D Cornish - Foundling

In it, of course, lay Europe.

He clambered out of his own and went to her side. She lay on her back, her head cushioned upon many marshmallowy pillows, the covers tucked right up under her chin. Her long hair had been gathered under a maid's cap just like one Verline would wear. Shivering as cold air blew in through the open window, bringing with it the smell of mown grass, he reached out, touching her smooth forehead with his forefinger.

The fulgar did not stir.

She felt cool now, in contrast to the feverish heat she had boiled with so recently. His curiosity mastering him, Rossamund cautiously stroked her spoor, the small diamond drawn so neatly above her left eye. Every side was straight and of equal length, the corners clear points, its bottom just meeting the hair of the brow. He had heard-he could not remember whether it was from Fransitart or somewhere else-that these spoors were made by using some acidic substance which left a permanent, yet somehow scarless brand. Why anyone would want to do something to themselves that sounded so painful was very puzzling: was it just vanity, or was it a warning? As far as he was concerned, the next time he saw a mark like this upon someone, he would be very wary of them. He stared at her blank, sickly face, hugging himself in the insufficient warmth of the borrowed nightgown, rubbing one foot against the opposite shin, then the reverse, to relieve the chill of the floorboards.

Suddenly he decided it was time to be dressed. He found his clothes in the cupboard, cleaned and pressed. Everything was there but his shoes. Rossamund got dressed, searching quietly all about the room as he did.

Where are those shoes?

Under his bed? No.

Under Europe's bed? No.

They were not in his closet, and so he went to the one that held Europe's effects. Her clothes had been washed too, and the cupboard was filled with the odor of the aromatics used to clean them. With this hung a sharp, honeylike scent he was beginning to recognize as Europe's own. He was sure he was doing something quite rude by even thinking of looking through the fulgar's belongings. He closed the closet quickly.

The door at the farther end of the room, of a wood so dark as to appear black, opened. In breezed a maid with a flurry of swishing skirts. When she saw Rossamund standing by the fulgar's bed, she seemed uncertain. She curtsied expertly, despite her burdens. "I've brought the doctor to see you, young master."

Rossamund ducked his head shyly.

A very serious and surprisingly young man entered the room. He was richly attired in a wonderfully patterned frock coat, flat-heeled buckled shoes known as mules, and a great white wig that stuck high in the air and left a faint puff of powder behind it.

"This is Doctor Verhooverhoven, our physician," the maid said, indicating the young man with a tray she carried, a tray holding two bowls of pumpkin soup that smelled so delicious Rossamund was immediately distracted by it. "And this, doctor, is uh, is…"

"Rossamund," said the foundling matter-of-factly.

"Ah… right you are, my… boy," said Doctor Verhooverhoven, squinting at him. "Delighted. How are you feeling?"

"Good, thank you."

"As it should be. I want you to have some of this soup that Gretel has kindly brought you," the doctor said as the maid placed the two bowls on a small table by the fire with a simpering blush. "I have fortified it with one of my personal restorative drafts, so it will see you righter than ever." He half turned to the maid. "You may leave now, Gretel. If I need anything, you will be the first to know."

The maid ducked her head, grinned at Rossamund and left again.

Doctor Verhooverhoven ambled over to the sickbed, hands behind his back. He stood over the unconscious lahzar and rocked back and forth on his heels. He checked the pulse in her neck, felt the temperature of her forehead, hmmed a lot and scrutinized her closely through a strange-looking monocle.

Rossamund sipped at his soup, which right then was about the sweetest thing he had ever had, and watched Doctor Verhooverhoven watching Europe.

At length the doctor turned his shrewd attention to the boy. "She is not your mother, is she, child?"

About to help himself to a mouthful of wonderful soup, Rossamund stopped with a slight splutter and fidgeted. "I-ah… No, sir-I never actually said that she was, though, sir. Others did… How did you…?"

Doctor Verhooverhoven adjusted his monocle. "How did I know, you were about to ask? Because you've got the Branden Rose here, my boy-heroic teratologist, infamous bachelorette and terror to the male of our species! She is not, if reputation serves, the mothering type! How, by the precious here and vere, did you come by her?"

The Branden Rose? That name was familiar to Rossamund, though he could not remember why. Perhaps he had read just such a name in one of his pamphlets? What a remarkable thing that would be to have fallen in with someone famous! He hung his head, feeling strangely uncomfortable. "She… saved me from a thirsty end-will she get better?"

"She ought to, child, with my skillful ministrations. I have been here since early this morning.You slept, my boy, while I scraped away the necrotic tissue and stitched that nasty gash about her throat. I have also balanced her humours and bled her a little against the disease of the wound. The only thing she needs now is that awful stuff her kind take-plaudamentum I believe it is called. I have sent out word for our local skold to be found, so it can be made. From my readings-which have by no means been extensive-a lahzar cannot go terribly long without it, two or three days at most… or things begin to go sour within." The physician rolled his eyes dramatically. "But, how-now, I need not frighten you with such detail."

Unfortunately, he had frightened Rossamund, though probably not in the way he had expected. Filled with urgency, the boy stood. "Do you mean her treacle, sir?"

"Ah-ha! That's the one. Cathar's Treacle! Just the stuff. When did she last have any?"

"Some time last night. I don't know when exactly, though, but I can brew it for her now, sir. I don't want her innards to go sour, and she's got all the makings."

The physician looked dubious.

"I made it for her the other night," Rossamund insisted. "If I've done it before, I can do it again…" The confidence in his own voice surprised him.

"Are you her factotum? You seem to me to be a little young for it." Doctor Verhooverhoven tapped at his mouth with his forefinger, eyebrows wriggling inquisitively.

"… No-sir, I'm not." Sometimes Rossamund almost regretted he found it so hard to lie.

"No? Ahh. We shall wait for this other to arrive then, shall we? She is a skold, and I am of the understanding that she knows how to make such a concoction." The physician took a high-backed chair from a corner and sat down on it by the fire.

"But why does she need it so badly?"

"A good question, my boy! A good question. Are you sure you want the answer?" Doctor Verhooverhoven looked very much as if he wanted to give it.

Rossamund indicated that he did want the answer.

"Of course you would. Well, you see-as I have read-when someone wants to become a lahzar, they usually take themselves off to a gloomy little city in the far south called Sinster. In that place there are butchers-'surgeons,' they insist on calling themselves-who will carve you up for a high fee. Are you following me?"

Rossamund nodded quickly.

"As you should, as you should. So, having gone this far-so the readings report-these surgeons take whole systems of exotic glands, bladders, vessels and viscera and sew them right in with all the existing entrails and nerves. Some say these new glands and such are grown for just this purpose, while others hold that they are 'harvested' from other creatures-no one agrees and the surgeons of Sinster aren't telling. Either way, when it is all done, the person is stitched back up again. Now-here comes the answer to your question-all these strange and exotic glands are wrong for the body. Consequently it reacts, eventually most violently, unless something is done to stop such a thing. That is the job of the plaudamentum-the Cathar's Treacle. Do you understand? They have to spend the rest of their lives taking the stuff every day to stop their natural organs from revolting against these introduced ones. This morbidity-this organ decay-once it takes hold, will eventually prove fatal. If this lady doesn't get hers soon, she will die. How-now, I think you'll find that covers it, anyway.Yes?"