‘Argynnis paphia,’ he said quickly. ‘A Silver-Washed Fritillary.’
‘So, the Baron was right,’ remarked Lady Mandible. ‘But what a puzzle you are. A knowledge of Latin and butterflies, and yet by all appearances you are an urchin.’
‘My father bred and collected them,’ explained Hector under her cool gaze.
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Dead. Both of them.’
‘Lord Mandible lost his father last year,’ she said vaguely. ‘Poor Burleigh, he was most upset.’ She sipped at her coffee and shrugged. ‘Now, about the butterflies. As you know, the Mandible Midwinter Feast is unrivalled for miles –’ she looked at Hector and he nodded quickly in agreement – ‘and this year I am going to make sure it stays that way forever. For that I need butterflies, hundreds of them, but they must all be big and colourful, no dull browns or bland whites.’
Hector thought for a moment. ‘I know one that would be perfect for a display,’ he said. ‘Is that what you have in mind?’
‘A display? I suppose you could call it that.’
‘I am thinking of Papilio ingenspennatus,’ he continued, picturing the colourful butterfly his father had shown him that last night before everything changed. ‘An enormous butterfly, with spectacular multicoloured wings the size of your hands. No two are alike.’
Lady Mandible leaned forward and her eyes sparkled. ‘Can you get them for the very day I need them?’
‘For the very hour,’ said Hector, somewhat recklessly. ‘I can control the hatching through temperature.’
‘Well, well,’ she said finally, with a look that seemed to penetrate his skull. ‘If you can do all you say, then you must stay here at the Hall and provide the butterflies for the Feast. But be sure that you can. I don’t like people who break promises.’
‘I always keep my word,’ said Hector firmly, ‘but I will need money, to buy the cocoons and equipment. There is a supplier in Urbs Umida –’
Lady Mandible raised her hand dismissively. ‘You can have anything you want. Ask Gerulphus. Just make sure the butterflies are ready on the night.’ Her smile was engaging but there was a hint of menace in her voice and Hector remembered Perigoe’s warning.
Sensing that the conversation was drawing to a close, Hector stood up but before he could take a step the door opened and a man entered the room. All eyes turned in his direction. Lady Mandible arched an eyebrow in greeting as Hector’s heart fluttered.
The man was Baron Bovrik de Vandolin.
Bovrik’s eye sought only Lady Mandible and he came straight over to kiss her outstretched hand. Hector, slowly recovering from the bilious feeling that rose in his gullet upon seeing the Baron again, took the opportunity to look at him properly. His clothes could only be described as riotous in their colour, and he wore an eyepatch that matched his cravat perfectly. As before, the faint smell of citrus lingered in the air around him.
‘Ah, Bovrik,’ said Lady Mandible with a clap of delight. ‘This is Hector, found half dead with exhaustion on the steps – the boy from the City you told me about. I must commend you, sir. He is quite a find.’
Bovrik sat on a nearby chair and absentmindedly stroked the furry cushions, as if they were an animal of some sort. He looked at Hector with his one eye and an odd smile.
‘I am glad that he meets your high expectations,’ he said. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, he turned to Lady Mandible and pulled off the eyepatch.
‘Oh, Bovrik, not another one!’ she sighed with seemingly mock ennui, drumming her glittering fingers on the ivory handle of her fan. ‘Are you expecting to lose your right eye as well? At least you will have enough eyeballs to fill both sockets! What jewel is it this time?’
Bovrik deliberately faced Hector, who could now see clearly the white scar that ran through the Baron’s eyebrow to finish under his eye. In the socket was the false eyeball Lady Mandible spoke of, with a pale blue iris to match his good eye. It was sparkling in the light and Hector suddenly realized there was a jewel set into the black pupil. The effect was quite odd and unnerving: it was difficult enough to be so close to a man when you knew his fate was in your hands without this ludicrous display.
‘An emerald, Lady Mandible,’ said Bovrik, without looking away from Hector. It was as if, Hector thought, he sensed his discomfort. Suddenly the villain jerked his head sharply forward and then back up and Hector let out a small involuntary shout, for Bovrik’s socket was now black and empty, the eyeball instead staring blankly up at him from the Baron’s palm.
