Voleta gave a more traditional curtsy, just to prove that she could, and said, “Oh, no, Your Majesty! After all my travels, I want for nothing. I have been heaped with jewelry, clothes, wine, and ships. In the Depot of Sumer, they even christened a bridge after me.”
The king’s smirk shriveled with displeasure, and the court murmured like a flock of starlings. “I must protest!” King Leonid blurted, his lips pursed in a formidable pout. “You mean to tell me there is nothing that my ringdom can offer you? Am I really such a pauper?”
“No, no, Your Majesty,” Voleta said, appearing upset at the suggestion. “My sincere apologies! I didn’t mean to insult—”
“Out with it! Out with it!” He rolled his hand impatiently. “There must be something you want.”
“Well. There is one thing, which you and no one else in the Tower could bestow upon me,” Voleta said, her voice suddenly meek.
King Leonid’s indignation softened. “Ask, child, and you shall receive.”
“Freedom, sir. I beg for freedom,” she said, and when the crowd renewed their murmuring, she turned to them. “Is freedom not the greatest gift a king can bestow upon his subjects?” She faced the king with lowered eyes. “I can think of no nobler or more generous present.”
“But you have your freedom, my dear.”
“Not mine, Your Majesty. My pet’s.”
Behind her, Edith shielded her eyes.
“Your port master caged my squirrel. She is a perfectly tame creature, and it pains me to see her locked up. All I ask is that you grant her freedom.”
The king made a brief show of deliberation, pacing and pulling upon the stays of his cape. The gathered nobles watched him intently until he abruptly stopped with a stamp of his heel, his decision made. He spoke with renewed volume: “What is your pet’s name?”
“Squit, sir.”
“Let it be known that Squit the Squirrel is hereby awarded honorary citizenship in all my lands and principalities. And as none of my subjects may be unjustly imprisoned, I hereby order the immediate release of citizen Squit.”
Port Master Cullins, who had been quite invisible a moment before, now appeared with the gold cage. He looked sheepish if not nauseated as he opened the barred door. Squit dashed into Voleta’s open hands.
“Oh, thank you, Your Majesty! Thank you!” Voleta said, nuzzling her pet.
“You are most welcome, Lady Contumax. Now, where are my volunteers?” Looking about, the king clapped twice. The noble crowd muttered and churned as young ladies shouldered their way to the fore. The ladies arranged themselves before the king, subtly elbowing each other for a better position in line. “Of course, we shall all endeavor to be perfect hosts to our guests during their stay, but I think that Lady Voleta would benefit from a dedicated guide, a companion who is keen, clever, and well versed in all the attractions and luxuries of our humble paradise.”
King Leonid patted his lips as he examined the queue of courtiers, all of whom were doing their best to radiate cheer and charm. Iren thought they all looked remarkably similar. Their hair was piled in more or less the same way. Their dresses were all similar shades of orange, cut low across the bosom, and rimmed with freshwater pearls or silver sequins. The faces of the courtiers were so uniformly caked in powder and streaked with rouge they all seemed to be wearing the same mask.
“You,” the king said, stopping before a blond, button-nosed beauty. “What is your name?”
“Xenia, Your Majesty, daughter of the Marquis de Clarke.”
“Well, Lady Xenia de Clarke, do you believe it in your power to act as the Crown Escort and official friend to the Lady Voleta during her stay?”
“I shall treat her as my very own sister, Your Majesty.” When Lady Xenia genuflected, her skirts bunched like a fallen cake.
King Leonid turned away before the lady had completed the bow, shifting his attention to Edith. “We have a few things to discuss, I think, Captain Winters,” King Leonid said. “Clocks and tocks and ticks and such.”
“As you say, Your Majesty,” Edith said with a respectful dip of her head.
Edith gave Iren and Voleta each a little nod, then she, Georgine Haste, and a retinue of officious-looking men followed the king toward the court gates.
