D Cornish - Factotum

"Should I know you?" Europe's eyes narrowed.

"Ah-not directly perhaps, gracious lady, but you may have chanced to read my works; Gaspard Plume, gentleman, historian and metrician, at your convenience." He bowed.

Even in his exhaustion, Rossamund realized he had knowledge of this fellow, had read articles attributed to him in the better quality of his pamphlets.

"Indeed. Your kitchen, sir," Europe said, a hard edge to her voice.

"Ah. Absolutely… Fabia!" he suddenly hollered, a shrill edge in his voice. "FABIA!" he called again as he took them down the right-hand junction at the end of the obverse hall.

With the attendant rustle of skirts, a woman joined in step, her small brown face and dark and intense eyes startling among the general white of her high bonnet.

All the way Gentleman Plume called directions to staff somewhere in the house about them-and to anyone else who might be listening-for linen, blankets, tubs, hot water and towels. "… And some nice saloop and spiced toast to warm their gizzards and console their wind!"

Suddenly, through a short, pale green passage and up stone steps, they were in a long and rather antiquated kitchen. Surrounded by sturdy timber beams and immemorial stone, on a chest-stove stoked and hot for dinner, Rossamund tested the much-desired plaudamentum in a great pot ready for some other task.

Rossamund was only dimly aware of Europe leaning in fatigue on a highback chair behind him. When the treacle was done and poured into a side-handle soup bowl, his mistress barely waited for the thick black draught to cool before consuming it in one single unending swallow.

"My, my, that good, is it?" their gentleman host marveled. He took them now up some narrow backroom stairs to a broad landing of dark-paneled walls, the flapping of Freckle's wide feet sounding somewhere near.

Bearing a steaming pitcher together, the maid, the nightlocksman and several other serving souls hurried past.

In the simple comfort of the large room granted him, Rossamund found Fabia about to pour him a bath.Too tired for proper washing, he asked instead for just a basin.

His leaden eyelids becoming irresistibly heavy, he managed only a perfunctory scrub of his face, quickly turning the water brown, before he could resist fatigue no longer. Curling himself, proofing and all, on the spongy rug beside the bed, he fell fast asleep. In his slumber he had a dreamy notion of Freckle coming into the room to coo peaceful words as the glamgorn covered him with a blanket…

Rossamund did not return to the waking world-he learned soon enough-until the middle of the morning two days later. Vision swimming and rebellious, his first focus was the wide, somber red canopy of a bed. The last he had known was the rough comfort of the floor. Someone must have put me here. Tipping his head back, his sight quickly resolved on Darter Brown settled on the post of the headboard above him, the faithful sparrow's eyes half closed.

"Hello…," Rossamund composed with sluggish tongue. "How did you get in?"

The sparrow's eyes went swiftly wide. He gave a joyful chirrrup! and circled twice under the ruby-hued canopy before alighting on covers spread over Rossamund's chest, fluttering and blinking happily.

Smiling, the young factotum dozed for a moment, unmindful of where he was or why he was there, staring absently at the slot of sky and thickly lichened tiles glimpsed through broad wooden window frames. Large clean clouds scudded across the gap of blue. Cooing dove-song soothed his soul fraught with adventure, and for a time he just wallowed in the forgetfulness, sliding his limbs under the cozying touch of the crisp bed linen and breathing in deeply on the peculiarly tangy yet musky woody aroma that permeated the room… Only when he went to rub the tip of his itchy nose did he rediscover the odd leafy bandages that bound his hand and remember all the whys and wherefores of his current comfort.

Europe's treacle!

He sat up quickly, giving his side a sharp tweak and launching Darter Brown from his chest, fluttering just below the canopy and chirping in fright. It was then that he became aware of someone sitting in the corner of his vision by his bed: Europe, arms folded and legs crossed, reclined on a tandem. She was dressed not in her telltale red or magenta, but in a peculiar long-hemmed gown of deep green, collared with thick black feathers and figured with vines of lighter hue. With deft applications of rouges and creams from her fiasco, she seemed fresh and well. Faint amusement played across her mien as she regarded him serenely.

"Yes, I did make it myself, if that is what troubles you…"-Rossamund knowing full well she meant her treacle-"Many times…," she added archly as she pulled a bell rope that hung between her and the bed, her eyes glittering with more than she said.

Rossamund eased himself back down. "How is Master Pin?" he asked as Fabia entered with a rattle of crockery, bearing a late breakfast tray: steaming dollops of porridge, brooded new season rhubarb and a pitcher of fresh juice-oforange-a drink he would forever associate with Europe and convalescence.

"He will mend," the fulgar sighed as she smoothed the unfamiliar folds on her lap. "And despite catching a cold-what he calls a blighted catarrh-Master Vinegar fraternizes with the residents when he's not watching over you or Master Salt or blowing his ever-running nose…"

"And… and Cinnamon?" Rossamund asked carefully.

Darter Brown gave a cheep!

Europe waited, watching Fabia until the housekeeper left. "As pleased as I am for the sparrow-bogle's help, I do not care to be its keeper. I am more concerned about the puncture in your flank."

Rossamund looked up from his rhubarb brood. Puncture? He immediately felt his side and found a thick bandage there, bound about front and back. His first inclination was to take it off and see what manner of wound was beneath, yet Europe and spilling brood stopped him.

"It is a neat hole right through from front to back," his mistress explained. "One of those jackstraws must have found a gap in your proofing. I have witnessed lesser cuts kill a man…" She looked at him long, her eyes glinting strangely. "It is a convenient thing to suffer such a hurt and not be overly… discomfited."

Rossamund made a motion somewhere between a shrug and a nod.

"You have native thew that I have had to pay a duke's fortune to gain, little man," the fulgar pressed. "I would value it if I were you."

For a beat, Rossamund was sure he saw a twinkle of envy in her gaze. "I do" was his only reply.

"Good." Europe chuckled as if to change the subject. She folded her hands across her knees. "Knowing all that the butcher Swill could tell him, Maupin has himself seen, I would think, a handsome profit in your capture."

"Aye." Rossamund suppressed a shiver, revulsion alloyed with a frank and primal anger. "And to get to me they sought to kill you."

"Hmm…" The fulgar's gaze turned inward. "Just another casualty to the vagaries of travel on the Empire's harried roads… I am sure that is how my cousin Brandenate would word it in his condoling missive to my mother."