Lady Mandible giggled archly. ‘Hector, you look positively distressed,’ she said. ‘’Tis only an eye. I thought you were made of sterner stuff.’
‘You will need to be,’ said Bovrik dryly as he pushed the eyeball back in.
‘Now, Bovrik,’ said Lady Mandible officiously, turning back to the Baron. ‘Tell me how it goes with preparations for the Feast while Gerulphus shows the boy to his room.’
‘Indeed.’ Bovrik flicked a finger in the manservant’s direction. ‘You heard your mistress – get to it! Leef us finer folk to our culinary con-fer-sa-tion.’
Gerulphus’s expression did not change as he regarded the Baron for a moment. Then he bowed, tapped Hector on the shoulder and left the room. It was with great relief that Hector followed him.
Chapter Sixteen
A Letter to Polly
Withypitts Hall
Dear Polly,
I have been at Withypitts Hall almost ten days now and I am much better acquainted with things. After my first encounter with Lady Mandible (and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named), Gerulphus led me back through the entrance hall (I had my wits about me this time) and I saw that the walls were adorned with hunting trophies from previous generations: stags, bears, mountain lions, dozens of pairs of antlers of varying sizes and points, even a Jocastar – such a rare and unusual creature, I thought its large eyes and delicate features out of place with the other animals. But these were all outdone by a huge and savage-looking hog’s head – that of a Hairy-Back, of course – which takes pride of place in the middle of the display. It was caught by the old Lord Mandible. His son hunts the hog almost daily, but with less success. I have seen neither the beast’s head of which Oscar spoke nor the chair, and I can’t say I’m upset to have missed them. It would not surprise me if that villain has them in his own private rooms – that would fit his twisted nature.
Gerulphus led me to what I judged to be the furthest corner of the Hall, the west wing, to one of the towers. We climbed a steep stone staircase, sharply winding, and I suspected none had ventured up it for many years. Cobwebs as thick as table lace tangled in my hair and bats flew about my head. The smell caused me to choke. As for the room at the top, my room, it is spacious but on my arrival it contained just a bed, a chair and a table. During the week I have acquired the luxury of a chamber pot and water jug. And I am comfortable enough. There is a fireplace and I have managed to light a fire, though the chimney smokes quite badly.
In many ways Withypitts is a most beautiful residence. The floors are laid with intricate mosaics, the walls adorned with all manner of tapestries and pictures, statues and carvings are everywhere and all glitters as gold. But the longer I am here, the more I begin to see that Lady Mandible’s ubiquitous touch is always apparent and somehow the beauty is spoilt. Her taste for extravagance might not extend to the servants’ quarters but perhaps I should be grateful that neither does her taste for the queer. This is why the Pagus Parvus villagers warned me about her.
Withypitts Hall is not a warm place in any sense of the word. Take, as an example, the ceiling in the great dining hall (where the Feast is to be held). It is painted with nebulous scenes from the heavens but if you look more closely you see that behind the angels mischievous little sprites thumb their noses and adopt rude poses. On pedestals up and down the corridors stuffed animals pose stiffly, fear in their glassy eyes, snarling and frozen in time. Foxes, weasels, squirrels – every creature of the forest is represent
ed. But these are hardly the worst of it. There are many other objects on display that would be better placed in an exhibition of oddities. Lady Mandible has a liking for the more gruesome collectables: saints’ bones, death masks and thumb-prickers. And in the darker recesses she keeps freakish unborn animal specimens suspended in liquid in glass jars, claiming a scientific interest. To walk past these things is even worse at night. Which brings me to the point of my letter.
The morning after my arrival, Gerulphus showed me to a small, north-facing room on the third floor where I am to breed the butterflies. I refer to it as the Hatchery or ‘Incunabulorum’. It is dark and very cool, as per my specifications, and Gerulphus has since procured for me all that I require from the City. I spent a day setting up the tanks for my cocoons. I will keep them in a state of suspended animation until the time is right and then I will warm them up so they can emerge in their ultimate manifestation. It is not an exact process, of course, but I think I am capable of producing what Lady Mandible wishes. Her final purpose is still unknown to me but in many respects I am equivocal about it. The butterflies will not survive long afterwards anyway – once hatched they live no more than a few days in the wild. Besides, my mind, as you know, is on other matters.
