The Sorceress and her Lovers Page 9

  Dovie nodded.

  “Would you like to come over for tea? I could send my driver to pick you up and afterward, we could play Argrathian checkers, or I could teach you the Birmisian game.”

  “That sounds great.”

  Iolana took another swig of her soda water. “My mother will probably be upset that I didn’t send you a written invitation.”

  “Only we’ve just met,” said Dovie.

  “Hello,” said the woman who was obviously Doreen Likliter. She was an older version of Dovie, but only a couple of inches taller.

  “Mum, this is Iolana Staff.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Likliter almost made a curtsy, before remembering herself and stepping forward to shake hands. “How nice to meet you.”

  “A pleasure,” said Iolana. “You have an interesting accent. You’re not from Brech City, are you?”

  “No, we’re not,” said Dovie. “We used to live in Bentin, in Cordwell. I didn’t think we had an accent though. I thought everyone else did. I know for a fact that you do.”

  “Does everyone from Bentin have red hair? Wait a minute. Who’s your auntie?”

  “Dot Shrubb. She’s mum’s sister.”

  “Well good, I’ll know right where to send my driver.”

  “Iolana’s invited me for tea,” Dovie told her mother. “It’s alright if I go, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Likliter, looking over her daughter’s dress.

  “Nothing fancy,” said Iolana.

  “I suppose it will be all right.”

  After saying goodbye, Iolana exited the millinery shop. She walked past the imported food store and across the alleyway to the next building. She stopped for just a moment and looked in the windows of the photography store and the dress shop. She didn’t bother with the haberdashery. At last she opened the door of McCoort & McCoort. The smell of paper and ink assailed her, as did the thumping and drumming of the steam-powered printing press.

  There was very little room in the front of the shop, which was separated from the large machinery by a counter and several bookcases. Books packed the shelves, and were stacked on the counter too. All of the volumes currently in print were represented; the quantities on display a sure indicator of their relative popularity. The two largest stacks were of Mr. Wissinger’s book on Freedonia and the journal of Iolana’s uncle.

  The press stopped, letting off a large whoosh of remaining steam. Suddenly Maro McCoort was leaning across the counter looking at Iolana.

  “Well good day to you, Miss Staff,” he smiled. “You’re looking very nice today, but I’m afraid you’re too early for a ride in my new car.”

  “Oh, no. I thought I would stop by to see how my book is doing.”

  “Royalties are paid at the end of the year,” he said tersely.

  “No, no. I know that. I just thought I would see if it’s selling.”

  “I’ll be honest. I don’t think we’ll get any orders outside of Port Dechantagne. Poetry just isn’t that popular. You should write more non-fiction. A Study of Large Birmisian Herbivores was probably the bestselling book by a ten-year-old in the history of the empire. Didn’t you say you were working on something else like that?”

  “A History of Birmisia Colony from Mormont to Dechantagne,” confirmed Iolana. “Poetry just seemed more lady-like.”

  “Maybe. But poets always die poor. If it’s any consolation, every girl in Port Dechantagne is buying a copy of this one though. I just sold one to Sherree Glieberman a little while ago.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope,” he said. “You’re friendly with her, right?”

  “I wouldn’t say friendly, but we see a lot of each other.”

  “Has she ever said anything about me?” He grinned crookedly. “Maybe about my mustache?”

  “Not that I recall,” said Iolana, feeling like all the air had been knocked out of her.

  She looked toward the door, planning her escape, when it opened and in stepped one of the loveliest young women in town. Wenda Lanier, at twenty-one years of age, was just about perfect from her very large blond hair to her very tiny feet. Her light blue day dress was lovely, as was the matching hat tied with a large blue bow below her chin. And as most of the boys did, Maro seemed to melt in her presence, especially his face, which just sort of went slack.

  “Hello Iolana,” said Wenda. “What a coincidence. I was just coming in to buy your book.”

  “I should just give you a copy,” said Iolana, picking up one of the small green leather-bound volumes. “After all, we’re friends.”

