 'Mister Kitchen, where do I sleep?' he asked, hoping very much that his bunk might be in another room.
'In here, sir-I shall have a cot moved in for you before the day does come to its end.'
'Ah, aye…' Rossamund's soul sank a little. 'Thank you.'
The steward left him to establish himself with the aid of the young, weasel-faced servant girl who had followed-the alice-'bout-house, Pallette, a young lass not more than two, maybe three, years his senior. Dressed in typical maid's garments-very much like those that dear Verline wore-this girl stood in dutiful stillness by the door and stared straight ahead as Rossamund sat on the silk-upholstered tandem. Laying his hat aside, he heaved a heavy sigh, seeking to exhale the unhappy knot that had set itself like a splinter in the very pit of his chest. One moment he was a lowly lamplighter and nigh a prisoner of the Master-of-Clerks in Winstermill's unwelcome stalls, the next he was a peer's companion established in a grand, tomblike boudoir of his own.
'M-Master Licurius used to sit right where you do now, sir, and… and take his nod sat upright,' a meek voice said uneasily, interrupting his reverie. It was Pallette. There was fear in her tone and a glimmer of suspicion in her