And, dear Polly, it was these very matters that kept me awake the other night. Then, as I brooded over my butterfly tanks, I heard a noise outside the room and when I looked out I saw the very person I had just been thinking of creeping round the corner at the end of the hall and out of sight. The so-called Baron! My curiosity aroused I set off after him. But by the time I reached the next corner he had already disappeared and I had to give up the chase.
As I returned to the Incunabulorum I thought hard about what I had just witnessed. It was hardly out of character for Bovrik to have some new trick up his sleeve, but what did this signify? I resolved to keep a much closer eye on him in future – I can’t let his plans get in the way of my carrying out my own. I have proved myself capable of solving almost any riddle thrown at me, as will I now. I will not let him outwit me again.
In the day it is easier to keep an eye on Bovrik. He visits me almost daily to check on my progress. Every moment in his presence is akin to suffering, especially as he is so high and mighty, always acting his part and turning the strange glint of his latest glass eye upon me whenever possible, but I grit my teeth and answer his questions and wait for him to go. At least my plan begins to take even firmer shape. The night of the Feast – I don’t think it can be done before then – will be remembered, and not just for Lady Mandible’s butterflies. I cannot say more than that, for fear of discovery.
When not in my Incunabulorum I spend much of my time in the Hall kitchen. Mrs Malherbe, the cook, a lady of similar girth to height, has been most welcoming. She complains daily about all the preparations for the Feast. Lady Mandible wishes it to be based on Trimalchio’s Feast. I recall his tale from my studies of the Classics with my tutor. Trimalchio was a character in a Roman story by Petronius. Once a slave, he gained his freedom and attained great wealth and power. He was renowned thereafter for his ostentatious and lavish banquets. When I told Mrs Malherbe this she merely grunted.
The other servants like to talk about the City. They are aware of its cruel and violent nature and I have not disabused them. I told them of my riddling, and now they beseech me daily for entertainment. This morning I gave them the riddle of the evil queen (I will write it at the end for your amusement).
Naturally, the conversation often turns to the Mandibles themselves. Lord Mandible apparently is a very different fish to his wife. I have seen him but once or twice. He is not much to look at. His head is brachycephalic in shape, being much wider than it is long, and he is balding even though he is still at a young age. When he walks he drags his withered leg and his breeches rustle, making it quite impossible for him to sneak up on a person, unlike Gerulphus who appears and disappears like a silent ghost. Lord Mandible has two interests, hog hunting and his father’s harpsichord. If not at one, he is at the other. My ears have not quite attuned to his style of playing. He keeps a pair of cats by the names of Posset and Percy, of which he is very fond. Occasionally one or the other walks across the harpsichord keys and, in truth, it is difficult to tell which of the three might be playing.
But Lady Mandible does not suffer in her husband’s absence for if Gerulphus is not at her side, then Bovrik is. A sort of human parasite hanging on her every word, Bovrik likes to give his opinion too. She appears to listen but it is difficult to tell what is going through her mind. I have seen that look before – it is common among those on the north side of the river. She strikes me as a fickle sort, in need of constant amusement and easily bored. In the past week alone she has ordered that all the drapes must be changed. Mrs Malherbe says, with some contempt, that they have been hung no more than six months. It is no secret in the kitchen that Mrs Malherbe prefers Lord Mandible (he likes her pies) and she has no time for his wife’s extravagances. As for the Baron, there’s no love lost there either. She thinks him a prancing, posing, untrustworthy sort of fellow and she is quite convinced he communes with the Devil on a regular basis. Besides, she says, she couldn’t trust a man who won’t look you straight in the eye, regardless of the fact he only has one. As you can imagine, I have not disagreed with her on this.
