"You always meant to get it cut?" Rossamund gasped incredulously.

"I have to own that it's so, lad, aye." The old salt's dogged expression fell. "I might 'ave got it off sooner but that I was put upon by my own girlish curiousness to see for sure if th' punct would prove."

"But Swill had one anyway!" Rossamund insisted, with as much hope as conviction.

"Aye . . . There is that," the ex-dormitory master conceded. "But 'e's gone now. . ." He looked hard at Rossamund, pain and confusion suddenly clear. "Don't ye see, lad!" he returned bitterly. "One ill-got mark is enough in a lifetime, but two o' them-an' one made from yer own ever-livin' claret, lad-is more'n I can bear!"

Rossamund had no answer to this. He grasped Fransitart's free hand-his only hand-and as the old salt drifted off, just held it.

25.

THE GRAND GALA.

flitterwills small winged bogles, their form often a crude simulacrum of everymen yet with more distorted proportions. One of the few flying bogles-since the exodus of the naeroe-who make use of the winds and air, they are found only in the remotest, often terribly threwdish places, though there are meant to be many lurking in the Schmetterlingerwald north of Worms and ruled by the d.u.c.h.ess of b.u.t.terflies.This is all conjecture, of course; ancient texts hold them to be among the tribe of monster known as nisse, but in common culture flitterwills are pure myth.

THE day of the grand gala finally arrived with a growl of far-off thunder.

"Perfect!" Europe declared, sipping the morning's plaudamentum and staring from her file window at the frowning southern sky. "Perfect . . . ," she repeated softly.

Cloche Arde was properly "tricked out"-as Fransitart called it, recovering well from his lost limb in one of the less prettified parts of the house-looking now like some Occidental pavilion. Europe's entire set of bom e'do screens were placed to direct where to and where not to go, and the ceiling was virtually hidden behind a veritable constellation of lanterns-great skies of red, orange, yellow-green and white. Staging refectories were established on each floor so that the footmen could fetch and deliver drinks and the simpler vittles without the need to descend constantly to the kitchen.

Feeling by middens that he had run a half mile making certain all was truly set, Rossamund knocked at Europe's door to inquire of his mistress to come out and give her own endors.e.m.e.nt of the arrangements.

"I am sure it is all excellent, Rossamund," she said with distracted impatience, strolling quickly about the ludion where the first orchestra-fully costumed in magenta frock suits and magenta bag-wigs-was already at its tuning on the elevated stage behind the stairs. "You and Kitchen and Mistress Clossette will have done a fine job," she added, and returned to her file.

In the afternoon the dance masters and entertainers arrived, all shown to their respective habitats to begin their own preparations, swelling the numbers already crammed into Cloche Arde until Rossamund wondered where the guests themselves might fit. Chief among these was a Master Papelott, the paraductor-the master of the unfolding of the entire night-recommended by the Lady Madigan. Exchanging greetings in the hiatus, Rossamund peered a little dubiously at the slight, almost sickly, man. Despite the gorgeousness of Master Papelott's golden silk frock coat, it did little to give ma.s.s to his scrawny frame, yet when he spoke with what he called his "a.s.sembly tone," he straightened admirably and the most articulate and astonishingly powerful voice boomed from his undernourished bosom and wiry throat. With such volume he easily marshaled the entire company of additional staff-mostly footmen dressed in full red and magenta livery-in the vestibule for inspection and instruction.

Among the planned diversions, Rossamund was gratified to discover that Europe had hired the lank-haired concometrist who had approached her for work when they had first come to Brandenbra.s.s. "I'm to draw spedigraphs of as many guests as want them," he explained, looking much less dismayed and introducing himself as Economous Musgrove.

Yet the most unusual of the performing set was Madam Lux, the benign mesmerist, her head utterly bald-surely as naked as the day she entered this world-and the corners of her eyes spoored with upward bent arrows. Above the gathered neckline of her draping cloak of soft silver peeped the dark red curlicues of many, many cruorpunxis, scrawled about the entire circ.u.mference of her throat. Here was the rarest of all rare creatures-an old lahzar. Walking with the help of a young woman-her own factotum, no doubt-and speaking so softly Rossamund was forced to lean in to hear, Madam Lux presented a spectacle of harmlessness. Even so, the young factotum thought it very peculiar of the Branden Rose to allow a wit, no matter how aged, into her house.

