D Cornish - Foundling

Yes, your blasted, wicked Licurius, went Rossamund's thoughts.

"Aye, Miss Europe," went his mouth.

Rossamund did not look at Europe as he walked to the door. All the bad he had witnessed her do was a heavy, black pall in his thoughts. Just inside the door he spied his shoes, thoroughly clean and shining black. Over them Europe's high, violent-looking equiteer boots loomed. Rossamund took his shoes out from under their shadow and put them on. Without a word or a backward look, he left the room.

Early the next morning, Rossamund found Europe sitting quietly on a stiff chair by a newly lit fire, staring at the struggling flames. She held a soup bowl of Cathar's Treacle, meekly sipping at it rather than gulping it down. Waiting till she had finished her potive-feeling that this would be the best policy-he began.

"Miss?"

Europe turned her hazel gaze to him. "Yes, little man?"

He fidgeted. "What… what do you think of my name?"

The fulgar looked annoyed. "How do you mean, think?"

"Well, it's not a name meant for a boy. Did you know that?"

Her expression relaxed. She laughed her liquid chortle. "Oh, I seeee! So, some would have it meant for a girl? What concern is it of mine how your sires chose to label you? Things are more than their names. If you were anointed 'Dunghead,' I'd still call you that without teasing or embarrassment. It's just a word, little man." She gave him a soft look-faint, but unusually kind.

Rossamund's heart sang a little. The fulgar might have gone some small way to redeeming herself for the harm done at the Brindlestow Bridge.

For a time she did not speak, and Rossamund went to leave. Europe reached over and touched him on the arm. She said, very quietly, "I understand why you asked me this, though, and I'm sure it has been a great inconvenience to you for much of your life."

He blinked at her capricious kindness. After a moment he answered, "Aye, ma'am, it has at that. They would call me 'Rosy Posy' or 'Girly-man' or 'M'lady' or… or more things besides."

The fulgar contemplated him with a serious eye. "Hardly surprising. Children begin the cruel career of the untamed tongue almost as soon as they can talk." She paused, and continued to look at him intently. He took the bowl from her to give himself something to do under that uncomfortable gaze.

"I hope you learn to master your hurts, little man."

Rossamund kept his eyes on the black dregs in the bottom of the bowl. "Oh, I just ignored them, stayed out of the way as much as possible. Master Fransitart and Verline looked after me very well, anyways, so I don't mind."

Europe shifted in her seat. "So, who are these-Master Fransitart and… Verline?" she asked, pulling out a small, black lacquered box.

Rossamund relaxed. "Oh, Master Fransitart is… was my dormitory master, though not the only one: there's Craumpalin and Heddlebulk, Instructor Barthom?us and Undermaster Cuspin…"

Europe's eyes glazed and she went back to looking at the fire. It appeared that she had lost interest.

"… and Verline is Madam Opera's parlor maid, but she took special care of me," Rossamund said, finishing quickly, wanting at least to answer her original question.

"Madam Opera, now?" Europe's attention fixed on him again and she lifted one brow in her characteristic manner. "Enough names.Your first years sound almost as complicated as mine were. Go away now, little man. A woman must have her privacy. Let me know as soon as… Licurius' body… and the landaulet are fetched back." Her shoulders sagged and, even though she had just risen, she looked very tired.

Rossamund nodded a little bow and, holding the soup bowl in one hand and picking up his almanac in the other, went to leave. As he opened the door, Europe called, "And tell them not to disturb me."

"Yes, Miss Europe."

As confused as he had ever been after a conversation with the fulgar, Rossamund went to the common room. Strangely, he also felt lighter than he had for many days. He read his almanac and sipped on a mug of small beer. In the afternoon Gretel came to him while he still sat in the common room. Dank, the day-watch yardsman, was with her and announced to the foundling that the landaulet had been retrieved.

Rossamund went out to the yard and found the carriage to be as much in the state they had left it, as could be expected. He asked after the corpse of the leer.

"Well, ye see," said Dank, scratching his head, "there was no body, not the horse's nor this Licurius fellow's."

Rossamund's heart sank. The growing lightness within him evaporated, without even a memory of it ever occurring at all. His face must have shown his sinking spirits, for Gretel put her hand softly on his shoulder.

"'Tis the way of things," the day-watch yardsman explained. "Monsters love their meat, and the skin and bones of people most of all. Sorry, lad. I'm sure your mistress will understand. She seems a worldly woman, if her reputation has it right."

With a heavy sigh, Rossamund made his way to his room, Gretel and Dank-hat humbly in hand-accompanying him. When they were permitted to enter, Europe seemed in good spirits. With much "um"-ing and "ah"-ing, Rossamund gave her the grim news.

Dank confirmed his report almost as awkwardly. "We searched as long and as far as we dared, ma'am, but turned up nought…"

Black gloom immediately descended upon the fulgar, and she ordered everyone from the room with a chilling whisper. As Rossamund left, she called to him. Her eyes were hard and her expression brittle. "We will need a new driver," she said.

Rossamund hesitated, the question of how forming in his mind and making its way to his mouth.

The fulgar's eyes narrowed.

"Y-yes, Miss Europe," the foundling said, and left quickly.

He sought out Mister Billetus about such a task, and the proprietor told him that the town of Silvernook, a little way to the north, was the best place to find coachmen, wagoners and other drivers.

"Just go to the coachman's cottage of the Imperial Postal Office," offered Mister Billetus. "'Tis where all the drivers spend their time waiting their turn to drive the mail from town to town."

As it was deemed too late in the day for him to proceed, Rossamund was forced to wait till the next day to seek a driver in Silvernook. Instead he went to the common room to have dinner. Just as the night before, a maid served him and he chose a meal from a list upon a large oblong of card she held.

At the top it read "Bill of Fare"… and beneath the dishes were categorized under subheadings: "Best Cuts" and "The Rakes." The difference Rossamund could not fathom. Last night he had chosen lamprey pie from the list headed "The Rakes" because he had had it once before and did not recognize the names of any of the other meals. It did not taste very good. Tonight he picked the venison ragout, and also asked for an exotic-sounding drink listed as "Juice-of-Orange." When this beverage arrived, it had a flavor that, yet again, amazed the simple tastes of the foundling. Sharp, sweet, tangy, refreshing, the juice was like the best orange he had ever eaten. The venison ragout, on the other hand, he found a bizarre flavor in his mouth, making it tingle and smart, but he pushed it down all the same. Not even the fussiest book child ever left food on a plate.