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

  “I am afraid, Paimon,” I said smally.

  “Why is that?”

  “Lord Axacaya hates Mamma, and his Quetzals tore out the heart of Boy Hansgen. What if his Quetzals want to do that to me?”

  “They will not. Come, Flora.”

  I sat up reluctantly. “Why are things shifting back and forth?”

  “You are Elsewhere now,” Paimon said. He rustled around in a tree trunk—no, a wardrobe—no, a tree trunk. It was awfully confusing. “Where things can be more than they appear.”

  “So that was Udo as a man that I saw?”

  Paimon turned, clutching a mass of red froth to his chest. “Ayah.”

  “If that was Udo as a man, then that was Poppy as a boy? Why did I see Udo forward and Poppy back, instead of both back or both forward? That doesn’t make sense.” Nothing in this House made any sense. It was enough to make you sick. “I am confused, Paimon.”

  “Udo has no past and Major Fyrdraaca has no future.”

  I followed Paimon by a leafy bower, invitingly plump with pink pillows and a trailing canopy of roses and grapevines. The bower looked so cool and delicious that I wanted nothing more than to fling myself into its depths, lie among the poppies and rose petals, and dream of long languid rivers, of floating aimlessly in a narrow lulling punt, trailing my hand in the cool water, and drinking gin fizzies. Then I blinked again and saw the bower to be a large overstuffed bed, heaped with pink pillows and covered by a carved wooden lattice.

  Paimon heaped the dress on a rock and held out a hand to me. “In you go. The water is perfect.” I blinked, and a pool became a steamy bathtub filled with glimmering bubbles.

  “Can you make things be one or the other?” I asked. “I am getting rather dizzy.”

  “You must focus, madama. In you go.”

  I decided that I liked the glade better, and with that decision, there was no more bouncing back and forth. I threw my clothes at Paimon, and the splash I made jumping in was so big that he got drippy and wet. I floated and spun in the soothing water, staring at the serene blue sky, until Paimon started scrubbing. No matter how hard I wiggled and complained, or even bit, his right hand was like iron and his left hand was like sandpaper, and by the time he was done I felt like a shrimp that had just been boiled and peeled. But, Pigface, was I clean!

  “I thought I was discorporeal now. Why do I have to have a bath and change clothes if I have no real body?” I asked. “What’s the point?”

  “You are seeing things as you are used to seeing them, in corporeal form, so that they make sense to you. But what you are seeing are symbols. It is not your body that you are cleaning, but your true self. You cannot go to see Lord Axacaya with a grubby soul, can you?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I guess not.”

  “You must go to Lord Axacaya as a supplicant, but yet you wish him to understand that your request is an important and serious request, made respectfully. Therefore you must look serious and respectful.”

  Nini Mo says that to get something you must look as though you don’t actually need it. If you look hopeless, even if you are hopeless, why would anyone help you out?

  Paimon plucked me from the pool like I was a sodden tea bag, then wrapped me in a fluffy towel the size of the City before bearing me back to the bower. There I was slithered into a chemise, stuffed like a sausage into stays, and laced tighter than a drum.

  “I can’t breathe!” I puffed, as Paimon cinched the laces tighter. He almost yanked me off my feet, and I grabbed at a tree trunk for support.

  “Do not hold your breath,” he ordered. “You do not need to breathe here.”

  Paimon the Merciless continued to tug until I thought I would break in two, and before I could protest, he tossed a froth of vivid red over my head. I emerged from the rosy foam coughing and gasping, and when I was done choking and Paimon was done lacing and tucking, my cheeks were almost as red as the dress.

  “I look like a bloody nightmare,” I protested when I saw my filmy reflection in the mirror. “I cannot wear this to meet Lord Axacaya. I don’t look serious or important at all.”

  The skirt was huge and fluffy, like a giant blown rose or a waft of cotton candy. Sleeves puffed like balloons from my elbows, but my shoulders and neck were chilly and bare, and the neckline was cut awfully low.

  “You look very fine,” Paimon said, slightly hurt. “I designed this dress myself, madama, and it suits you perfectly.”

  “But I look all fluffy!”

