Flora's Dare: How a Girl of Spirit Gambles All to Expand Her Vocabulary, Confront a Bouncing Boy Terror, and Try to Save Califa from a Shaky Doom (Despite Being Confined to Her Room)

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

  As the dancers began to make their courtesies, I backed out of my place, ducked behind the Chicken Hat Lady, and squeezed between her and the man next to her. The Chicken Hat Lady protested, but I pretended not to see her, made a hasty courtesy to the dancer opposite, and grabbed his outstretched hands.

  To the jovial rhythms of the music, my partner—a woman with sweaty hands, who was going to leave marks on my silk dress, darn her—and I bobbed and weaved, twirled and jumped, curtsied and kicked. The Califa Reel is a strenuous dance; I was already breathing heavily, and of course my tight stays didn’t help, either. I sucked in as best I could and, as I twirled my partner, looked down the bouncing line and saw that the Warlord was gone. I guess the Califa Reel is pretty hard to dance with one leg, and he had done part of the first set for politeness’s sake before retreating. He had been replaced by someone overshadowed by a large green hat.

  Glad I was that Archangel Bob had drilled us so hard in the Califa Reel—I didn’t have to think about the steps at all. I just let my feet follow the music and concentrated on not breathing like a steam engine. The set finished and I switched the sweaty woman for a shrimpy kid, now one partner closer to Lord Axacaya.

  “Your face is as red as a cranberry,” the ankle biter remarked, as I swung him up into a little hop.

  “Aren’t you up past your bedtime, little mister?” I asked him. In response, he stuck out a purple-streaked tongue. He was too small to swing me up, so I had to hop on my own while he pawed my waist with grubby hands. I ignored him for the rest of the set and then switched him for a heavy man with puggy eyes, who kept trying to peer down my neckline. Let him look; the next switch would put me square in front of Lord Axacaya, who was already whirling and twirling next to me, close enough that I could smell the deliciously dark woodsy scent of Birdie ceremonial incense.

  As I danced, I snuck glances at Lord Axacaya. Pigface, he was beautiful, even more than I had remembered: the long spiraling silver-blond hair, the perfectly shaped lips accented by the jade butterfly lip-plug. The muscular chest covered in intricate tattoos; the equally muscular arms, also inked. Despite the chill, he wore only a knee-length feathered kilt, iridescently blue and green, which swung low around his hips; a jaguar skin hung over his shoulders, capelike, so that the poor cat’s head dangled against his broad chest. And his intense eyes, completely black, iris and sclera both, a deep shiny blackness that made him seem inhuman and remote. And yet gorgeously glamorous.

  My tummy fluttered in a very spoony way and I quelled it. I needed to stay focused and calm.

  The Pug-Eyed Man swung me one last time. I floated outward on a groove of music, hands outstretched, and Lord Axacaya caught my grip and pulled me into his arms. He radiated heat like the summer sun, but the sudden flush I felt was due to more than just that or the exertion of the dance.

  Lord Axacaya gazed down at me, distantly, with no recognition in those voidlike eyes, and my stomach flipped—had he forgotten? But as I made my courtesy and he bowed his own head, he smiled.

  “Madama Flora! What a pleasant surprise!” he said. “I had not expected to see you here.”

  “Ave, Your Grace,” I said. We twirled and then matched our steps together. My eyes were about level with the burnished bronze of his chest, and the sorry eyes of the jaguar head. I looked down toward my feet; Lord Axacaya’s feathery kilt drooped alarmingly around his hips, below the taunt line of his belly. I hastily went back to looking at the jaguar head. Now, this close, his delicious smell was almost overwhelming, and my head felt as light and airy as a balloon.

  “My condolences on your family loss,” he said, and for a moment I was confused, then realized he was talking about Idden. Something about the way he said loss made it sound quite permanent. “I am sorry that General Fyrdraaca is not here tonight, but I must say that if your presence is due to her absence, then perhaps I am not so sorry after all.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Why did my voice sound so squeaky? And I couldn’t think of an equally charming response. Archangel Bob says that when you are at a loss for words, you should compliment. “I like your winter.”

