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) by Ysabeau S. Wilce Page B
Authors: Ysabeau S. Wilce
Ads: Link
Idden had left behind, and some things pillaged from Mamma’s closet, which were just as old and out-of-date. “I think it shall take more than shame to kill you, Valefor. What am I going to do? I haven’t time to go buy anything. And how do you know so much about what is in style?”
Valefor said primly, “I may be stuck in this house, but I can read. Udo’s been giving me his old
Warlord’s Wear Weeklys.
I like to keep up. Clothes really do make the woman, Flora.”
It was stupid, but I rather felt like wailing. Never before had I been vain, for what cares a ranger about appearances? It’s getting the job done that counts. But what if the job requires you to look, if not fabulous, at least presentable? Maybe even alluring? I was not in the least bit alluring. Maybe I was the ugly ducking who would, one day, spawn into a swan. But somehow I didn’t think so. Life is rarely like the stories. If it were, my clothing problem would be quickly settled.
In the sentimental yellowbacks, there’s always a point where the hero is stuck—has nothing to wear, can’t get her homework done, has to make dinner for ten but doesn’t know how to cook—and just as she is about to howl, there’s a mighty flash and her magickal auntie appears and makes it all right. Conjures up a fabulous outfit, or finishes the stupid word problem, or whips up a delicious eight-course menu. A magickal auntie would sure come in handy right now. Instead I had a red dog snoring in my bed and a useless denizen lurking on top of my closet.
“If only you were more useful,” I said to Valefor. “If only you could conjure me some new clothes.”
“Whose fault is it I’m not useful? You cannot put that against me, Flora Segunda. I tell you, I was a real stylesetter before. The outfit I made for Hotspur’s Catorcena was a real stunner—two days later everyone in the City was wearing its knockoff.
À la Fyrdraaca
they called it. The frock coat had a double tier of puffs on the sleeves, and the skirts were pinned back into a huge train...”
I tried to ignore him. He was chock full of reminiscences of his past glories, and listening to them only made me more depressed. Well, it would have to be the Catorcena dress that Paimon had made for me. It was the only dress that fit and looked appropriately splendid, even if it was fluffy. I wished it wasn’t quite such an awful shade of red and that perhaps the skirts were not quite as ruffly, but they were impressively wide, which somewhat canceled out the ruffles. And the neckline
was
plungy. I certainly outshone the Zu-Zu there, no problem. She had as much cleavage as a washboard. I would wear Mamma’s pearls (pillaged from her jewelry box) and carry my birthday fan, and if Valefor could help me with my hair, I wouldn’t look too bad.
But first I had to get into those damn stays, which I dreaded. I’d let the back laces out as far as they would go, and it was still a struggle to get the busk closed. One of the steel bones was rubbing a raw spot under my arm, right through my chemise. As soon as Mamma got home, I was going to demand that we go to the Army-Navy store and get new underpinnings.
I was hopping and swearing and Valefor was urging me to suck it in, though it was sucked in as far as it would go, when a rap on the window made me jump. Blast it, I had almost gotten the bottom snap of the stays hooked. Now I would have to start over.
“It’s Udo,” Valefor said helpfully. Who else would it be? Udo’s the only person besides me who knows the trick of climbing through my window.
Udo swung in over the sill after I opened the window “Why’d you latch your window?”
“To keep undesirables out,” I said. “Where’s your Chickie, Poo-Poo, or whatever her name is?”
“Did a hurricane come through here? Pigface, what a mess.” Udo tossed aside the clothes draped on the settee, then threw himself down. Flynnie got up from his snooze on the bed and ambled over to sniff his hand.
Valefor said primly, “I may be stuck in this house, but I can read. Udo’s been giving me his old
Warlord’s Wear Weeklys.
I like to keep up. Clothes really do make the woman, Flora.”
It was stupid, but I rather felt like wailing. Never before had I been vain, for what cares a ranger about appearances? It’s getting the job done that counts. But what if the job requires you to look, if not fabulous, at least presentable? Maybe even alluring? I was not in the least bit alluring. Maybe I was the ugly ducking who would, one day, spawn into a swan. But somehow I didn’t think so. Life is rarely like the stories. If it were, my clothing problem would be quickly settled.
In the sentimental yellowbacks, there’s always a point where the hero is stuck—has nothing to wear, can’t get her homework done, has to make dinner for ten but doesn’t know how to cook—and just as she is about to howl, there’s a mighty flash and her magickal auntie appears and makes it all right. Conjures up a fabulous outfit, or finishes the stupid word problem, or whips up a delicious eight-course menu. A magickal auntie would sure come in handy right now. Instead I had a red dog snoring in my bed and a useless denizen lurking on top of my closet.
“If only you were more useful,” I said to Valefor. “If only you could conjure me some new clothes.”
“Whose fault is it I’m not useful? You cannot put that against me, Flora Segunda. I tell you, I was a real stylesetter before. The outfit I made for Hotspur’s Catorcena was a real stunner—two days later everyone in the City was wearing its knockoff.
À la Fyrdraaca
they called it. The frock coat had a double tier of puffs on the sleeves, and the skirts were pinned back into a huge train...”
I tried to ignore him. He was chock full of reminiscences of his past glories, and listening to them only made me more depressed. Well, it would have to be the Catorcena dress that Paimon had made for me. It was the only dress that fit and looked appropriately splendid, even if it was fluffy. I wished it wasn’t quite such an awful shade of red and that perhaps the skirts were not quite as ruffly, but they were impressively wide, which somewhat canceled out the ruffles. And the neckline
was
plungy. I certainly outshone the Zu-Zu there, no problem. She had as much cleavage as a washboard. I would wear Mamma’s pearls (pillaged from her jewelry box) and carry my birthday fan, and if Valefor could help me with my hair, I wouldn’t look too bad.
But first I had to get into those damn stays, which I dreaded. I’d let the back laces out as far as they would go, and it was still a struggle to get the busk closed. One of the steel bones was rubbing a raw spot under my arm, right through my chemise. As soon as Mamma got home, I was going to demand that we go to the Army-Navy store and get new underpinnings.
I was hopping and swearing and Valefor was urging me to suck it in, though it was sucked in as far as it would go, when a rap on the window made me jump. Blast it, I had almost gotten the bottom snap of the stays hooked. Now I would have to start over.
“It’s Udo,” Valefor said helpfully. Who else would it be? Udo’s the only person besides me who knows the trick of climbing through my window.
Udo swung in over the sill after I opened the window “Why’d you latch your window?”
“To keep undesirables out,” I said. “Where’s your Chickie, Poo-Poo, or whatever her name is?”
“Did a hurricane come through here? Pigface, what a mess.” Udo tossed aside the clothes draped on the settee, then threw himself down. Flynnie got up from his snooze on the bed and ambled over to sniff his hand.
Similar Books
The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey Into the Minds of Sexual Predators
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood
