"What are they, Threnody?" Rossamund stared at these, fascinated.
She looked at him as if he were the dumbest boy on watch. "Sagaars, of course!" she answered contemptuously.
Rossamund stayed dumb.
Threnody narrowed her eyes and wagged her head. "With all those pamphlets you read one would think you'd be sharper, lamp boy," she continued with a huff. "Sagaars live to be dancing all the day long-some even try it in their sleep-and while they dance they kill the nickers with venomous theromoirs. Several serve my mother and the Right."
"Like Pannette and Pandome?"
Threnody hesitated, closing her eyes. "Yes," she whispered, "like Pannette and Pandome."
As these pugnators pranced proud and upset much of the manse's rhythm, the little varying schedule of prentice life remained. So it went, day come and day go, till Rossamund was sure the whole of the east must be squeezed full with the monster-wrecking bravoes. As opportunity allowed, he would carefully and keenly review the arrivals, hoping-daring not to admit he hoped-to spy a flash of a deep scarlet frock coat with flaring hems. He could not rightly say why he was so keen to see Europe: he had known her only for the short side of a week, and she was the epitome of deeds he found very hard to reconcile. Regardless, he missed her.Yet with such frequency of arrivings and leavings, such a plenitude of lahzars, Europe, the Branden Rose, was never among them. By the middle of the week something finally did break the prentices' routine. The morning was clear and achingly cold; the cerulean sky flat, brilliant, puffed all over with clean white fists of cloud rushed northwest by a whipping wind that was bringing fouler weather with it. The prentices were out and swinging their fodicars about in a tidy and orderly manner, postilion horn-calls an irregular, intermittent music. Teratologists and their attendant gaggles had been steadily coming and going all day. Some would take a turn on the borders of the Grand Mead as they waited for connecting posts or the resolving of kinks of paperwork.
It was limes, and the prentices were formed up and formally sucking on their bitter lemon rinds and sipping tinctured small beer while Grindrod watched to make sure they swallowed it all. This would normally be the time that a quarto would be returning from lighting, had the prentice-watches not been suspended. Rossamund was considering paying a call on Numps at middens when Benedict marched on to the ground.
The under-sergeant muttered for a moment with Grindrod, then summoned Rossamund out of file, to the surprise of all the lantern-sticks. Benedict wore an odd expression-somewhere between bemusement and admiration-as he took the young prentice aside. "You have an eminent visitor, prentice-lighter, and have been granted the time to spend with them," he said officiously, adding in a friendly undertone, "and might I say you keep some odd and powerful company, lad."
"Who-" Yet before Rossamund could finish asking he smelled a welcome, well-known perfume drift past. Heart pounding, he spun about. There, in all her healthy bloom, was Europe, the Branden Rose, the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes, the one who had saved him from a foul end, the one he himself had rescued.
"Well hello, little man," she said in her silken voice, smiling, amused, maybe even happy to see him. "Still fumbling your way through, I see."
"Hello, Miss Europe." He could barely manage a hoarse wheeze. It was such a strange sensation to see her familiar face in these now familiar precincts. Her hair was pinned up but without the usual crow's-claw hair-tine; her deep scarlet frock coat was of another style, made from some kind of short-cropped hide-like the head of a new-barbered lighter-its glossy reds shifting and mottled. Over this she wore a short black pollern-coat with broad collars and sleeves of creamy-hued fur that was faintly spangled at its cuffs with darker spots. Her black boots were trimmed with fur, which made a fuzzy hem at the top of each boot and protruded between the buckles up the sides. This was Europe rugged against the cold.
Rossamund did not know what to do with himself: some of him wanted to throw his arms about her in sheer delight. The significant part-that part which governs in the end what we really do rather than what we wish we might-was afraid. So he just stood and stared. "You've come," he managed.
The fulgar raised an amused eyebrow. "So it would appear. I have come to knave myself to these kind lamplighters and the citizens of the Placidia Solitus, in so desperate straits they send their pleading bills all the way south to Sinster." Her face was straight but her voice amused. "What's a kind-winded girl to do when such plaintive notes are sung?" She was in finer fettle than of their last parting, rosy-cheeked with a shrewd twinkle in her eye. The surgeons of Sinster must have done their infamous work well. "Tell me, little man…" Europe leaned forward a little. "Why did you not write me? Did you not miss me?"
"I thought you would be too busy to read any letter of mine, Miss Europe," Rossamund answered.
"Why, I do believe he blushes!" Europe laughed. "That young lady certainly watches us keenly," she said, shifting subjects. "She knows you?"
Rossamund looked and saw Threnody standing alone on Evolution Green, the other prentices gone now, dismissed for readings. Her arms folded and her face shadowed under the brim of her thrice-high, she was clearly paying Europe and Rossamund pointed attention.
"Aye, Miss Europe, that's Threnody. She's a prentice like me." Rossamund attempted a small wave.
Threnody flushed, turned on her heel and marched away without a rearward look.
"A girl as a lighter-how intriguing. I think she might have set her heart on you, little man."
Rossamund blushed deeper shades. "Hardly, miss! She's never happy with anything I say and spends most of her time either ignoring me or huffing and puffing and rolling her eyes. Besides which, she's older-"
Europe gave a loud peal of honest mirth. "My, my!"
At the start of the Cypress Walk, Threnody turned to the happy, incongruous sound, and Rossamund was sure she glowered.
Touching the corners of her eyes, the fulgar asked with a smile still in her voice, "And how did she find her way here to vex you so?"
"She was a calendar before, but she has come here to get away from her mother."
Europe gave a wry smile. "I know how she feels," the fulgar murmured. "Mothers are best fled… Now come along, little man, I have been granted the rest of the day with you by your kindly Marshal. Let us get out of this cold." She handed him a small, beautifully wrapped parcel. "It is just as well I brought this trifle for you.Your neck is bluer than a wren's."
Within the gaudy, fashionably spotted package was a magenta-red scarf made with fine twine.
"It's tinctured sabine," the fulgar explained airily. "You can only get it from this one little fellow on the high-walks in Flint. It looks good on you-matches prettily with the harness."
Rossamund was happily dumbfounded. Europe wanted to spend the day with him and she had given him a present. When they had last parted company she had not said a word in final farewell, nor even waved good-bye. Yet here she was seeking his company. He felt rather odd following the fulgar with a present under his arm. Heads turned as she led him down along the drive and through the coach yard: lentermen, postilions and yardsmen gazed, distracted, habitually disapproving of her trade but heartily admiring her face and grace.
"I have sent the landaulet back to Brandenbrass." She chatted easily, oblivious to the stir she was causing. "It was too much trouble to find both horse and driver at once. It will be a relief not to have to fuss about stabling and repairs and thrown shoes. Let another worry about that…"
She led him up a steep flight of stairs to the guest billets. Like a small wayhouse, it lacked a common room but had private rooms in its stead, and secluded dinner rooms as well as a lounge for guests to receive guests of their own. This last was Europe's destination, a small, warm apartment with comfortable chairs along each wall, thin windows looking out to the business of coach yard and Mead below. A well-fueled fire crackled in the friendliest of ways in the corner.