Flora Segunda: Being the Magickal Mishaps of a Girl of Spirit, Her Glass-Gazing Sidekick, Two Ominous Butlers (One Blue), a House with Eleven Thousand Rooms, and a Red Dog (Magic Carpet Books)

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

  Guards always stand in front of Building Fifty-six, but they never stop me. They never salute me, either, but that I can live with. If something is brewing, or a bigwig is on the post making trouble of some kind, then the front porch is crammed with aides, guards, and strikers, and there will be a knot of horses out front, nipping at each other and kicking along the tie-up rail. Today the porch was empty, and so, too, was the waiting room, except for Lieutenant Botherton, who was standing behind the front desk, sorting mail.

  He said, sharply, “Don’t let that door bang—Oh, ave, Madama Fyrdraaca Segunda.”

  It was too late not to let the door bang, so I smiled sweetly and said, “Ave, Lieutenant Botherton.”

  Lieutenant Botherton gave Flynnie the evil eye. Dogs aren’t allowed in official buildings, but I was willing to bet that the lieutenant was not going to point that out. Rank, or at least reflected rank, does have its perks.

  “Has Mamma arrived yet?”

  “The General’s ferry docked safely earlier this afternoon, but the General has not returned from paying her compliments to the Warlord at Saeta House.” Lieutenant Botherton swished his skirts away from Flynnie’s friendly nose and sliced open another envelope. Yaller dogs, as everyone calls staff officers behind their backs, are notoriously stuck up. Their kilts are longer and their noses higher than anyone else’s in the Army.

  Daggit. Even after Valefor’s tea, I was starving. And here I had rushed frantically, not bothering to change, sure I was late-late, and now no Mamma, no chow, zip. Hurry up and wait, says Mamma, that’s the way of the Army. I think it’s just plain rude.

  “I’ll be in her office, then.” I scooted before he could say otherwise, dragging Flynnie away from the spittoon he was nosing. Building Fifty-six has been Army headquarters forever, so it’s stuffed with all sorts of martial mementos and portraits of old soldiers. The hallways are lined with cases full of conquest booty and the walls hung with faded battle flags, and thankfully it is someone else’s job to do the dusting.

  Mamma’s office is large and has enormous windows that overlook the parade ground. There’s her desk, a few chairs, a stiff horsehair settee, and walls and walls of file shelves containing walls and walls of files. An army may fight on its feet, Mamma says, but it marches on paper, and here were the pages to prove it.

  To solace myself for having to wait, I sat down behind Mamma’s desk and began rifling. Two sealed redboxes sat on the blotter, waiting for Mamma’s attention, but I didn’t bother with them. Redboxes are usually full of the most boring papers imaginable: requests for mule shoes, counts of blankets, reports on irascible horses and uppity sergeants, all endorsed, in triplicate, and tri-folded. They are not worth the hot knife it takes to slide their seals off. The red tape dispenser was full, so I cut a few yards off and tucked it away in my pocket. Red tape makes particularly good bootlaces.

  The left bottom drawer of Mamma’s desk is always locked, but that’s nothing to me—a little pin and a little pop and Mamma’s secret stash is revealed: a solid block of black chocolate. I made myself a little choco sandwie and tossed a biscuit Flynnie’s gaping way. The first sandwie was so yummy that a second naturally followed, after which I put the much smaller block back and returned the locks to right.

  Outside, the evening gun boomed dully, drowning out the echo of the retreat bugle. The clock in the hallway chimed seven, and my tummy, despite the two choco sandwies, rumbled loudly. Where was Mamma? I peered out the window. The Retreat Guard had marched off and a detail was slowly making its way down the sidewalk, lighting the lamps. The Bay had faded to a dark blue velvet and more lights were pricking the windows of the offices, just as the stars were beginning to prick the sky above.

  The choco left my mouth dark and sticky, and Mamma’s sideboard held only faceted bottles of bugjuice, which burns rather than washes. Mamma doesn’t drink, but I suppose that hospitality requires her to have libations available for those who do.

  A long narrow hallway runs the length of Building Fifty-six, with a floor like polished silk. It’s perfect for sliding down if you sit on a file folder, but if someone opens a door while you are flying, it’s off to the Post Hospital and ten stitches in your grape. Believe me, I know whereof I speak.

