Flora's Dare: How a Girl of Spirit Gambles All to Expand Her Vocabulary, Confront a Bouncing Boy Terror, and Try to Save Califa from a Shaky Doom (Despite Being Confined to Her Room) (11 page)

Poppy stood at the top of the Below Stairs, looking down at us. “She’s going to Fort Jones,” he said. “I tried to persuade her otherwise, but when has Buck ever listened to me? You’d better get packing, Aglis. You have a long trip ahead of you.”

“My condolences, sir.” Lieutenant Sabre saluted and skedaddled, no doubt wishing he could flee somewhere no one had ever heard of the Fyrdraaca family. I knew how he felt.

“I’m sure she’s all right, Poppy wherever she is,” I said, after a moment.

“I hope you are right,” Poppy answered. “If you heard from Idden you would tell me, wouldn’t you, Flora?”

One of the annoying aspects of Poppy being sober is that he now is much harder to deflect. He was looking down at me with a green gaze that pierced me to my very soul and made me want to start to blather. Mamma can do this easily, but I had not known Poppy had the same talent. Guilt stabbed at me.

He continued, “I don’t care if she deserts from the Army a thousand times over. I just want to know she is all right.”

Mamma had said:
I can’t lose another child.
The first Flora gone, and now Idden. I was the only Fyrdraaca child left. My waffles churned into a painful throb and for a moment I thought about spilling my guts—not my breakfast, but my guilt. Why should I cover for Idden? I didn’t know where she was. And I
had
crossed on the promise not to give her up, which meant it wasn’t binding. But what if I did tell Poppy I’d seen her? How could he help her? He could barely help himself. And if he told Mamma, then she would have no choice but to court-martial Idden and maybe even shoot her.

When in doubt, keep your yip shut,
said Nini Mo.

So I said, “Idden can take care of herself, Poppy. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“No doubt you are right, but I wish I knew for sure. The Fyrdraacas dwindle,” Poppy said sadly. “I think we can fall no further, and yet there’s always more down.”

B
Y LUNCHTIME
Mamma and Lieutenant Sabre were on the steamer for Aurora, the first leg of the journey to Fort Jones. I felt terrible that she was making such a long trip for nothing, but what could I do? I couldn’t think of any way to tell her the trip was pointless without giving away Idden. And I still had to worry about the Warlord’s Birthday Ball.

In all the hullabaloo, I hadn’t had time to work on my Glamour or try to rescue my wardrobe. But then, unexpectedly, Idden did me a favor. On the ride to the docks, Mamma was full of instructions—one of which was that Poppy should send his regrets to the Warlord. She did not want him going to the Ball alone.

I saw my chance and leaped, offering to go with Poppy. I pointed out that the Warlord might be insulted if our family made no showing at all. Poppy, surprisingly, sided with me, saying that at such a volatile time it was important for our family to show the Warlord support.

Reluctantly, Mamma agreed. At the docks, she hugged Poppy good-bye and kissed each dog on the nose. Then she hugged me and whispered in my ear, “Keep an eye on your father, Flora.” I whispered back that I would, and then the steamer was chugging out onto the deep blue bay, Mamma a dark blur, getting smaller and smaller until we could not see her at all. But her flag stayed visible until the steamer rounded Black Point and was gone.

Once again it was just Poppy, me, and the dogs.

Of course, in the Fyrdraaca family there’s always a catch, and in this case, the catch was that Poppy did not think that I should get the day off just because we were going to the biggest social event of the season. Despite my protests that I needed to prepare for the Ball, Poppy insisted on study time.

By the time he finally released me, I was so sick to death of tactics that if I had been called upon right that moment to lead a Flying Wedge, or Oblique Left Double-Time, or enfilade the enemy using Honeychurch’s Backward Line-Breaker, I would have just lain down on the ground and let my troops ride right over me.

Not all battles are fought on a battlefield and not all weapons draw blood,
Nini Mo said. Released from Poppy bondage, I could turn my thoughts completely toward the tactics to use at the Ball. I couldn’t just walk up to Lord Axacaya in front of everyone. I had to be subtle and discreet. I had to be calm and deliberate. I needed to give the impression of being a reasonable adult who should be taken seriously.

