House Perilous, page 7
“Oh, I have an idea, all right,” she said, tutting at him. “We all have an idea, don’t we? Her ladyship’s gone and taken prisoners again. The notice-not charm leaves a lemon scent in the air, and why else would my flour and hams smell of citrus at this time of year? Not to mention all the crashing and banging that shakes up my blessed kitchen every time one of them tries to escape. I had to bake three sponge cakes this morning. The first two were ruined thanks to vibrations from Down There.”
Perrault placed his cup and plate back on the table, an entirely insincere expression of sympathy on his face. “It’s a scandal, what you have to deal with, Mrs B.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” the cook said quickly. “I love our mistress dearly, she’s been good to me, and to all of us below stairs. She’s just not one for remembering that them that works for her has ears and brains for ourselves.” She added a slap of flour to her dough. “It’s no skin off my nose if she wants to keep forty prisoners down there, I’m sure she has her reasons. It’s the pretence I’ve no time for.”
“You’re a busy woman,” Perrault agreed in a bored drawl. “All you ask is a little respect.”
The cook was supposed to know him well; could she not tell that something was amiss with the gentleman? Or perhaps he always behaved like this in London, and Flavia had never got the measure of him before now.
“…And I could do without those memory charms she slaps on me after sending me down to feed the poor mites she has chained up in the cellar, and all,” complained the cook. “It does my head in, having to keep track of all my meal plans and grocery orders with part of the day’s thoughts missing from my head. It’s insulting, that’s what it is.”
Flavia drew back from the kitchen doorway. The yellow cat glared balefully at her. “No,” she whispered. “I can see quite clearly that you meant me to overhear that, and that you intend me to go and investigate these prisoners in the cellar. I’m not going to do it. My only responsibility in this house is to the children, and we are in enough trouble without poking our nose into whatever else Lady Mortmain is cooking up. It’s none of my business.”
Bad enough that this house was run by an enchantress with sinister designs on her own niece and nephew. Now there was a cat who could predict conversations in kitchens? Flavia did not like this at all.
The yellow cat continued to gaze at her as she backed away.
“Don’t give me that,” she hissed. “You are not the one paying my wages. I absolutely, categorically refuse to follow the non-verbal instructions of an enchantress’s house pet.”
The cat looked away only once, to stare meaningfully at the lamps that hung in sconces along the corridor wall, and then in the direction of a staircase that could only lead to the cellar.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Flavia.
Rinaldo woke.
It had been weeks, yes? More than days. It was so hard to tell.
The most worrying aspect was the time lapses. He was certain that their food was regularly dosed with memory charms. Other spells as well, he imagined.
He might convince Orlando to skip a meal or two to test his theory, but he did not recall eating anything since they arrived. His belly always felt sated. Hard to go on a hunger strike when you were eating in your sleep — or in some other drugged condition you could not recall.
On the rare occasion he was able to drag Orlando’s attention away from his latest disastrous magical escape attempt, it was clear that his brother had corresponding gaps in his own memory.
Being chained to a wall was tiring and painful, and yet neither of them were in as bad shape as Rinaldo might have predicted. They must be getting some kind of exercise which they did not recall. He believed that during many of these holes in his memory, his magic had been similarly exercised.
Rinaldo had held back from using his magic in the cellar, except for the occasional droplets he allowed his brother to borrow for his escape plans. Going for weeks without properly releasing the sparks in his system should have his body in rebellion. He should be ready to explode, his limp fingers summoning every teaspoon and garden rake and pin in this house.
But Rinaldo’s magic remained quiet, as sated as his belly. Either the enchantress was stealing it from him in some way, wringing him out like a sponge, or… he was employing it himself, and did not remember the circumstances.
Orlando grew more and more inventive with his attempts to escape the bonds placed upon them by the enchantress. Every time he tried, some new layer of her magic would unravel to stop him.
