The boy’s scowl turned into a snarl. “Your mamma lives in this House by my leave.”
“Ayah? Says who?”
The boy puffed up like an adder and bellowed, “I say so—I, Valefor, the Denizen of House Fyrdraaca—I say so and so it is!”
At least, I think he tried to bellow. Really he just kind of hooted in a loud reedy voice and ruined the effect by sputtering into a cough at the end. The windmill arms and the scraggly hair did not help his bombast, either.
Although I am ashamed to admit it, I laughed. He had tried to look so important and had only succeeded in looking silly. He coughed and coughed. I tried to swallow my laughter; he raised his head and gave me a look to cut glass.
“You are mean, Flora Fyrdraaca.” The boy wheezed again, a terrible sound that made my own throat hurt in sympathy.
“And you are not our Butler,” I said. “Mamma banished our Butler.”
The boy stuck his pointy chin in the air. “Ha! I am an egregore of the fifth order—I can hardly be banished! Though Buck did try to get rid of me, this is as far as I can go, here to the Bibliotheca Mayor. If she banished me completely, the House would fall right down.”
Could this actually be Valefor, our Butler? My excitement was tempered by skepticism. Praterhuman entities such as denizens, at least in my experience, tend toward the fantastic. At Sanctuary, Archangel Bob stands seven feet tall, and his crimson wings flutter behind him like two giant flags. Poor Furfur, at Saeta, even though he is run ragged by the hordes of lobbyists and sycophants always hanging around the Warlord, has a noble hound-dog head and is always perfectly dressed. Bilskinir House has been shut for years, but legend has it that the notorious Paimon is hugely and fabulously phosphorescent, and always hungry. This boy did not look fantastic at all, only scraggly. If he was our Butler, I guess he had fallen on hard times, like the rest of us at Crackpot Hall. But could it really be him?
“I know who you are, Flora Nemain Fyrdraaca ov Fyrdraaca the Second. Why do you not know me?” the boy said, scowling.
“Because I’ve never seen you before, and you sure don’t look like a Butler.”
He deflated a bit and wrung his bony hands melodramatically. “I know, I know. I’m really not in good shape. You should have seen me in my early days, before your dear mamma sucked me dry and cast me aside. Under Azucar Fyrdraaca, I had the mane of a lion and fingernails of gold. When Anacreon Fyrdraaca was Head of the House, I had six of the most perfect arms, and I was fifteen feet tall—”
“You must have banged your head a lot on the doorways then.”
He stuck his lip out at me. “My hallways were taller then, too. You are a snippy one, Flora. I’m surprised at you, and disappointed, too. Surely you are the shortest Fyrdraaca that I can recall, and my memory is pretty good. And those little blue eyes—don’t squint like that. It only makes you look mean. That hair—do you ever comb it? And that coat you are wearing! What a mess, those wide lapels and awful—”
Now I was not excited at all, just stung. It is true that I’m not pretty; my hair is rusty red and curly, with a tendency to frizz, and I am rather plump. But rangers don’t want to be beautiful; they want to be anonymous. Nini Mo wasn’t beautiful; she was strong and fast and clever, and those qualities are more important than looks. But it’s irksome to have a complete stranger comment so personally on personal things.
"There is nothing wrong with my redingote,” I said. "It’s the latest style in coats.”
"A slave to fashion, too! Fyrdraacas set the fashion; they don’t follow it—”
"Well, you don’t look so great yourself,” I interrupted, to sting back.
"You should have seen me before. Then, I was the best House in the City—the brightest and most awesome. You could see my gleaming silver roofs all the way from the Alameda Hills, and at night, the glow of my lamps was visible even through the thickest fog. I was terrific. Until your mamma became Head of the House and cast me out of my rightful place, and struck me to this sorry state. Now look at me, this starveling, this! I am the House—”
“Prove it.”
He stopped midspeech. “Prove it?”
“Ayah so. Prove you are our Butler. You say you are, but saying means nothing. You could be anyone.”
“But I am Valefor Fyrdraaca!” he protested.
“So you say. Do something Butlery.”
“But I can’t. I am proscribed!”