Nini Mo says you should dress to fit the occasion, but that was easy for her to say. I’m sure she had a huge wardrobe of fabulous clothes, and if not, at least she had her own money to buy as many clothes as she could want. Nearly all my clothes were hand-me-downs from Idden. I remembered painfully that the Zu-Zu’s fashionable clothes were surely not castoffs. Which reminded me painfully of Udo’s treachery. He went off with
her
and left
me
in the lurch, the dolt. How could he? I would never desert him, no matter what. He was faithless. I should have known it would come to this. Udo is pretty but he has no staying power. Well, I hoped he enjoyed his new scrawny little friend. She was welcome to him, and he to her.
Have fun, Udo.

“Your kilts are too short, and your sleeves not long enough.” Valefor had perched on top of my wardrobe. He’d recovered a bit from his fright the night before, but not much. Now he was so wispy that if he didn’t hold on tightly to something, he bobbed up toward the ceiling, so he split the difference by holding on to something up high. “No one wears lacy collars now, nor pinafores unless they are doing yard work, Flora Segunda, and you are going to the Warlord’s Birthday Ball. The press will be there, and they will write that the Fyrdraacas have lost all their fashion sense. I shall die of shame.”

I surveyed the mess strewn on the settee, on my bed, on my desk, heaped on the floor: every piece of clothing I owned, including the fluffy Catorcena dress, everything Idden had left behind, and some things pillaged from Mamma’s closet, which were just as old and out-of-date. “I think it shall take more than shame to kill you, Valefor. What am I going to do? I haven’t time to go buy anything. And how do you know so much about what is in style?”

Valefor said primly, “I may be stuck in this house, but I can read. Udo’s been giving me his old
Warlord’s Wear Weeklys.
I like to keep up. Clothes really do make the woman, Flora.”

It was stupid, but I rather felt like wailing. Never before had I been vain, for what cares a ranger about appearances? It’s getting the job done that counts. But what if the job requires you to look, if not fabulous, at least presentable? Maybe even alluring? I was not in the least bit alluring. Maybe I was the ugly ducking who would, one day, spawn into a swan. But somehow I didn’t think so. Life is rarely like the stories. If it were, my clothing problem would be quickly settled.

In the sentimental yellowbacks, there’s always a point where the hero is stuck—has nothing to wear, can’t get her homework done, has to make dinner for ten but doesn’t know how to cook—and just as she is about to howl, there’s a mighty flash and her magickal auntie appears and makes it all right. Conjures up a fabulous outfit, or finishes the stupid word problem, or whips up a delicious eight-course menu. A magickal auntie would sure come in handy right now. Instead I had a red dog snoring in my bed and a useless denizen lurking on top of my closet.

“If only you were more useful,” I said to Valefor. “If only you could conjure me some new clothes.”

“Whose fault is it I’m not useful? You cannot put that against me, Flora Segunda. I tell you, I was a real stylesetter before. The outfit I made for Hotspur’s Catorcena was a real stunner—two days later everyone in the City was wearing its knockoff.
À la Fyrdraaca
they called it. The frock coat had a double tier of puffs on the sleeves, and the skirts were pinned back into a huge train...”

I tried to ignore him. He was chock full of reminiscences of his past glories, and listening to them only made me more depressed. Well, it would have to be the Catorcena dress that Paimon had made for me. It was the only dress that fit and looked appropriately splendid, even if it was fluffy. I wished it wasn’t quite such an awful shade of red and that perhaps the skirts were not quite as ruffly, but they were impressively wide, which somewhat canceled out the ruffles. And the neckline
was
plungy. I certainly outshone the Zu-Zu there, no problem. She had as much cleavage as a washboard. I would wear Mamma’s pearls (pillaged from her jewelry box) and carry my birthday fan, and if Valefor could help me with my hair, I wouldn’t look too bad.

But first I had to get into those damn stays, which I dreaded. I’d let the back laces out as far as they would go, and it was still a struggle to get the busk closed. One of the steel bones was rubbing a raw spot under my arm, right through my chemise. As soon as Mamma got home, I was going to demand that we go to the Army-Navy store and get new underpinnings.

I was hopping and swearing and Valefor was urging me to suck it in, though it was sucked in as far as it would go, when a rap on the window made me jump. Blast it, I had almost gotten the bottom snap of the stays hooked. Now I would have to start over.

“It’s Udo,” Valefor said helpfully. Who else would it be? Udo’s the only person besides me who knows the trick of climbing through my window.

Udo swung in over the sill after I opened the window “Why’d you latch your window?”

“To keep undesirables out,” I said. “Where’s your Chickie, Poo-Poo, or whatever her name is?”

