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) (15 page)

“He’s at home,” I answered. Her stays fit just fine; her waist looked to be about twelve inches around. But her face was flat, catlike, and her cheekbones too sharp. She wasn’t that pretty, really—just extremely well dressed.

“Pity He’s so sweet. Will you skate?”

I hadn’t been on ice skates since I was five. I would clomp about and the Zu-Zu would swoop by me and make me look like a fool. And anyway, I was not going to waste my time skating. I needed to ditch the Zu-Zu and find Lord Axacaya.

“I find skating to be a tremendous bore,” I answered. “I shall be happy to leave you to it, madama.”

The Zu-Zu smiled at me graciously “Oh no. Papi said we should have fun. Let us find some refreshments. I can tell just by looking at you that you enjoy eating.” I felt my face flush. Skanky bint!

The Zu-Zu stepped off the ice and a servant knelt to unbuckle her skates. She fluffed out her skirts, which were knee-length and very puffy. Behind her the phalanx of Boy Toys formed up: all as black-and-white as she, equally glamorous. All dark, brooding, and mysterious, just the kind of boy I can’t stand, and exactly the opposite of Udo. Perhaps that’s what she liked about him: the novelty The Boy Toys abandoned their skates higgledy-piggledy, apparently not worried that someone might trip over the discarded blades and cut their throat. Too bad that someone wasn’t the Zu-Zu.

“Are you at Sanctuary School?” the Zu-Zu asked as the servant tied her shoe ribbon. She kicked at him. “Not so floppy, dolt.”

“Ayah. I have that honor.”

“I would have been, but Papi said I should go to school in Anahuatl City He is concerned for my safety. I am the only grandchild, you know.”

I felt sorry for the Warlord if this was the best he could do as far as grandchildren went. The Zu-Zu’s grandmother was the famous actress Odelie Crabtree, who had been the Warlord’s favorite leman until the Warlady had her poisoned. Her mother was the Infanta Ondina, a useless flibbertigibbet, whose only contribution to Califa was helping to keep the economy going with enormous shopping sprees. Once the Senate had to have a special session to vote for extra funds to pay her shoe bill. Obviously, the Zu-Zu hadn’t fallen too far from her mamma’s shoe tree.

As we left the pond, the Boy Toys fell in behind us, blocking my hope of backing out into a quick exit. The Zu-Zu announced, “I shall be Warlady someday.”

And presumptuous, too! There were four people between the Zu-Zu and the Warlord’s ceremonial hammer. One of Nini Mo’s sayings popped into mind, and I said, “‘Bacon shrinks when it cooks,’ Nini Mo said. ‘There’s never as much as you hope.’”

“Well, I don’t know what that means, exactly, Flora, but I can see that you know quite a bit about bacon, so I will take your word for it.” The Zu-Zu smiled and flipped open her fan, which was, of course, made of white ivory and stretched with black silk.

Now, there I could easily best her. I unsheathed my own fan deliberately, so that she could clearly see the chased silver splendor of the fan case, and then snapped the fan open. In the dim wintery light, the blue silk shimmered like bright sunlit water. My fan was twice as long as the Zu-Zu’s and yards more magnificent.

The Zu-Zu frowned. “I do like your dress, Flora. It’s so youthful and girlish. It reminds me of a dress I had when I was just a tot—wherever did you get it?”

“My dressmaker. He is a wonder, but he’s very select and private.”

“I don’t wonder,” the Zu-Zu answered. “I would wish to remain anonymous, as well, if such were my handiwork.”

“Silent and secret,” I said sweetly, inclining my head in the courtesy Responding to Rudeness with Grace. Before the Zu-Zu or the Boy Toys could react to my insolence, I turned my back on the Zu-Zu (a terrible insult to her rank) and sailed away.

Reconnoiter before you plan,
said Nini Mo, and while I had been enduring the Zu-Zu’s insults, I had also been looking around. No sign of Lord Axacaya in the splendidly dressed throngs, and Poppy and the Warlord had disappeared completely.

Beyond the ice pond was a gleaming wooden dance floor. The Califa National Band, a mixture of acoustic servitors and human musicians, was assembled on the balcony high above. On the other side of the Rotunda, the Warlord was stumping down the Grand Staircase, the wispy Infante Electo trailing behind him. Behind him came a knot of equerries—and behind
them
Lord Axacaya. Among the elaborate hairstyles and poofy hats, his plain silver-streaked head stood out.

