There stood Poppy, his face white as paper but scrubbed completely clean. His eyes were muddy green, but they were clear. The Skinner scars on his cheeks were faint, barely visible. He had changed out of his ragged clothes into a green and gold brocade frock coat, black kilt, and polished black boots. His stock was untied. His hat, a gorgeous beaver bicorn, with black fur trim and a bright silver cockade, was on crooked. Poppy smiled at us, a small shy smile that lit like a lamp, and suddenly that beautiful young man I had seen at Bilskinir stood before me—bent, twisted, older, but still recognizable.
“Happy birthday, Flora,” he said. “Ave, Buck.”
“Ave, Hotspur,” Mamma said. “What you are doing downstairs?”
“It’s Flora’s birthday.”
“So I know,” answered Mamma. They looked at each other and something passed between them, something I couldn’t quite read. But one thing was clear: Though Poppy may have loved his dead general, he loved Mamma, too. And Mamma loved him back.
“Can you tie my tie, Buck?” Poppy said. “My arm don’t reach that high.” He came forward and stood in front of Mamma expectantly. She quickly knotted his tie and tucked the ends into his weskit, then reached up to straighten his hat.
“Do I pass inspection, General?” Poppy asked, with the shadow of a smile.
“You will do, Colonel. There! We are all ready. You both look very nice,” Mamma said brightly. “I hope I can get cleaned up well enough to match, or I shall be the disgrace of the family. Shall we go?”
Now or never. After I had faced Axacaya, after I had faced Poppy, what could Mamma say? It was my birthday. And Poppy had washed his mourning off and come out of the Eyrie to face life. Maybe things—people—could change after all. Or at least try to change.
“Mamma—Poppy—I want to say something.”
“Ayah, darling? What is it?” Mamma said impatiently. “We don’t have much time. Can it wait until later?”
“No, Mamma. It can’t.”
“They won’t hardly start without Flora, Buck,” Poppy said. “Let us sit down for a minute and listen.”
“All right, but quickly.” Mamma sat on the settee, and Poppy sat down next to her, taking her hand in his and holding on to it tightly.
I moved in front of the fireplace and took a deep breath. Somehow Flynnie had again escaped the barouche, and now he ingratiated himself between Poppy’s legs. Poppy rubbed his silky ears absentmindedly and stared at me. Mamma was looking at me quizzically.
Dare, win, or disappear.
“Mamma. Poppy. I don’t want to go to the Barracks,” I said in a big rush, the words almost blurring together. “It’s not for me, I know it’s not. I know that’s probably disappointing to you, but I really don’t want to go. I know all the other Fyrdraacas went, but please, not me. My Will lies elsewhere.”
Mamma didn’t answer. She looked at me, but at least it wasn’t that cold I’m in Charge and You’d Better Not Gainsay Me look. It was more of a Where Did This Come From; I Can’t Believe I’m Hearing This look.
Then she said slowly, “All Fyrdraacas go to the Barracks. It’s our family tradition.”
Poppy said softly, “Perhaps, Juliet, it’s time to start a new family tradition.”
Mamma turned her Look upon Poppy, but he only gazed steadily back.
“You never mentioned this before,” Mamma said to me.
“You never gave me a chance, Mamma. You never acted like you cared what I thought.”
“You have your duty, Flora.”
“Ayah, I know, but there is more than one way to be loyal, Mamma.”
“We don’t have time to discuss this now. It’s a serious thing you have said, Flora.”
“I know, Mamma. I know that we don’t have time now, and it’s all right, but I just had to say.”
“All right, Flora. Your objections have been so noted and will be discussed further at a later time.”
“Thank you, Mamma,” I said, relieved. “That’s all I ask. I know it’s a serious thing and must be discussed seriously, but that’s all I want—to discuss it.”
Nini Mo said talk was cheap and it is action that counts. She was right, but I now realized it takes a certain amount of words to get things done. I guess I wasn’t a ranger yet, nor had I yet escaped the Barracks, but I had escaped something much worse—Nothingness. I was still me, and right this moment it felt pretty good, actually, to be me, Flora Nemain Fyrdraaca ov Fyrdraaca.
Behind Mamma and Poppy’s heads, above the bust of Azucar Fyrdraaca, a purple spark glimmered briefly and then was gone.
