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) (33 page)

“I’m sorry, Tiny Doom,” I said, the dead silence muting my voice and making my apology sound insignificant, which, of course, it was.

And I was sorry about something else, too: Now I would never meet Nini Mo. To have been so close and yet too far was extremely disappointing. On the other hand, Nini Mo probably would not have been impressed with the way I’d treated my comrade, so maybe it was just as well.

But I couldn’t waste any more time thinking about my failures. I had to get the
Diario
to Lord Axacaya. I had no idea how much time had passed since I had entered Bilskinir; perhaps it was already too late.

So I scarpered, quickly and quietly. As I had no intention of giving the
Diario
back, it seemed wise to leave before Paimon found me. But while making my way out of Bilskinir, no sign of Paimon did I see. The House felt strangely lifeless. Perhaps his power was fading at last, and the thought made me sad. Paimon deserved better.

Bilskinir’s front gate, small and wooden, was closed. A huge bulk loomed on the other side, and my heart surged with gladness when I saw the whiskery nose and the chocolate eyes. The tide must have dropped, allowing Sieur Caballo to climb to the top of the causeway and wait for me. I had succeeded in my goal, despite all—time mix-up, oubliette, ghouls, Tiny Doom’s foul cigarillos—and I should have felt triumphant. But I felt like hell, like every bone in my body had been pounded into mash, my blood replaced with thick gelatin and my sinews with rusty wire. If there hadn’t been a rock to climb upon, I doubt if I could have mounted Sieur Caballo. He could smell my urgency; as soon I was seated, he took off down the causeway, which, happily, was dry.

Below us, the Pacifica Playa was now scattered with tents and shebangs. My heart thudded. Were these just refugees paranoid about future earth shakings, or all who were left after the Final Upheaval? My heart thudded faster: Thin tendrils of black smoke were trailing above the Loma Linda hills. Maybe I was too late—maybe the Loliga’s labor had already begun and the City had succumbed to her convulsions.

Hope is free,
said Nini Mo.

I hoped, hoped, hoped, that I was not too late.

People were straggling down the Lobos Road, some on foot, carrying baskets, babies, dogs. Others pushed wheelbarrows piled high with household goods. A dogcart carrying two small children, one holding a chicken whose plumage reminded me unaccountably of Alfonzo the merman. Two mules pulling a wagon full of turnips. Two black-and-white collies herding a small huddle of sheep.

Everyone was coming from the City. I seemed to be the only one heading toward it.

Please, Califa, do not let me be too late.

I urged Sieur Caballo into a trot. We crossed the Great Sandy Bank, also scattered with shebangs, and turned onto the City Road. We passed the Bella Union Saloon, which was doing a rip-roaring business; I guess people think it’s better to face disaster drunk than sober. A man staggered out from behind a wagon, the front of his kilt falling open, and tried to grab at Sieur Caballo’s head, but he shied away and took off at a full gallop.

By the time we approached the Portal Pass, I was lathered in sweaty fear. At the top of the pass, you can see all the way across the City, across the blue sweep of the Bay, to the distant hazy hills of Alameda. What would that vista show now? Smoking ruins? A hurricane of fire? I clenched the reins and bit my lip, feeling as though I might, at any moment, puke that chocolate and buckle I had eaten so many years ago.

Halfway up the grade, a squad of soldiers roared up from behind and passed us. The guidon proclaimed them to be from the Dandies. They looked tough and purposeful, and I felt a surge of relief—no matter what else, the Army was standing firm. I put heels to Sieur Caballo, and we followed in their dusty wake. As we crested the pass, my dread grew so strong that I felt as though I might faint.

But there, spread out before me, was the City intact. Smudgy with smoke, but intact. I was not too late. I pulled Sieur Caballo to a stop. If I squinted, I could pick out the second-tallest hill in the City: Crackpot Hill. If I squinted even more, I could see the very tippy-top of Poppy’s Eyrie, and then, higher than that, a flutter—so small that I had to supply its color with my imagination: purple. Mamma’s colors. Crackpot Hall was fine.

I was not too late.

Giddy with happiness, I leaned over and kissed the spot between Sieur Caballo’s ears. “Remind me, when I see him next, to give Valefor a big wet one, too,” I said. His ears flickered, and he tossed his head, pawing at the ground.