His manacles-and-chain had been daisy chains for some days: before that they were variously rope, spiky rose stalks, snakes, and on one particularly distressing afternoon, a dark tar that oozed out of the walls and engulfed not only Orlando’s wrists, but his entire body.
Rinaldo’s own chains were largely left alone, though sometimes the latest counter-spell would affect him too, for the hell of it. That at least gave he and his brother an opportunity to yell at each other for a while, which was somewhat satisfying.
Rinaldo broke his own ‘no unnecessary magic’ rule to transform a teaspoon into a rudimentary lock pick which at least had kept Orlando quiet for a few days, if ‘quiet’ meant ‘bringing even more magical defences down upon his head.’
“She’s using us for something,” Rinaldo told Orlando. “She wants us alive and working on some diabolic project of hers. Considering that our speciality is creating giant automata out of household metals, do you think we should be concerned?”
To which Orlando replied: “If I could just find the right substance to transform these chains into before the counter spell kicks in… did I try milk already?” which showed he wasn’t really listening.
During his darker hours, Rinaldo considered how stupid they had been to return here, expecting Lady Mortmain to keep her promise and reward them for their quest into Arden. It was clear she did not want them free to tell the world about her secrets.
If only they had stayed in that bloody tavern. It was not often that Rinaldo could mark a point where their lives would have trod a better path if they had only drunk more on a particular night, but he wished he was there at Samson’s place now, carousing stupidly with his brother and never once thinking about the mess they had made of things with Queen Isolda, and her daughter.
(Ygraine. What had happened to her after that mess of a wedding? Rinaldo wished he could take it all back, apologise. Most of all, he wished that when he and Orlando fled the palace, they had not taken the damned cat with them, and dropped it straight into the hands of Lady Mortmain.)
They could have made a run for it, after All Hallows. Could have taken the philtres Orlando stole from the fountains, and used them to fund a trip across the ocean to Vienna, or Egypt. Even India. Rinaldo’s country of origin might be ruled by Queen Isolda’s viceroys, but surely her wrath could not extend across the entire land. Rinaldo was so sick of fighting to belong in this wretched country with its rain and its arrogant aristocrats, and that surprised expression most white people displayed when they heard the upper class Britannian accent he had learned from a decade living as a curiosity in a palace.
He was even sick of his name, a stolen conceit from a fairy story. His name was Orlando’s fault. Everything was Orlando’s fault.
Rinaldo had learned at an early age that wherever he went there would always be Britannians who thought it reasonable to treat him poorly because of his dark hair, skin, eyes. It infuriated him now to remember how accepting he had been of that — a quiet child, who wanted nothing more than to spend his life fixing things.
As Rinaldo Device, Royal Engineer, he had enjoyed the greatest and best ‘fixing things’ job that the Empire could possibly have to offer. With the Queen’s patronage, he and Orlando had both benefited from being seen as exotic and fashionable instead of suspicious foreigners. The world had offered itself up on a plate for Rinaldo and Orlando Device… for a while.
There was no recapturing that, no possible redemption. Not even if they dipped the cat in gold and presented it on a diamond plate.
Not if they knelt at the feet of Princess Ygraine and begged for her forgiveness.
Rinaldo could not begin to imagine who he might be without the fancy suits, top hats and grand reputation of the Extraordinary and Miraculous Device Brothers: engineers and metallurmages to the Crown. He was not that shy and terrified child from the Worthy Orphans any more, the boy who had disappeared in Buckingham Palace and become someone quite new.
He was not Rajendra, orphan of no last name, no history, no family. He would not want to be that boy again. But what remained?
What would he even do, in India? He would be a stranger, lost in a land full of strangers. Here, at least, in Britannia he knew what to be afraid of.
Enchantresses, mostly.
Everything had bled out of him here in this cellar: purpose, hunger, ambition. Everything except his anger. He wanted to hate Orlando for how it had all turned out, but their downfall was like their magic. Equally owned by them both.