  We hopped and Lord Axacaya said, “Thank you. I thought it would be an entertaining novelty. I am so rarely cold that I enjoy the sensation when I can get it. Not everyone likes the chill, though. Do you prefer warm weather?”

  “No, Your Grace. The snow is beautiful.” My response might not be charming but at least it made it clear where my allegiances lay.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, and the little butterfly lip-plug twinkled as he smiled.

  The fatigue of the dance fell from me; I felt as floaty as air, weightless and feathery, elated and happy, caught up in our perfect synchronization. As he twirled me again, his hand on my lower back was firm and pressing; I couldn’t put a step wrong, his pressure completed me, as natural as breathing. A wispy strand of his hair blew across my face, and I shivered at its tingly touch. I wondered how I had ever been afraid of him, and this absence of fear made me bold. The set would be over soon and I would lose my chance.

  “Your Grace, I must speak with you. It’s about the earthquakes...”

  “Ayah, so?” he murmured encouragingly.

  “I think I have discovered their source.”

  “Ayah, so?” His tone didn’t change but his gaze sharpened.

  “Can I speak with you more privately later?”

  Now he was leaning down, so I could whisper and he could still hear me. A lock of his hair brushed my cheek, feeling like coiled silk.

  “The Loliga,” I whispered.

  I heard the sharp intake of his breath. “What do you know of the Loliga?”

  “A tentacle came out of the potty at—” I realized perhaps I shouldn’t admit where the tentacle had attacked me, and hastily adjusted my words. “A tentacle attacked me. I think it belonged to the Loliga—it’s still under the City—at Bilskinir Baths.”

  The other dancers had changed partners, but Lord Axacaya still held my hands. We were holding up the dance and people on either side of us were muttering.

  “I will find you later,” he whispered, and then swung me free. I floated away and turned my head to follow him. Lord Axacaya was apologizing to his new partner. A hard grip fastened on my hands and then jerked me around, almost wrenching my arms out of their sockets.

  The protest that had sprung to my lips stuck there when I turned to face my new partner.

  Udo.

  Seventeen

  The Dainty Pirate’s Hat. Udo Incensed. Recriminations.

  I SHOULD HAVE recognized the hat; it was the monstrous green bicorn that the Dainty Pirate had sent Udo as a thank you gift when we’d tried to save his life. The Dainty Pirate shared Udo’s over-the-top style sense, and the hat really was too much. Everyone was staring at him.

  “You almost broke my arm!”

  “You were holding the dance up,” he said. “You and the Warlord’s honey-boy.”

  “What does that mean?” I glared at him.

  Udo shrugged and twirled, his skirts twisting like a whirlpool about his knees. He seemed to have recovered completely from his wound. In fact, he looked so great that I couldn’t help but feel a pang. Clearly he had not suffered over his wardrobe as I had. His emerald-green frock coat had yards of gold lace swirled on his dishtowelsized cuffs and his wide lapels. Diamonds twinkled in the buttons of his black silk weskit, and his kilts were long and flowing. He’d gone easy on the maquillage, and this made him look much more mature than usual.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “How did you get in?”

  He looked down at me scornfully. “What? Only Fyrdraacas are good enough to attend the Warlord’s Birthday Ball?”

  “That’s not what I meant. You have to be on the guest list and I know you weren’t on the guest list.”

  “I guess I can get into the Warlord’s Birthday Ball if I want to. I don’t have to cadge an invite like some people. You aren’t the only one with resources, Flora.” H
e jerked me again as we twirled, and I realized he was angry. Not just angry—furious.

  “What is wrong with you, Udo?”

  “Ha! I wondered why you were in such a hurry, Flora! You just wanted to dump me and get to the party!”

  “Udo!” What was his problem? I had never seen him this angry before, and he was completely misrepresenting everything.

  “How could you let him do it?” Udo demanded.

  “Who do what?”

  “Valefor!” Udo hissed. “Your stupid snapperhead servitor. You knew this meant a lot to me, Flora, but you didn’t care, did you? If it’s not Flora’s idea, then Flora doesn’t care.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Springheel Jack!” Udo shouted. Fortunately the music was loud and so I’m pretty sure no one heard him.

  “Shush—keep your voice down. What about Springheel Jack? I put him on ice in the Casa de Hielo. What else could I do with him? He was starting to smell.”

