Tournament of Ruses

by Kate Stradling

  “Oh, come along,” Mrs. Moreland interrupted, dismissive of such an excuse. She promptly linked her arm in Flora’s to lead her away down the hall.

  “Mother, she has her own lunch waiting,” Charlie protested with rising panic. “You shouldn’t force her to go along with you.”

  “I don’t mean to force her,” she replied defensively, and she looked at Flora with pleading eyes. “I’m being completely selfish, I know, Miss Dalton, but the truth is that I don’t feel like eating alone today. My husband is working, Charles is on guard duty—which, sweetheart, please don’t let us delay you any further; you’re perfectly welcome to be on your way—and Viola’s playing secretary to the Prince. I’ve no idea where Edmund is,” she added with a frown. “He’ll doubtless pop in eventually for something to eat. In the meantime, Miss Dalton, you would do me great honor to accompany me. I promise you the fare will be decent enough even if my company is not, and then you can save your own box lunch for an afternoon snack. What do you say?”

  Somehow, she had managed this entire speech without it sounding the least bit contrived. Flora had no clue how she was supposed to refuse the invitation. She avoided Charlie’s gaze. “Thank you,” she said simply, for that was the best she could muster.

  Mrs. Moreland squeezed her arm delightedly and they continued together up the hall. Flora did not have to glance back over her shoulder; she could feel Charlie’s displeasure emanating behind her as they left.

  Surprisingly, Mrs. Moreland was not prone to idle chatter. Flora, hardly knowing what to say to the woman, kept her own mouth shut as well. In silence they exited the palace proper to a snowy walkway, and from there to a flight of stone steps.

  “Here we are,” said Mrs. Moreland as they reached the door at the top. “There’s an interior entrance to our apartment, but this one leads right into the kitchens, so I’m accustomed to using it. Are you going to be scandalized that I do all my own cooking?”

  Far from being scandalized, Flora was impressed. “Do you? I’m ashamed to say I don’t know what to do in a kitchen, aside from watching.”

  “Take a seat at the table, then, and watch to your heart’s content,” Mrs. Moreland told her, a small smile upon her lips. “It won’t take long—I put the soup on this morning before I left, so it’s only a matter of ladling a couple of bowls and toasting some bread to go with.”

  She retrieved an apron from the back of a chair, the action so practiced that it was obviously out of habit rather than for show. Her hands suddenly paused while tying the strings around her waist. She fixed steady eyes upon Flora. “Are you the sort to tell stories about how the Prime Minister’s wife likes to pretend she’s a housekeeper?” she asked bluntly.

  “No,” said Flora. She thought Georgiana Winthrop would probably faint from shock if she discovered that the stylish Mrs. Moreland habitually donned an apron to perform menial housework. The story would spread through town overnight.

  Mrs. Moreland efficiently tightened the knot in her apron strings. “The Prime Minister’s wife is expected to have a distinguished look, you know. The public persona, my husband calls it—I sometimes feel like I’m expected to live two separate lives. What do you think of that?”

  Flora considered this. She had felt that dichotomy of lives herself of late, though probably not to the extent that Mrs. Moreland did. “I think it’s sometimes necessary,” she remarked. “And it’s not as though you’re actually living two separate lives so much as employing different skills under different circumstances. I mean…” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  Mrs. Moreland, though, was smiling. “That’s what I like about your answers,” she said. “You don’t rattle off the first thing that comes into your head but take a moment to consider the question, and when you do speak, there’s no artifice in your words. You’re both honest and tactful, which is a surprisingly rare combination, Miss Dalton.”

  She turned to tend the toast then, politely ignoring Flora’s astonished gape. In the ensuing silence, Flora pulled her wits together. Pleased as she was to receive such a favorable assessment, she couldn’t help but be a little frightened of the woman who had deduced such things by asking about seemingly inane topics. Yes, Mrs. Moreland was definitely more cunning than she looked.

