staff under the grave, squinting authority of Mistress Clossette.
Feeling overstretched and strangely blank, he nevertheless attended to this orientation as Europe showed him from bottom to top the towering extents of his new home.
First was the flashy hiatus, opposite the solar, where guests were to wait in awed comfort. Filled with plush seats, it had red walls like the solar, but a ceiling of black, molded with gilt cornice work. The somber wood of the floor was covered with a great carpet of red and magenta checks edged in clean white, while a leering mask of some Occidental face glowered from above a basalt fireplace. At the rear of the hiatus, dark nadderer-figured doors led to a state hall reserved for grand dinners. Here, beneath the elaborately molded ceiling of gold and red, ran a broad frieze of leaping battling figures-man and monster, the most frequent being a woman in red whom Rossamund quickly fathomed was Europe herself. All four friezes on all four walls were filled, the fabulist run out of space. Tall south-looking windows stared out from the golden walls upon the green flow of the Midwetter swimming with brilliant orange fish and the neighbors' lofty roofs on the farther bank.
Opposite Rossamund's own set was a surprisingly well-stocked library and attached billiard, its vast table laid with red felt. There were various parlors and guest chambers, drawing rooms and meeting rooms on the floors above, spaces of green and gold, white and red, each furnished in ubiquitous black lacquer.
The highest proper story was given over almost entirely to what Europe named the ludion, a long space of dark empty floorboards and unclear use, plainly lit by a great line of windows, the light doubled by the equally expansive row of mirrors that made the opposite wall. By a deft touch, one of the mirrors sprang open, and Europe led him by a curling stair into the attics. Here were arranged a series of small trophy rooms displaying the various prizes, weapons and oddities of an extended and highly successful monster-destroying career. Turning to leave, the young factotum got a mighty shock, for rearing by the main door was a squamous, almost froglike nicker thrice his height. Arching up, its glassy, fishy eyes were staring horribly; its webbed claws were lifted and ready to tear, the broad mouth of tiny dagger teeth gaping hungrily.Yet it was a dead thing, stuffed and mounted on display.
'A display of gratitude,' Europe explained, the ghost of a smile crossing her dial. 'The watery beast was making home of a local pond and I relieved my neighbors of its unpleasant charms, so they in turn gave me this as a grateful token.They were no longer as troubled to have one of my ilk in their districts after that.'
At the end of it all, he was taken through to the narrower, plainer servants' walks at the rear of the stately house and finally down to the kitchens. As pristine as the rest of the great house and as white as everywhere else was not, these were a-bustle with preparations for mains. Maids, under-cooks, turnspits and a brace of scullions: so many people for just one woman, all working with steady, dignified industry. There was no heft and hurry as in Winstermill's kitchen under Mother Snooks, nor the makeshift one-man chaos of Wormstool's mess.The staff eyed him uncertainly, the turnspits and scullions clearly uneasy to have their mistress stepping into their own domain; yet all bobbed politely, pausing in their work and waiting.
Only vaguely aware of them, Europe wound boldly through it all. 'One more nook for you to see, little man,' she declared over her shoulder.
In an alcove between scullery and pantry was a black door with a tongue-poking face of a saucy bogle carved into the thick paneling. This opened onto a stone stepway that spiraled down into Cloche Arde's foundations, terminating in a small hexagonal chamber dedicated to the brewing of Europe's draughts.
The saumery.
By the clear light of fresh bright-limns, Rossamund could see that every wall was fashioned from marble of lustrous and oddly swarthy green, each corner crowded with pilasters of the same. The floor was arranged in an intricate fretwork of emerald and crimson tiles, with a sizeable test-cupboard standing at the far end. Lacquered black, the cupboard had brass feet cast in the shape of grinning mustachioed serpents, corners molded in the appearance of entwined flower-maidens, and many handles gripped in gaping brass mouths. It was permanently set here, its chimney flue disappearing into the dusken green ceiling. Arranged in nooks in the stonework at either side were parts-cabinets, tall cylinders of glossy red. Upon each semicircular drawer were cunningly fashioned brass slots that held neatly marked labels: Sugar of Nnun, bezoariac, xthylistic curd and so much more-many well beyond Rossamund's ken. A small duodecimo of obscure title lay still open atop one of the drawers, as if put down in the midst of reading.
'I shall leave you to make this your own,' said Europe, turning to depart. 'All you need is here. Mister Kitchen will help you if it isn't. I shall have my treacle in my file in one hour.'
Momentarily lost, Rossamund revolved slowly, hands on hips, trying to get a bearing in this dim test. He discovered four more cabinet pictures hanging two-a-side on the angling back walls of the saumery and, stuffing them promptly into a recess of the test cupboard, spent the next hour learning the place of everything, rearranging as he saw fit, wondering at this command he had over an entire and well-stocked room. With the stove plate already hot and all pots, gradients and parts ready handy, when it came time to brew, the making was easy and the task quickly completed.
'You take it to her by your own hand, young sir,' was Kitchen's firm instruction once Rossamund was done. ' 'Tis the only fashion she will have it. I shall show you there.'
Standing on the first floor before Europe's file door, Rossamund hesitated in unconscious fascination at the forms of tiny figures in the panels of the door, showing all attitudes of arching, dancing, sneering bogles of tribes he did not know existed.
Behind him, Kitchen made a small, polite cough.
Rossamund rapped at an elliptical plate of worn brass high in the midst of the graven revelry.
The door opened.
There was little light within-curtains must have been drawn and no bright-limns turned. Out of the murk the Branden Rose loomed, giving Rossamund a shock. 'A timely testing, little man. Perhaps I'll not regret you after all.'
Rossamund's heart fumbled a beat. Regret my service?
'Thank you, Kitchen, for your bony wing,' Europe continued. 'I am sure you guided him with your usual warm and fatherly care. That will be all.'
The steward gave a bland smile and departed obediently.
Rossamund lingered, looking back to be certain that Kitchen had truly gone. 'Miss Europe?' he said just as her file door was closing.
The blank gap between door and jamb hovered, a mere sliver, a test of patience.
A long-suffering sigh.
The gap widened.
'Uh… Thank you for rescuing me.'
'Tish tosh,' the fulgar dismissed from ill-lit space. 'That wretch Whympre and his lapdog Swill were acting up a show for their secretarial friend and I could no longer let them mishandle you, so here you are.' She leaned into the light and beheld Rossamund closely. 'Know, Rossamund, that some will think me puzzle-headed for taking on a child as my second.You bore your duty with the lamplighters admirably, but my load is heavier still. Yet under my hand I believe you will quickly learn to acquit yourself as a man. So watch your way; a factotum does more than make treacle and cover my back in a stouche.You are my chief representative; what you say I have said, what you do I have done. You are chief of this household, and though Kitchen and Clossette will tend to its running quite happily, you may intervene on any of their transactions as you see fit.'
'No-ah, yes, Miss Europe.' Swallowing, Rossamund tried to let what he supposed was a manly calm spread through his members.
'Welcome to a life of violence, little man,' she said portentously in parting and slowly closed the file door.
Returning to his new room-his set-Rossamund found that a bed had been delivered in his absence. A great four-poster now butted against the wall. Covered with an enormous scarf of immaculate black silk run through with dyed flowers of red and blue and warm yellow, its white linen was stark in the inky room and it looked about as comfortable as a bed could look.
After six months with the lighters he was well used to having every point of his time organized for him, and was now at a bit of a loss. He fossicked through cupboards and drawers Pallette had dutifully organized to locate