  Udo swung me and didn’t let go. I flew in an arc, my feet scrabbling on the snowy floor. Then he yanked me hard, completely out of the line, even though the set wasn’t quite finished. I tried to squirm out of his grip, but he is taller and stronger and wouldn’t let go.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Udo? Let go of me!” I whacked at him with my free hand, but onward he pulled. Now people were staring at both of us. It seemed better to go with him than to make a scene, so I quit fighting. But as soon as we were alone, Udo was going to get it.

  We rushed through people watching the Reel, past the Grand Staircase, and into the long gallery behind. Tall wooden doors, each topped with a glassy-green transom, punctuated the marble walls. Tea-leaf patterns of snow swirled and blew along the marble floors. The gallery was dim, and each alcove we rushed by contained a spoony couple. The last alcove was empty. Udo dragged me inside. I hit him hard with my fan and he let me go.

  “You are acting like someone in a cheap melodrama, Udo Landaðon!”

  “Oh, ayah?” he asked. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do. What is up with you? Why are you so worked up about your precious outlaw? I saved him for you, didn’t I? Put him on ice until you could—”

  “Valefor!” Udo shouted. There was a harsh tone to his voice I’d never heard before. “I went to the icehouse and Jack was gone! Your stupid snapperheaded servitor ate him! Ate him!”

  “Ate him? How could Valefor eat him?”

  “How should I know? Cut him up into tiny pieces? Chewed on his bones? All I know is that Valefor ate him and he is gone! What am I going to do about my bounty now, Flora? After all the trouble I went to to get that outlaw, now—nothing! You Fyrdraacas don’t care about anyone but yourselves!”

  I flared up. “Now, hold on a minute, Sieur Landaðon. I didn’t have a thing to do with Valefor eating any stupid outlaw, so you can’t blame me for that! And if you want to talk about stupidity, then how about zombifying an outlaw and then getting into a gun battle on a public horsecar—”

  Udo interrupted with something very mean, and I responded with something equally mean, which made Udo say even meaner things. I answered with meaner things of my own. Every tiny slight hurt and annoyance of our entire lives came pouring out.

  “—it took me three weeks to wash the green ink out of my hair—”

  “—ate all the roses off my birthday cake—”

  “—so I got a double F-minus in Composing—”

  “—feed my pet turtle and it died—”

  “—bossing me around like you are the Goddess Califa and I’m just your Boy Toy—”

  “—and you left me standing there alone to go off with that skanky stick-insect girl!”

  “—bossy, obnoxious, egotistical, bratty—”

  “—annoying, whiny, vain—”

  Udo stared at me. I stared back. My lip was quivering, and I hoped he realized it was from anger, not sorrow. The feather on his hat was quivering, probably for the same reason.

  “Fine!” Udo said, finally. There was something extremely final about that fine.

  “Fine!” I answered.

  “I guess you don’t need me, then.”

  “No, I guess I don’t. Have a nice time with your scrawny little prune-faced girl.”

  “I will, madama. And you can enjoy your horrible family, and your drunken father, and your mealymouthed sister—”

  WHACK!

  My brain had sent a secret signal to my hand, which had raised itself and smacked Udo right across his rouged cheek. Udo’s jaw was pretty hard—my palm stung. Even in the dim light, the red mark of my blow stood out on his white skin like a burn.

  Now Udo’s lips were also trembling. Without another word, he snapped around and rushed away, his rapid stride making his long skirts swirl. I caught a brief glimpse of sparkly red footwear, and then—adios, Udo.

  I was no longer cold; instead, I felt as though I had a fever. I walked over to the bubbler, but the stream trickling from the dolphin-shaped spout was frozen. The water in the bubbler bowl was a thick rime of silvery blue ice, flat as a mirror. The cold drifting up from the ice felt good on my flushed face. Something wet and hot dripped down my chin and onto the ice. I wiped at my eyes with my glove, not caring if I smeared my eyeliner.

  Udo. Oh, Udo.