AFTER
LATER, AFTER WE HAD ridden in the barouche to the O Club—Mamma, Poppy, me, and the dogs, like we were a real family, with Mamma looking at Poppy as though she couldn’t quite believe it, and the escort following behind, loaded with my gifties—
Later, after I had made my speech and sworn my oath, and curtseyed to the Warlord (who, thankfully, did not remember we had ever before met), and received the Warlord’s beery kiss upon my cheek—
Later, after Mamma welcomed me to adulthood and presented me with my Catorcena chest, and the gifties were opened, most of them pretty good, except that someone had sent me a plushy pink pig, as though I had just turned four, instead of fourteen—
Later, after my Catorcena cake was cut, and slices handed around, and toasts made, and congratulations of' fered, and Dash and Flash stole a turkey off the buffet and were chased from the room by a posse of infuriated waiters—
Later, after I had danced with the Warlord, who trod heavily upon my toes, and then with Mamma, who was as light as a feather, and then with Poppy, who was surprisingly spry, and who had not gone near the punch bowl all evening—
Later, after all that, I was in the loo, trying to figure out how to wad my giant poof of skirts into such a small stall, when I remembered the small box Poppy had pressed into my hand at the end of our dance. Before I had been able to open it, Udo had descended on me and I had shoved it into my pocket as he whisked me away for a mazurka. And after Udo, Lieutenant Sabre and a waltz, and then Udo again, and so I had forgotten all about the little box.
Now I pulled it from my pocket. The box was small, made of worn red leather, and held closed with a small gold clasp. Inside, a tarnished silver badge lay on a crumple of velvet. Not a civilian identification badge, like the one Mamma makes me and Idden wear, but an actual Army-issue badge, enameled in smoke gray and dusky purple, the kind you wear around your neck so they know who to ship you to when you are killed.
On one side was the logo of the Ranger Corps: the Unblinking Eye.
And on the other side, the name of the badge’s owner:
REVERDY ANACREON FYRDRAACA OV FYRDRAACA.
Poppy.
In the second volume of her adventures, Flora Fyrdraacas aspirations to become a ranger are put to the test. She must save her city and her best friend—and face life-altering revelations about her family and herself.
Keep reading for a sample of
FLORA'S DARE
by Ysabeau S. Wilce
What I Learned Last Term
An Essay by
Flora Nemain Fyrdraaca or Fyrdraaca
Senior Class
Sanctuary School
City of Califa
Republic of Califa
Do not trust banished Butlers who promise they will do your chores but are actually tricking you into giving them all your Will so that you start fading into Nothing.
Accidentally inhaling a Gramatica Invocation really hurts and can result in very sparkly upchucking.
The trick to forging a signature is turning the original upside down before you try to copy it.
After a week in the bottom of an oubliette, even great heroes smell pretty bad.
Eight-foot-tall blue praterhuman entities with razor-sharp fangs, needle-sharp mustachios, and shiny sharp tusks can actually be quite nice.
It is easier to face your greatest enemy when you look fantastic.
Nothing is
stronger than your own Will.
OF COURSE, these things are not what I was supposed to learn last term.
When Archangel Bob gave out this assignment (and I’d like to point out it’s entirely unfair to have to do homework over the holiday break), I know he expected me to list the things I’d learned last term at Sanctuary School. And I was supposed to learn a lot. For example, in Charm and Deportment I was supposed to learn how to say no without giving offense. In Scriptive I was supposed to learn how to write beautifully in Splendiferous Script. In Dressmaking I was supposed to learn how to inset sleeves and make cartridge pleats. In Math I was supposed to learn how to calculate square roots.
Ayah, so I did learn how to read Splendiferous Script (though I never quite managed to learn how to write it—at least not legibly), but who uses Splendiferous Script anymore? Only government clerks and really old people—neither of which I am. I didn’t quite manage the rest of the lessons, but so what? If people get offended when you say no, isn’t that their problem, not yours? I don’t like cartridge pleats; they make your waist look too big, and my waist looks big enough as it is. And who needs to know how to calculate a square root? Only engineers, accountants, and gunners, none of which I plan to be.