Orlando sang quietly under his breath. It was one of those things he did when he was bored. Clearly, the lockpick had lost its mystique. Rinaldo looked across at his brother, who had been irritating him for their entire imprisonment, and found himself smiling, despite it all.
At least neither of them were alone.
He might change his mind if Orlando was still singing the same song half an hour from now, but for now Rinaldo had his company to be grateful for.
A brother was the best gift he had ever been given; the best thing he had ever taken for himself.
“Cat,” said Orlando suddenly, breaking into Rinaldo’s train of thought. “Look. It’s that bloody cat, come to taunt us again. Do you have a brick to turf at him?”
“No,” said Rinaldo, yawning and stretching his arms as much as he was able. “Also, that’s probably treason.”
“I’d swap the Tower of London for this cellar any day of the week. We know we can escape from there. Hey, cat!” Orlando yelled. “You ruined our lives, do you know that, arsehole?”
The yellow cat leaped nimbly on to the bannister, content with any life-ruining he may or may not be responsible for.
“Someone else is coming,” Rinaldo whispered. He heard footsteps on the stairs, saw the glow of a lamp.
“If it’s that bitch Lady Mortmain, she ruined our lives too,” said Orlando. “OH, YES, YOU DID, MADAM. With your pouty lips and your golden hair and a most impressive figure for a lady of your age…”
“I don’t think it is her,” said Rinaldo in a low voice. “Which might be for the best considering that crack about her age.”
A sturdy figure in a long dress stepped into view, barely lit by the lamp she held, which was barely brighter than the one that had been left to them, burning oil in the corner. She frowned, staring around the cellar, and Rinaldo’s heart sank as he recognised her round, thoughtful face. He would know that chin anywhere.
The fairy governess, braided hair coiled up into a snood, her arms covered with long gloves to hide the fact that one of those arms was made of woven grass and random wildflowers.
She swung her lamp from side to side, peering around as if there were nothing more interesting in front of her than a stack of rice bags. Damn it all: the notice-not charm was as effective on her as it had been on the servants.
“Miss Wednesday,” Rinaldo groaned. “She can’t see or hear us.”
“So, get her attention,” Orlando insisted.
“That’s not exactly my speciality.”
“Try,” insisted his brother. “I’ve been saying you should get more practice talking to girls. Start with this one.”
So much for the cat’s interference. There were no prisoners in this cellar.
Flavia looked around the place, shivering. The air tasted of metal and misery. Whatever Lady Mortmain had been doing down here, among the ham hocks and the flour barrels, it was far from good.
Her skin buzzed irritably, as if eight different kinds of charm were fighting each other, with no care for who got splattered by the rebound. “There’s no one here,” Flavia told the cat. “I’m going back to bed before I get into even more trouble.”
She should not have risked leaving the nursery. She needed to stay near the children at all times. She did not know if Lady Mortmain’s plans for them were short or long term.
The yellow cat made a noise. It was not a noise one usually associated with a cat. It opened its mouth wider, and a mechanical clank-whirr emanated from beyond its very pink tongue.
Flavia hesitated. “What did you say?” she ventured. At least no one was here to see her being stupid.
The cat clanked again. It shuddered, vibrated, and hawked up three silver teaspoons as if they were hairballs.
Flavia blinked in astonishment. “You do not make the convincing argument that you intend,” she told the cat sternly. “Good night.”
Very slowly, the teaspoons each stood up on their ends. As Flavia watched, the teaspoons jiggled and danced a little, then balanced carefully one on top of each other. The yellow cat turned away in boredom, making it clear that it had nothing to do with such hijinks.
“Oh,” Flavia breathed. “It is you, after all. I might have known.” She swept her gaze and then her lamp back over the cellar. This time, she paid particular attention to the empty wall that was screaming at her not to notice it, not to bother. Nothing to see here, turn around and wander away…
It was wallpapered. The entire cellar was wallpapered in a beautiful, tangled pattern of cornflowers and clover leaves. Who would choose such pretty wallpaper for a cellar?