“That’s convenient,” I said maliciously, as payback for his snarky comments regarding my clothes and cuteness. Of course he had to be Valefor—who else could he be?
He wrung his hands and said, agonized, “I am Valefor. How would I know you otherwise? My Will is Fyrdraaca Will—”
“Butlers have no Wills of their own. They are just servitors to their Houses.”
He puffed. “Some servitors never gain power, and remain trapped forever within the Wills of those who made them, always stuck within their duty. But I, Valefor, have evolved so that I can act within my own Will, as it serves the good of the House.”
“But if you have your own Will, how could you be banished?”
Another puff, almost a huff. “I am an egregore of the fifth order. I’m good, but I’m not perfect. I exist to serve the Head of the Fyrdraaca House, your dear lady mother, whose stubbornness knows no bounds. She banished me to this prison, but she did not dare abrogate me completely I was not created to care for Fyrdraaca House—I am Fyrdraaca House, the very bricks, the marble, the mortar, the tile, the shingle, the nails, the crossbeams, the gold paint; to destroy me is to destroy your family—”
I should have been superexcited to have made such a fantastic discovery: our Butler, hidden away in our House. And at first, I was. But now that excitement was fading. Our Butler was not glorious and fantastic—he was weak and paltry and a whiner to boot. The disappointment was acute. It’s like when Idden had such a crush on Relais Evengardia, the matinee idol, and spent hours mooning about the Cow Palace stage door, hoping for his autograph. But when she finally got to meet him, he was a complete and utter git, and her romantic love for him (and the stage) was squashed forever.
And with this surge of acute disappointment, I suddenly remembered that I was late-late-late, and now getting later.
I interrupted, “I am sorry, Valefor. Normally I would love to stay and chat, but I am very late, and I’m going to be in B-I-G trouble when I finally get to Sanctuary, because I don’t have my library book, and this isn’t helping any.”
“Overdue library book, eh? And Naberius is a fiend on library books, too. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t eat you.”
“I will be surprised, too. So if you don’t mind, I gotta get my book and get to school. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”
“What book?”
“High Jinks in Low Places: The Autobiography of Nini Mo, Coyote Queen, volume 1.”
Valefor sniffed. “That’s awful tripe, you know. You should read something more educational. I have a lovely book on eschatological extensions and their role in im-manentizing the—”
Ignoring Valefor’s ramblings, I looked around the room, hoping for a way out other than the way I had come in, and there, set deeply within one of the massive bookcases, was a small silver doorway. It swung open at my touch, revealing a rickety flight of wooden stairs.
“You can’t get down that way,” Valefor said. “Those stairs lead to the Cellars of Excruciations. At least, I think they do. Thanks to your dear lady mamma, I don’t know anything for sure anymore. But anyway, I wouldn’t go down there unless I were feeling lucky. Are you feeling lucky, Flora Segunda?”
After my earlier encounter with the Elevator, I was definitely not feeling lucky. I stared into the dank tunnel leading downward and decided to try the windows instead. I am an extremely good climber.
The windows overlooked a sunlit yard, thick with snarled rosebushes and dusty green hedges. From the length of the Elevator ride, I would have thought we were at least five or six stories up, but it didn’t
look that far to the ground. Beyond, I could see the crenulated edge of another roof just beyond a cluster of eucalyptus trees. Judging from the angle of the sun, I was on the west side of the house, and that roof was probably the stables. When I took out my compass to check my guess, the needle spun like a broken top.
“It won’t work here,” Valefor said, breathing over my shoulder. “I am the lodestar of the House, and the needle will always point to me.”
“It’s spinning like a wheel.”
“Well, then it’s broken.”
Huh, I thought. The compass was an award for Best Rope Climber at last year’s Gymkhana Exhibition, and it was not broken. Anyway, I was pretty sure I recognized the stables, and outside was outside. I’d rather wander through the daylit garden than go back into the musty darkness. I climbed onto the broad expanse of the window seat and fumbled with the catch.
“What are you doing?” Valefor demanded.
“Getting ready to climb down that ivy vine,” I said. “The one that is about to tear most of this wall away.”