  A light flickered beneath the ice, and I thought I saw movement, a flash of luminescence deep down. Which was impossible, of course, as the bubbler was only about a foot deep. But it had a drain, didn’t it? I peered under the bubbler bowl and saw a pipe not much bigger around than my arm disappearing into the wall. The ice flared pink and red, and I stepped away from it. Surely no tentacle could smash its way through solid ice? Could it? Or through a narrow drain? I wasn’t going to stick around to see. I’d had enough histrionics for one night.

  As the ice began to crack, I fled down the hallway In the Grand Rotunda the music had stopped. The hushed crowd seemed to be focusing on the dance floor, and as I skirted the edge of the throng, I heard the shouting of a familiar voice. I pushed my way through the audience and discovered Poppy hollering at Lord Axacaya. His accusations were pretty loud, though not entirely coherent. Some bossy boiler had told Poppy about my dance with Lord Axacaya and now he was showering Lord Axacaya with dire threats. Only the restraining arms of the Warlord’s bodyguards were keeping Poppy from carrying out some of those threats right then and there. Thankfully, a guard had snagged Poppy’s gun out of his holster, and his war injuries made him easy to hold back.

  While Poppy raved, Lord Axacaya glared at him through slitted eyes but made no response. Then the Warlord arrived, and Poppy, trying to flail his way out of the guards’ grasp, almost popped him. I tried to fade back into the crowd, but Poppy saw me and somehow managed to throw off the guards and nab me. The Warlord was shouting, Poppy was shouting, the guards were shouting, I was shouting, and then a loud, sharp noise drowned us all out. My ears rang, and the frosty air was suddenly filled with the acrid smell of black powder.

  “What the hell was that?” Florian bellowed.

  “Someone just tried to shoot the Ambassador,” Lord Axacaya said calmly.

  Eighteen

  Poppy Rants. Locked. A Parrot.

  WELL, THAT WAS IT for the Warlord’s Birthday Ball. After the first few minutes of general panic, the Warlord’s guards moved in and closed off all the exits to Saeta House, so as to make sure that the assassin (who I really, really hoped wasn’t Idden) couldn’t escape. The midnight supper (and the seating chart Mamma had slaved over) was scrapped. The Warlord told Poppy to go the hell home and stay there until he could behave, so we were allowed to leave through one of Saeta’s back entrances. Poppy didn’t seem at all concerned about the assassination attempt; he was fully fixated on my behavior with Lord Axacaya, and he ranted and raved about that all the way home.

  My protest that I was an adult and therefore could dance with whomever I pleased was not well received. Neither was my claim that the partnership had been by chance and that I c
ould hardly have refused in front of everyone to dance with Lord Axacaya and that Poppy was overreacting. Then I said nothing else, for fear of what else I might say—or do. I had had enough fighting for one night. I only wanted to get home, to the quiet of my room, to lie down upon my bed and die.

  Once back at Crackpot, Poppy’s ranting continued up the garden path and into the kitchen. The dogs, cowed by the tone of his voice, whisked away into the darkness as soon as the kitchen door was opened, those traitors.

  “You still are under this roof, madama, and thus owe allegiance to this family, and Axacaya is no friend of ours. I will not have you consorting with him—in any way, do you understand?” Poppy said meaningfully. “It is a disgrace to this family”

  A disgrace?! How could dancing with Lord Axacaya be disgraceful, after all that Poppy had put us through? Was I a convicted war criminal? Had I lost the First Flora? Was I a drunk and a lout? Did I just get the Fyrdraaca family’s dirty laundry on the front page of the Califa Police Gazette? Well, the assassination attempt on the Huitzil Ambassador would probably be on page one, but surely we’d make page two.

  If I stayed put one more minute I was going to explode. I would fall to Poppy’s level, screaming and shouting, and I would be damned to the Abyss if I would fall that low. So I flung past him and tore upstairs. Poppy tried to follow but his lameness slowed him down, and I was safely in my room with the door locked by the time he got there.

  “Open up, Flora!” Poppy yelled, pounding.

  I sat down on my settee and folded my arms. Valefor, hovering over the wardrobe, looked petrified.

  “I demand that you open the door!” Poppy roared.

  “I demand that you drop dead,” I whispered. “I demand that you go to hell!”

  “Well then, madama, if you wish to stay in your room, you may stay in your room.” Poppy said through the door. “You may stay until your mother returns from Fort Jones, and then we shall have a family discussion.”