  The soup was flavorful, and the toast perfectly browned. Mrs. Moreland seemed like the type to talk during a meal, but she was not given the chance. Neither of them had taken more than two sips when the sound of a shutting door broke the silence between them.

  “That must be Edmund,” said Mrs. Moreland, and she tilted her head to look down one of the corridors that led from the cozy kitchen. It was not Edmund at all. “Why, Viola!” she cried in joy as the newcomer emerged. “What a rare treat to see you home during this hour! Did the Prince let you go early today?”

  One glance at Viola’s guarded face told Flora that the girl was actually here to interrupt this little meeting, and doubtless on Charlie’s command rather than the Prince’s. A second glance towards Mrs. Moreland revealed a shrewd glint in that woman’s eyes, which made Flora suspect that she fully understood the cause of her daughter’s presence. She seemed more amused than irritated, though.

  “The Prince is in one of his moods, so I thought it best to vacate the premises,” said Viola. “Good afternoon, Flora,” she added with a wan smile.

  Flora timidly repeated the greeting.

  “Do you know Miss Dalton, then?” asked Mrs. Moreland with interest.

  “Of course,” Viola replied simply. “Is there lunch for me, or should I toss something together?”

  Mrs. Moreland immediately left her chair to ladle another bowl of soup. Viola politely declined the toast when asked whether she wanted it. She took her seat next to Flora and gave her a meaningful glance before returning her attention to her mother.

  The trio passed a very pleasant lunch together. At first, Flora felt out of place between the mother and daughter, but they both made such an effort to put her at ease that she soon relaxed.

  After three quarters of an hour had passed, Mrs. Moreland looked up at the clock on the wall and sighed. “Back to interviews with me,” she said glumly. “Viola, would you please make certain that Miss Dalton gets to where she needs to go from here? You can leave the dishes where they are—I’ll wash them tonight.” As she spoke, she removed her apron and checked her reflection in a small mirror. “I really can’t wait for this tedious business to be over. Goodbye, dear. Goodbye, Miss Dalton, and thank you for your company.”

  “Thank you for lunch,” Flora replied.

  “Goodbye, Mother,” said Viola.

  Mrs. Moreland smiled and then slipped out the door.

  Viola breathed a long sigh of relief and slumped back in her chair.

  “I’m sorry if I caused trouble,” said Flora timidly.

  “It’s not you,” she replied, but she did not elaborate. “If you’re ready to head back to your office I can take you there. No, no, don’t worry about clearing your dishes—I’ll come back and take care of them. Mother always tells me to leave them for her, knowing that I never do.”

  “Can I help?” asked Flora, who had never washed a dish in her life.

  Viola looked her up and down as though gauging her sincerity. “Another time, perhaps,” she said at last. “Mother would have my skin if she knew I allowed a guest to help with the dishes. What did you think of my mother, can I ask?” she added with a glance that was both curious and cautious.

  Flora’s answer was prompt. “I think she’s a lot deeper than she makes herself out to be.”

  “Yes, so do I. It’s a little disconcerting, especially since she’s my mother.”

  If Mrs. Moreland’s own daughter felt that way, Flora’s feelings on the matter were entirely justified.

  Chapter Seventeen: In the Silence of the Night

  Despite my (sometimes wavering) determination to succeed, these hours alone at the palace can be so very dull. I suppose I should turn my thoughts to the rest of the tourn
ament (now that my little interview is over with). The walking course is still a joke, in my opinion, but the exhibition is a little more important.

  It’s too bad I’m here in the city rather than back home, because I had quite a number of little hybrid seedlings coming up in the greenhouse. There’s no telling whether any of them would turn out well or not—they’re all my own little experiments, of course—but even if they were shriveled and malformed, they could have made a unique display. My old gardening notebook, too, might have been a source of inspiration, but it was left behind as well.

  My options here in the city are decidedly less interesting. I shudder to think that I should have to resort to reciting poetry. Surely there must be something else I can accomplish well.