Xenia skipped up to Voleta, hair bouncing and eyes round. The courtier hooked her arm around Voleta’s waist, and before she could argue, began to gush: “Oh, we are going to be such good friends, Voleta. What a pretty name! But my heavens, your nurse is ugly. Why is she so large? Have you ever played the Game of Oops? Oh, I am hopeless at it, but it’s so much fun to see your friends look like dum-dums. But, no, first things first: You must try the sponge cake at the Vanilla Villa Bean. I just love how that sounds. The Vanilla Villa Bean! Why did you cut your hair like that? Was there an accident? And my, you’re as brown as an acorn, aren’t you? That’s all right. At least you’re not fat!”
Voleta looked back at Iren, desperation tightening her brow as the babbling lady pulled her toward the court’s gates.
For the first time that day, Iren smiled.
Chapter Five
No. 38: Because you have purchased a new frock and wish to air it before the fashion spoils.
No. 39: Because you are intoxicated and in need of an audience.
—101 Reasons to Attend My Party by Lady Sandbom
Lady Xenia de Clarke talked with the urgency of a burst pipe. She tugged Voleta by the arm through the crowded street, guiding her as if she were blind or dim-witted or both. The focus of the lady’s monologue roved. She gushed about Amarillo’s Bazar, where all the best dressmakers debuted their work and girls pulled each other’s hair to be the first in line. She complained about how dreadful the theater had been all season long—nothing but historical dramas and military operettas, and she praised Café Castorea for serving the sweetest raspberry tarts in the whole wide world. She talked and talked, on and on in a breathless spurt.
Voleta stopped listening as soon as she was certain the lady wasn’t saying anything important and let the city absorb her full attention. She had never seen anything quite so white or boisterous or beautiful as Pelphia before. All the shops, and there were so many of them, seemed locked in a battle for who could have the most overdone window display. There were wreaths of fresh flowers and live models posing as mannequins and trained doves clutching golden boughs and glass tanks full of live, darting fish, and all to sell a bobble or a boot or a square of caramel. No one seemed to find the excess the least bit strange. A big red-winged macaw sitting atop an awning cried, “Quick, out the window, before Father sees you! Out the window! Out the window!”
Squawking parrot notwithstanding, something about the place reminded Voleta of a dollhouse. It was so picturesque and tidy, and also a little false. It seemed an ideal stage for dramatic squabbles. In the time it took to walk the length of a single block, she observed no fewer than three spectacles. Outside an overflowing bakery, a man in a porter’s uniform serenaded a disinterested woman with a poorly tuned lyre. Across the street, a woman in a hoopskirt swooned and fainted, though her timing seemed conspicuously good as she fell into the arms of a handsome shopkeeper. Officers in black-and-gold uniforms pulled a pair of brawling dandies apart, one of whom accused the other of having stolen his signature scent, thereby devaluing its appeal.
Even the brass sun in the sky seemed a toy, wound up and let go.
Ultimately, though, it was not the play but the playhouse that captured Voleta’s imagination. She could not stop gaping at the white cliffs of buildings that loomed over the congested lanes. The city was as pinched and dense as a maze. Everywhere she looked, ledges, balconets, sills, and cornices called to her, suggesting footholds and perches. Yet, even as she imagined what exotic views she could glimpse from the rooftops, she recalled Byron’s oft-repeated advice to her during their preparations for this day: Don’t let your mind wander, for your feet are sure to follow.
Iren, meanwhile, was having to work very hard to keep up wit
h Voleta and her young escort, neither of whom had any trouble cutting through the crowd. Iren was too broad to slip through the brief and narrow gaps, and so was forced to go around the queues that extended from shop fronts and surrender the right of way to the big-wheeled prams pushed by stony-faced governesses. She wondered how it was possible for traffic to be so bad. There weren’t even any autowagons here, only litters and rickshaws. Iren was beginning to believe that everyone in the city was determined to ram into her with their elbows out. If she had encountered these fools on the sidewalks of New Babel, she would have shoved them into a wall. Well, not the infants in strollers, but certainly everyone else.
“If I may,” a woman at Iren’s elbow said, “it’s easier to keep up if you walk in the middle of the street. The crowds clot around the shopwindows. Don’t worry. We won’t lose them. The lady dawdles, but she knows the way home.”