“Well, it’s not my fault. Blame your dear mamma. If she let me do my job, then I would have this wall fixed, and all the other walls, too. And you wouldn’t have to muck out the stables anymore.”
“How do you know I muck out the stables?” I asked.
“Your boots have horse hoo all over them. Anyway, why are you leaving so soon? Didn’t you just get here? Come and sit with me for a while and let’s have a nice chat,” Valefor said, suddenly all nicey-nice and beguiling.
“I have to go. I am late for school. I’m sorry, Valefor.”
“When you take the dæmon on board, you must row him ashore." Valefor grabbed my sleeve with a hand that had about as much substance as a piece of paper. His flesh—if that is what it was—was faintly translucent, so I could see the wavering shade of my purple redingote through his thin fingers. I yanked but his grip was strong.
I was caught.
FOUR
Val's Strong Grip. Explanations. A Kiss.
VALEFOR LOOKED LIKE a high wind could blow him away, but if a high wind came along, it would take me, too, because although I pulled hard, he would not let go. It was like being pinned by a shadow. I should have been able to just pull free of his diaphanous hand, and yet I could not.
“Let me go, Valefor—”
“I am so very, very hungry, Flora Segunda,” he whined. “Can’t you feed me?”
With my free hand, I fumbled in my dispatch case. You never know when you suddenly might feel a wee bit faint, so I make it a practice to keep a few little snackie things about me at all times. “Here, I have a chocolate bar. It’s kinda squished, but you can have it. Take it and let me go.” I pulled, but his grip did not slacken.
“Yuck—it’s not nasty chewy food I want.” The sunlight gleamed off Valefor’s eyes and made them look as opaque as milk. I had never before wondered what Butlers ate, but suddenly the wonder was foremost in my mind—and not in a good way, either.
“If you hurt me, I will really tell Mamma,” I said, more stoutly than I felt. I didn’t like the way he was licking his lips.
“And then we’ll both be in trouble, but whose trouble will hurt the most?”
Good point. If force doesn’t get you free, said Nini Mo, then fall back on surprise.
I shouted. The Invocation filled my mouth with a sour taste. And instead of sparking a small coldfire light, which I had hoped would startle Valefor enough to let loose his grip, a huge fuzzy ball of brilliant green coldfire flared, then dwindled into a tiny little green dot that vanished into itself with a brain-rattling, percussive POP.
My ears rang, my eyesight went black, and the world went fuzzy. When the blackness cleared and my sight came back into focus, I saw that Valefor had collapsed on the floor in a heap of dusty rags. I didn’t feel so good myself; there was a heavy metallic taste in the back of my throat, like iron filings, and my teeth were buzzing.
“Where did you learn such an awful Word, Flora Segunda?” Valefor said, coughing out a huge cloud of dust. Now he looked even worse than before, as though he’d been left out in the rain and all his colors had run into a giant blur.
I clenched my teeth in an effort to get them to stop jittering around in my mouth. “It was supposed to just spark a little light.”
“You shouldn’t light a match in a powder magazine, Flora Segunda, then be surprised if the gunpowder explodes. Your Gramatica pronunciation is terrible. If you meant to Exhort an Ignition you should have used the Nominative case, not the Vocative. The Nominative lights, the Vocative implodes.”
“It worked before just fine,” I sputtered.
“You were lucky! Look what you have done to me—I was hardly here already, and now, thanks to your atrocious accent, I am almost gone! I haven’t even the energy to rise!”
A tiny bad feeling was growing in me. Poor Valefor, trapped all alone in the library, and when he finally gets a visitor, she is mean to him and almost turns him into soup.
“What do you want me to do, Valefor?” I asked, relenting.
He perked up. “Just a wee little thing.”
“What wee thing?”
“A tiny teeny thing that will be so small you won’t even notice it.”
“Such as?”
“Tiny teeny—”
“Plainly; Valefor, or I’m out of here!”
“Your Anima. If you gave me just a tiny teeny bit, it would go so far, and I would feel so much better, and you would be so nice.”
“My Anima?”
“Ayah, your Anima—you know, your magickal essence, inside you, your spiritual energy—”
“I know what Anima is, Valefor, but how can I give you some?”