  Flora almost expected Georgiana Winthrop on her doorstep that evening. In the end, she did not come. Flora counted it a personal victory when the doorbell pealed at half past seven and Mrs. Finch announced the arrival of Misses Spencer and Markham. Flora knew instantly that Georgiana had sent them; Dorothea would certainly never visit her house under any other circumstances.

  She spent a tidy quarter-hour with them. She reported her interview experience in the vaguest, blandest terms possible, all smiles through the whole of it, of course. When Augustina and Dorothea made their excuses to leave, she let them go without spoken regrets or apparent concern. Then, she went straight upstairs and watched through a front window as their bundled figures walked up the street, directly to Georgiana’s house.

  “Thought so,” she murmured smugly.

  She retired to bed shortly thereafter. She wrote in her diary for half an hour before extinguishing her lamp; she was asleep in almost no time at all.

  Unfortunately, she did not remain asleep.

  In the thick dark of the night, whispering voices intruded upon her senses. At first she thought she was dreaming. There was no logical reason for her to hear murmurs within her own bedroom when she was the only one there, so a dream seemed to be the likeliest cause. She lingered in half-sleep, her eyes shut and her ears unable to discern any actual words among the hushed conversations—unable, that was, until one of the voices suddenly rose in pitch.

  “Well, we’ll never get anywhere if she doesn’t wake up! Honestly, these lazy humans!”

  Flora’s eyes shot open, but of course she could see nothing in the inky darkness of the room. Her body tensed as several other voices shushed the loud speaker.

  “Don’t you shush me!” it replied. “We’ve been chattering here for half an hour without so much as a flutter of her eyelids! Where’s the use in that?”

  “It’s called subtlety, Squeak!” a second voice retorted.

  “And a fat lot of good that’s done us over the last week!”

  “He has a point,” a third quietly interjected. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter. You can tell by her breathing that she’s awake now.”

  “Is she? You’ve got better ears than me, Kipper.”

  “Why thank you, Oggie. But yours do have such a fine shape to them.”

  “Thank you very much. I do think Bubble’s ears have a nicer shape than mine, though,” the one called Oggie replied.

  “You may be right about that,” said Kipper. “Bubble does have such fine ears.”

  “How kind of you both!” piped up a new voice.

  Their nonsensical conversation seemed to originate from the far corner of her room. Flora could see nothing and was terrified of whatever creatures lurked there. They already knew she was awake, though, and seemed to have congregated to catch her attention. She mustered up the courage to interrupt this odd exchange of compliments.

  “Who’s there?” she asked into the dark.

  Silence blanketed the room. Flora held her breath as she waited for a response, but it was almost as though the little cluster of creatures was doing the same.

  The excruciating stillness shattered when the first voice, Squeak, scornfully inquired, “She’s not actually trying to talk directly to us, is she? The cheek! The absurdity!”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know any better,” said one of his companions in a stage whisper.

  “I don’t care if she doesn’t know any better! It’s just not done, talking to humans directly! They should know that we’re not going to talk directly to them!”

  “But under the circumstances—”

  “I don’t care about the circumstances! Brownies do not talk directly to humans!”

  “I did once,” someone muttered, barely audible. From the words and intonation, Flora guessed that it was probably a remark made to his neighbor rather than to the opinionated Squeak.

  When another voice whispered a shocked, “You did?” she knew that guess was right.

  “Well, y’see, the situation was this: I was tinkering around with the gears of an old clock, and—”

  “Confound you and your rule-breaking, Oggie!” Squeak interjected indignantly. “We don’t need to hear your cog-in-the-pudding story! This situation is totally different than that one!”

  “Not totally,” Oggie replied. “You might say we’re the cog in the pudding now. We certainly can’t get out without a human’s help, not with all those wards around the house, and we’re not going to get that help unless we let someone know we need it. That is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “But your cog didn’t have any fellows to talk to! We don’t need to talk to her when we can talk amongst ourselves! If she’s not a complete nitwit, she’ll catch on!”

