The Whatnot (8 page)

CHAPTER VIII

The Insurgent's House

“M
AUD! My shawl. We should have been in the lower house yesternight.”

Hettie dashed to a little dresser and shuffled through the heap of shawls that lay on it.
Spiderwebs, onionskin, poppy seed . . .
“Which one, Piscaltine? I don't know which one you want.”

“The green one, silly! Look at the weather.” The faery stood before a mirror, fixing a wreath of wilted flowers behind her ears. The mirror reflected a little box of a room painted to look like a study, and a window that was really only a picture of gloomy hills and rain. Hettie didn't think a
picture
of rain counted as weather, but she snatched the greenest shawl she could see and went to Piscaltine's side.

Piscaltine looked down at it. “That isn't green. That is striped.”

Hettie squinted at it. She didn't see any stripes. “It looks green to me.”

“Maud, don't be
contrary
! It is green and the stripes are green as well. Anyway, I asked for lilac. Get me lilac.”

Hettie didn't glare. Hettie didn't fuss. She kept her face still and went back to the dresser. She felt very wise. Piscaltine seemed to think she was her little servant, and so the other night Hettie had decided she would play along. The faery lady was bound to grow bored of her soon. Then Hettie would leave, and when she did it would be better to be on good terms with the faery lady.

She picked up a length of dull purple cloth and brought it back to Piscaltine. Piscaltine accepted it with a smirk and sailed out of the room.

“So!” she said as they went down the corridor. It was being built as they walked, and in the darkness ahead Hettie saw the reconstruction faeries swinging on their harnesses, pounding the floors and walls into place with frantic haste. “We are supposed to be practicing bell immunity, but of course we won't. We must simply be very careful now, because the King's people are in my house.”

“The King's people? You mean those fancy people?” Hettie asked, snatching up Piscaltine's frock before it could snag on a heap of tools that had been forgotten on the inside of the corridor.

Piscaltine ignored her.

Hettie squinted at the faery a second. Then she said sweetly, “You're very pretty, Piscaltine.”

Piscaltine smiled. “Yes, the King's people. They watch everything, the wicked creatures. And they tell everything to
him
.”

“Why? Who are they?”

“They are his Belusites, of course! His menagerie of curious creatures. He collects them, you see. Just like I do!” Piscaltine clapped her hands delightedly and patted Hettie on her branches.

Hettie didn't know what to say to that. She didn't really understand the way the faery lady talked of
collecting
people and then snipping out their tongues, but she didn't have time to think about it because just then they turned a corner and stepped into a hallway made entirely of cloth. Hettie very nearly fell on her face. The whole length of the hall was made of cloth, the floor and the walls and the ceiling, and whenever Hettie or the faery lady took a step the construction jounced and juddered. It was like walking inside a hanging tent. The stuff didn't seem particularly thick, and Hettie was afraid it would rip and she and the faery lady would tumble into the dark and break their necks. But Piscaltine struggled along, and Hettie struggled after her, and soon they were at the other end, clambering up into the safety of a wooden doorframe.

“Where are we going?” Hettie asked, gasping for breath. “I've—I've never been through
that
before.”

“To the hearth room,” Piscaltine announced, not out of breath at all. “I had it built in the Mildew Wing today. They won't ever look there. They think I am such an obedient little duchess, but I'm really not.” She smiled a sharp-toothed smiled and started down a staircase.

Hettie hurried after her. “Piscaltine, why don't you do what the King tells you? Don't you like him? Is he a bad king?”

“He is a king. Of course he's bad. Our Country never had kings. When you call people kings they tend to believe you, and so we always only had lords and duchesses and people like me.” She primped, adjusting the flowers behind her ears. “You see, we each had our own little place to govern. Before.”

“Before what?”

Piscaltine bobbed her head about, nose in the air, pretending to admire a badly painted wall of vases and flowers.

“I also like your shoes,” Hettie said, glancing at the tips of the violet slippers as they darted out from under Piscaltine's frock.

