The Drache Girl

by Wesley Allison

“Do you have a last name?” wondered Graham.

  He sat beneath a willow on a large rock ten feet from the frigid water of Battle Creek. Hamonth was almost over and the chilly winds had, for now, stopped. It was still cold enough for a steady cloud of steam to make its way up from the cups of tea, Senta had poured from the pot she carried in her picnic basket.

  “You know I do,” replied Senta. “You’ve heard it a hundred times.”

  “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. What is it?”

  “Zurfina says that if you are famous and powerful enough, you don’t need more than one name. It’s like kings and queens, and Magnus the Great.”

  “My Da says everything deserves a name, and people deserve a last name.”

  “He does not.”

  “Huh?”

  “I bet he never said any such thing.”

  Graham shrugged.

  “Did he say it or not?”

  “No.”

  “You just said that he said it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it,” said Senta. “You just go around saying ‘My Da says this’ and ‘My Da says that’ and he never said any such thing.”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “I only say that he said things that he really would say, but he just might not have.”

  “I always knew you were dodgy.”

  Graham shrugged again and took a sip of his tea. Then his brow twisted in thought.

  “I bet you do the same thing,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re always going on about how ‘Zurfina says this’. I bet you make it up too.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Never.”

  “She actually said that bit about not needing a last name?”

  “Word for word.”

  “Oh.” He sipped his tea again. “So do you figure you’re famous and powerful enough, then?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you famous and powerful enough that you don’t need a last name?”

  “No, I guess not,” said Senta. “I don’t think I like it though. I never knew anyone else with it. It’s Bly.”

  “Oh, right. It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s better than Dokkins.”

  “No. My Da says Dokkins is one of the finest names in Greater Brechalon.” Then he added. “And he does say that too.”

  Senta stood up; balancing on the large rock, then bent down at the waist and sat her teacup where she had been sitting. She stretched her arms out to either side and balanced herself, as she stepped in her bare feet from one rock to another. She made a circuitous route back to the picnic basket and opened it up. She pulled out a warm potpie in a small ceramic bowl. She held the pie out in her left hand and a fork in her right and balanced her way across five more rocks to where the brown haired, freckled boy sat and handed both to him.

  “You know you’ve got a hole in that dress?”

  “Yes,” said Senta, sadly.

  She looked down at the yellow dress. Though the upper portion was shapeless and tube-like, matching her still shapeless body, the bodice was brilliantly decorated with yellow brocade and beadwork. The skirt portion draped out appropriately, especially in the back, where with the aid of a bustle, it spread back almost three feet. Unfortunately all around the hem, it was worn from trailing along the ground, and a small hole had been burned into the material about five inches to the right of Senta’s right knee, when she had been warming herself by a wood stove.

  She made her way back to the picnic basket and took out her own potpie, and then stepped back over to her rock. Holding her potpie in one hand and picking up her teacup in the other, she crossed her legs and sat down, allowing her dress to cover the rock, so that she seemed to either be hovering above the ground or to be standing but very short.

  “This is pretty good,” said Graham, indicating the potpie. “What’s in it?”

  “Pork and stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?” he demanded.

  “Nothing weird. Potatoes and beets and carrots.”

  “Okay.”

  They had been having a lot of picnic lunches lately, though the weather would soon be too cold. Graham had held to his promise to take her to lunch the other day, but one trip to Mrs. Finkler’s was about the limit of his budget. Senta liked making things for Graham, anyway. They spent almost all their free time together, especially when, like now, there were no ships in port. Something was beginning to be different though. Graham was just, well he was just Graham. The only time he seemed to notice that Senta was a girl, was when he was pointing out that she had a hole in her dress. She thought that he must notice Hero was a girl, with her dark eyes and her long, long, long dark hair. Senta ran a hand through her own hair. It had grown long, but it wasn’t wavy and it wasn’t thick. It was thin and pale looking. And she had a hole in her dress.