  The watercooler stands at the end of the hallway, next to the back door, which was open, in direct defiance of Mamma, who really hates drafts. Two figures sat on the back steps, haloed in cigarillo smoke, also in direct defiance of Mamma, who had made everyone else stop smoking when she did. I crept silently down the hallway, muting my footsteps by leaving my boots just inside her office. Stealth is made perfect only by practice, and besides, little ears can learn all sorts of interesting things when they maintain a low profile.

  “...I read in the Califa Police Gazette...” That was Crackers. He’s chief clerk to the Chargé d’Affaires and can forge the signature of every officer over the grade of major. A very useful talent if it doesn’t get you shot, and one which I had been cultivating myself, in my spare time.

  “That rag! The CPG hasn’t printed the truth in a hundred years.” That was Sergeant Seth. She’s a copyist, which has got to be the most boring job ever created by anyone anywhere. All documents that Mamma creates must go out in triplicate, and a copy has to be made and filed in the Commanding General’s archives. That’s what Seth does, sits at her desk and copies stuff all day long. I’d rather be eaten by bears.

  “Maybe a rag, but they had witnesses. There’s no doubt but that Paimon was up to something.”

  Today everyone had been discussing Bilskinir House and Paimon, its denizen—half the kids at school, the horsecar driver, and now the clerks. Supposedly, a group of Radical Chaoists, celebrating some obscure holiday on the beach nearby, had seen bright lights and heard distant roars coming from the House. Since the House had been closed for fourteen years, this was big news.

  Sergeant Seth said, “Those Radical Chaoists were probably drunk, and that’s where the lights came from—the bottom of a bottle.”

  “You can’t deny that that group of kids disappeared last year, and there is naught explanation but that Paimon snacked them up. After being alone for so long, he must be very hungry. It stands to reason he’d grab a few edibles if he could get them.”

  Last year a school group from PS 94 had disappeared on a fishing trip, the wreckage of their boat later found on the rocks at Bilskinir’s foundations. Mamma sent a squad to investigate, but they couldn’t get near the House. A couple of weeks later, the school group started to wash up on the Pacifica Playa, in well-chewed bits. Sharks? Or a hungry denizen? No one was sure, but rumor seemed to favor the hungry-denizen explanation.

  Seth said scornfully, “It’s been fourteen years since Butcher Brakespeare died and Bilskinir House closed. A denizen couldn’t survive that long alone. What would Paimon live on all that time?”

  “Paimon was no ordinary denizen; he’s an immaculate—self-contained. He must have still survived. Hadn’t those bits been gnawed on?”

  “That boat smashed against the Bilskinir rocks. Those kids drowned and were eaten by sharks.”

  “So you say but show me the shark who’ll cook his dinner before he eats it. Those bones were well charred—”

  “Oh, there you are, Flora.” Sergeant Carheña, carrying several redboxes, paused in the doorway of Mamma’s office and totally blew my creepy cover. He said loudly, “Put those weeds out before the General sees you, or she’ll smoke you herself.”

  Crackers and Seth scattered like buckshot. Evening had taken over Mamma’s office, and my tummy was rumbling. Sergeant Carheña deposited the redboxes on Mamma’s desk and lit the lamps, which cast a sunny glow in the dusk of the room. He’s been chief clerk for as long as I remember and can make the most cunning hats out of linen paper and red tape.

  “How are you, Flora?”

  I sat back down in Mamma’s chair and twirled once, just to see if it was still as fun as it had seemed when I was a kid. “Fine.”

  “How ar
e your classes going?”

  “Fine,” I said. Twirling was not so fun. In fact, now I felt hungry and a bit sick.

  “Are you looking forward to your Catorcena?”

  “Oh yes, awfully.”

  “It will be a fine day, and you will be proud, I hope.”

  “Oh yes, awfully.”

  I looked out the window again. Two outriders on horseback reined up in front of Fifty-six; they were carrying Mamma’s guidon and escorting a large black barouche.

  Finally, Mamma.

  THIRTEEN

  Mamma. Wax Seals. Incredible News.

  MAMMA NEVER JUST walks into a room. She strides into it and takes possession. Everyone stops what they are doing and looks to her, and now she’s in charge. She says this attention is all about the rank, but I think it’s more than that. The Warlord comes into a room and no one pays any mind at all, because despite the rank, he’s just an old man with one leg. Mamma is so used to being the center of everything, she just is the center of everything.