“Before the Sly King!” Piscaltine answered. “Before he took everything, and he put all the low faeries underground, and everyone he didn't like, and forced them to build weapons and such nonsense. Because it is wartime, he says. Because we must all do our part. Well, I simply want to
rule
my part. Brightest Summer was wonderful before he came. There was no fog, and I had so many servants and so many courtiers and jugglers and entertainers, and oh, the
feasts.
It's so dreadful now.” The faery lady shuddered.

Hettie thought she agreed. “Couldn't you go somewhere else? Couldn't you go to a different part of the Old Country?”

“Of course not. There are only four places to go, and they're all bare and desolate now, anyway. Winter is the largest part, because doesn't it just stretch on and on when you're in it? And then there's Summer. I have a little piece of Summer. Belinda Blue has a piece, though she never leaves her tower anymore. Don't tell anyone, but I suspect it's because she's dead. The rest of Summer is simply wild now. Then there's Spring and Fall, and both are very small and very colorful and very difficult to find. I've never been to them. I'm not sure even the Sly King has. I've only ever been to Deepest Winter. That's why the Belusites say, ‘Oh, silly little Piscaltine. Doesn't know anything of the world.' But what are they? Servants. Servants and slaves.” Her voice was bitter, and she clutched the lilac shawl so tightly Hettie could see all the bones in her hand.

They arrived at the hearth room. Piscaltine pushed through the door. Again she locked it with ribbons and a sprig of green, only this time she added a bone and spoke a word and waved her hand over the old, ornate lock. Then she turned to Hettie and sighed.

“There. We're safe now. All the other faeries are in the immunity rooms, down to the last boot-scraper, having their innards unsettled by iron-sounding things, and here we are just having a
delightful
time!”

“We might get in trouble,” Hettie said. “I mean, if someone tells, and he's king and all, he might be angry. He might chop off your head.”

That seemed to annoy Piscaltine. “Well, if he chops off my head, I'll make sure he chops off yours, too. Anyway, he'll never know. And don't be such a worrywart! There are many of us who don't do as he says. Whole
houses.
It's horrid having a king. Especially one like him. He makes us wear dresses and ride
Virduger
and speak English. He wants things just so, and most faeries don't want things any way at all. So some of us don't follow him. And some of us die, but I'm not going to. I'm far too pretty for dying. Now. Before anything else, are you hungry?”

“Oh, yes, please!” exclaimed Hettie. In an instant, she all but forgot about disliking the faery lady, and about being crafty and clever. She had eaten nothing but mushrooms for ages, and she was more than ready for some proper food. She hoped it was stew. Or cabbage tea. Or black bread with carrot mash.

Piscaltine giggled and glided over to a silver dish that sat waiting atop a claw-foot table. She lifted the lid. Hettie hurried to her side and peered in. At the bottom of the dish were six perfect black cakes, like very dark chocolate. Swirls of buttercream had been piped on top, and they were decorated with glossy sugar pearls and threads of toffee. They looked so scrumptious. Hettie let out a gasp.

“Have one,” said Piscaltine, holding the dish under Hettie's nose. She had a glint in her eye, but Hettie didn't see it. All she saw were sugar pearls and buttercream, and cakes like ones she would never, ever be able to eat in England. She picked one up carefully, as if she were afraid she might drop it. She admired it a second. Then she bit into it, one great, round bite.

Piscaltine snapped the lid back onto the dish. The claw-footed table vanished. So did the dish. “Excellent,” she said. “Now you have eaten of our food. Faery bread and faery butter. You will not be able to leave this house. You'll be my friend forever and ever. Oh, I can't
wait
.”

“What?” Suddenly the cake tasted like dirt in Hettie's mouth. The cream clogged her throat, too sweet. “What—?”

“What, what,” Piscaltine said, sitting herself in a chair and smoothing her skirts. “I can't have you running away. I want you to listen to me and follow my orders and tell me stories and cheer me when I'm sad, and you are an Englisher. Englishers can be very wicked.”

Hettie felt dizzy. Blood pounded in her ears.
This isn't true. Oh, this isn't true.

“But it is!” the faery said, as if Hettie's thoughts were a book that she could read. “You are part of the house now. Part of the inventory. No door will open for you. No window will break. And since all the reconstructionists have strict orders not to let you too near the outer walls, you won't get out. Ever. I would have to be dead before you could leave this house.”