Iren squinted down at the diminutive woman. She wore her brown hair in a neat bun, which was threaded here and there with silver hairs. Iren suspected her short stature and prim features made her seem younger than she was. “Who are you?”
“Ann Gaucher. I’m Lady Xenia’s governess. And what’s your name?”
“Iren.”
“Is that a first or a last name?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Iren Iren.” Ann paused long enough in the street to shake her hand. Her grip was firm and the up-down-up movement practiced. Good posture and a strong, clear voice further enlarged Ann’s presence. Iren suspected that she liked her.
“We’re going to your girl’s house?”
“The lady’s home, yes.” Ann said it as politely as she could, but Iren heard the correction: She shouldn’t call them girls. “Of course, she lives with her father, the Marquis de Clarke. Is this your first time visiting Pelphia?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think so far?”
“It’s … quaint.”
Iren heard chuckling, though there was no sign of laughter on Ann’s face when she looked up again. “I don’t want to talk out of turn, but do you mind if I speak frankly for a moment?”
“I like frank,” Iren said.
“Me too. I’m not sure what sort of society you’re accustomed to, but this is a very political ringdom, political in the sense that very little happens here by chance. In fact, the more incidental a thing appears, the more likely it was rehearsed. So here’s the tall and short of it: The Marquis de Clarke paid the Crown a small fortune to have King Leonid pick my lady to host yours.” They came upon a pair of sniping lovers, damming the street with their argument, and Ann parted them with a polite but resolute turn of her shoulders. Iren followed, widening the gap. “Since de Clarke has paid so much for the pleasure of her company, the marquis or his daughter will expect to accompany Lady Voleta to several parties. Several.” Ann glanced up to see if Iren showed any sign of surprise or misgiving. The amazon’s expression was as bland as custard. Ann forged ahead. “I’m afraid you’re going to be subjected to some rather rigorous entertainment.”
“My lady loves parties,” Iren said.
“Oh, I’m sure she does. Everyone does … at first.”
Though their route meandered, they eventually arrived at the Marquis de Clarke’s abode, set a few blocks off of the piazza. Technically, the marquis’s home was a third-floor apartment that shared a lobby and stairwell with two other lords, though to call it such was misleading. De Clarke’s apartment consumed an entire city block. He employed a staff of three maids, two cooks, two porters, and a butler. Xenia rattled off the number of rooms, closets, and lavatories as if the figures added up to some meaningful sum. The ceilings of her home were high enough to echo and the stone floors were polished to a treacherous sheen. The home’s main balcony could’ve accommodated a game of nine-pins, or so it seemed to Voleta. The air was bright with the tang of silver polish and the sweet must of tapestries. The home was undeniably fabulous.
Unfortunately, the Marquis de Clarke was the stupidest man Voleta had ever met. It didn’t help that he was dressed like a harlequin. He wore a white girdle on top of an orange blouse. The toes of his boots curled up at the end, and the wig on his head was so small it didn’t cover the top of his large, bald head. His facial features seemed to have been swept into a central pile, an impression that was not improved by his habit of pursing his lips so firmly it dimpled his chin. And, she would come to see, he almost always had a frilly white handkerchief in his hand, as he did now.
It was a good thing that Ann had whisked Iren away to view their room because Voleta hadn’t any doubt the marquis would’ve made Iren laugh.
Xenia would later assure Voleta that her father was a trendsetter who was often paid by clothiers to sport their fashions, but Voleta didn’t think the claim so much flattered her father as it insulted the tailors.
Still, it wasn’t his appearance that outed the Marquis de Clarke as a first-class nitwit. Nor was it the fact that he met them in the great hall standing beneath his own portrait, which was twice life-size and very generous with its likeness. No, it was what flew out of his mouth that doomed him in Voleta’s estimation.
Upon her introduction to the marquis, Voleta said, “Thank you, milord, for hosting me in your home. It’s quite spectacular.”