  “You look grown-up.” Paimon descended upon me, with a brush in one long hand and a sheaf of combs in the other. He twiddled and twirled and brushed and bouffanted. When he was done, my hair, normally so frizzy, was a sleek mass of curls hanging in perfect spirals down my back, caught by each ear with a spangled diamond clip. The hairbrush was replaced by maquillage brushes, which fluttered over my face like little butterflies, dipping and swirling color on my eyelids, cheeks, and lips. Last, Paimon handed me crimson gloves, soft as butter, and then a fan case.

  Two thin chains unwound into my hand, dangling from a heavy silver clip. The fan withdrew from the sheath easily and when I flipped my wrist, it unfurled with a snap. Paimon clipped the fan frog onto my sash so that it hung on my hip like a sabre or a holster.

  “There, madama,” Paimon said, proudly “It has been a while since I have acted as a dresser. General Haðraaða was quite particular about his attire, but General Haðraaða Segunda was very careless with hers. I am pleased to see that I still have the touch. You look fine.”

  He flipped a full-length mirror out of Nowhere, and there I was, reflected in its silvery shimmer, and I did look fine. I wouldn’t say I was beautiful, but I wasn’t bad. Udo is right—it’s amazing what a little maquillage can do for you, particularly if you don’t lay it on with a trowel.

  And Paimon was right, too—I felt a whole lot more confident about facing Lord Axacaya.

  “I hope I am irresistible,” I said.

  “You will do,” Paimon said, with satisfaction. “Come.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Many Rooms. Many Times. Advice.

  NOW I DISCOVERED that if I gave a little skip and swished my buoyant skirt in bell-like fashion, I could glide for several feet, at least, before I needed another little push to send me aloft and forward again. It was like flying, only instead of wings I had the huge poofiness of my skirts to keep me moving.

  Paimon wafted down an enormous stairway, wide enough to march an entire squad abreast, his shoes making a delicate tapping sound on the porphyry steps, and I floated down after him effortlessly. A little snake’s head at the end of the banister winked at me as I sailed by.

  “Don’t dawdle,” Paimon said over his shoulder. “We have a long way to go.”

  “How are we going to get there?” I whisked my skirts faster to catch up with him.

  “You shall see. Come!”

  A narrow greyhound slid up to me, rubbing his head on my skirts, and when I bent down to pet his soft head, another cold nose shoved its way into my hand—a slender red dog who was not Flynnie. The greyhound growled, and I thumped him once between the eyes with my finger. “I have two hands. I can pet you both.”

  Paimon turned, wafting disapproval. “Get down, Kria, and you get down as well, Parzival. You are going to get dog hair all over madama’s dress. Madama, please do not encourage them.”

  “How come I can pet these dogs and I couldn’t pet Flynnie and the others?”

  “Because these dogs are dead,” Paimon answered.

  “You mean they are ghosts?” They looked pretty solid to me, and they felt pretty solid as well, although Parzi-val seemed a little bony.

  “That’s a colloquial term. But yes, ghosts, if you will.”

  “Poor things. I’ll bet they get lonely being ghosts all the time.”

  Paimon gently took my arm and drew me away from the disappointed doggies, who fell into a trot behind us. “We must hurry, madama, we are late as it is.”

  “I’m sorr
y, Paimon,” I said. “It is hard to concentrate. I feel all drifty and dreamy—like none of this is real.”

  “In the strictest sense of the Waking World, madama, none of this is real. Although in the strictest sense of Elsewhere, none of the Waking World is real. Elsewhere is a place of shifting and constant movement, and it takes a great deal of concentration to hold yourself together in it. However, you must try, or else you will drift so far into Elsewhere that even Lord Axacaya will not be able to help you back, for there will no longer be any you to return. That which was Flora will have splintered into a thousand tiny bits and scattered into the Abyss, and you will be gone forever.”

  Forever. The word shivered through me, spreading coldness. I focused on the hard heat of the dog’s head beneath my hand, and Paimon nodded approvingly. “That’s better. Come. We must go through some of the most distant reaches of the House. You must stick close to me, madama. Should we lose each other, it may take me some time to find you again.”

