you, and for our own and private jest.
Prising the wrappings apart with shaking hands, Rossamund let out a short barking laugh, for inside he found a maschencarde mask exquisitely fashioned in the form of a sparrow's face. Beside it was laid a peacock blue coat made of shimmering cloth much in the hue of Cinnamon's own flower-petal jacket and a white-and-black-striped weskit.To the bemusement of Pallette, he laughed again when he put it all on and reviewed himself in the mirror through the mask's ample-looking holes. Perched on the sill of the open windows, Darter Brown flew in, and, twittering joyously, made circling loops about the young factotum's sparrow-masked head.
As Pallette left, Rossamund held out his finger for the little fellow to alight upon. 'Keep an eye out for Miss Europe, Darter,' he said.
Peering at Rossamund with almost human pondering, the he-sparrow voiced a single clear and positive chirrup! and launched himself outside once more. 'Well-a-day, Master Sparrow!' Crispus chortled, recognizing Rossamund's fancies instantly as the young factotum entered Fransitart and Craumpalin's pallet. 'Your mistress plays a handsome joke!'
Rossamund gave half a beck in gratitude.
Fransitart frowned. 'A mite too handsome, I reckon…,' he growled. Dressed in a lustrous black suit, the ex- dormitory master had the role for the evening-and Craumpalin too-of helping to keep the various drivers and lesser staff who would inevitably attend fed and occupied. Looking pale but well-his empty left sleeve pinned up to his shoulder like a naval hero's-Fransitart pulled at the especially high collar and stock and tilted his head to and fro against the constriction. 'Someone might guess at who he is.'
'Aye,' said Craumpalin, clad very much like his friend. 'Thee'd think there was enough dark conjecturing boiling away without throwing powder on the fire.'
Crispus smiled. 'I doubt anyone coming here tonight would know near enough of the true nature of the great world out there'-he waved his hand vaguely-'to deduce the truth of the origin of Rossamund's fancies.'
As for the physician, he was dressed as a lamplighter. 'In honor of our fallen manse and worthy brothers,' he elaborated. For Imperial quabard he had a simple soft vest half red, half yellow; for fodicar a broom shaft painted black with some sticks adhered to the top to simulate the crank-hook and sleeve-catcher. His stiff hair was pointing perpendicularly from the back of his head, gathered as best it could be in a gray bow. He was very nervous and kept rocking on his heels and shuffling through the cards he had prepared of his salient points for the oratory. 'The big event has almost come.'
As they talked, Wenzel appeared at the pallet door, red-faced and frustrated. 'I 'ave been trying to find you all afternoon, sir,' he began. He then informed Rossamund that an odd manner of parcel had arrived for him earlier that day and was even now sitting in the obverse. 'It was the least troublesome resting place for it, sir,' he concluded, almost apologetically.
Rossamund asked who had delivered it, but Wenzel declared himself mystified.
'I weren't the one who took the delivery,' he explained. 'But the general word is that it is most certainly yours.'
Negotiating a way through the madness of final gala preparations, Rossamund, and the three curious older men with him, found a broad yet shallow wooden box as Wenzel had said-no missive with it, not even an addressing bill or return directions, just blank dark wood bound tight in hemp strapping. Impatient, Rossamund hurried it back to Fransitart and Craumpalin's pallet and broke the bands with his hands alone, to find thick canvas wrappings within protecting… a painting.
'It's of you, Rosey me lad!' Fransitart exclaimed.
Indeed it was, for there in rich, deftly applied paint was Rossamund, staring out at himself. 'Miss Pluto has finished it!' he cried in amazement, unable to help staring right back at himself in his delight.
The portrait was astoundingly lively, showing him sitting at the three-quarter yet looking squarely out from the picture with an expression of such frank and earnest searching that Rossamund was forced to ask of the older men, 'Do I truly look like this?'
'I reckon Miss Pluto's got yer fixed just right,' Fransitart chuckled.
Grinning, Craumpalin nodded emphatically. 'She's shown thee true, me lad.'
'What will ye do with it?' Fransitart asked, a hint perhaps of his own desire to possess the piece in his tone.
'I–I do not know… '
'A fine, fine likeness,' Crispus proclaimed, holding the portrait at arm's length to squint at it as if this might improve his view. 'You ought to show it to your mistress.'
Rossamund shook his head. 'I do not reckon she will appreciate it at this moment,' he said.Yet, returning to his duties with the image wrapped once more and under his arm, he thought again on his original determination. Approaching Europe's file, he placed his portrait carefully against the carven door and there he left it.
The sun's sanguine glow finally faded in the west, flushing the sky a deep evening rose. The rain that had spent the day growling at the edge of the world blew up from the Grume. With its arrival came the gala's first guests, dashing under parasols from their glossy carriages to the melodious and courtly welcome of Cloche Arde. Fighting weather, Rossamund observed gravely at the grumble of thunder as he stood in the vestibule to welcome the invitees.
As proper night enfolded them all, Master Papelott stood at the top of the first flight of the stairs, and, with an august cry, declared, 'Hale night and merry! The Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes welcomes all comers!' The grand gala was set under way.
Unlike the joyous sweaty simplicity of a country fete, the grand gala was a noble gathering of graceful souls. In the ludion there was little laughter, scant clapping and certainly no appreciative stomping of feet. Instead it was a-buzz with restrained genteel conversation and the audible shuffling of august folk promenading with exquisite swaying unison to the playing of either of the thirty-piece orchestras that took turns to give them music. With much bowing and curtsying and subtle playing up to each other, these lofty people danced a turn or two, spoke and ate in exclusive huddles and strolled every floor taking in the entertainments, settling longest in the room most suited to their temperament or returning to dance again.
At every turn on every floor Rossamund was met with grave faces and serious conversation, the precise studied manners of the gala-goers at odds with the garish and often quite ludicrous costumery draping them. The quality of the fancies varied greatly, from simple paper and card facsimiles to real teratological equipment undoubtedly gained at great expense. There was many a goggle-eyed nicker and buck-toothed bogle as well as beasts from distant lands- crocidoles, lyons, even an orange-furred aurang; a set of women in clear cahoots were festooned in diaphanous wings like mythic flitterwills. Pretty-and not so pretty-young ladies in quest of advantageous marriages costumed themselves with clinching, flattering dresses and maschencarde masks to set off their fluttering lashes. Wrapped in flowing robes, many elder guests came as kings or queens of ancient days, though none dared dress as Idaho or Dido-such claims of costume would be gauche and overreaching in the extreme.Yet by far the most popular theme of costume for the night was teratologist, and of these, antique monster-slaying heldins were commonest.
Grand and poised though this night might be, it certainly was noisy; not a general boisterousness, but rather a universal medley of conversation that swelled as certain personalities made exhibitions of themselves in mirth or passion. Moving between floors-from the methodical madness of the kitchens to the stately motion of the ludion- Rossamund was constantly met with a cacophony of music and ceaseless conversation. Soon his night settled into rounds about the house, bumping through the tide of gentry seeing, strutting and being seen, to identify problems and offer to all who asked the formula he had been given earlier that day, 'The Duchess-in-waiting makes especial preparations for the night and will attend as soon as she is able.' Met with many strange looks and interrupted conversations reduced to furtive whispering, Rossamund never remained stationary long enough to hear more than snippets of talk, yet after only a short while his thoughts revolved unceasingly about sentences only partly heard.
'I have it that her coursing party was not near as successful as this little gathering suggests.'
'What was she doing on a private hunt, I ask you, when our very colonial bastions were being assaulted? Why was she not there to avert disaster?…'