C
ASA
M
ARIPOSA
, Lord Axacaya’s house, is built in the Birdie style, which means that from the street it looks unassuming, its front facade a long white expanse of windowless whitewashed walls. I left Sieur Caballo at the public water trough outside and made my way through Mariposa’s open gate and into the main courtyard, which I had seen before only by moonlight, when I had come to Mariposa to ask Lord Axacaya’s help in curing my Anima Enervation. In the daylight, the Courtyard was even more splendid, awash in flowers: violently purple bougainvilleas, yolk-colored marigolds, crimson rosebushes. Iridescent blue-green parrots darted over my head, and the air was flecked with butterflies: green and gold, white and red, some as small as gnats, others nearly as big as the parrots.

Casa Mariposa has no Butler, but Lord Axacaya does have a praterhuman steward called Sitri, who was now coming toward me. Sitri has the head of a camel and a human body, but this combination is not as weirdly horrible as the eagle-human Quetzals, maybe because his camel eyes looked so sad.

“Ave, Madama Fyrdraaca.” Sitri bowed deeply. “Welcome to Casa Mariposa.”

He offered me a stirrup cup, and after brushing away the butterflies swarming around it, I drank: deliciously cold hibiscus lemonade. “Thank you. My horse is outside,” I said, handing him back the glass. “Could someone bring him in, brush him down, and feed him? He hasn’t eaten in a while. And check his hooves for stones?”

Sitri nodded morosely. “It shall be done. Come. Lord Axacaya awaits you.”

As we passed down the long passage, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I didn’t look too bad. Tiny Doom’s stays fit so much better than my old ones, and her frock coat was splendid—so old-fashioned it was almost stylish. Sure, my hair was a mess, and my eyeliner had blurred into black shadows, but I looked rather rough and sexy, like someone who was too busy to worry about how she looked, but always looked pretty good naturally.

Axila Aguila coalesced out of the shadows and joined us. She nodded at Sitri, who vanished.

“You took a long time,” she said. “At Bilskinir.”

“Longer than you might think.” Little sparkles of anticipation were twinkling in my tum as I followed her down the hallway and across another courtyard. Now that I knew that Crackpot Hall still stood, and I had accomplished my mission, and everything was going to be cool—I felt pretty good, actually. A monkey chattered in a jacaranda tree, and jewel-colored birds clustered on the edge of an elaborate cactus-shaped fountain. But there was a long jagged crack in the plaster of one of the walls, plaster chunks on the sidewalk, and the ground under the citrus trees was littered with fallen oranges and lemons, filling the air with the pungent scent of rotting fruit.
Don’t count your money until you have left the gambling hell,
said Nini Mo. We weren’t safe yet.

“Lord Axacaya was concerned. He feared that perhaps you had gotten lost. Or that Paimon had not been welcoming.”

“Well, I had a few difficulties, but overall, a piece of cake.”

The Quetzal swiveled her head toward me, even as she continued to walk. The golden eyes gleamed. “I am glad to hear that, Flora.”

“Flora!” Before I could respond to Lord Axacaya’s call, I was enfolded in a burning hot embrace. He squeezed me until I was breathless, and briefly swung me up off the ground. Then, laughing, he released me. “I’m sorry
pequeña!
But I am so glad to see you. I was extremely worried.” Today he was dressed plainly in a white kilt. No features or ornaments other than his brilliant blue tattoos. But still, he was beautiful and his smile was like the sun.

“No problem at all,” I said, laughing with him.

“Come—you must be starving. Let us eat, and then you shall tell me everything.” He led me through a long gallery, its walls vividly painted with a mural depicting a Birdie sacrifice: a jade-masked priest brandishing an obsidian knife, four eagle-headed priests restraining a screaming figure. In the sunshine slanting through the slatted
latilla
ceiling, the mural was garishly lifelike. Lord Axacaya brought me to a small round room beyond the gallery, with whitewashed walls that were perfectly plain. The only furniture was a low wooden table, surrounded by brightly colored pillows.

A delicious warmth wafted from the brazier in the center of the table. A griddle stone had been placed on the brazier, and a bubbling pot sat at one end, whistling the most delicious spicy smell. We sat across from each other, and Sitri, who had silently followed us, placed an earthenware bowl and horn spoon before each of us. While Sitri ladled the pozole, Lord Axacaya began to pat our tortillas. Making tortillas without a press isn’t easy; believe me, the grade I got in Elementary Cookery is proof of that. But Lord Axacaya seemed to have the trick down, and the tortillas were delicious, tasting of dusty corn and charred lime and the warmth of the fire.