Hettie spat the cake onto the floor, but it was too late. It was far, far too late. She couldn't be sure, but she already felt a little heavier, a little duller, as if her feet were weighted with lead.

“No,” she said. And then louder, “No, I have to go home! My brother's looking for me, you can't keep me here. He'll never find me. He'll never find me here!”

“Well, good, I don't want him to find you.” Piscaltine's voice had been very calm before, but it was getting pointier now, and she kept glancing at Hettie, little hurt glances. “He would take you away from me, and I don't want him to!”

Suddenly, at the end of the room, a quiet knock sounded on the door.

Piscaltine went very still. Hettie didn't. She didn't care. She didn't care about Sly Kings, or skipping bell immunity, or stupid faery rebellions. She didn't care if Piscaltine's head was chopped off right that instant. “No, Piscaltine, make it go back. Make it not work. I have to leave, I
have
to!”

The knock sounded again, a tapping—porcelain fingers on wood.

“Be
silent
,” Piscaltine hissed. “Silence, I say!”

“No!” shrieked Hettie. “No, let me go! Help! Help, Piscaltine's in here! Piscaltine's in here!”

The knocking turned into a slow, steady beat.

Piscaltine rose, her hands fluttering. She looked as if she were about to slap Hettie. The knocking grew louder. Piscaltine whirled to the door. “Oh, it might be the Belusites. They might have inspected the immunity rooms.” She spun back to Hettie. Her eyes narrowed. “Get out. Hide. They mustn't see you again.”

A sharp command sounded from the other side of the door. The ribbons and sprig frizzled away to nothing. The bone snapped.

“It never
works
!” Piscaltine whined, and then she shoved Hettie viciously toward the chimney. “
Out.
And Maud? You will be my friend, or I will kill you.”

The door clanked open.

For a second Hettie thought about facing the Belusites, if it was them. Perhaps
they
would help her. But then she glimpsed the two hands pushing the door, one black and one white, and she saw the red skirts. She felt a sudden jerk of panic. She stepped into the cold fireplace just before Florence La Bellina swept into the room, and swung herself up by the bar, hanging from it like a little pig about to be roasted.

“Piscaltine,” Florence said, and Hettie could imagine her striding closer, one half of her face white, and the other black. She pulled herself onto the top of the bar and stood on it, hardly breathing.

“Yes?” Piscaltine said. “Hello, Florence La Bellina. If this is about bell immunity, I was just about to go.”

“This is not about bell immunity, Piscaltine. This is about the child we saw yesternight. We wish to inspect her.”

Hettie stood so, so still, the bar cutting into her bare feet.
Inspect me?
She didn't want to be inspected. And suddenly she was almost grateful to horrid Piscaltine for coming down the hallway that night at the window seat, for frightening the Belusite away.

“A child?” Piscaltine was saying. “What child? I don't know what you mean. You've probably lost your mind. You should go look for it. I suggest starting at the top of the house and working your way down, and don't forget the sinks and the linen cupboards.”

“Where is she, Piscaltine.”

Hettie had to get out of there. She had to get out of there
now.
She began to scramble up the chimney as fast as she could. She made a terrible noise. She gasped and grunted and sent falls of soot down into the hearth, but she couldn't bother with that now. A few feet above her was a ledge.
If I can only reach it.
Her toes found the seams in the stone, her fingers gripped a little hole, and she pulled herself up, rolling over onto her back just as two faces appeared below and peered up.

“What was that?” Florence La Bellina asked. “What is in your chimney?”

“Rats!” called Piscaltine. “And spiders. And roaches and toads and horseradishes. They're all so
noisy
.”

Hettie lay on the ledge, utterly silent. Seconds passed, and nothing stirred down in the fireplace. Then she heard Piscaltine and Florence La Bellina retreating into the hearth room. Hettie lifted her head and looked about. It smelled of rat droppings up here, and something sharp that scratched the back of her throat. There was almost no light, but even in the gloom she could see that the chimney branched in many directions, like a tree. She felt a draft of air against her cheek.