  I nodded. Now that I was used to his face, Paimon didn’t seem monstrous at all. His ears were so silky and soft-looking, and his eyes were filled with kindness. And he was such a pretty shade of blue, damson twilight, blueberry dawn. I clutched his hand tightly, and on we went, the two doggies close behind us.

  Through a solarium, weaving in and around elegantly dressed people clutching wineglasses and eating little snacky things, their chattering voices far and distant like a melody on the wind.

  Through the Ballroom of the Battle of Califa, now filled with rows of narrow beds, white catafalques for silently suffering soldiers, pristine bandages dabbled with blood, the silence broken only by the occasional stifled sob.

  Through a dining room, the clink of glasses and dull murmur of conversation in pale candlelight. I caught sight of a bobbing gold feather—Mamma, with a huge pregnant tummy that kept her from pulling in close to the table.

  “That’s Mamma,” I said, trying to pull away from Paimon. But he refused to drop his grip.

  “No, it’s just a memory of your mother and a meal here she had many years ago,” Paimon said, drawing me onward past the head of the table where a Skinner sat, looking as though she could chew glass.

  Down a darkened hallway, past a small child in a white nightgown, sleepily clutching a plushy pink pig, rubbing her eyes and crying distantly, “Bwannie ... Bwannie.”

  Through the Ballroom again, this time thronged with dancers, the officers in unfamiliar green and gold uniforms, their golden gorgets gleaming in the lamplight. The civilians had towering hair, sculptured into swirls and crests, and inset with little trinkets—a ship, a castle, chirping red birds. Outside, the sea thrashed at the windows, and the sky was filled with falling red stars. Not stars, but hot shot—cannonballs.

  Then before us curled a familiar iron gate, familiar green jade steps sinking downward into limpid darkness: the Cloakroom of the Abyss.

  The flaring light and the dusty clothes were the same, only now the marks of death were all too clear on the still faces. Georgiana Haðraaða was flushed purple with poison, and the orange she held was shriveled. Serentha Haðraaða’s lips were locked in the rictus of travail, her skirts crusted with dried blood, and the malnourished baby was also malformed, with a crooked little back and flipper hands. The little pug dog Fancy’s muzzle was flecked with foam, stubby paws and legs rigid and stiff.

  I was awfully glad that the drapes to Hardhands’s catafalque were closed. I did not want to see what was behind those sangyn curtains, which, as we passed them, seemed to move as though perhaps the thing they concealed had stirred.

  We circled the room and then ascended the same steps we had just come down.

  “Why are we going back the way we came?” I asked.

  “You can never go the same way twice, madama,” Paimon said. “The way may appear the same, but it is different and so are you.”

  He was right. Now at the top of the steps was a small door, narrow and not tall enough for Paimon to go through. It was closed.

  “I can go no further,” Paimon said. “You must go alone from here.”

  “Can’t you go with me?” I asked hopefully.

  “I cannot. This is the limit of my authority.”

  “Lord Axacaya is Mamma’s great enemy.”

  “Does she say so, or does he?”

  “She does. She hates him for what he has done to the City, and to the Republic. Do you think he’ll really help me, knowing how Mamma feels?”

  Paimon put an enormous hand on my head. His touch was as light as swan’s down. “Sometimes we believe things to be true that are based not in truth but our own fears and desires. Sometimes things and people are not what they seem to be. Sometimes people have the same goals but different ideas about how to reach them, Flora.” “And Poppy—”

  Paimon’s touch became heavier. “The time for thought is past, Flora. You must not think. You have made your decision. You must act.”

  He held out a little red leather box, snapped shut with a gold clasp. “It is rude to visit someone and not take them a gift. Give this to Lord Axacaya as a token of your appreciation. And when he asks you to tell him your situation, do so clearly and truthfully. Be respectful and humble but not servile. Be polite, but do not grovel.”

  I took the box, and gratefully. “Thank you, Paimon, for everything. I am sorry that we ran from you. You have been so nice. Thank you very much.”

  “It is my pleasure to serve you. I hope perhaps you will visit me again sometime. Remember, Flora: Dare, win or disappear. Now go forth.”