As I learned so painfully upon my arrival, Withypitts Hall is set atop a rocky outcrop in the mountains. It has been snowing most days since I arrived and all too often we are enveloped in thick grey fog. On the odd occasion the sky has cleared I have looked out of my four windows. The surrounding gardens are pleasantly titivated, with plenty of winter foliage, and stretch in every direction until they reach the boundary wall, ten feet tall and built from mountain rock. In the distance you can see the highest snow-capped peaks even deeper into the Moiraean Mountains range. To the east is the ancient oak forest, the home of the legendary Hairy-Backed Hog. It was often served for supper when Father was alive.
And so time is passing. The Feast draws nearer. I travelled from the west to reach the Hall, and on the days I can see the road that leads back to Pagus Parvus and on to the City. I think of you, Polly, and hope one day to see you again.
Salve,
Your friend,
Hector
P.S. The Riddle of the Evil Queen – as promised
There was once a wicked queen who lived in a wonderful palace in the mountains. She decided one day to build another palace so she sent her guards to the villages and told them to bring back all the young men to build it. Of course the young men didn’t want to leave their homes, and one demanded to speak to the queen, to complain about how unfairly she was treating them all. Impressed by his spirit the queen decided to give him a chance.
‘Come with me,’ she said, and he followed her out to the castle gardens.
She held up a small bag. ‘Into this bag my servant will put two stones, a black one and a white one. You will draw from the bag one stone. If it is black you will work for me, if it is white you will go home.’
The young man agreed, but not fully trusting the queen he watched the servant closely. To his horror his keen eyes saw the servant place two black stones in the bag.
‘Draw,’ commanded the queen.
What did the young man do?
If you cannot solve it, Polly, I promise to tell you the answer when next I see you!
Chapter Seventeen
A Toast
Baron Bovrik de Vandolin laid down a recent copy of the Diurnal Journal on the bedside pot locker (a necessary evil in the tower rooms, the newly installed water closet being some distance away) and cast an eye over his breakfast tray, a sumptuous feast of coddled goose eggs and slices of Hairy-Back ham – such a delicacy! Its meat was addictive, more succulent, more aromatic, more satisfying than any other. Once you had tasted a Hairy’s ham no other swine’s could ever match it. And for Bovrik the taste was always bittersweet. He loved and hated the Hairy-Backed Hog because with every delicious mouthfu
l he was reminded of where he had ended up and of his own true and lowly beginnings . . .
‘Those days are long gone,’ he thought with a shudder of relief as he mopped up the juices with a slice of bread. His eye flicked back to the sketch on the open page of the journal. Yes, it did him justice, and Lady Mandible too.
Looking around himself Bovrik still couldn’t believe just how well things had turned out. He resided in the highest, most spacious tower of the six at Withypitts Hall, lavishly and gaudily furnished exactly as he would have done it himself. The sumptuousness of the surroundings seemed to physically thicken the air. His bed, a large four-poster, was specially shaped to fit against the curved wall and he sat under a gold-embroidered velvet cover which fell to the floor, where its fringed hem sat in soft undulations. He was surrounded by plump orange pillows and he leaned against a tasselled short-furred bolster that stretched across the full width of the bed. The curtains were also of velvet, scarlet with thick coiled golden ties, like ships’ ropes, and golden fringes. The wooden floor – those parts which were exposed – shone almost like a mirror as a result of hours of polishing. The remainder was covered in soft-furred bearskin rugs. Sometimes Bovrik just threw himself on the fur and rolled around in its deep, enveloping loveliness. Other times he would sit in his feather-cushioned armchair, wrap himself up in his cloak and rub its expensive Jocastar fringe all over his face.
All this, of course, was done with the door locked.
Since his latest metamorphosis his life had changed immeasurably for the better and he congratulated himself daily on the success of his latest swindle. His plan had been simple enough: in the guise of an exotic foreigner (north Urbs Umidians loved the exotic) to charm his way into the wealthy circles of the City and live the rich life he had so long envied. He would find ways to relieve those around him of their valuables, large and small (to be disposed of by Badlesmire and Leavelund via their contacts in the Nimble Finger), to keep him in pocket. Perhaps trick an old, wealthy lady or two into writing him into their will, maybe even marry one . . .