  Friends might have been pushing it. Wenda’s mother was Iolana’s mother’s secretary. They occasionally saw one another at social gatherings but had little in common.

  “Nonsense. I’ll pay for mine.”

  “She’s right,” said Maro, suddenly reanimated. “You should let her pay. It’s two marks.”

  Wenda handed him two silver one mark coins, and Iolana handed her the book.

  “Thank you so much. Well, toodle-pip.” The young woman started out the door.

  “Hold up. I’ll come with you,” said Iolana following in her wake.

  She almost bumped into Wenda’s bustle when the latter suddenly stopped.

  “I’m so happy to have this,” said Wenda, waving the book. “Everyone who’s anyone has a copy.” She opened the cover and read. “Birmisian Spring by Iolana Dechantagne Staff.” She licked her finger and turned the page. “For my beloved father, Radley Staff. I think it’s wonderful how well you get on. No one would ever know you were his step-daughter.”

  “Huh?”

  “I remember when they got married. You were just a little thing then. What were you? About two or three, I suppose. I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I had quite a crush on Mr. Staff. We arrived here on the same ship, you know. Of course that was back in ’03. I was just a little girl myself, about the same age you are now.”

  “Huh?”

  “It was very good to see you Iolana, but I have to be off. I have a date for tea at Café Idella. Toodles.” She blew away down the sidewalk, like a beautiful blue cloud.

  “Huh?” wondered Iolana.

  Iolana didn’t remember returning to the car and she didn’t remember Walworth getting in and starting it up, but suddenly he was pulling into the gate of the Dechantagne Staff estate. Before the carriage even came to a complete stop, the eleven-year-old was jumping out of her seat and running into the house. She ignored Kayden, the lizzie major-domo when he opened the door, rushing through the parlor, down the hall, and into the library. She saw no one except the lizzie servants in any of the rooms. Grabbing the picture of her father from the wall, she ran back through the parlor and up the stairs to her room.

  “Get out,” she said upon entering and finding both Terra and Esther. “Both of you get out.”

  “You don’t have to be so mean,” said Terra, but a moment later both she and the young lizzie were gone.

  Iolana stepped to the cheval glass in the corner and held up her father’s picture in one hand, looking from it to her reflection. Their eyes were different. Her eyes were bright aquamarine like her mother’s. Her nose though—she could swear she had the same nose as her father. It was too pretty for a man, really, but it looked just about right on her. Their lips were similar too. Not as thick as her mother’s, but nice. She suddenly realized that this was the first time she had thought of her father as a good-looking man. But he was. No wonder Wenda Lanier had a crush on him when she was a kid. Kafira damn it, he just had to be her father.

  “Kafira damn it!” she growled, aloud this time.

  “Whoa, my goodness, whatever is the matter?”

  She turned to find her father, Radley Staff, if he was her father, stepping through the doorway. His step faltered when he saw her face.

  “Iolana?”

  “Close the door,” she ordered.

  He did as directed.

  “Now, sit down over here.”


  She nodded toward the sofa. He meekly took a seat. She took a spot directly in front of him and pointed with the hand still holding his picture.

  “Are you my father or not?” she demanded.

  “Of course I am, Iolana,” he said quietly. “You know I am.”

  “Do I? I understand that I predate your marriage to my mother, and by quite a bit, I might add.”

  “Iolana…” His face took on a look that she had never seen on it before. He was uncomfortable. “Iolana, you are my daughter. Um, that’s really all you need to know.”

  He started to get to his feet.

  “Sit,” she ordered. “I don’t think so.”

  He rolled back into his seat.

  “My mother was married to Merced Calliere.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you are my father. Biologically, I mean.”

  “Kafira in a handbasket, Iolana. You’re only eleven. You don’t need to know this right now and I don’t need to be the one to tell you.”

  “Wrong and wrong. What you are telling me is that you and my mother committed adultery.”

  “No… no… that doesn’t… necessarily follow.”