Everything about Europe is peculiar at the moment, he reflected with an inward shrug, showing the madam mesmerist to her place at a small black side table in the easily reached hiatus.

When all was as ready as it could be, Rossamund left the chaos in Master Papelott's and Kitchen's care, brewed treacle and deposited it at his mistress' door, then finally retired to get ready. In his set the young factotum dutifully scrubbed himself twice, and after this submitted to a thorough primping. Teeth polished, nails pared, hair trimmed and waxed, he emerged from behind the screen in his finest shirt and longshanks to find a box left for him on the coverlet of his bed. It was wrapped in expensive red paper, and a simple card was slotted in its black ribbons.

To My Fine Factotum, In antic.i.p.ation that you have forgotten your own costume fancies, I provide this for you, and for our own and private jest.

EU.

Prising the wrappings apart with shaking hands, Rossamund let out a short barking laugh, for inside he found a maschencarde mask exquisitely fashioned in the form of a sparrow's face. Beside it was laid a peac.o.c.k blue coat made of shimmering cloth much in the hue of Cinnamon's own flower-petal jacket and a white-and-black-striped weskit.To the bemus.e.m.e.nt of Pallette, he laughed again when he put it all on and reviewed himself in the mirror through the mask's ample-looking holes. Perched on the sill of the open windows, Darter Brown flew in, and, twittering joyously, made circling loops about the young factotum's sparrow-masked head.

As Pallette left, Rossamund held out his finger for the little fellow to alight upon. "Keep an eye out for Miss Europe, Darter," he said.

Peering at Rossamund with almost human pondering, the he-sparrow voiced a single clear and positive chirrup! and launched himself outside once more.

"Well-a-day, Master Sparrow!" Crispus chortled, recognizing Rossamund's fancies instantly as the young factotum entered Fransitart and Craumpalin's pallet. "Your mistress plays a handsome joke!"

Rossamund gave half a beck in grat.i.tude.

Fransitart frowned. "A mite too handsome, I reckon . . . ," he growled. Dressed in a l.u.s.trous black suit, the ex-dormitory master had the role for the evening-and Craumpalin too-of helping to keep the various drivers and lesser staff who would inevitably attend fed and occupied. Looking pale but well-his empty left sleeve pinned up to his shoulder like a naval hero's-Fransitart pulled at the especially high collar and stock and tilted his head to and fro against the constriction. "Someone might guess at who he is."

"Aye," said Craumpalin, clad very much like his friend. "Thee'd think there was enough dark conjecturing boiling away without throwing powder on the fire."

Crispus smiled. "I doubt anyone coming here tonight would know near enough of the true nature of the great world out there"-he waved his hand vaguely-"to deduce the truth of the origin of Rossamund's fancies."

As for the physician, he was dressed as a lamplighter. "In honor of our fallen manse and worthy brothers," he elaborated. For Imperial quabard he had a simple soft vest half red, half yellow; for fodicar a broom shaft painted black with some sticks adhered to the top to simulate the crank-hook and sleeve-catcher. His stiff hair was pointing perpendicularly from the back of his head, gathered as best it could be in a gray bow. He was very nervous and kept rocking on his heels and shuffling through the cards he had prepared of his salient points for the oratory. "The big event has almost come."

As they talked, Wenzel appeared at the pallet door, red-faced and frustrated. "I 'ave been trying to find you all afternoon, sir," he began. He then informed Rossamund that an odd manner of parcel had arrived for him earlier that day and was even now sitting in the obverse. "It was the least troublesome resting place for it, sir," he concluded, almost apologetically.

Rossamund asked who had delivered it, but Wenzel declared himself mystified.

"I weren't the one who took the delivery," he explained. "But the general word is that it is most certainly yours."

Negotiating a way through the madness of final gala preparations, Rossamund, and the three curious older men with him, found a broad yet shallow wooden box as Wenzel had said-no missive with it, not even an addressing bill or return directions, just blank dark wood bound tight in hemp strapping. Impatient, Rossamund hurried it back to Fransitart and Craumpalin's pallet and broke the bands with his hands alone, to find thick canvas wrappings within protecting . . . a painting.

"It's of you, Rosey me lad!" Fransitart exclaimed.

Indeed it was, for there in rich, deftly applied paint was Rossamund, staring out at himself. "Miss Pluto has finished it!" he cried in amazement, unable to help staring right back at himself in his delight.