I am going to be a ranger. And rangers do not waste their time sitting in a classroom. The greatest ranger of them all—Nyana Keegan, better known as Nini Mo—chronicled her adventures in a series of yellowback novels called Nini Mo: Coyote Queen. (Coyote being the slangy term for ranger, of course.) There is no yellowback called Nini Mo Sits in Math Class, or Nini Mo and the Curse of the Overdue Library Book, or Nini Mo vs. the Term Paper on the Orthogonal Uses of Liminal Spaces in the Novels of Lucretia McWordypants.
Rangers are not bound by rules and regulations. Rangers move silently through the world, unnoticed and unknown, and yet they see everything. They are clever, cunning, and shrewd. Rangers are adept at working the magickal Current. They can cross from the Waking World to Elsewhere as easily as moving from one room to another. They follow their own Wills, not the Wills of others. They are to their own selves true. They seek out secret truths, and find that which has been hidden.
Nini Mo did not let school interfere with her education, and neither do I. To be fair, I will admit that sometimes the stuff they try to stuff down you is helpful: For example, when you are running from a hungry domicilic denizen you are pretty glad that you didn’t skip gym class. And when you have to go to your family’s worst enemy and beg for his help, it is useful to have practiced your manners in Charm and Deportment until they are perfect.
But overall, after ten years of school, I can state with authority that formal education is all about sitting and listening and repeating and reading, and doing busy work. Calculate, If Udo has four cupcakes and you have six cupcakes, which cupcake is blue? And, Define the word defenestration and use it in a sentence. (Before you defenestrate your math book, you should open the window first.) Write out, I will not return my library books two weeks late ever again, one hundred and fifty times. Maybe these things are useful in school, but they are not very helpful in Real Life.
And this I learned the hard way—in Real Life.
My Real Life education started in the middle of last term, when I accidentally found Valefor, our family’s long banished Butler, locked in the Bibliotheca Mayor. Val was pretty sad about being locked in the library, powerless to keep up our House; I was pretty sad about the decrepit state of Crackpot Hall. We struck a deal: In return for help with my chores (I know—it does sound stupid now, doesn’t it?—but I had a lot of chores), I would share my Anima with him—my Will, my spirit—and try to restore him. (This turned out to be Lesson One.)
To restore Val, Udo (my best friend, who also does not allow school to interfere with his education—or his fashion sense) and I had to find Valefor’s fetish, which we almost did, thanks to a handy-dandy Discernment Sigil we found in the handy-dandy magickal handbook The Eschatanomicon. (Here’s Lesson Two.) But before we could restore Val to full power, I discovered that Mamma, who is the Commanding General of the Army of Califa, had captured the infamous Dainty Pirate and was going to hang him. The infamous Dainty Pirate turned out to be Boy Hansgen, the last true ranger, in disguise. Udo and I couldn’t let the last true ranger die, so we tried to rescue him. This involved a forged order of release and a deep-cover infiltration of Zoo Battery, where he was being held. (Lessons Three and Four.) We almost succeeded, but at the last minute, Boy Hansgen was snatched away from us, and killed.
This failure was crushing, horrific, excruciating, awful. But the worst was to come: I then discovered that Valefor had infected me with Anima Enervation—a dreadful magickal wasting disease of the Will. If we did not restore Valefor immediately, he would dwindle and disappear into the Abyss of Nowhere—and take me with him.
But the Restoration Sigil required a Semiote Verb—a Gramatica Word so concentrated that it could be in only one place at a time—and that Semiote Verb was kept at Bilskinir House. Ayah, Bilskinir House, the House of the Ha3raa3a Family, closed ever since the last Ha3raa3a died years ago. Closed and guarded by a fearsome Butler called Paimon, a denizen whose sharp appetite and sharper teeth were legendary for their ferocity.
We had no choice. If I was to be saved—if Valefor was to be saved—Udo and I had to get into Bilskinir House, and hope to sneak by Paimon, steal the Word, and scarper without running into any sharpness—teeth, tusks, or otherwise. Lucky for us, Bilskinir was not nearly as boo-spooky as we’d heard, and Paimon, although fearsome, was welcoming. And an excellent cook, too, which I suppose makes sense, as by their very nature domicilic denizens are domestic. (Lesson Five.) But instead of giving us the Semiote Verb, Paimon gave us really awful news. Only Mamma, the Head of the Fyrdraaca House, could restore Valefor. And Mamma was out of town. By the time she came home, it would be too late; Val and I would have vanished into the Abyss of Nowhere.