  Senta decided right then and there that she would go to Mrs. Bratihn’s and get a new dress. It would be a beautiful, colorful dress that would make her look like a woman. Then she would find out if Mrs. Bratihn had an old copy of Brysin’s Weekly Ladies’ Journal, so that she could look through it and find a new hairstyle. It would be something with waves or curls, something beautiful enough that all the boys would notice—even Graham. Maybe she would find a hairstyle mysterious enough that Zurfina would want to copy it. She was sure that she could magic her hair into the new style, she magiced it clean all the time.

  “More tea?” she asked Graham.

  * * * * *

  “It’s no use, dear,” said Mrs. Bratihn, later that afternoon, looking down at the corset around Senta’s ankles. “It’s just too big.”

  “Can’t we try a smaller one?”

  “There isn’t any smaller one. This is a Prudence Plus angel bust form corset. There isn’t anything smaller. You just don’t need a corset.”

  “But I need to make my waist smaller.”

  “Your waist can’t be smaller than it is. It shouldn’t be smaller than it is.”

  “I need a shape.”

  “You don’t need a thinner waist. You need bosoms, dear. And you’re just going to have to wait for those. You’re still a girl. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.”

  Senta stuck out her lip.

  Mrs. Bratihn laughed. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll put together a dress that will be very flattering.”

  The dressmaker pulled out a huge book from a shelf and took it to an old divan in the rear of her shop. Senta stepped out of the corset and back into her yellow dress, which she pulled up around herself. She sat down next to Mrs. Bratihn. The books had two or three photographs of beautiful ladies in fine clothes on each page and below them, were small swatches of cloth, so that you could tell the color of the dresses in the sepia-toned pictures. There were lots of dresses—day dresses and evening gowns, ball gowns, summer dresses and winter dresses. Senta had looked at exactly thirty-one of them.

  “Ooh,” she said. “This is the one I want.”

  “That’s a nice one,” agreed Mrs. Bratihn. “That’s popular right now in Mirsanna. Mr. Bratihn’s sister sent me these pictures from Natine.”

  There were two pictures, one of a woman from the front, and another of the same woman in the same dress, taken from behind. The bodice of the dress had a quilted two toned chevron design from the top to the bottom, with a standup collar. The three swatches of cloth fastened below the photograph were two different shades of hand dyed green silk and hunter green velvet.

  “I like the hat, too,” said Senta.

  It was a wide brimmed, velvet-covered hat decorated with black lace and feathers.

  “Yes, this would be a good look for you,” said Mrs. Bratihn. “That’s a lot of silk and velvet, not to mention brass and feathers. For a dress your size, that’s going to be forty marks. I’ve got plenty of black silk and I think I have enough velvet. If I have to wait for the green silk though, it’s going to be four months.”

  “Fo
ur months?”

  “Yes. I have an idea though. I have two big bolts of blue silk just in from Enclep—sky blue and royal blue. It will be beautiful, and it will be much more Brech looking than green.”

  “That sounds great,” said Senta. “I think I like the idea of blue better. Is it still going to be forty marks?”

  “I can trim it back to thirty-five, and I’ll tell you what. I have some velociraptor feathers for the hat. You’ll be very stylish.”

  “That’s brill. How long before it will be done?”

  “We can have it ready in three weeks. But I’ll have to have the money up front.”

  Senta pulled open the small pocket hanging from the waist of her dress, and took out a large gold coin and three wadded up bills.

  “I’ve got thirteen marks now, and I’ll get you the rest by the end of the week. Is that okay?”

  “Good enough. Let’s take some measurements now, and I’ll get Mrs. Luebking busy cutting material.”

  Do you have any copies of Brysin’s Weekly Ladies’ Journal that I could look at?” asked Senta, after she had been thoroughly measured.

