side of her pate, clotted cuts on scalp, forehead, ears, down her neck.
'We have done well today, you and I,' she said at last, a softer thought in her appallingly red-shot eyes as she found her own balance and stood to her feet once more. 'Better than we ought…'
'I thought we were done for.' Rossamund kept his voice steady against the unexpected dizzying rush of relief. Somehow, when all was set against them, they had won…
Brushing her hems and unruffling the sit of her collars, Europe said bluntly, 'What have you done to your hands?'
Rossamund told her of his own fight, and at the mention of jackstraws the fulgar's eyes narrowed; at the mention of Cinnamon and Freckle they became ill-humored slits.
'How fortunate to be helped by bogles against the agents of those who accuse us as sedorners,' she muttered darkly, gathering up her fuse and the fallen fictler's mask. 'A splendid irony.'
The young factotum gave a grim smile. 'If the jackstraws had been more intent on ending me than carrying me away I reckon I'd be ashes by now.'
'It seems our many friends think themselves in possession of a long reach, to send such a menagerie against us to pluck you away.' She fixed him with a look partly satirical, partly in deadly earnest. 'As for your paws, Rossamund, I recommend that before you next opt to play with sparks, you visit Sinster as I have done to get the necessary additions first.' Her expression grew wry and she added, 'Though I would recommend you kept your true nature a secret from all those fossicking transmogrifers while you were there…'
They came about the bend and his dismay deepened as he saw again the shattered bodies of Rufous and Candle lying before the low walls that had hid the ambuscade. Debris of the original blast was thrown wide, a great elliptical fissure in the road. On the right, the once-thick olive was rent and bedraggled, the wall before it charred, the corners broken and missing.
To the left, amid the lower pines, the landaulet was little more than a suite of beautifully upholstered seats, three wheels and a mess of lacquered firewood, its contents strewn about.
The sparrow gave a bright cheep! then leaped away, winging ahead and down the hill.
'We will be walking out, it seems,' Europe observed, then hesitated.
From behind the low left-hand wall Craumpalin appeared to be floating unconscious and lolling up the side of the hill and toward the road. Fransitart was there too, toiling up behind, the wounds and scabbed blood on his face shocking in the yellowing of the late day. To Rossamund's delight, Cinnamon stepped out from the blind of the low wall, the nuglung humbly carrying the ailing old dispenser pig-a-back, hauling him like some overburdened porter.
'Oh, what fun…,' Europe purred. Her sanguine gaze, fixed upon Cinnamon, barely shifted when Freckle emerged behind, leading Fransitart by the hand.
Twittering merrily, Darter Brown circled about the head of the nuglung-prince, settling finally on the wall to sing.
Reaching only to Rossamund's shoulder in height, Cinnamon regarded the fulgar with its great black, knowing eyes, turning its head to look with one eye then the next. It was clad like a gentleman, complete with white-and- black-striped weskit under its frock coat, with stiff shirt-collar, black stock, and buttons made of polished bone. Though the beauty of the coat was marred with many dark bruises, Rossamund could see that it was in truth made of the living petals of some dazzling blue flower fashioned together so closely as to look like woven cloth. A nebulous threwd surrounded the blithely creature, less potent than that which wreathed the Lapinduce, but clearer, kinder, more hopeful, stirring in Rossamund faint notions of ease and security and bringing too a sweet, clinging rind-and-honey scent mixed with the piquant stink of feathers.
Gently depositing Craumpalin on the road, it-or he perhaps, for it bore the facial colorations of a male sparrow and, moreover, there was a distinct he-ness about it… about him-he bowed to the fulgar, one arm bent at his middle, the other outstretched, clawed hand gracefully posed. 'Hail, lady astrapeline,' it called, its voice rising and falling like the melancholy music of the Duke of Rabbits, 'protectress of our foundling child.Your enemies are many and far-traveled: I am glad to have arrived to help thee.'