  “Oh father, that is quite the vigorous defense. Perhaps you should tell me what I need to know before you raise even more questions.”

  “No,” said Mr. Staff. “Not until you sit down, calm down, and stop badgering me. I can get more than enough of that elsewhere. Sit. Now.”

  Iolana, sensing that control of the confrontation was changing, sat down. But she wasn’t ready to give up. She pursed her lips and glared at her father.

  “Your mother and I… were in love. But I was in the Navy and left, not knowing that um… you were on the way. She wasn’t married then, so… so much for the question of adultery. Not knowing when I would return, she accepted Mercy’s proposal.”

  “So, you are telling me that my mother wasn’t an adulterer; merely a wanton.”

  “There were two of us involved, Iolana. I was just as guilty of impropriety as she was.”

  “She is the woman,” said Iolana. “She’s the gatekeeper. You are a man. Men will stick their key anywhere they can.”

  Mr. Staff sighed. “Iolana, sometimes things are not as simple as they might seem when you’re eleven.”

  “I will be sure to point that out to you a few years from now.”

  “That’s enough!” He shot to his feet and grabbed her by the wrist. “Perhaps I’ve been too indulgent. Perhaps you need a firmer hand.”

  She glared defiantly.

  “Perhaps I should have your mother talk to you.” He let go of her wrist and took her head in his large hands. “Iolana, I love you too much to be cross. The important thing is—you are my daughter and you always will be.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked, her eyes starting to tear up.

  “I was sure the first time I saw you,” he said, and then shrugged. “But I had Zurfina the Magnificent use magic to make sure. You look so much like me, but you have a great deal in common with Mercy too.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. He was too damn smart for his own good too.” He released her and turned toward the door. “I hope you’re less emotional by teatime.”

  “Wait,” she called. Rushing over to the writing desk, she penned a quick note, and then walked back to her father, handing it to him. “I’ve invited a friend for tea. Would you have Wally pick her up?”

  “Willa?”

  “No, I’ve made a new friend today.”

  Mr. Staff raised his eyebrows. “Good for you.”

  He quickly exited the room, leaving Iolana alone. Suddenly exhausted, she plopped down on her couch, and then curled up on her side. A few brief minutes later, she was asleep.

  Esther woke Iolana an hour later to tell her that her guest had arrived. Having managed to muss both her dress and her hair during her nap, Iolana quickly washed up, had the lizzie brush her hair, and then changed into a black skirt and white blouse with a black tie. She found Dovie waiting for her in the parlor along with Cousin Augie, who was already instructing the newcomer in the intricacies of the Birmisian Game.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Iolana.

  “It’s all right,” said Dovie. “Your cousin was showing me this game. Is this the one that you were talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “You two didn’t invent it, did you?”

  “No,” said Augie, climbing up from his sitting position on the floor. “The lizzies play this game, and have for years. There have been some changes since they came into contact with soft-skins.”

  “Soft-skins?”

  “He means us,” explained Iolana.

  “Girls?”

  “Humans,” said Augie.

  Augustus Dechantagne was, as he often phrased it, just more than 8 and 2/3 years of age. He was a sturdy boy, still waiting for his preteen growth spurt to kick in, and still carrying a bit of baby fat around his middle. His hair, light brown in his early years, was darkening to a warm chestnut. Beautiful, long lashes shaded his dark blue eyes. As for the rest of his features, they were just like those of more than a dozen Dechantagnes of the past two centuries, whose portraits could be seen lining the hallways and many of the rooms of the mansion. Chief among those Dechantagnes was his father, Iolana’s uncle Terrence. His portrait hung in the foyer, next to his younger brother Augustus P. Dechantagne. No one would ever question Augie’s parentage, decided Iolana.

  “Will you play games with us after tea, Augie?” she asked, and then turned to her new friend. “Augie may be the best game player on the continent.”

  “Sure, at least for a while. I’m sort of expecting Claude and Julius later, but I can play until then.”

  “Tea is ssserved,” said Kayden from the doorway.