  “Right by the door on your way out. There are two Brysin’s and a Somersby. Mrs. Dechantagne-Calliere gets them by ship, and then she gives them to somebody else who gives them to somebody else. By the time I get them, they’re two years old, and when I’m done, the only thing anybody wants them for is the toilet. Help yourself. You can have them.”

  Senta scooped up the two copies of Brysin’s and the issue of Somersby Women’s Etiquette and Fashion, on her way outside. It was starting to get dark already and a boy was lighting the streetlamps—all six of them. She walked across the cobblestone of the square, past Mrs. Finkler’s bakery and down the gravel lane toward her home. By the time she reached the front door, it was quite dark and a chill wind was blowing through the evergreen trees. She looked around carefully for any wild animals, but she didn’t see anything and the woods were quiet. She could hear a music box playing in one of the nearby houses.

  When she stepped inside, it was like stepping into a different world. The room was warm from the fire burning in the cast-iron stove and the glow from three oil lamps made the recently tidied up room feel almost festive. A pot of tea on the stove was just beginning to whistle, and three white porcelain cups, painted with pink roses and green stems, sat on the table.

  “Get that, would you, Pet?” said Bessemer, sitting on his pile of fluffy pillows with a large open book in front of him.

  Senta sat her magazines down and picked up the teapot off of the stove. She poured the steaming water into the three cups. Zurfina’s sterling silver tea diffuser had already been filled with tea leaves, so she dipped it first into one cup and then another.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Night of the Snake.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It’s supposed to be. I haven’t got very far, but I’m already pretty sure that the snake did it.”

  Zurfina stepped down into the room just as Senta was finished brewing the tea. She wore a robe that covered her from neck to ankles, but was composed of completely sheer black lace. The girl dropped three lumps of sugar into one of the cups and handed it to the sorceress. She put three more lumps in a second cup and carried it over to the steel dragon, who reached up and took it from her hands without looking away from his book. She took a sip of her own tea, and then decided to add one lump.

  “And what are you about today?” asked Zurfina.

  “We had a picnic at Battle Creek.”

  “Which one is Battle Creek again?”

  “It’s where you fought Wizard Kesi,” said Senta. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember.”

  “I have some vague recollection,” said the sorceress, absentmindedly rubbing the bald spot above her ear. “You weren’t up there this whole time? You’re so late that I had to have Bessemer light the stove.”

  “I was getting fitted for a new dress.”

  “You have plenty of dresses right here. I went to the trouble to lay one out for you this morning.”

  “It was black and it was made out of rubber.”

  “It would have looked very pinniped-like.”

  “Aren’t I old enough to pick out my own clothes?”

  “You’re only ten.’

  “I’m twelve!”

  Zurfina looked toward the steel dragon, who nodded in confirmation.

  She sighed. “Do you think she is old enough to make these decisions?”

  “The technological intricacies of stove lighting, I have mastered. I offer no expertise when it comes to fashion or adolescent human female development.”

  “All right. But you don’t have an unlimited budget. I’m not made of money.”

  “She should have an allowance,” suggested Bessemer.

  “She shall have a stipend,” corrected Zurfina. “As befits a student of sorcery. How about one hundred marks per month?”

  “Too much,” said Bessemer.

  “Oh, so you are an expert. Fifty then.”

  “Fifty is fine,” said Senta.

  “And since you have fifty marks left just floating around, I think I should have a stipend too,” said the dragon.

  “You’re not even four years old yet.” Senta sputtered.

  “Four dragon years.”

  “Dragons live almost forever, which means you’re like what, a baby? A premature baby.”

  “Have you ever heard of a dragon who wasn’t sitting on a hoard of riches?” he asked. “I feel so incomplete.”

  “Do you want a pretty dress too?” wondered Zurfina.

  “I want to buy Detsky’s other book, Rabbits Under the Fence. This one’s pretty good. And I want another pillow—a green one shaped like a turtle, so that I can cuddle it.”