In her turn, Europe remained unmoved, chin raised, terrible thermistor-red eyes fixed upon this bogle-prince. Rossamund was sure he smelled the metal tang of building levin on her. 'So here is Rossamund's deliverer,' she said with menacing care. 'I commend you on your fortunate timing, sir. I understand that ultimately it is to you that I owe my far-traveled enemies.'
Cinnamon straightened, expression impenetrable. 'Providence works as Providence wills, Lady of Roses,' he warbled, 'even through the littlest of us.' He crooked a claw and Darter Brown flew to perch upon it. 'And it was not I who had you take Rossamund the mighty gudgeon-slayer into your staff.'
The Branden Rose arched a brow. 'It is not usual for me to treat with those of your tribe, bogle.'
'Nor mine with yours, fulgar,' the bogle-prince returned evenly. 'Too long has it been since two princes of our two kinds have spoken even a few fairer words as we do now.'
'Ours is not the blame for that, sparrow-man,' Europe answered, her expression remaining cold.
To this Cinnamon said nothing, but simply looked at the Branden Rose, his eyes unblinking. Glowering beside him, Freckle gnashed his teeth at her.
As true as he tried to be to his mistress, even Rossamund was rankled at the injustice of Europe's remark and, not knowing what else to do, he dared to step between the nuglung and the fulgar. 'Thank you, Lord Cinnamon,' he said with his own bow to the bogle-prince, 'for defending me. I was done in for certain otherwise.'
The nuglung turned his piercing, glittering eyes upon Rossamund. 'Well-a-day, Master Gudgeon-slayer! Thee tussles admirably with the utterworsts. It is well to see thee growing strong and true.'
'Th-thank you…' was all the young factotum could get out as he bowed once more.
'Yes, yes!' Freckle suddenly cried, stepping toward him but halting with many suspicious looks to Europe. 'You have learned your true strength true and your strength is well learnt at last, as it was not in the bottom of that Hogglehead boat.'
'Better rest for you is near,' Cinnamon continued abruptly, the chirrup in his words almost mesmerizing. 'Hoarebeard'-he gestured with his small clawed hand to Craumpalin-'needs proper succor, and, if you will grant me this, oh Lady Europe, I shall lead thee all to a softer place for harms to heal away from common notice.'
For just a flash, Rossamund thought he spied his mistress taken aback, but if it were so, she quickly schooled her expression to its usual wry watchfulness.
'What polite speeches you make, little sparrow-man,' she replied softly, her gaze shifting briefly to the poor senseless Craumpalin.
Propped against the broken wall, the old dispenser was looking much improved, his breathing less fitful, his throat bound with dense plaits of what looked to be just ordinary grasses and common weeds. Splints of thick branches were fastened about his legs with the same.
'I grant it,' Europe conceded. 'Though do not suppose for a moment I shall stay my hand should you turn on us and show yourself the monster after all.'
Cinnamon bowed low and courtly. 'Nor I if it proves true of you, Lady Europe.'
'Rossamund, come,' the fulgar commanded frostily, and, revolving on her boot, she stepped lightly off the edge of the road and went down the hill toward the wrecked landaulet.
The young factotum gave an awkward beck to Cinnamon and hurried to follow his mistress, Darter Brown fluttering after.
A fume was billowing within the trees down where Rossamund had slain the last jackstraw.With a sigh of irritation Europe approached it, fuse held ready, her young factotum one step behind.The fulgar quickly relaxed her guard as she beheld the broken half of the cloth-made rever. Its head was driven into the soil, sinews beginning to fizzle and bubble, releasing a muddy steam that stank of bitter caustic and the vilest drouthy corpse-flesh.
'Your handiwork, I am thinking, little man,' the fulgar uttered with a mite of satisfaction.
Entranced by the dramatic chemistry, Rossamund shuddered but did not answer.
Before his very eyes the slain jackstraw was dissolving, effervescing like Frazzard's powder, breaking down to nought more than a puddle of corpse-liquor, metal frame and some mummified remains all wrapped in a threadbare