  Augie practically sprinted for the dining room. Iolana took Dovies’ hand and led her through the foyer.

  “Augie is the leader of his little gang. Without him, they wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “Boys,” said Dovie, knowingly.

  “Come along. Meals are some of the few benefits to living in this asylum.”

  All of the usuals were there. Iolana’s father and mother, Auntie Yuah, Augie and Terra, and Mrs. Colbshallow was there with her three-year-old granddaughter DeeDee. They quickly found their seats as the lizzies began laying out great platters of food. Iolana’s comment on the food proved apt. An enormous array of scones, already topped with clotted cream and jam was placed in the center of the table. A little further on was an elderberry crunch cake, and directly in front of Iolana was a pile of sugary biscuits made into sandwiches with sweet custard. The lizzies carried around four different varieties of finger sandwiches: shrimp and lemony cucumber sandwiches, creamy egg and cress sandwiches, goat cheese, walnut, and pepper sandwiches, and crab and tomato sandwiches. Iolana took one of each. Finally there was spicy pumpkin soup.

  “This looks delicious,” said Dovie.

  “Who is your friend?” asked Mrs. Staff.

  “It’s nice to see DeeDee with you today, Mrs. C,” said Iolana, ignoring her mother.

  “Yes. I get to spend the day with her and her mother gets a little rest.”

  “Who is your friend?” asked Mrs. Staff again.

  “Your mother asked you a question,” said Mr. Staff.

  “Did she?”

  “She asked who your friend is.”

  “This is Dovie Likliter,” said Iolana. “She’s Police Sergeant Shrubb’s niece.”

  “Indeed?” said Mr. Staff.

  “It’s very nice to meet you all, I’m sure,” said Dovie.

  “Very nice to have you with us,” said Mr. Staff. “If I’m not mistaken, I’ve seen your mother and… brothers?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, I’ve seen them around town. It’s hard not to notice so much red hair.”

  “A welcome injection of good, northern stock,” said Mrs. Staff, before daintily taking a bite of sandwich.

  “Mrs
. Government doesn’t approve of all these brown-eyed folk,” said Iolana, flashing an evil look at her mother.

  “What did you just call me?” hissed Mrs. Staff.

  “Iolana, I’m sure that’s not what your mother meant,” said Yuah, from the other end of the table, in a tone that confirmed she wasn’t entirely used to coming to Iolanthe’s aid.

  “No, of course not,” agreed Mrs. Colbshallow.

  “What did you call me?”

  Iolana lifted her chin and insolently met her mother’s eye.

  “Iolana,” said her father. “Leave the table.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You are dismissed. Dovie, please stay and enjoy your meal. I’ll have you driven home afterward. I’m afraid my daughter is not feeling herself.”

  With an angry glance at her father, Iolana pushed her chair back just before the lizzie servant had a chance to pull it out for her. She started toward the foyer and the sweeping staircase.

  “That girl needs a lesson,” she heard her mother say, and she stepped a little more quickly, thinking for a moment that the woman would come after her. But then she heard her father’s voice.

  “I will see to her.”

  “See that you do.”

  Iolana went to her room and sat down in one of the comfy chairs to stew. She was angry that she had been separated from her new friend. She was angry that she had been exiled from the table before she had her fill of a delicious tea. Mostly she was angry with her parents. No, mostly she was angry with her mother. She had to admit that it was only a matter of degree—she had been angry with her mother just about as long as she could remember.

  She expected her father to show up as soon as tea was over, but he didn’t. No one else entered either, not even Terra or Augie. Not even Esther. After a while, she got up and turned on the mechanical music box, inserting a wax cylinder with the Royal Philharmonic’s recording of Bankett’s Sixth Symphony.

  After a while, she remembered Dovie and looked out the window to see if she could see her new friend leaving, but it was probably too late. She had undoubtedly already been driven home. Plopping down on her bed, she picked up the copy of Marriage in a Slaughterhouse that she had half finished, but she couldn’t find the will to read. She just lay there looking at the ceiling.