  So Mamma strode into the room, giving orders to Lieutenant Sabre, her aide-de-camp, who is almost always a foot behind her. When she saw me, she broke off and held her arms out: “Ave, Flora!”

  “Ave, Mamma!”

  She swept me into a giant squeezy hug and I squeezy hugged her back. She smelled of lemons, sea salt, and the Warlord’s tobacco. Her gorget banged against my forehead and her golden aiguillettes scratched my chin, but I didn’t care. Suddenly I was superglad that she was home. Flynnie bounced up and began to jump, yipping like a squeaky door, but, thankfully, he didn’t spray.

  “And I missed you, too, Flynnie.” Mamma kissed Flynn, also, although I had already gotten the full force of the lip rouge, and thus he avoided being smeared. “Ah, now my chapeau is askew. Here, can you reach the hat pin?”

  When she bent over, I could, just barely. Mamma was in dress uniform: tricorn hat, tight black frock coat, white wig, and red lip-rouge. I hate the dress uniform because in it Mamma doesn’t look like Mamma at all, but like a bandbox soldier, cold and aloof.

  Mamma unbuttoned her frock coat and sat down on the settee, hanging her gorget over Flynn’s neck. He jumped up next to her and laid his head upon her knee. All the dogs adore Mamma.

  “Finally, I can breathe again. Flora, would you get me a drink? Just a tiny. And put the Command Fan on my desk, would you, darling?”

  I took the fan, the symbol of Mamma’s authority, and laid it on her blotter, then went to the drinks cabinet. “Water, Mamma, or tea?”

  “No, just a tiny drop of whiskey. Aglis, go tell Carheña to hurry up with those papers. I want them signed before I leave here today. And tell Botherton I want Captain Hankle’s final report, ASAP.”

  “Whiskey?” I asked, surprised at her request, and a wee bit alarmed.

  “As Nini Mo said, ‘There is always an exception to every rule.’” Mamma actually knew Nini Mo, way back when, when Mamma was just a girl. Unfortunately, about all she remembers of the great ranger is that she was very short and smelled always of patchouli perfume.

  I poured Mamma a tiny teeny drop of whiskey, and took it over to her. “What took you so long, Mamma? I’ve been waiting for hours.” She took the glass and, in return, held her wig out for me to put on the wig stand on the sideboard.

  “I’m sorry, darling. The meeting with the Warlord took longer than I thought it would. I have a splitting headache; that blasted wig weighs a tonne. Ah, that was just what I needed. Another wee drop?”

  I refilled Mamma’s glass with another wee, wee drop and sat down next to her, pushing the growling Flynnie off the settee to do so. He promptly tried to climb onto Mamma’s lap; laughing, she pushed him down, scratching at his ears in consolation.

  “How is Hotspur?”

  “He’s fine, Mamma.”

  “Orderly and well behaved?”

  “Ayah.” I had decided not to tell Mamma about Poppy’s fit. That might lead to questions about damage, which would then lead to questions about cleanup. I was fairly certain that Poppy himself wouldn’t mention it, either; he tends to forget such incidents almost as soon as they happen. I hoped he had forgotten all about Valefor, too.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Mamma wiped off the rest of her lip rouge with her hankie and then looked like Mamma again. She is not beautiful, exactly, not like the Warlady or the Holy Headmistress, but she is better than beautiful, I think. Her nose is crooked because she’s broken it twice, dueling and bronc-busting, but the slant gives her face character. Her eyes are vivid green, and her short curls are the color of honey and they never frizz. Unfairly, I had gotten the Poppy end of the stick, the pointy chin and scowly mouth.

  “How’s your prep going?” Mamma continued. She kept looking beyond me, toward the door, as though she was in a hurry for something, or distracted.

  A wee bolt of guilt stabbed me. “Fine, Mamma.” Thankfully Valefor had mostly caught me up. He had even finished making my tamales, which was wonderful because I hate to cook.

  “Did you get the invitations in the post?”

  “Ayah, Mamma.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Where is that Sabre? Listen, darling, do you want to run on to dinner and I shall meet you there? I have a few things to do here before I can leave, and they just can’t wait.”