After a slight misunderstanding and an accidental side trip into Bilskinir’s past, where we met Poppy, much younger and far less crazy than he is now, Udo and I came up with a new plan. I had only one hope: Go to Lord Axacaya, the City’s greatest magickal adept—and Mamma’s greatest enemy—and beg him for help. I quivered at the thought. But, Desperation makes you desperate, said Nini Mo. I had no choice. (Lesson Six.)
Well, Lord Axacaya wasn’t so very helpful. In fact, he was downright mean. He pointed out the flaws in my recent behavior: that I had gone behind Mamma’s back to help Valefor in the first place, that I had no business meddling in the City’s politics by trying to rescue Boy Hansgen, and that I had lied, cheated, stolen, and forged. True, in retrospect, I had been quite a snapperhead, but that was no reason for Lord Axacaya to threaten my family, which he did, saying that it was Mamma and Poppy’s fault that I was so badly brought up, that it was Poppy’s fault I was gallivanting around causing trouble. The meaner Lord Axacaya was, the angrier I got. If I’d been a snapperhead, that was my problem—Mamma and Poppy weren’t to blame.
I exploded in rage—and my fury saved me. My anger strengthened my Will and broke the link between me and Valefor. I refused to be pushed around anymore by anyone, and that turned out to be the thing that saved me. (Lesson Seven.) And Lord Axacaya had only been baiting me, to get me to stand up for myself; once I was myself again, he was really quite gracious. I’m not sure why Mamma hates him so.
(Oh, and Lesson Eight: Don’t always believe your eyes. Udo and I had thought we had seen Lord Axacaya’s guards kill Boy Hansgen, but they had only made it look like they did. Actually, they had allowed Boy Hansgen to escape.)
So that’s a short summation of what I learned, and how—and why. A ranger learns from her mistakes, Nini Mo said. I made plenty of mistakes, and I think I’ve done a pretty good job of learning from them.
Now, I’m supposed to finish up this essay (which, of course, I’ll never turn in—not everyone needs to know everything, said Nini Mo) by discussing what I want to learn next term, my last term at Sanctuary Scho
ol.
Well, I would like to learn how to start a fire with a piece of ice. How to load one hundred pounds on a mule. How to hold my breath for ten minutes. And most important: I want to learn Gramatica, the language of magick.
True Invocations and Sigils require Gramatica, and Gramatica is fiendishly complicated. The words are sounds, but they are also gestures, and colors, and lights. Gramatica is also horribly dangerous. If you mispronounce a Word, awful things can happen. You could try to open a lock and instead turn your head backward. You could try to light a match and instead set your hair on fire. All because you had inflected up when you should have inflected down, or klicked where you should have klacked, or stood on one foot instead of three. One mispronounced Gramatica Word and you could evaporate all the water in the Bay or summon up an ice-storm elemental, or turn time back.
I know a few words of Gramatica, but they are tiny small words that do tiny small things: ignite coldfire sparks, charge small sigils—nothing big, nothing interesting. If I’m going to be a ranger, I’m going to have to learn a whole lot more.
And Sanctuary definitely does not teach Gramatica.
ONE
Dirty Dishes. A Brief Recap. Woe.
FINALLY THE TERM was over and two weeks of freedom loomed. Two weeks of freedom from Sanctuary School, that is. There was no escape from Poppy.
“I think,” I said, sorrowfully, “that I liked Poppy better when he was drunk.” My back hurt from leaning over the sink, and the dishwater was now cold and greasy. Happily, I was on the last pan. It was crusty and black, but it was the last. The last pan, the last chore, and then, I would be free for the first night of term break.
“There is no pleasing some people,” Valefor replied from his vaporous perch high on top of the kitchen dresser. Valefor was the one who should have been doing the dishes, and everything else as well. Thanks to his banishment, he was a mere wisp, and his helpfulness was limited to criticism, which I did not find helpful in the slightest. And he had to lay low, too. If Mamma discovered him flitting about, he would be in a World of Hurt.
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 29