Resisting the urge to duck his head, Rossamund kept his attention upon the consuming flames and said nothing.
An unpleasant quiet ruled.
Rossamund's humours pounded like an accusation at his temples.
Europe flicked at some smidgen upon her thigh. "I see you preserved your hat at least, little man. Bravo."
"Aye, Miss Europe."
"Since you have been awake hiding the entire night," his mistress went on, "perhaps you ought to go and rest now?"
His soul burned. "I… I am well enough, ma'am."
She stared at him searchingly. "It is good then that we are shortly to go on the knave," she said flatly.
"How might that aid us, m'lady?" Fransitart pressed. "Trouble keeps for safe returns."
Europe bent her spoored brow. "To go out and come back with my bag full of prizes and new-pricked marks upon my arm shall amply prove all bad wind and ill rumor unfounded." Closing her eyes, the fulgar smoothed her thin eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. "This has all been very diverting, but we have our own course to prepare. Banish fruitless recollections, Rossamund; you have much to do to make ready. As for you, Masters Vinegar and Salt," she added to the old vinegaroons, "seek out Latissimus in the coach-house across the road for your duties. I was to have us away today but…"
"Delays change ways," Craumpalin muttered.
"Indeed, Master Salt." Europe blinked at him. "We shall spend what is left to us of today to make ready."
Caffene arrived in an elaborate steaming multivalved pot, and with it the information that Master Learned, stouching tutor, was awaiting their gracious mistress in the ludion, and they were dismissed.
"Oh, and should you be wondering, Rossamund… I did my treacle myself this morning." She flicked her hand in mild irritation at Rossamund's chastened expression. "It was correct enough for the purpose, though I dare to admit my palate is happy you are returned." The fulgar gazed at him for a moment. "Please do not make me drink my own makings again." For the rest of the day, Rossamund attended to the preparations. Every store to be taken was gathered in the stowing room at the rear of the stately home. The landaulet was brought down the narrow drive between the flank of the house and the outer wall, and the whole collection steadily stowed in its holdfasts and panniers. Into a plethora of lacquered boxes and lidded hampers went all manner of fine foods that had once amazed Rossamund on his first jaunt with the Branden Rose through the Brindleshaws. These included a profusion of whortleberries, of course, and, at Rossamund's request, fortified sack-cheese. To his delight, there was also juice-of-orange. From the saumery came black-lacquered parts-boxes with ample quantities of all the salts needed for Europe's treacle. Largest of all was a great trunk for the coats and various other parts of harness for the Branden Rose, and lesser ones for her underclothes and for her shoes, the smallest her traveling fiasco. Each coat was numbered to a system he did not rightly understand, for to him every garment looked of comparably excellent make. Her Number 8, for example, was the richly furred magenta coat Europe had worn at the inquiry; her Number 2 was a magnificently embroidered black campaign coat similar to that which had been made for Rossamund by Master Brugelle; and her Number 3 was the very scarlet frock coat his mistress had worn at his first sight of her from under the boxthorn on the Vestiweg. Her Number 1-of shifting carmine, its sleeves a mist of finest organza, its collar sprayed with delicately dyed feathers-did not come. From the armory in the foundations of Cloche Arde, Nectarius reverently brought the fulgaris-stage and fuse-cleaned and glistening with preserving oils. Among all these items came a small box of silver and ivory. Daring a look within, Rossamund found Europe's sprither, laid in padded plush of deep red. Used to draw the cruor-the dead blood-from a slain monster to be used to make monster-blood tattoos, it was the one tool common to every teratologist. Probably in vain, Rossamund hoped he would never need to employ it on the knave. Worse, he contemplated with horror, was the thought of being the one Europe would expect to mark another little "x" of victory and add to those that already stood in ranks upon his mistress' arms. She will employ a punctographist, surely… he offered to himself as a comfort, and his thoughts instantly skipped to the marking upon Fransitart's arm that Rossamund knew now would show as a cruorpunxis. It was a small comfort that they were to be out on the knave when it revealed itself.
Established as Europe's driver and navigator, Fransitart and Craumpalin went out to the Dogget amp; Block to retrieve their meager chattels and returned as the full reach of heaven was gilt by the slanting day. Rossamund could not look them in the eye as they deposited their belongings to be packed. In their turn, the two old vinegaroons seemed all a-sea for words, and it was a great relief when Kitchen brought summons for them to repair inside to further discuss the terms of their service with Europe.
When the stowing was near completion, there came a commotion at the front of the house. Joined by Wenzel, one of Europe's footmen, Rossamund walked up the short drive to see. Three glossy coaches driven by heavy-harnessed lentermen rattled to a halt in the narrow, shadowed coach yard. Doors were flung wide as each conveyance disgorged its plush belly of passengers. Most numerous were the more than half a dozen serious men in the sleek green harness of the Broken Doll, all firelocks and bludgeons and bristling hostility as they made a cordon about the carriages. With them came legal gents in their frilly legal solitaires, wads of paper firmly under arm.
Rossamund's soul sank to knock in his knees. So soon had last night's consequences caught up with him.
"Bother me!" Wenzel cursed, and immediately scurried back down the side way.
From the press of manly green strode Pater Maupin, proprietor of the Broken Doll, stakeholder in the rousing-pit. Still handsome despite gaining age, he was an elegant man with oddly sallow papery skin, dressed in a long-frocked coat of shimmering purple, ruffles of silk spraying out about his throat and over his hands. Beneath his curling periwig he had a genial face with kindly eyes, yet Rossamund thought he glimpsed cold steel in the soul that schemed behind them.
A strange burbling twitter in its throat, Darter Brown emerged from the pencil pine in the middle of the yard to land staunchly on Rossamund's hatless head.
Coming as protector at Maupin's side was the very sabrine adept who had hacked at the Handsome Grackle, clad in his eccentric harness, his eyes yet raw from the glister thrown in his face. At the proprietor's other flank sashayed the deadly dexter woman, Anaesthesia Myrrh, dour-faced and festooned in black, thrusting before her the most startling arrival of them all. For there in her cruel grip, still dressed in his carmine coat and black longshanks, was Rookwood, downcast, defeated and utterly ashamed.
"Is this the little selt-kisser, then?" Pater Maupin demanded coldly of his white-haired hostage, his voice smooth like cream, his sneer like a blow. "Was this your worrisome guest of yesternight?"
Rookwood's harried glance flicked over Rossamund.
Becoming glassy-eyed, submerging any guilt, the young factotum simply blinked at him.
Rookwood shrugged, and at a signaling flick of Maupin's silk-shrouded and violently jolted, contracting in on himself under the dexter's brief encouragement. Sagging in the woman's grasp, Rockwood nodded. "Yes… yes, it is…"
The old proprietor's eyes slitted in silent, vengeful fury.
Ears ringing, Rossamund tautened, ready for desperate deeds.
"Pitter-Patter Maupin, Needle of the Dogs," Europe's voice purred from behind.