She stepped very deliberately forward, one slow step at a time until she was barely two feet from the empty wall. “Mr Device? And Mr Device?”
She could feel it now, the notice-not spell, spread from wall to wall like a bedsheet. The sparks shivered against her as she reached out to touch the illusion of nothingness. Notice-not was a form of illusion, and Flavia had always been very good with illusion. She had been wearing one for most of her life, just to appear human.
She could smell rose petals now, an overwhelming perfume, and lemon. The trick was to be gentle, so very gentle that Lady Mortmain did not sense her spells being tampered with. Flavia breathed in, and out. On the third inhalation, she snipped the notice-not spell free and breathed it deeply into her own lungs.
She held her breath, blinked, and found herself staring into a pair of dark, dancing eyes. She faced the ridiculously beautiful Mr Orlando Device, far too close for comfort. Close enough for dancing. His hair was in a most scurrilous state, messier than she had even seen it before.
Orlando smiled at her with so much dazzling charm that the sun all but came out, right there in the cellar. “Hello there, my knight in shining armour,” he proclaimed.
“Our knight in shining armour,” interrupted his grumpy brother, who stood nearby. He rattled his chains against the wall, for emphasis.
“That too,” said Orlando Device.
She had found the prisoners. Flavia exhaled, and let exactly half of the broken spell return to the air around them.
“What on earth am I going to do with you two?” she said aloud.
“Come,” said Fairy Harebell with a merry twinkle. “Let us dance the fairy circle, to make the toadstools grow beneath our feet. And then we shall share a picnic.”
“A picnic!” gasped Margaret, eyes as wide as buttercups. “What sort of picnic?”
“Why, all the best things to eat and drink. Dancing makes the food taste nicer.”
“I don’t know how to dance,” said Cedric, who hoped there would be sausage rolls.
Fairy Harebell took his hand. “Everyone can dance! Once the music plays, your feet won’t be able to help it. You’ll want to stay with us for ever and ever.”
“I don’t think our mother would like that,” said Margaret, but already the music was playing, and her foot tapped along.
If Wishes Were Flowers (1863), written & illustrated by Primula Millicent Wednesday.
Chapter 7
In Which the Kisses of Old Lovers Do Not Bear Repeating
As the magic from the broken spell dissipated into the air around them, Flavia controlled its spread, letting it pass gently among the other motes of air so that the person who wielded the spell might never know it was gone. Control was her greatest skill, after so many years alone and needing to hide her very self from so many humans.
Orlando Device, close enough to kiss, gazed into her eyes like he found her fascinating. Like that wouldn’t cause problems, sooner or later, even if she was remotely interested in his pretty face.
Flavia coughed, and the remains of Lady Mortmain’s notice-not spell in her body formed itself into a single, perfect pink rose that blossomed directly inside her mouth. She extracted it, embarrassed.
Orlando whistled. “With a talent like that, you could go on the stage,” he said admiringly.
“I can think of little I would hate more than going on the stage,” Flavia replied, and retreated to a less intimate distance. Orlando looked disappointed.
Rinaldo Device cleared his throat. “Good evening, Miss Wednesday,” he said politely. “Is it night or day? We’ve lost track of everything, I’m afraid.”
“Good evening works well enough,” Flavia said. Her lungs felt scraped raw, but it felt comforting to know Lady Mortmain’s enchantments were defeatable. “Good early hours of the dark of night isn’t exactly one of the greetings they suggest in etiquette manuals.” They looked rough, both of them, but oddly clean and well-fed. “Have you been here all this while?”
“I don’t know what month it is,” said Rinaldo, with a dry cough.
“The first week of December.”
“We came here a couple of days after All Hallows. She’s had us since then.”
A month in chains, and they looked no worse for it. These men really were extraordinary.