The portrait was astoundingly lively, showing him sitting at the three-quarter yet looking squarely out from the picture with an expression of such frank and earnest searching that Rossamund was forced to ask of the older men, "Do I truly look like this?"

"I reckon Miss Pluto's got yer fixed just right," Fransitart chuckled.

Grinning, Craumpalin nodded emphatically. "She's shown thee true, me lad."

"What will ye do with it?" Fransitart asked, a hint perhaps of his own desire to possess the piece in his tone.

"I-I do not know . . . "

"A fine, fine likeness," Crispus proclaimed, holding the portrait at arm's length to squint at it as if this might improve his view. "You ought to show it to your mistress."

Rossamund shook his head. "I do not reckon she will appreciate it at this moment," he said.Yet, returning to his duties with the image wrapped once more and under his arm, he thought again on his original determination. Approaching Europe's file, he placed his portrait carefully against the carven door and there he left it.

The sun's sanguine glow finally faded in the west, flushing the sky a deep evening rose. The rain that had spent the day growling at the edge of the world blew up from the Grume. With its arrival came the gala's first guests, dashing under parasols from their glossy carriages to the melodious and courtly welcome of Cloche Arde. Fighting weather, Rossamund observed gravely at the grumble of thunder as he stood in the vestibule to welcome the invitees.

As proper night enfolded them all, Master Papelott stood at the top of the first flight of the stairs, and, with an august cry, declared, "Hale night and merry! The d.u.c.h.ess-in-waiting of Naimes welcomes all comers!" The grand gala was set under way.

Unlike the joyous sweaty simplicity of a country fete, the grand gala was a n.o.ble gathering of graceful souls. In the ludion there was little laughter, scant clapping and certainly no appreciative stomping of feet. Instead it was a-buzz with restrained genteel conversation and the audible shuffling of august folk promenading with exquisite swaying unison to the playing of either of the thirty-piece orchestras that took turns to give them music. With much bowing and curtsying and subtle playing up to each other, these lofty people danced a turn or two, spoke and ate in exclusive huddles and strolled every floor taking in the entertainments, settling longest in the room most suited to their temperament or returning to dance again.

At every turn on every floor Rossamund was met with grave faces and serious conversation, the precise studied manners of the gala-goers at odds with the garish and often quite ludicrous costumery draping them. The quality of the fancies varied greatly, from simple paper and card facsimiles to real teratological equipment undoubtedly gained at great expense. There was many a goggle-eyed nicker and buck-toothed bogle as well as beasts from distant lands- crocidoles, lyons, even an orange-furred aurang; a set of women in clear cahoots were festooned in diaphanous wings like mythic flitterwills. Pretty-and not so pretty-young ladies in quest of advantageous marriages costumed themselves with clinching, flattering dresses and maschencarde masks to set off their fluttering lashes. Wrapped in flowing robes, many elder guests came as kings or queens of ancient days, though none dared dress as Idaho or Dido-such claims of costume would be gauche and overreaching in the extreme.Yet by far the most popular theme of costume for the night was teratologist, and of these, antique monster-slaying heldins were commonest.

Grand and poised though this night might be, it certainly was noisy; not a general boisterousness, but rather a universal medley of conversation that swelled as certain personalities made exhibitions of themselves in mirth or pa.s.sion. Moving between floors-from the methodical madness of the kitchens to the stately motion of the ludion-Rossamund was constantly met with a cacophony of music and ceaseless conversation. Soon his night settled into rounds about the house, b.u.mping through the tide of gentry seeing, strutting and being seen, to identify problems and offer to all who asked the formula he had been given earlier that day, "The d.u.c.h.ess-in-waiting makes especial preparations for the night and will attend as soon as she is able." Met with many strange looks and interrupted conversations reduced to furtive whispering, Rossamund never remained stationary long enough to hear more than snippets of talk, yet after only a short while his thoughts revolved unceasingly about sentences only partly heard.

"I have it that her coursing party was not near as successful as this little gathering suggests."

"What was she doing on a private hunt, I ask you, when our very colonial bastions were being a.s.saulted? Why was she not there to avert disaster? . . ."

"How surprised I was to receive her invitation; she never responds to mine . . ."

