D Cornish - Foundling

Rossamund urgently wanted to ask Fransitart to finish the telling of the fight with the monster and the secret things, the shocking things beyond and behind this. He had the courage now that so little time was left until he departed, but Verline did not leave them alone long enough for him to venture a question.

"I know ye weren't thinking to be a lamplighter," Fransitart said unexpectedly, "but not ev'ryone who studies law becomes a lawyer, lad. Things may change for ye yet. Paths need not be as fixed or as straight fo'ward as they might first show." He looked hard into Rossamund's eyes. "Now ye've got to be especially wary out there, me boy. Ye get me?"

Rossamund nodded slow and sad.

"Most ev'ryone is not goin' to be as understandin' of ye as Verline here, or crusty old Craump'lin or meself," the old sea dog continued. "Guard yeself, pick ye friends cautiously and always keep wearin' that brew ye got from Craump'lin. He knows his trade better than most-it will keep ye well protected." Fransitart sniffed. "Take me words to heart, son. It's a wild and wicked world beyond here and I'm loath to let ye out into it. But out ye must go, and ye've got to be sharp and wise and keep yeself from trouble. Aye?"

"I will, Master Fransitart, I will," Rossamund said with all the earnestness he could muster.

The dormitory master took something out of his pocket and passed it to the boy. It was a long and thin-bladed knife in a blacked leather sheath, a tool much like the ones Rossamund had seen fishermen use when cleaning their catch on the stone-walled banks of the river.

As he gave the knife, Fransitart fixed Rossamund once more with a serious eye. "Out in the world a knife is an 'andy thing to 'ave. Mark me, though! If ye must use this 'ere in a tussle," he said, wagging his finger, "then make certain ye means to, or else it'll get taken from ye an' used upon yeself instead!"

Rossamund nodded, though he did not really understand. He had no intention of using the knife for anything but the cutting of food.

To his dismay, Rossamund was made to have another bath, though he had had one only two days earlier. "Make you nice and fresh for your great going forth, young man," Verline declared as she sent him to the tubs. Smelling like lemongrass soap, he returned to the dormitory. As all the boys were piped to bed, Weems and Gull, two of the next-oldest, who would be leaving themselves next season, and who always did things together, teased him for his flowery smell. Rossamund just shrugged. Tonight would be the last time he would have to put up with them.

Restless with dreams and worries of what was to come and a keen suspicion that Gosling might try some horrid final prank, he slept little that night.

Finally, at the start of the morning watch, Rossamund was roused by a silent Fransitart. He followed the dim guide of the dormitory master's shuttered bright-limn and bid good-bye, with one lingering look, to the dormitory. Snores and whimpers and sighs replied in unconscious, uninterested farewell.

So this is what it feels like to be leaving for good, he marveled.

Master Fransitart left him at the basins to wash his face and put on all the fancy new things that were waiting there for him. He was especially careful to apply one-two-three-four-five-six-seven splashes of Craumpalin's Exstinker to the cambric bandage. Seven days' worth. He wound it tightly around his chest just as the dispensurist had shown him before donning the rest of his attire.

In the dining hall he found a breakfast of rye porridge with curds-and-whey and sweetened with honey. A lantern sat on the side to light his last meal at the foundlingery. It was as fancy a breakfast as he had ever had, and it spoke of Verline's care. He was just a little sad as he ate alone, the tap of his spoon against the bowl echoing in the lonely dark. Verline's love would be hard to live without, but at last he was getting out!

With the early glow of approaching dawn showing through the high windows, Fransitart returned. He came into the dining hall carrying Rossamund's satchel and valise.

"Time to be going, lad," rasped Fransitart, his voice sounding pinched and strange.

Rossamund followed him to the vestibule by the front door where Madam Opera waited. Standing before the front doors, Rossamund was granted his baldric. A leather-and-cloth strap that went over the right shoulder and looped by the left hip, it was given to all lads when they were declared to be passing from boyhood into manhood. Typically it was marked with the mottle-the colors-of one's native city. This one was patterned in sable and mole checkers-that is, a checkerboard of black and brown, the mottle of Boschenberg. Master Fransitart, solemn and still silent, put it on Rossamund and, that done, plonked a handsome black thrice-high upon his head. At last he was completely equipped.

Madam Opera grimaced tightly. "You do look well set up-perhaps too well," she added with a sidelong glance at Fransitart. She gave Rossamund a single pat on his head. "Step forward strongly, boy, like the hundreds have done before you. This world does not reward tears. Time to be on your way."

Rossamund wrestled on the valise, fixed his new knife to his new baldric, slung the satchel containing the food, turnery, the biggin and the repellents and the rest across his other shoulder, and pocketed his purse of small coins.

Master Fransitart held Rossamund by the shoulders. "Good-bye, lad," he said at last.

"Good-bye, Master Fransitart," Rossamund whispered. "Tell Miss Verline and Master Craumpalin good-bye," he added.

Madam Opera made a small disapproving noise, but Fransitart smiled and replied, "I surely will, lad. Now! Step lively, new duties await ye!"

Rossamund took up his old stock and the peregrinat, doffed his hat as he thought a man might and stepped reluctantly out into the foggy autumn dawn.

As he turned to go on his way, he caught a glimpse of some of the children who remained, woken early and watching from the high windows of the foundlingery. Among them was Gosling. Rossamund was certain he would be fuming with silent jealousy.

Good riddance, he thought.

He followed the Vlinderstrat toward Hermeneguild and the river district, quickly reaching the point where tall shops and high apartments obscured Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society from view. His heart swelling with sharp, nameless regrets, he joined the dawning hustle of Sooningstrat.

.

Mister Sebastipole was waiting as he said he would be, standing in the fog at the top of the Padderbeck Stair. He was wearing his telltale coachman's cloak and black thrice-high. He had his own satchel hanging across his body together with an oddly ordinary-looking box on a thick strap. Rossamund tried not to stare at the box. Inside it would be the leer's sthenicon. He had expected it to be much more unusual, and he was just a little disappointed to see that it was so very plain and ordinary. Sebastipole had been holding a small portable clock or some other such device when Rossamund arrived, and now secreted it away.

"You are late, young fellow," he stated flatly. "A lamps-man's life is punctuality-'twould be best to start forming that habit soon, don't you think?" There was no ire in Mister Sebastipole's voice, just honest, unself-conscious reproof. Rossamund had never encountered anything like it before.