  The guilt was replaced with annoyance. I can’t even say how many times this happens: I meet Mamma for dinner, she sends me on ahead, saying she’ll be right there, and then I sit alone at the O Club, moldering, until either she shows up just in time for dessert or some junior aide shows up instead to present the General's compliments, and she is sorry she is delayed and instructs you to just go on home. “Mamma, so you always say, and you never come! I’ve been already waiting for hours, and you’ve been gone forever.”

  As I complained, Lieutenant Sabre returned, with yet more redboxes, and my heart sank deeper into irkedness. It would take hours to go through them; I might as well just go home. Only a little while earlier I would have been glad to go home, but now, suddenly, I felt forlorn and disappointed.

  Mamma sighed and rubbed the frowny line between her eyes. “Aglis—”

  “Sir?” Lieutenant Sabre kicked his heels together and practically saluted. Mamma runs through ADCs like water; she rides them so hard that they usually break after a few weeks. Lieutenant Sabre had been with her for over a month now, and his manners were so perfect and his posture so straight that he almost seemed praterhuman.

  “I’ll deal with those boxes after dinner. Are the papers ready for me to sign? They should be ready by now.”

  “I will immediately ascertain, sir.” This time Lieutenant Sabre did salute, then turned hard on one heel and fairly marched out the door. There’s a saying in the Army: He’s so regular that he pisses at attention, and if ever I had seen an officer who fit that description, it was Lieutenant Sabre. I’ll bet he wore his hat even in the bath.

  “Mamma,” I pleaded, “can’t it wait?”

  Mamma sighed again. She looked terribly tired, as though she hadn’t slept well, which was also unusual, as she can sleep even in the saddle. “Darling, here—as soon as I sign the papers, then we’ll go to dinner. After, you go on home and I’ll come back here to finish up. Ayah so?”

  “Ayah so, Mamma,” I said, slightly solaced. Maybe that was better, anyway. Once Mamma got back to her office, she’d work all night, which would give Valefor and me a chance to plan our next move.

  “I just need to confirm a few Court-Martial sentences; it won’t take me very long. You can seal my signature; I know you love to seal.” Mamma rose from the settee and, after pouring herself another tot, sat at her desk and put her specs on.

  I do love to seal, so I pulled a chair up next to her. There is something deeply satisfying about making a perfect wax impression; it takes more skill than you might think. Lieutenant Sabre, now returned, opened files and shuffled papers, and Mamma sharpened her pen. I lit the spirit lamp and set the wax crucible to the flame. A
rmy sealing wax stinks of storax, bitter and pungent, but it smells good to me.

  “All right, Aglis, let’s go. We are burning daylight.”

  Sergeant Sabre read: “‘Sergeant Micalah Tsui Sanford, Second Dandies. Charges: Insubordination. Specification One: On Flores 15, Sergeant Sanford, whilst drunk, did stand upon the squad room dining table, singing “Chicken on a Raft” to the dishonor and detriment of the service. Specification Two: When ordered by his superior officer, Lieutenant Felix Boyd, to remove himself from the table, Sergeant Sanford did call Lieutenant Boyd a square-headed—’”

  “Just the verdict,” Mamma said hastily.

  “Mamma,” I protested.

  “Stay fresh and sweet as long as you can, my darling. Go on, Aglis, and skip the dirty details.”

  “I beg your pardon, General. ‘Verdict: That Sergeant Sanford be sent down dishonorably from the service. Recommendation of the Judge Advocate General: Sentence upheld.’”

  “I agree. Dictate addendum: Sergeant Sanford shall be held for thirty days’ hard labor, on bread and water, and then dishonorably discharged. If there is one thing that I can’t abide it’s insubordination.”

  Lieutenant Sabre blotted the addendum and handed the paper to Mamma. Her pen dipped and flew. Mamma’s signature is ornate and swirly. Try as I might I can never quite get my F to look so curly. When I have to turn in signed sheets for school, I always use Poppy’s signature, which is a wiggly blur and very easy to copy.

  Mamma handed the paper to me, and I rolled the blotter over her signature, carefully so that the ink did not smear. The wax was just about the right bubbly There’s an art to making sure that you don’t splatter when you pour, but I’ve got years of practice, so it’s no trouble to me. I can put ’em on or take ’em off, no big.

  “I need your seal, Mamma.”