"I heard our thorn-ed miss sent the Archduke packing at her most recent visit to the 'Dirk, the creature! Left him all in blushes and stutters."

"Hush, dear! The creature's servant listens."

"Isn't there meant to be something peculiar about her newest factotum? Something untoward . . ."

On the steps between the ludion and billiards and oratory, the young factotum pa.s.sed the Lady Madigan. Though distinguishable in telltale gray, the fulgarine peer had come in oddly modest attire: a robe of flowing gray, its sleeves baggy to the elbow, ballooning over the st.u.r.dy vambrins of gray soe about her forearms and over her hands. Clinched about her chest and middle she wore a stomacher of spangled gray soe stiffened with buff lining fastened with a small bow at her diaphragm. But for the quality of the cloth, the obvious shimmer of gauld on harder proofing, she looked a poor moiler scratching a life out in the Paucitine. Even in such dowdy attire, whenever Rossamund spotted her, she was encircled by a host of admiring men, each making loud and flowing praise of her clever variation on the theme. She smirked and smiled and gave clever answers and kept each fellow hanging on every word. Threedice, her factotum, seemed to have come as himself, though in slightly heavier proofing than such an evening required. Staying a respectable but constant pace behind, he glowered unremittingly with more than professional intent at his mistress' gallants.

Rossamund spotted Mister Carp in the ludion, the man-of-business dressed as an elephantine, his oversized coat stuffed with great paddings of pillows and cloth, conspicuous as the only one of such fellows at the gala, real or contrived. He had come with his wife-a wife Rossamund did not know he had. Introduced as Madam Germine Carp, she was a small slender woman almost lost inside a great pile of gauzy cloth. What she was meant to be Rossamund could not tell, yet he did not think it polite to ask. Of few words and wide wet eyes, Madam Carp looked uncomfortable to be squeezed with so many of the lofty and grand. Rather strangely, Carp himself did not possess his usual swagger, and the two sat on their own at the edge of the gaieties exchanging looks and brief remarks with each other. Rossamund tried to swap a friendly word with them as often as he could and was happy when he finally saw them in close conversation with Crispus down in the billiard room.

Several times Rossamund thought he spied the brightly armored colonel of the lesquin company Europe had met with several times over the week talking closely with Mister Rakestraw, the sleuth in drab and heavy proofing.

"Well now, Mister Bookchild! A sparrow seems a rather dowdy creature for such a fine rout," a jolly voice declared with breezy pointedness, picking Rossamund in the crowd of the hiatus despite his sparrow mask.

Turning, the young factotum found Baron Finance, come as the most fluffy, dandidawdling fluff it was possible to be, his silvered wig so high and his cheeks so rouged as to be almost feminine. "Where is your mistress at, sir?" the Chief Emissary pressed with affable persistence as Rossamund lifted the mask up over his crown to greet him properly. "Still at her evening toilet despite the festivities?"

"I am sorry, Baron, sir," Rossamund offered, reiterating the formula he had repeated many, many times already that night.

"I am sure she will," Finance replied knowingly, then said more seriously, "Though I cannot say her guests will make much good from such excuses . . . Ah, but what can we do, Mister Bookchild?" He smiled suddenly. "We are merely satellites trapped in her inexorable gravity."

For a moment they watched a trio of smirking flitterwills sit themselves before Madam Lux and submit to the benign mesmerist's outre expertise. Clearly skeptical as they watched the old wit close her eyes and touch lightly at her left temple with shaking hand, the three young women were soon exclaiming and drawing attention to themselves at the imagined sensations stirring in their thoughts.

"I hear trumpets!" one girl declared in frank wonderment, looking up as if the room were full of heralding cornets and flugels.

Whatever misery Madam Lux might have brought to monster-kind in her prime, reduced by time and infirmity to such trickery-however skillfully achieved-seemed an ign.o.ble end for a once-mighty neuroticrith.

"If I might say, sir . . . ," Baron Finance interposed on Rossamund's thoughts, his tone lowered discreetly. "Whatever predicaments your irregularities might have brought her"-and me, his eyes said-"the home of our d.u.c.h.ess-daughter is a most cheery place since your replacement of the previous fellow"-Rossamund knowing full well he spoke of Licurius-"and, quite confoundingly, she is of much better countenance too. At my report, our benevolent mistress, the d.u.c.h.ess herself-ever concerned after her daughter, however much the scion of the house of Naimes persists in a life of her own-desires me to welcome you as an appendant to the Court of Naimes."