“Did a hurricane come through here? Pigface, what a mess.” Udo tossed aside the clothes draped on the settee, then threw himself down. Flynnie got up from his snooze on the bed and ambled over to sniff his hand. “Her name is the Zu-Zu, as you well know. We had our coffee, and a few other things besides...” And here he smiled in a most sick-making way “Then she had to go to band practice; Califa’s Lip Rouge, that’s the name of her band, did I mention? She’s the lead singer. I couldn’t very well take Springheel Jack back home to Case Tigger, right? Anyway I’m supposed to be staying here with you. So here I am.”

“Last night
you were supposed to be staying here, Udo. It is not last night anymore.”

“The weekend,” he said airily.

I looked out the window but saw no zombified outlaw below. The gate to the kitchen garden was open, and Dash and Flash were nibbling their way through the tomato plants, while Crash was digging a hole in the asparagus bed. Blasted dogs. I leaned out the window and hollered. They looked up, heads cocked as if to say
What on earth can be wrong with Flora?
And then went back to their munching and digging.

“You left the garden gate open, Udo,” I said, slamming the window shut. “The dogs are in there making a mess.”

“Sorry. Look, Flora, I put Springheel Jack in the stables—”

Valefor shrieked like a teakettle. “You put a zombie in my nice clean stables?!” I had told Valefor about Udo’s little scheme earlier, and he had been even less impressed with the plan than I had. And if
Valefor,
the Very King of Bad Ideas, thought the idea was bad, then it must be bad indeed.

I didn’t care about the clean stables at all. “How long does that powder last, Udo? What if he comes back to himself suddenly in our stables? Did you think of that?”

“I did, actually, Flora. But it ain’t going to be a problem.”

“Why is that? And get your boots off my settee.” I pushed Flynn away from whatever he was licking up off the floor. Only two days earlier I had spent several hours polishing it, and I didn’t want to have to redo so quickly.

“My stables! What if he scares my pretty horses?” Valefor moaned.

“He ain’t gonna bother your horses, Val. Now don’t be mad, Flora, but Springheel Jack is dead.”

“What do you mean, dead? Flynn—get away. What do you mean he’s dead?” I demanded.

“Well, I guess he was hit during the gunfight, Flora, and the zombie powder kept him moving. I didn’t notice it until I got to the stables, and, well, the back of his head is gone.” Udo looked rather chagrined.

Valefor shrieked again. “Is he dripping? He’d better not be dripping, Udo. Oh, to be so helpless, while I am ruined. He’s not dripping, is he?”

“Udo.” I moaned. Why was I cursed with relatives and friends and dogs? Why couldn’t I be an orphan? And a hermit, too? A hermit orphan who was allergic to dogs. The blasted dog wouldn’t leave the licking. I put a foot in his ribs and gave him a soft boot, to no effect. “Oh, Udo...”

“Don’t get yourself all twisted, Val. He’s not dripping; I wrapped his head in a feed sack. So he’s fine. But anyway, Flora—it’s not just that—”

“I smell blood,” Valefor said suddenly. He began to crawl down the front of the wardrobe, spiderlike, snuffling. “Full of delicious Anima.”

“Ayah, that’s what I’m trying to say,” Udo said triumphantly. “I’ve been shot!”

U
DO HAD BEEN SHOT
, the wretch. His shoulder was a sticky bloody mess, and more blood was dribbling down his arm, and trailing on my nice clean floor, delicious to dogs. I felt faint, but a ranger cannot flinch. Nini Mo didn’t flinch when she had to amputate her scout’s arm with a sewing awl after he got mauled in
Nini Mo vs. the Chupacabras.
She just gritted her teeth, shoved a stick in Frank’s mouth, and started sawing.

Pushing the lip-licking Valefor out of the way, I helped Udo pull off his coat. The cloth was stuck to the wound, and he whined and swore as I eased the fabric away.

“It stopped bleeding earlier and so I thought it was nothing, but now it’s started again. I must have strained it climbing up the side of the house. Be careful of that—it’s one of my favorite shirts,” Udo complained as I tried to unstick the linen using water from my teakettle and a hanky “Owww.”

Valefor drifted over us, making disgusting little noises and begging for a taste.

“The shirt is ruined, Udo, and, Val, get away—you’re a Butler, not a vampire!”

“But the lovely Anima,” Val whined. “It’s just going to waste, and I’m so famished.”