the meager count of his worldly goods. How he regretted the loss of his peregrinat in the conflagration of Wormstool; it would have been a comfort to read.
Fed a light supper of nine-cheese melted on sour bread in his room, Rossamund lay upon the bed at last, almost swallowed by its downy coverlets. Through the lofty third-story windows he could easily see the eastern sky behind the silhouette of treetops and ridge-caps, a sea of sloping homogenous slate and chimney pots. The heaven-haze was a delicate pink of staggering beauty, darkening into a deep violet as it rose. Picked out low against this were tiny, tightly fluffy clouds of glowing russet and pallid carnation. In awe, Rossamund just looked, silent, barely breathing till the view darkened and then vanished in encroaching night, and day-sounds gave over to sparse cricket song.
To the thin tune of early spring insects, he stared at the dark ceiling, fingers pressing absently into the stiff facings of his quabard. He half expected to hear the muffled cry, 'Douse lanterns!' that rang every night to proclaim bedtime in the prentices' cell row at Winstermill. He wanted sleep, yet anxious, tumbling contemplations kept him in tossing-and-turning wakefulness until the dead of night-Who am I? What am I? — and it was only exhaustion and the lingering rocking of the Grume crossing that finally pressed him to sleep.
The new day was clear and cool. Still clothed, Rossamund was woken by Pallette bearing a great jug of water for washing, accompanied by a young step-servant called Pardolot, arms full of wood and kindle to light a new fire. 'You had not risen timely, sir, so I thought it best to wake you before the morning got on too much,' she explained nervously.
'Thank you, thank you…,' Rossamund repeated blearily.
He hurried through the kitchen, blinking unsteadily in the stark morning light made brighter by the flawless pallor of the walls, the servants assiduously avoiding his eye.
'In!' Europe declared when Rossamund arrived at the file door with her steaming treacle. She was dressed today in the wonderful scarlet coat he knew so well, though her hair was still down in a plait.
Obediently he stepped across the threshold and into the fulgar's sanctum.
It was long and large, the long venal red wall opposite perforated by many thin windows hung with velvet drapes pulled aside now to let in the bright daybreak. There were silk paintings of vile-looking nickers and a floor- to-ceiling mirror in between. An enormous exotic carpet occupied a large part of the dark wood floors, and at the center of this sat a desk of mahogany, its uncluttered top inlaid with a vast blotter of the black hide of some unnameable creature.
Telling Rossamund to remain, Europe took her morning dose, and-as he dutifully stood by and waited- continued to look through a great book spread over a large portion of her desk. It was a garland, filled with tinted plates of mild-faced people wearing coats and weskits and cloaks, similar to volumes Rossamund had once seen in Madam Opera's boudoir.
A light thunk of an opening door and Claudine, the tiring maid, appeared from behind a bom e'do screen in the corner of the file, coming from what presumably was Europe's own bedchamber. At Europe's instruction she began to take Rossamund's dimensions for what the fulgar called more appropriate attire. 'Your other quabard is entirely the wrong hue,' his mistress explained, speaking of his lamplighter's harness with its Imperial mottle of rouge and or-red and cadmium.
Gently prompted to turn about with such slow and nervous care that he hardly felt a prod or poke, the young factotum could see an enormous obsidian fireplace at the far end of the room, the warm, energetic firelight catching the glint of fine white flecks in the dark green stone. Above the dark mantel was a vast painting of a young girl, maybe four or five years older than him, with a trefoiled heart figured in white above her left shoulder. In the shadows at the girl's feet lay some slain, fearsome nicker while other deformed shades lurked and cowered behind. The girl's daubed expression was one Rossamund knew all too well: sardonic self-satisfaction. At first, for the briefest instant, and rather stupidly, he thought it was a rendering of Threnody: the same taut insolence and a deeper sorrow too. With a small shock he realized he was gaping at a portrait of a young Europe. Dumbfounded, he looked from the image to the real woman and back. The former was radiant with the blooming beauty of youth; plumper, she was dressed like a boy in a skirted coat of magenta with a high dramatic collar, her face pristine of spoors or the thinness of the lahzarine ravage.The whole manner of her pose was defiant, full of energy, even of hope. The latter sat in living flesh, intent on her medicinal drink and her fashion book, her beauty stretched, almost gaunt, yet undiminished.
