The fashionably or truly nocturnal remained, however, determined to avail themselves of the other entertainments while they were still to be had. Leaving these to the grace of Papelott and the footmen, Rossamund continued to seek his mistress from highest loft to lowest buttery, from the most rearward pantry to the very gates of Cloche Arde, finding the Lady Madigan was missing too, with her Mister Rakestraw and the lesquin colonel. Even Baron Finance had departed, gone without a word. What was more, Darter Brown was nowhere to be found.
Standing finally in the foreyard, Rossamund stared into the gloomy night and fathomed full well what was up.
From almost their first day at Orchard Harriet, Europe must have been developing her scheme, sending letters, drawing in her influence even from that remote haven, plotting the entire undertaking down to a device sure to keep Rossamund out of her way. Even as he was occupied with the plans and arrangements for the grand gala, she had set deeper strategies in motion, and while he busied himself so self-importantly with the immediacy of his duties, she had brought her scheme to fruition… And now the Branden Rose was gone out into the perilous city to bring vengeance upon Pater Maupin while Rossamund, her own factotum, had been left deliberately and uselessly behind.
26
Lampedusa deep-dwelling kraulschwimmen serpent and mighty sea-wretchin who terrorized the waters of the Grume for a thousand years before it was called by that name. Finally, bearing the mythic spiegel-blade, Paschendralle, the legendary Piltdown heldin-king, Tascifarnias, stood upon the shore where Brandenbrass now has its harbor and challenged Lampedusa to a contest to see who should rule land and sea. There upon the sand they fought,Tascifarnias slaying Lampedusa even as he was slain, the flowing of their combined blood purported to have changed the white sand black.
Rossamund stood alone by an open window in his set. Behind him the house of the Branden Rose ticked, empty now of its revelry, starkly silent but for the sporadic thump or clink of clearing and cleaning after such a magnificent event. Though the desire was strong with those desperate for fun to remain into the small hours, the departure of the orchestra, for all intents, spelled the end of the gala. In various fine conveyances-a number including the Archduke, his lofty friends and sycophants-they left with a profound rattling of hoof and wheel to find a suitable small-hour club to pursue delight.
Outside it had become cold and still like a breath held, the low clouds fluorescing with Phoebe's radiance as she climbed to her acme beyond them.
She was out there somewhere amid the increasingly shadowy city and its inscrutable buildings, perhaps even now coming to hand strokes with Maupin and his agents, wrestling on public greens, in lanes, in cellars, room to room in those high ubiquitous half-houses.
Rossamund drew in a frustrated breath, smelling fresh-fallen rain.
Crickets made sweet sparse song down in the yard.
He stood and he watched…
Of all the staff, only Kitchen was unsurprised at the extraordinary and unseen departure of the Duchess-in- waiting of Naimes. 'I have given my word to her, sir,' the steward said bluntly when pressed, and would not be prevailed upon to speak more.
Crispus declared himself utterly flummoxed at her disappearance. 'It is a plum ruse,' he observed when Rossamund quietly divulged his suspicion of her whereabouts. 'But a rather excellent one too, don't you think.'
The young factotum had to agree.
Well to the southeast, out in the sea of roofs and chimneys and trees a tiny orange glimmer shot on a steep and shuddering arc up into the heavens, then another of pinker hue sped into the inky firmament a little to the north. Flares! A third farther south joined them, a glittering delicate green. A thin wailing blew to him on the gusting, rising wind.
Rossamund knew with a certainty that these were the heralds of Europe's assault.
The flares, their light quickly extinguishing on their downward path, gave only the most general sense of direction, far too vague for a successful navigation. By such scant evidence he might spend all night till the assault was done, lost uselessly in unfamiliar streets trying to find her. I could go to the Broken Doll…Yet it was supremely unlikely Maupin would have his true den in so obvious a location.
The hall clock tocked ponderously.
The house breathed.
Peeping through a torrid gap in the heavenly fume, the moon lit the glistening, dripping turnabout beneath for a merest breath, long enough for Rossamund to see sly activity: little lumps nosing about at the base of the cypress, one venturing toward the front door of the house itself.
A rabbit!
The tramp of Nectarius on his periodic round and the nimbus of his bright-limn coming about the corner of the lane running the side of Cloche Arde sent the furtive movement scattering. Holding his breath, Rossamund watched the nightlocksman, lantern up, peer skeptically at the yard. Something fluttered obviously in the cypress. Nectarius gave a start and shook a fist at the little fellow, growling calumnies about 'that unwholesome bird and its unwholesome master!' as he turned inside.
A flurry of air passed over his head, and a little thing swooped about him around and around.
'Darter!' he whispered. 'Where is Miss Europe? Is she well?'
Darter Brown, faithful bird, chirruped loudly as he hovered agitatedly in front of him, giving a series of sporadic tweets as he alighted for a beat on the windowsill to catch a breath before dashing back into the night.
Rossamund's heart missed a beat.
The little sparrow knew where she was!
Listening for the three telltale lots of thumps and clunks of the nightlocksman's retreat through the front, obverse doors and servants' port, Rossamund hurried on his best proofed coat over the fanices he still wore. Taking up his digitals and stoups, his rod of keys and moss-light from the bedside dresser, he eased discreetly out onto the landing. Pallette was there, looking shot through, a pail of steaming water in one hand and a scrubbing brush in the other.
'I must be going out a moment,' Rossamund said quickly.
The alice-'bout-house blinked muzzily at him and his harness and said with a clumsy half curtsy, 'As you like, sir.'
'And go to bed, all of you,' he added. 'I reckon cleaning will be done just as properly in the morning. Tell Mister Kitchen I said so.'
'Yes, sir…'
Stepping down to the rain-washed yard, Rossamund was immediately met by Darter, who fluttered in agitation a few paces ahead, looping steadily toward the gate. Alert to the faintest tingle of threwd and moss-light thrust before him, Rossamund trod lightly in the huskily grinding gravel, peering about with straining, searching eyes. There among the glory vine runners in the wan effulgence of limulight and gate-post lamp, tiny black pearls glinted beadily back at him from a dark soft-furred face. Long ears folded back over a downy rump.This was not just some ordinary rabbit, Rossamund realized suddenly-certainly not the dreary one-eyed creature he had seen on his walk the other day; it was Ogh, one of the Lapinduce's own servants!
There was a soft press at his calves. It was Urgh, the twin of Ogh, urging him on.
Ogh took a long step toward the gate.
Darter Brown hopped about the ground between them in twittering agitation, patently keen to be on his way.