"Uh . . ." Rossamund bowed to this lofty acknowledgment. "Tell her graciousness thank you, sir," he said, straightening, and, with a sick thrill of dismay, discovered Scrupulus Sicus, Imperial Secretary, emerging from the endless flow of people leaving coats and making first meetings in the hiatus.

What is he doing here! Europe cannot have invited him?

Complete with olive wreath and voluminous wrappings of white robes, Sicus had come as a gilded glaucologue of the Empire's first formation.Yet, far from the authoritative hauteur of the inquiry at Winstermill, the Imperial Secretary looked patently nervous to find Rossamund in the press. Bending humbly at the middle, he held out his invitation like a patent of nativity demanded by gate wardens and inquired after the "rightful and most gracious lady of the house." His flattery was a long way from the strident terms he used at the lamplighters' once-great fortress.

Flagitious shrew was one such strident term that rose in Rossamund's mind. He beheld the man stoutly, seeing full well that this fellow knew exactly who he was and in what circ.u.mstances they had last met.

The Imperial Secretary squirmed for just a moment and then, with several clearings of his thickly wrapped throat, said, "Well, young master, at the d.u.c.h.ess-Heir's most gracious invitation I can only offer her my unqualified support against such a scoundrel as Honorius Swill. He fooled us all, I would say"-the fellow's face paled slightly-"with his apparently learn-ed convictions.The authority of the well-read, ha ha . . ."

Rossamund did not smile.

"Your benevolent mistress, however," the man pressed on awkwardly, glancing to Finance only a few feet away, "has showed her abounding and much-praised quality in seeing through him in the first. I can only regret any . . . misunderstanding that may have arisen betwixt your mistress and the Emperor through myself over this affair, and can only a.s.sert in the most earnest terms that the Lady of Naimes has once more-indeed, never lost-the Emperor's full and complete confidence. This elaborates most fully on the matter." He held up a red-wrapped buff wallet. "I am sure the d.u.c.h.ess-Heir will find it most satisfactory." Upon discovering Europe had yet to display herself, the Imperial Secretary showed open relief and gave the red-buff wallet to Rossamund.

The young factotum smiled inwardly at the irony as he took the Imperial parcel. Would the Emperor be so quick with this confidence if he knew the nature of the soul to whom his agent was speaking? "I shall give her your apology , sir." He bowed, alert to this Imperial bureaucrat's clear discomfort at the emphasis of this word. "I am sure she will give it the proper merit."

"Ah, most excellent, young fellow," Sicus returned, brows creasing slightly as he tried to fathom whether his interlocutor was being genuine or pointed. "I-uh-thank you."

"May you have a good night, sir," Rossamund returned, trying to achieve the same unequivocal poise of his mistress.

"Ah, yes . . ." Bending a final unfinished bow and giving a last uncomfortable look to Finance, the Imperial Secretary left them.

"Swill's allies forsake him utterly now he is dead," said the Chief Emissary in low voice, his expression grim indeed as he watched Sicus retreat into the ceaseless motion of fancied guests to find more comfortable company.

"Secretary Sicus seemed a mite happy to not properly meet with Miss Europe," Rossamund observed, savoring this rare moment of vindication.

The Baron Sainte could not help a grin. "That, Mister Bookchild," he said happily, observing Madam Lux convince a dashing young fellow swatting and ducking at empty air that he was bothered by a host of buzzing flies, "is the nearest a person might come to an endorsed and proper sorry in this Empire of ours."

A little past eight-of-the-clock the Archduke himself-and his large retinue with him-arrived, gracing Europe's soiree costumed in a long black tourette upon his crown and dressed in an antiquated harness hung with many bright-black stoups. Rossamund instantly recognized him as Harold, champion of the Battle of the Gates, perceiving the Archduke's intent to style himself in the same heroic line as a staunch defender of the people against all foes. Of his retinue came a veritable quarto of men of the highest stature with such t.i.tles as Prime Minister, Captain-Marshal of the Lifeguard, Chief Draw of the Purse-people Rossamund recognized by face if not by name from his brief visit to the Brandendirk. With them too was a woman of dark and foreign beauty whose presumably natural dress of gold scales and diaphanous cloth of mauve and gold was sufficiently exotic to cla.s.s as fancies. "The Princess Awahb, Fatemah of Pander Tar! Heiress to the Peac.o.c.k Throne!" the doormen on every floor announced as she ascended, to the general wonder of all.

