With a snort of reproach, Crispus bent to examine the stump closely. 'Well, you can thank the course of the Lots and the will of Providence too that this Meech fellow seems to be handy with his business.You fellows!' he commanded Nectarius and Wenzel, standing as humbly as they could by the door as Kitchen appeared yawning. 'Fetch me extra pillows. Mister Craumpalin! Master Bookchild! I am sure you know the script for birchet and vauqueline-'
'Aye, that we do…'
'Then go and test them. Let us hope this Meech is as good as the knot and fit of his bandaging suggest!'
At this, the young factotum and the old dispenser meekly obeyed, brewing as fast as sensitive processes of chemistry and Craumpalin's crutch-slow gait would allow. In his haste, Rossamund left the old dispenser to come at his own pace from the saumery and hurried ahead with the vauqueline to find Europe just arrived at the old salts' humble quarters. She looked unruffled at such an unseemly hour yet was clearly unhappy at the fuss.
'Well betide you, madam.' The physician greeted Europe in his stiffest physicking manner. 'Our friend is as well as can be expected, though perhaps feeling a little foolish…'
Despite the meek slump in his shoulders, an obstinate gleam in the vinegaroon's eye spoke most eloquently that he was yet determined in the set of his course.
The fulgar took in the entire scene in an inkling. 'The break not enough for you, Master Vinegar?' she asked coolly.
'Why did you do it, Master Frans?' Rossamund breathed.
The ex-dormitory master regarded his onetime charge somberly, eyes full of a thousand thoughts.
Folding her arms, Europe leaned against the doorjamb. 'Indeed, Master Vinegar!' she said huskily. 'Simply removing the offending patch of flesh would have sufficed, sir. What use are you to me with one limb?'
Grumbling incoherently, Fransitart became genuinely sheepish. 'Vinegars get their wings off for bone breaks all th' time and still go on a-servin'…' was about all that Rossamund could make out, and maybe, 'Ye need not fear- I'll not be a make-weight to ye.'
Realizing the moment, Crispus excused himself quietly, softly calling Pallette out with him.
There was a bump at the door and Craumpalin bumbled back into the room, toiling in on his crutch, his brow glistening with sweat as he bore a pot of foul-smelling birchet. 'Here, thee daft basket!' he gruffed. 'Drink and get healing.' He nodded to the bandaged stump. 'So it's gone at last. Are thee any happier?'
'Ye know full well, Pin, I took th' mark back at that fortress 'cause o' the two of us, I can afford to lose a wing easiest,' Fransitart gruffed in return. Rubbing his eyes irritably, he drank the foul-smelling draught.
'You always meant to get it cut?' Rossamund gasped incredulously.
'I have to own that it's so, lad, aye.' The old salt's dogged expression fell. 'I might 'ave got it off sooner but that I was put upon by my own girlish curiousness to see for sure if th' punct would prove.'
'But Swill had one anyway!' Rossamund insisted, with as much hope as conviction.
'Aye… There is that,' the ex-dormitory master conceded. 'But 'e's gone now…' He looked hard at Rossamund, pain and confusion suddenly clear. 'Don't ye see, lad!' he returned bitterly. 'One ill-got mark is enough in a lifetime, but two o' them-an' one made from yer own ever-livin' claret, lad-is more'n I can bear!'
Rossamund had no answer to this. He grasped Fransitart's free hand-his only hand-and as the old salt drifted off, just held it.
25
Flitterwills small winged bogles, their form often a crude simulacrum of everymen yet with more distorted proportions. One of the few flying bogles-since the exodus of the naeroe-who make use of the winds and air, they are found only in the remotest, often terribly threwdish places, though there are meant to be many lurking in the Schmetterlingerwald north of Worms and ruled by the Duchess of Butterflies.This is all conjecture, of course; ancient texts hold them to be among the tribe of monster known as nisse, but in common culture flitterwills are pure myth.
The day of the grand gala finally arrived with a growl of far-off thunder.
'Perfect!' Europe declared, sipping the morning's plaudamentum and staring from her file window at the frowning southern sky. 'Perfect…,' she repeated softly.
Cloche Arde was properly 'tricked out'-as Fransitart called it, recovering well from his lost limb in one of the less prettified parts of the house-looking now like some Occidental pavilion. Europe's entire set of bom e'do screens were placed to direct where to and where not to go, and the ceiling was virtually hidden behind a veritable constellation of lanterns-great skies of red, orange, yellow-green and white. Staging refectories were established on each floor so that the footmen could fetch and deliver drinks and the simpler vittles without the need to descend constantly to the kitchen.
Feeling by middens that he had run a half mile making certain all was truly set, Rossamund knocked at Europe's door to inquire of his mistress to come out and give her own endorsement of the arrangements.
'I am sure it is all excellent, Rossamund,' she said with distracted impatience, strolling quickly about the ludion where the first orchestra-fully costumed in magenta frock suits and magenta bag-wigs-was already at its tuning on the elevated stage behind the stairs. 'You and Kitchen and Mistress Clossette will have done a fine job,' she added, and returned to her file.
In the afternoon the dance masters and entertainers arrived, all shown to their respective habitats to begin their own preparations, swelling the numbers already crammed into Cloche Arde until Rossamund wondered where the guests themselves might fit. Chief among these was a Master Papelott, the paraductor-the master of the unfolding of the entire night-recommended by the Lady Madigan. Exchanging greetings in the hiatus, Rossamund peered a little dubiously at the slight, almost sickly, man. Despite the gorgeousness of Master Papelott's golden silk frock coat, it did little to give mass to his scrawny frame, yet when he spoke with what he called his 'assembly tone,' he straightened admirably and the most articulate and astonishingly powerful voice boomed from his undernourished bosom and wiry throat. With such volume he easily marshaled the entire company of additional staff-mostly footmen dressed in full red and magenta livery-in the vestibule for inspection and instruction.
Among the planned diversions, Rossamund was gratified to discover that Europe had hired the lank-haired concometrist who had approached her for work when they had first come to Brandenbrass. 'I'm to draw spedigraphs of as many guests as want them,' he explained, looking much less dismayed and introducing himself as Economous Musgrove.
Yet the most unusual of the performing set was Madam Lux, the benign mesmerist, her head utterly bald- surely as naked as the day she entered this world-and the corners of her eyes spoored with upward bent arrows. Above the gathered neckline of her draping cloak of soft silver peeped the dark red curlicues of many, many cruorpunxis, scrawled about the entire circumference of her throat. Here was the rarest of all rare creatures-an old lahzar. Walking with the help of a young woman-her own factotum, no doubt-and speaking so softly Rossamund was forced to lean in to hear, Madam Lux presented a spectacle of harmlessness. Even so, the young factotum thought it very peculiar of the Branden Rose to allow a wit, no matter how aged, into her house.
Everything about Europe is peculiar at the moment, he reflected with an inward shrug, showing the madam mesmerist to her place at a small black side table in the easily reached hiatus.
When all was as ready as it could be, Rossamund left the chaos in Master Papelott's and Kitchen's care, brewed treacle and deposited it at his mistress' door, then finally retired to get ready. In his set the young factotum dutifully scrubbed himself twice, and after this submitted to a thorough primping. Teeth polished, nails pared, hair trimmed and waxed, he emerged from behind the screen in his finest shirt and longshanks to find a box left for him on the coverlet of his bed. It was wrapped in expensive red paper, and a simple card was slotted in its black ribbons. To My Fine Factotum, In anticipation that you have forgotten your own costume fancies, I provide this for