'Today you will be meeting my man-of-business,' the fulgar said suddenly, marking a page and closing the garland. 'He is a bright fellow, a man of many parts, with clear ambitions in the magnate line. I do not begrudge him his plans for improvement-many have them, I suppose-and he completes his labors for me admirably.' Finally, she looked at her new arrival properly. 'This came for you,' the fulgar stated blandly, holding out a folded paper.
It was a simple note from Fransitart. Rossamund, We are safely harbored at the Dogget amp; Block, in the district of Fishguard. Any takenyman will know its bearings, as might your Branden Rose. Will look in on you in the middle of the afternoon watch if we do not have report from you first. With respect
There was a knock.
With an absent 'In!' from Europe between gulps of treacle, a portly, thoroughly starched, clerical-looking gentleman entered the file. Dressed in a glossy blue-gray frock coat with darker collar and cuffs and sensibly restrained hems, he wore his own sandy hair above an extremely broad face; the slicked locks, parted evenly and jutting over either ear, were gathered in a small black bow at the back. About him hung a distinctly mercenary air.
'Ah, Mister Carp. Here you are, my man-of-business, even as we speak of you,' declared the fulgar.
'Your return is happy and welcome, gracious lady,' this Carp fellow offered-as starchily as his appearance promised-bowing low and long and taking no notice of Rossamund. 'I came from my offices directly I got your word.' Behind him came two equally stiff lackeys in glossy gray, each bringing an armful of folios and bow-tied papers.
Europe gave a brittle laugh. 'Nonsense, man! I am fully aware my return is of great inconvenience to you all. Gone are comfortable days in my pay done at your usual rhythm.'
'Ah, your grace,' said Carp, smiling tautly, 'you are anything but inconvenient-'
'Tish tosh,' the Branden Rose returned evenly. 'Now! This is Rossamund Bookchild, come here as my new factotum.'
'Yes, yes. Kitchen explained as much upon my arrival,' Carp said gravely with a look of cautious regard to Rossamund. And who are you? his pale eyes seemed to say. 'We were all most distressed when we received news of noble Licurius' gallant fall.'
Europe looked owlishly at the man. 'I am sure you were,' she said quietly. She stared at her man-of-business for a moment and then said, 'Here, Rossamund, is the silver-tongued Pragmathes Carp.'
Mastering a faint animosity toward this fellow, Rossamund bowed and did his best with gentlemanly civility. 'Pardon me, Mister Carp, sir, but do you have a relative living up in Boschenberg?' he asked cheerfully enough, thinking that there might be a connection between the person before him and Madam Opera's manservant.
The man-of-business just blinked at him and remained silent.
Rossamund stared out of the file window and hoped neither Europe nor the uncivil Carp noticed his burning cheeks.
'Mister Carp,' Europe declared, as the man-of-business directed his aides to deposit their loads and depart, 'today you are to show Rossamund to the coursing house so he might tell them that I am arrived and am available for work.' She glanced to Rossamund. 'There is no benefit in sitting idly about giving needless scope to all manner of dour maunderings.You are to aid him fully, sir, in learning these clerical particulars.' She leaned back in her seat.
Carp inclined his head. 'Most certainly, good lady.'
Daunted, Rossamund only nodded; he had no notion how to be both monster and monster-hunter at once. He could only hope that he might somehow steer his mistress' choices or drive the bogles away before she could get to them, just as Threnody said Dolours did with the unfortunate Herdebog Trought.
Europe sat up and produced a folio from a wide drawer in her elaborate desk. It was a sheafbook; a flight of pale golden egrets figured on the ebony cover, and it was filled with the ribbon-bound leaves of many different papers. 'This is my vaingloria-well, the most recent of them. It is a testament to my aptitude and proof of your representation of me.' She looked at Rossamund steadily. 'Take this, present it to the underwriters at the knavery and inform them that I am here. That is my task for you today; a simple beginning. Mister Carp will put you aright if