  Paimon’s tusks brushed my forehead, smooth and cooling, and when I kissed his cheek, it felt petal soft under my lips.

  I pushed the door open and stepped forward.

  FORTY-TWO

  Black Sand. Flying. Lord Axacaya.

  SAND CRUNCHED UNDER my feet, and ahead of me stretched a long beach: the Pacifica Playa. But not the Pacifica Playa as I had ever seen it before. The sky and surging sea were the same quicksilver gray, but the water pounded on sand that glittered black as soot. It was as though someone had reversed night, turned the light to dark and dark to light. The air was strangely still. The surf rolled silently up onto the sand, then silently surged back. If the sky above had stars, they were invisible against the silver.

  I turned to look the way I had come and saw Bilskinir shining blue on the cliff above me. It was a cheerful gleam of color in an otherwise colorless world, which despite the silvery glitter seemed drab for the lack of any contrasting shade.

  There was movement in the sheen of the silver sky: an eagle. The bird circled me, at first so high I could barely make out the sweep of its wings, but then swooping lazily lower to drift menacingly around me. Though a sizzle of fear shot up my spine, I did not give ground, even when the eagle wheeled up, then dropped into a screaming dive, claws outstretched, directly toward me.

  At the very last minute, the eagle pulled up slightly. Then eagle legs stretched down into human legs, and the eagle body transformed into a lithe human form, and as elegantly as a dancer, it landed on the sand before me. The eagle feathers had translated into a knee-length feathery kilt and a feather cape, but the sleek eagle head, all enormous green eyes and hooked beak, had not changed.

  “Ave, Flora Fyrdraaca,” the Quetzal said in a soft fluid voice, then sank into the deep fluttering courtesy that signified Meeting as Equals, but Me Slightly Above. “I, Axila Aguila, give you greetings.”

  I responded with a courtesy of my own, a courtesy that said Before You and Better. “I, Flora Fyrdraaca, return those greetings with great pleasure. I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

  “We have met before,” the Quetzal said, “at the Zoo Battery, when you tried to steal the traitor from us.”

  The Quetzal recognized me! Again I felt that wave of terror skitter up my spine, but I ignored it and said firmly, “You were stealing him yourself.”

  “Perhaps so,” said the Quetzal, and it seemed like there was a hint of humor in its voice. �
�Cree el ladrón que todos son de su condición. A thief believes everyone else is a thief, too. Axacaya has sent me to act as your escort.”

  “How did he know I was coming?” I asked, wondering what exactly it had meant by the thief remark. That I was not the only thief, or that I was paranoid?

  “He swims in the Current, and nothing there is hidden from him. He has been waiting for you. Will you come?”

  There is no way out but through.

  “I will.”

  “We shall go, then.” The Quetzal spread wide its arms. The feathered cape fell away from its torso, and by the clingy drape of its thin white chemise, I saw, with a jolt, that the Quetzal was female.

  “Come,” she said impatiently.

  I realized that she wanted me to step into her embrace, and I hesitated. The idea of touching the Quetzal made my insides quiver. I did not want to get close to that razory beak, those claws. Somewhere, once, I had read that eagles are so strong that they can crush bones with their talons. True, the Quetzal’s talons curled at the end of human fingers, but surely they had the same strength.

  The Quetzal turned her head in a smooth swivel left, then right, and her eyes flashed luminous green, like a cat’s eye caught in a light. “Will you have Axacaya wait?”

  ... but through.

  I no longer had any bones to crush, no flesh to tear, and what could she do to me that was worse than I had done to myself? Squeezing my shoulders together in a bit of a huddle, and twisting my hands together at my throat, I stepped forward into the Quetzal’s embrace and closed my eyes. She folded wiry arms around me, clutching me to her chest, which, save for her soft breasts, was hard with muscle. She smelled faintly metallic, the odor of old dried blood, and also of acrid vanilla. The bare skin of her neck against my cheek felt downy.

  With a sound like ripping silk, her wings tore at the sky. I felt the spring of her leap, and we were aloft. Air roared by, as loud as a train, and the darkness pressing against my eyes spun and whirled. The beat of her flight filled my ears with a rhythmic pulse that matched the throbbing heartbeat beneath my head.