Receiving the heiress of Naimes' formula for nonattendance with smiling grace, the Archduke nevertheless appeared slightly provoked not to be personally greeted by Europe.

He hopes to show off his princess and trump Europe with her, Rossamund could not help but think.

Indeed, the ruler of the mighty city of Brandenbra.s.s, with his Princess-quickly becoming the darling of the gala-had to wait for nigh on an hour to play his trump, for it was not until nine-of-the-clock precisely that the Branden Rose made her appearance. Loudly announced by Master Papelott, she stepped gracefully into the now hushed ludion, astonishing everyone with her costume.

a.s.suming she was to be wearing the gorgeous harness she had tried three days earlier, Rossamund was himself taken aback.

Clad in a wide skirt of deep red and a lorica of burnished bronze scales draped in a thick hackle of leonguile hide, she wore a high bronze helm pushed back upon her head, its crown crested with horsehair of black-and-white stripes.

Recovering, Rossamund understood immediately who she intended herself to be.

Euodice, the historied speardame to Idaho.

To those in the company of revelers who knew their matter, the import of Europe's fancy dress was bold and clear. I am of the Old Blood, it said; my line is more ancient than the Empire. It was an incontestable claim and it was also a challenge.

People began crowding into the ludion, all eager to hear what the Branden Rose might have to say at such an uncharacteristic social display.

His mistress finally debouched from her boudoir, Rossamund felt the release of some inward knot he did not know he had. At last! A part of him could not help but wonder if she had marked the painting waiting by her door.

Handed by the Archduke himself onto the orchestra's rostrum, the d.u.c.h.ess-in-waiting of Naimes looked like an Attic empress staring complacently out at the great company in their fancies. To Rossamund it seemed by the glimmer in her cool hazel gaze that she was laughing inwardly at the ludicrous spectacle of costume before her.

"I thank you all for condescending to my little event," she said with bold clarity, "to help me rejoice in the success of another course and to bring a correction to the current of recent ill wind." She glanced ever so briefly-the merest nigh-undetectable flicker of her eyes-to the Archduke. "Many of you might marvel at such a turn of character; yet I seek only-with this little affair of mine-to offer to you that which so many of you have so unflaggingly offered to me over the long years." Europe smiled with such winsome warmth that it left little room for any offense. "I place no limit on this night. Remain in my hospitality for as long as you will. So now, continue as I presently attempt a feat greater than the slaying of any prowling bogle and speak with you all before the night is through. I thank you."

EUROPE IN SPEARDAME FANCY.

While the Branden Rose descended, nodding and smiling piously to general applause, an immense white molded dessert was brought up to the ludion. Carried in a broad tray upon the shoulders of four footmen, it was made in the shape of the trefoiled heart of Naimes and swam in a bath of deep pink raspberry glatin. "Victory Flummery" Papelott called it, "in honor of our gracious hostess' success!" Served in fine Heil gla.s.sware of the most rarefied rosy tint, it was flavored with what was proudly declared as vanilla. People oohed at so rare and fashionable a novelty. Dressed in a maschencarde mask of a horse, a learned fellow near where Rossamund stood at the summit of the steps loudly enlightened all in earshot-listening or otherwise-that it was gained from the pod of some singular orchid growing in the febrile islands of the Sinus Tintinabuline. Opposed to the flummery model of the Sloe Sapperling at the Patredike, this dessert looked positively delectable, and the young factotum eyed it hungrily on his way to his mistress' side.

Proudly he followed behind her as she proved herself true to her determination to exchange a word or two with all, her manner as bland and accommodating as he had ever known it to be. It was wearying to watch and to hear; he was amazed at the d.u.c.h.ess-daughter's fort.i.tude.

One aged dame in virginal white, whose gelid expression told far more clearly her true sentiments toward Europe than her silken words, dared a remark on Rossamund, declaring with saccharine notes, "So young in his trade, my dear, and we've heard such things about him . . ."

"Only good things, I am sure," the d.u.c.h.ess-in-waiting returned wintrily, her smile thin.

"Oh, ah, yes yes." The woman blanched, realizing she had miscalculated. ". . . Certainly."