“It is! I like to think of it as my country château. You should’ve seen it while Pepper was still trotting all about the place. Such a beautiful creature! Pepper was my racehorse. He was as quick as a swallow. I was going to build a floating horse track for him. Isn’t that a fantastic idea? A floating racetrack! But the backers pulled out before we even had the first fifty yards finished, and then there was a squall, and the whole thing blew away. Cost me a fortune. But Pepper was a real dear about it all, though I couldn’t stop him from eating my bedding. He liked a good duvet better than a bucket of oats. Obviously, he had very good taste. In the end, though, I had to put him out to pasture, which cost me another fortune. The balloons were cheap enough, but I had a devil of a time finding a jockey who was willing to ride him through the mountain pass.”
“Yes,” Voleta said, smiling to hide her horror. That poor horse! “Well, I’ve just had the pleasure of touring your fair city, and I must say, I am quite charmed. I’m sure its history is as rich as it is deep.” That was something Byron had coached her to say. The stag had assured her the phrase would spark a pleasant and productive dialogue.
“Oh, well, Pelly is a plum pie: saucy and full of fruit!” the marquis said, then shook his hips in a manner that he seemed to believe was charmingly playful, but which made Voleta want to knee him in the codpiece.
Not knowing what to do, Voleta tried another conversational volley. Xenia had referred to her father as the Czar of the Gatehouse, so Voleta inquired after the marquis’s duties in that capacity. In answer, the marquis balled his lacy handkerchief against his mouth and began mewling like a kicked dog. He gripped the mantel and looked up at his own portrait, as if for moral support.
Xenia hissed at Voleta, “Papa doesn’t like to talk about his work. They’re very mean to him down there!”
“They are! They don’t laugh at my jokes or rise to my quips. I used to go down to the gatehouse all the time. I’d talk through the bars to the dirty souls plodding up the Old Vein. I’d try to lift their spirits. That’s all I wanted to do. But they’re all just so stubbornly depressed! They were always crying, ‘Help me! Help me!’ No one ever asked if I could use some help with all the records and reports, all the hirings and firings. It’s such thankless work!” The marquis sobbed into his handkerchief. “I am a slave to the hod!”
Voleta didn’t know what to say to that. Concealing her exasperation as best she could, Voleta let Xenia step in with an account of her morning, a topic that helped her father to recover almost at once. The marquis interrupted his daughter’s story frequently, asking who she had seen and what they had been wearing. They jabbered on and on while Voleta made small affirming noises
with the regularity of a snore. Voleta had fallen into a trance of boredom when Xenia abruptly announced that they had to go prepare for the evening’s festivities.
“Yes, of course!” the Marquis de Clarke said, stuffing his handkerchief into his sleeve and wiping his hands on his overtaxed girdle. “I am throwing myself a party in your honor, Lady Contumax. All my best guests are coming. There’ll be music and champagne, dancing and champagne, chocolates and a spot of champagne.” He stepped between them and draped a heavy arm around each of their thin necks. Voleta was glad that Iren was not around because she doubted the amazon would have stood mutely by while the marquis kissed her temple. He smelled like something sharp and medicinal, a scent Voleta could not quite place. “Most vitally of all, you and my dearest, darling daughter will be there having the most excellent, wonderful, glorious time that has ever been had in the history of history. I don’t like people who don’t know how to enjoy themselves. The pooping of my parties is simply not allowed.”
“Milord,” Voleta said and curtsied deeply so he could not see when she rolled her eyes.
The chandelier of the great hall blazed like a foundry, each pendant throwing out a thousand sparks of light across the feast upon the table. There were bowls of ripe berries, silver trays pyramided with pastries, and a bloody roast upon a carving board.
The marquis’s guests flooded the hall. They sloshed from room to room, following someone else’s spectacle or searching for space to make their own. They burbled with arguments, laughter, and heated flirtations while the rented band played waltzes for everyone to ignore.
Voleta surveyed the glorious disaster in amazement.
She still wore her purple dress, much to Lady Xenia’s dismay, though there was nothing to be done since her luggage had not yet been released by customs. According to Xenia, it was shameful to attend court and an evening soiree in the same gown. Voleta, who was accustomed to wearing the same clothes for days on end, insisted the frock was fine and refused Xenia’s repeated attempts to loan her a dress, or a shawl, or a stole, or at least a hat? Surely Voleta couldn’t be opposed to a hat!
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