  “All right,” said the sorceress in a pose that brooked no further arguing or demanding. “A twenty-five mark stipend for the dragon. You can both get your money each month from the lower layer of the silver box.”

  Senta went to the silver box and pulled out the tray with knives, forks, and spoons in it, setting it aside. The lower level was stuffed with money—coins from copper pfennigs to large silver marks to gold decimarks. In between there were bills of all denominations from single mark notes to five hundred mark Tybalts.

  “Don’t take more than you are supposed to. Bad things will happen,” said Zurfina.

  Senta picked out two gold decimarks and thirty marks in various bills.

  “Toss me my twenty-five,” said Bessemer.

  “You heard what she said,” said Senta. “You get your own.”

  “Good girl,” said Zurfina. “Now, what shall we have for dinner?”

  “Not hungry!” called Senta, who was already running up the stairs.

  She made it to the top of the second flight without being the least bit out of breath.

  “Uuthanum,” she said, and four flames ignited on four oil lamps around the room.

  This level of the house was divided into two large rooms with the staircases going up and down between them. One room was Senta’s bedroom. A large four-poster bed sat against one wall, a black rubber dress still lying across it. At the foot of the bed was a large chest and on either side was a small nightstand with a single drawer, supporting an oil lamp. In the corner, to the right of the bed was a large oak wardrobe, and in the corner on the left side, was a five shelf bookcase. Opposite the wardrobe was a cheval glass. Opposite of the bookcase was a large claw-foot bathtub, and beside it, sat a folding wooden rack for holding towels. Senta opened the drawer in the nightstand to the right of her bed and placed her money in it. She doubted that it was as well guarded as Zurfina’s silver box, which no doubt had all manner of dark magic warded upon it. On the other hand, the second floor of Zurfina’s home had to be pretty safe too.

  Pulling off her dress and tossing it on top of the one that Zurfina had provided, Senta skipped over to the tub and opened the tap on the faucet. That water began to flow forth was t
he result of the house being connected to the town aqueduct. That the water was warm and already scented was a product of Zurfina’s magic. This, like so many magically infused things around the house, had become so common, that Senta just took it for granted. When the tub was full, she turned off the water, pulled off her underclothing, and hopped in. She sank down so that only her eyes and nose peeked out and shivered a little bit as the water ran first into one ear and then the other. She closed her eyes and relaxed. When she opened them, she was staring into the open pages of one of her magazines.

  “Is this what you were thinking of?” said Zurfina, who was holding the open Brysin’s in front of her nose.

  “How did you know what I was looking for?”

  “Please, you can’t keep…” She didn’t hear the rest, because she sank back down so that her ears were below the water, but she knew what Zurfina had said. “You can’t keep a secret from me, because I’m a powerful sorceress, blah blah blah.”

  Senta spat out a series of bubbles. Zurfina turned to a different page. Senta lifted her chin.

  “That’s ace, but it’s awfully complicated,” she said.

  “Not for us, Pet. We’ll do it first thing in the morning, but you have to promise to wear what I set out for you.”

  Senta sat up. The air was chilly on her shoulders, now that they were wet. She scrunched up her mouth and lifted one brow.

  “How weird is it going to be?”

  “Not weird at all.”

  “No rubber?”

  “Fine,” said the sorceress, heading toward the ascending staircase. “No rubber. See? Aren’t you glad you came to me about this?”

  “I didn’t come to you. I’m trying to take a bath.” She sank back down under the warm water and rubbed the goose bumps off her shoulders.

  The next morning, Senta woke up to the smell of sausages cooking two floors below. She sat up and stretched. There at the bottom of her bed, as always, was the outfit that Zurfina had set out for her. Today however, she had promised to wear it. She started to get out of bed and immediately got back in, as the chill air touched her skin. She prepared herself for a moment, then jumped out of bed and ran across the room to the wardrobe, pulled out a new set of unders, then ran back and slid under the covers again. Completely under the blankets, she took off her nightgown and slid into her camisole.