The Califa National Band struck up a fanfare. The Warlord waved and the guests began to clap and cheer. The dancing was about to begin.

Suddenly I knew exactly what to do.

T
RADITIONALLY
, every grand ball opens with the Califa Reel. The Califa Reel is verso-baile, which is to say that instead of pairing off with one partner, the dancers form two lines across from each other. The first set is danced with the person opposite, and before each subsequent set, the dancers change partners by moving one position to the left. The Reel is a hideously complicated dance, with lots of of bouncing, leaping, turns, and bows, but at Sanctuary we spent an entire term in Dance class learning nothing else, and so now I can dance it in my sleep.

There are five partner changes in the Califa Reel. If I got in the line opposite Lord Axacaya, within five people of him or less, then I should be sure to dance one set with him. And while we were dancing, I could tell him about the Loliga. Surely he must know about the Loliga already—but if he didn’t, I’d gain points for telling him. And if he did, I hoped I’d gain points for initiative. Either way, I’d win.

The fanfare died away and the Warlord’s booming voice called for everyone to form up for the Reel. I started pushing. Everyone else was pushing, too, trying to make sure they got good positions—the closer to the Warlord the better—but my need was greater than mere status and so I pushed the hardest. By the time the band struck up the opening bars, I was wedged between a skeletal man in a purple-and-yellow-striped lounge suit and a round woman wearing what appeared to be a chicken on her head. I glanced down the line: I was properly opposite Lord Axacaya, who had taken his place immediately to the left of the Warlord, but I had miscounted. I was six positions away from him.

As the dancers began to make their courtesies, I backed out of my place, ducked behind the Chicken Hat Lady, and squeezed between her and the man next to her. The Chicken Hat Lady protested, but I pretended not to see her, made a hasty courtesy to the dancer opposite, and grabbed his outstretched hands.

To the jovial rhythms of the music, my partner—a woman with sweaty hands, who was going to leave marks on my silk dress, darn her—and I bobbed and weaved, twirled and jumped, curtsied and kicked. The Califa Reel is a strenuous dance; I was already breathing heavily, and of course my tight stays didn’t help, either. I sucked in as best I could and, as I twirled my partner, looked down the bouncing line and saw that the Warlord was gone. I guess the Califa Reel is pretty hard to dance with one leg, and he had done part of the first set for politeness’s sake before retreating. He had been replaced by someone overshadowed by a large green hat.

Glad I was that Archangel Bob had drilled us so hard in the Califa Reel—I didn’t have to think about the steps at all. I just let my feet follow the music and concentrated on not breathing like a steam engine. The set finished and I switched the sweaty woman for a shrimpy kid, now one partner closer to Lord Axacaya.

“Your face is as red as a cranberry,” the ankle biter remarked, as I swung him up into a little hop.

“Aren’t you up past your bedtime, little mister?” I asked him. In response, he stuck out a purple-streaked tongue. He was too small to swing me up, so I had to hop on my own while he pawed my waist with grubby hands. I ignored him for the rest of the set and then switched him for a heavy man with puggy eyes, who kept trying to peer down my neckline. Let him look; the next switch would put me square in front of Lord Axacaya, who was already whirling and twirling next to me, close enough that I could smell the deliciously dark woodsy scent of Birdie ceremonial incense.

As I danced, I snuck glances at Lord Axacaya. Pigface, he was beautiful, even more than I had remembered: the long spiraling silver-blond hair, the perfectly shaped lips accented by the jade butterfly lip-plug. The muscular chest covered in intricate tattoos; the equally muscular arms, also inked. Despite the chill, he wore only a knee-length feathered kilt, iridescently blue and green, which swung low around his hips; a jaguar skin hung over his shoulders, capelike, so that the poor cat’s head dangled against his broad chest. And his intense eyes, completely black, iris and sclera both, a deep shiny blackness that made him seem inhuman and remote. And yet gorgeously glamorous.

My tummy fluttered in a very spoony way and I quelled it. I needed to stay focused and calm.

The Pug-Eyed Man swung me one last time. I floated outward on a groove of music, hands outstretched, and Lord Axacaya caught my grip and pulled me into his arms. He radiated heat like the summer sun, but the sudden flush I felt was due to more than just that or the exertion of the dance.