Sitri had filled my bowl, and now a rich spicy fragrance drifted up, wonderfully steamy The pozole was fat with swollen hominy and chunks of tender pork. Its warmth—heat and spice—spilled down my throat, into my vast empty tum, and then pulsated into my collapsed veins, filling them with goodness and light.

Lord Axacaya kept passing down the tortillas, and whenever my bowl was empty, Sitri filled it again, and again, and again. The hole in my tummy was not as deep as I had thought; it took a while of slurping and chewing, but eventually it was full. I did manage to drink the xocholatte that Sitri finally set in front of me, but then I felt both sleepy and in need to loosen my (Tiny Doom’s) stays.

“Now, tell me everything,” Lord Axacaya said, and so I lay back upon the pillows and told him everything. He listened, occasionally sipping from his own xocholatte. Midway through my recitation, I felt a waft of cool air on my back, and though I didn’t turn to look, I knew that the Quetzal had joined us. Lord Axacaya seemed pleased with my story; though he looked suitably concerned during the dark and scary parts of my tale, toward the end, his smile grew large and proud.

“That is a tale fit for a hero, Flora,” he said, when I had finished and was rewetting my dry mouth with a gulp of hot spiced wine. “I am impressed with how well you handled the situation. And all the unexpected contingencies. And most of all, how you stood up to the Butcher Brakespeare and bent her to your Will. She was very tricky, and I am proud you could match her. Not many can say that. Shall we see the
Diario
now?”

My face had grown hot with blushes, alas, as Lord Axacaya spoke, and I felt marvelously pleased with myself. I reached into my dispatch case and withdrew the
Diario
with a flourish. But when I offered it to Lord Axacaya, he didn’t take it.

“You should do the honors, Flora,” Lord Axacaya said. “After all, you took all the risk. You should take all the glory. Open it.”

So I did. Georgiana’s
Diario
looked very ordinary, like the kind of notebook I use at Sanctuary School. The lined pages were covered in dense handwriting, with hardly a white spot left; even the margins had been written in. Her handwriting, thankfully, was easy to read, a beautiful scrolling copperplate hand done in vivid peacock blue, as neat and tidy as Mamma’s best clerk. Each entry was laid out on a single page, with the title of the Working, the date, and notes.

“Look for an entry dated around 1380,” Lord Axacaya suggested.

I flipped through the pages. The earliest entries were for very simple magickal sigils; Georgiana must have started out small and then worked her way up to bigger things. Much bigger things.

“Here it is!” I read out loud: “’On the capture and confinement of a ninth-level etheric egregore: The most difficult and dangerous Working I have ever undertaken. It was a hard fight, but I triumphed in the end. The egregore is now confined within the form of a squid and at my command will menace the City, or even destroy it, if I so require. The Council tried to undo the Working, of course, tried and failed. To make sure the Working will not weaken, I have used the power of the Haðraaða bloodline to fuse the Sigils together. This power, of course, is embodied by the Head of the House Haðraaða. As long as our House prospers, as long as the House stands, the Working shall remain strong. Only when the last Haðraaða is dead, when there is no longer a Head of our House and the great Word of our Family falls silent, can the Working be abrogated. Only then can the cage that holds the Loliga be opened. Of course the Council does not know this; they only see a Working they cannot break. And so they wisely kneel in obedience to me.’

“That’s all it says. She doesn’t give any specifics about the Sigil itself—the technique she used, or the Gramatica Word. This isn’t very helpful at all!”

All that trouble, and here we were, back at square one. I’d lied and cheated and abandoned Tiny Doom all for nothing. My disappointment was tinged with panic at the realization that the City wasn’t saved after all. “What are we going to do!”

“Calm down,
chiquita.
The book tells us exactly what we need to know.” Lord Axacaya had lit a cigarillo, and now he was blowing smoke rings up into the shadows of the ceiling. “Read it again and then tell me what it says about the Working.”

I went back to the page and, after rereading the paragraph, said, “She bound the Sigils into the Working with the power of the Haðraaða family.”

Lord Axacaya nodded. “Ayah so. Georgiana Segunda was clever. It’s very difficult to break a Working that has been tied to a bloodline, particularly a bloodline as powerful as the Haðraaðas. The family is dead, and yet Bilskinir House remains strong. What else?”