  “And what if she is a complete nitwit? I mean, of course she’s the guardian, so she’s the only one we could even think of approaching, but what if she’s downright stupid and doesn’t understand what to do? We’d be forced to talk to her directly, then, for we can’t remain cooped up in this house forever.”

  “We’ll burn that bridge when we find it!”

  “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes, Squeak.”

  “I said it how I meant it! Now, all we have to do is somehow convince this human that she needs to help us escape the house. It shouldn’t be too hard—those wards were put up to keep creatures like us out, not in.”

  “But I thought we wanted to stay,” piped up a different voice. “I mean, I know we were just nesting here for the winter, but it’s still cold outside. And we can leave the house, technically, so long as we only want to go out into the garden, but like I said, it’s still cold there. It’ll be just as cold in the forest, and you know all the good nesting spots have already been taken at this point. Besides that, there’s the new well to worry about—I know we can’t get to it, because it’s warded worse than the house is, but it would be nice to pitch in and help with that, if we could get the permission.”

  “Ah, but for that we would have to speak with one of the nifaran up at the palace, so as not to look like we’re trying to poach on a weak guardian. What d’you suppose is the chance that we could get her to carry a couple of us up there?”

  “Are we allowed to talk directly to a nifara, Squeak?” asked Oggie impertinently.

  “Of course we are!” Squeak replied. “They’re creatures of magic just like the rest of us, not like these humans that hijack the power for a bit and then act like they’re all high and mighty because of it. If we could send an emissary to the palace to talk to one, that would solve everything. And it shouldn’t be too difficult, either. This human goes there every day, from what the servants say. She can carry a couple of us in that canvas bag she sometimes takes with her, right past the wards and straight there.”

  “I shouldn’t like to be carried by a human,” said one of the brownies. “What if she looked inside the bag?”

  “Well, she shouldn’t!” snapped Squeak. “And you needn’t go, Bubble. I think Oggie should go.”

  “I’m game,” said Oggie. “Kipper, you up for the ride?”

  “I guess so, but how are we going to convince her to take us? And do we just leave everyone else here? What if the nifara turns us away?”

  “Oh, even then he
won’t want to leave the rest of them in the house. If we can get to him—or th’other one, for that matter—then everyone here will get the help they need, one way or another. As for convincing her to take us, it would be nice if she could somehow indicate that she’s willing—not directly indicate, of course, because Squeak will suffer an apoplexy if she tries to talk to us again, but all we really need from her is a subtle yes or no.”

  At these words, the cluster of voices fell silent and Flora, who could still see nothing in the darkness of the room, would have sworn that she felt several pairs of eyes boring into her as she lay upon her bed. She had remained silent and listening for the duration of this surreal conversation, as she surmised they expected her to, but now she was expected to talk, or to give some sort of sign at the very least.

  Was she willing to carry a pair of brownies (did such things really exist outside of folk tales?) up to the palace to meet with a nifara (whatever sort of creature that was)? She thought about this and realized that she might as well relent. Uncomfortable as she was with carrying small magical creatures in her bag, those small magical creatures didn’t seem to pose a threat.

  “I suppose I should remember to take my canvas bag with me to the palace tomorrow,” she remarked to the ceiling. “I wonder if I ought to ask Cook for a few extra morsels of food, in case anyone gets hungry.”

  “There!” cried Oggie. “She’s a good girl! We’ll be safe, Kipper.”

  “Should we tell her that we’ve already eaten our fill of today’s gift down in the kitchen and don’t need anything more than that?” Kipper replied. “The cook has proper respect for brownies—that’s been the one saving grace of being stuck here.”

  “If she wants to give us another gift, we’ll be cordial and accept. But, as you said, we’ve already received enough for our needs, so it’s not really necessary.”