Lord Axacaya gazed down at me, distantly, with no recognition in those voidlike eyes, and my stomach flipped—had he forgotten? But as I made my courtesy and he bowed his own head, he smiled.

“Madama Flora! What a pleasant surprise!” he said. “I had not expected to see you here.”

“Ave, Your Grace,” I said. We twirled and then matched our steps together. My eyes were about level with the burnished bronze of his chest, and the sorry eyes of the jaguar head. I looked down toward my feet; Lord Axacaya’s feathery kilt drooped alarmingly around his hips, below the taunt line of his belly. I hastily went back to looking at the jaguar head. Now, this close, his delicious smell was almost overwhelming, and my head felt as light and airy as a balloon.

“My condolences on your family loss,” he said, and for a moment I was confused, then realized he was talking about Idden. Something about the way he said loss made it sound quite permanent. “I am sorry that General Fyrdraaca is not here tonight, but I must say that if your presence is due to her absence, then perhaps I am not so sorry after all.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Why did my voice sound so squeaky? And I couldn’t think of an equally charming response. Archangel Bob says that when you are at a loss for words, you should compliment. “I like your winter.”

We hopped and Lord Axacaya said, “Thank you. I thought it would be an entertaining novelty. I am so rarely cold that I enjoy the sensation when I can get it. Not everyone likes the chill, though. Do you prefer warm weather?”

“No, Your Grace. The snow is beautiful.” My response might not be charming but at least it made it clear where my allegiances lay.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, and the little butterfly lip-plug twinkled as he smiled.

The fatigue of the dance fell from me; I felt as floaty as air, weightless and feathery, elated and happy, caught up in our perfect synchronization. As he twirled me again, his hand on my lower back was firm and pressing; I couldn’t put a step wrong, his pressure completed me, as natural as breathing. A wispy strand of his hair blew across my face, and I shivered at its tingly touch. I wondered how I had ever been afraid of him, and this absence of fear made me bold. The set would be over soon and I would lose my chance.

“Your Grace, I must speak with you. It’s about the earthquakes...”

“Ayah, so?” he murmured encouragingly.

“I think I have discovered their source.”

“Ayah, so?” His tone didn’t change but his gaze sharpened.

“Can I speak with you more privately later?”

Now he was leaning down, so I could whisper and he could still hear me. A lock of his hair brushed my cheek, feeling like coiled silk.

“The Loliga,” I whispered.

I heard the sharp intake of his breath. “What do you know of the Loliga?”

“A tentacle came out of the potty at—” I realized perhaps I shouldn’t admit
where
the tentacle had attacked me, and hastily adjusted my words. “A tentacle attacked me. I think it belonged to the Loliga—it’s still under the City—at Bilskinir Baths.”

The other dancers had changed partners, but Lord Axacaya still held my hands. We were holding up the dance and people on either side of us were muttering.

“I will find you later,” he whispered, and then swung me free. I floated away and turned my head to follow him. Lord Axacaya was apologizing to his new partner. A hard grip fastened on my hands and then jerked me around, almost wrenching my arms out of their sockets.

The protest that had sprung to my lips stuck there when I turned to face my new partner.

Udo.

I
SHOULD HAVE
recognized the hat; it was the monstrous green bicorn that the Dainty Pirate had sent Udo as a thank you gift when we’d tried to save his life. The Dainty Pirate shared Udo’s over-the-top style sense, and the hat really was too much. Everyone was staring at him.

“You almost broke my arm!”

“You were holding the dance up,” he said. “You and the Warlord’s honey-boy.”

“What does that mean?” I glared at him.

Udo shrugged and twirled, his skirts twisting like a whirlpool about his knees. He seemed to have recovered completely from his wound. In fact, he looked so great that I couldn’t help but feel a pang. Clearly he had not suffered over his wardrobe as I had. His emerald-green frock coat had yards of gold lace swirled on his dishtowelsized cuffs and his wide lapels. Diamonds twinkled in the buttons of his black silk weskit, and his kilts were long and flowing. He’d gone easy on the maquillage, and this made him look much more mature than usual.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “How did you get in?”

He looked down at me scornfully. “What? Only
Fyrdraacas
are good enough to attend the Warlord’s Birthday Ball?”

“That’s not what I meant. You have to be on the guest list and I know you weren’t on the guest list.”