He sighed. “You have so little control over yourself, Flora Segunda, that every time you breathe out, you let a bit of your Anima blow away. Why waste it when you could give it to me? Please, I’ll be your best friend, and it would taste so good.”
Compassion is the vice of queens, Mamma always says, and she thinks I should toughen up. She says that I let the dogs take advantage of me and hog the bed, when they should sleep on the floor, and that I give too much of my pocket money to beggars, and that if I am to get along in this world, I need to harden my heart.
Well, I don’t want my heart to be hard, and even if I end up like Poppy, trying to drink my heart to death, or like Mamma, trying to work my heart to death, at least I will know that I have a heart and I used it honestly. And maybe I owed Valefor something for making him worse. I couldn’t really resist the poor Butler sitting there so forlorn and famished, too weak to even get up out of the heap that I had blown him into.
He said eagerly, “It’s very easy—see, all you have to do is breathe out and I shall breathe in, thus I shall be fed. Easy as pie.”
“All right.” I knelt down beside him, and he reached for me with thin shivery hands. We bent our heads together. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and felt the featherweight touch of his lips against mine. Slowly I breathed out, then felt his shoulders shake under my hands.
“Ah, that is so happy,” Valefor whispered. “One more time?”
I drew in another breath, and again exhaled. His lips grew warmer, and now I was shivering—not with cold, but with a skittery feeling deep inside, not entirely unpleasant. I opened my eyes. His pupils had dilated to enormous purple circles, bright as coldfire. Glittering. A faint tinge of color was creeping across his face.
“Just once more. The last, I promise.”
I sucked a deep breath into my lungs, which suddenly felt deflated and small. Valefor’s grip was much stronger this time. As I breathed out, a great darkness opened up before me, swirling with streaks of color. The skittery feeling inside turned warm, then hot, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe at all. I yanked back, gasping.
Val said, distantly, “Thank you. You don’t know how much better I feel.”
I leaned against the window seat, sputtering. The room spun about me in fragments of light and
color. I closed my eyes again, and the spinning slowed. I felt as though something had punched me in the gut. Something delicious.
“What a drama queen you are, Flora,” Valefor said. “I didn’t take that much.”
I opened my eyes. The fragments slid back together with a click, and there was Valefor, looking an awful lot better. His face had rounded out, and his eyes were now iridescently purple. He shook out his gown and twirled it around. The fabric, now black and satiny, flared around his knees. “Isn’t it nice?” he said.
It was rather nice, but I didn’t want to admit it. The tight feeling of anxiety and gloom that I usually carry around in the pit of my stomach seemed less tight, less gloomy.
Still twirling, Val was giving off little sparks. He stopped suddenly, and his glittery eyes crinkled as he frowned. “You taste different, though. There’s some unfamiliar spark about you. What can it be?”
“I don’t know and I can’t wait for you to figure it out,” I said, standing up. A whirl of dizziness made me almost slide back down.
“Rebellion! That’s it, Flora Segunda. You are full of irresponsible thoughts. So you want to be a ranger, join the Ranger Corps?”
“There is no more Ranger Corps. They were disbanded at the end of the War.”
“Oh, that silly war, ayah, I remember. A ranger! Secret and sly, the rangers are. Other than Nini Mo, who knows a ranger? Who can tell where a ranger will be, who a ranger will be? I’m surprised at you, Flora, for harboring such deviant thoughts. Fyrdraacas go to the Barracks, you know.”
I did not want to be reminded of this, particularly by a denizen who was making that remark with a superior little grin. “I gotta go. Ave, Valefor.”
“Will you come back, Flora Segunda?” he asked anxiously.
“I don’t know if I will be able to find you again.”
“I’ll mark the way;” he promised. “And now that I feel better, I will make sure you land in exactly the right place!”
“I will try.” I pushed the window open, swung down the uneven stone wall, lost my grip on the ivy, and fell, with a great puff of dust, into a pile of leaves.
Flora Segunda: Being the Magickal Mishaps of a Girl of Spirit, Her Glass-Gazing Sidekick, Two Ominous Butlers (One Blue), a House with Eleven Thousand Rooms, and a Red Dog (Magic Carpet Books) Page 3