Flowercrash Read Online Free PDF Page A

dictated. “Farewell.”
    “Farewell!”
    Cirishnyan led her to the door of her chamber, then Pollonzyn arrived to guide her to the front door. Manserphine handed over the chit, then departed.
    Back at the Determinate Inn all was silent. Omdaton sat before the fire with her head on her chest, snoring lightly. Nobody appeared when Manserphine entered, which she thought odd, so she helped herself to a glass of whiskey and retired to her room. The effort of translating Novais speech had exhausted her. Already it was afternoon and the sun was low, so that the kitchen garden visible from her window was thrown into shadow. Lying on her bed she listened to the sounds of the inn—creaking, an occasional scuffle from mice, now and then a shudder as the wind gusted. But no sound of people. This was a remarkably quiet inn. In fact, she had yet to meet another guest. Nor had she met Jezelva, the cook’s colleague.
    She jumped up when a slamming door made the floor vibrate. Hearing Vishilkaïr’s voice she hurried downstairs, impelled more by loneliness than by curiosity, a feeling that enshrouded her now she was separated from her Shrine friends. He smiled at her and offered her a free whiskey, which she guiltily accepted.
    Conspiratorially, he gestured her away from Omdaton. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this," he said, “but we’ve worked out who you are. It was all quite accidental. Kirifaïfra is the man to blame if you want to hit out a bit.”
    “How do you mean?” Manserphine replied, trying to retain a semblance of composure.
    “We know what your job was… is.”
    Manserphine frowned. “Yes, is. They have not banished me forever. How did you find out?”
    Vishilkaïr refilled her glass. Manserphine was already feeling tipsy, but she did not stop him. He whispered, “The most peculiar thing. We were walking back to the inn when Kirifaïfra tripped on a root in the street and fell over, knocking as he did a gigantic red gentian. When I knelt down to help him to his feet, he was spitting out petals. The flower screen was exposed and active. I’ve never seen such a thing in winter.”
    Manserphine recalled her vision. “There are a couple of winter flowering species,” she remarked. “Carry on.”
    “On the screen lay the faces of the Garden, and of course we recognised you, sister Interpreter.”
    Manserphine slapped him on the shoulder, without force, but with a frown on her face. She looked him in the eyes to say, “I told you before, don’t call me that. People will hear. I have a name.”
    His face showed that he knew he had made a mistake. “Of course. You are just Manserphine, our charming guest.”
    “Now you can fetch me the supper menu. I’m hungry.”
    She dined that night on devilled parsnips and strips of kelp, with deep fried crispy grubs. She drank gin. By the time she was carried to bed even her insomnia stood no chance, and she slept until dawn.
    At noon she heard knocking at her door, so she crawled out of bed, put on her woolly coat—it was the only garment to hand—and went to see who it was. An apologetic Kirifaïfra stood outside, wringing his hands.
    “Sorry to bother you, but there is a small lady with dark hair that smells of coal-roses awaiting your company.”
    That would be Pollonzyn. Manserphine felt a hot sensation in the pit of her belly. “I must go to the privy. Tell her I’ll be down soon.”
    “Very good.”
    “And take all the spicy food off your menu.”
    Kirifaïfra considered. “That would leave us with kale and beansprouts.”
    Manserphine waved him away.
    When she was ready she went down to meet Pollonzyn, who sat reading scrolls in the bay window seat, a tankard of beer standing beside her. “I’m here to collect a pair of garments for the softpetal,” Pollonzyn explained.
    Manserphine led her upstairs, eyeing the heavy bag that Pollonzyn carried. When a pair of suitable dresses had been chosen Pollonzyn opened the bag to produce two chests, one large,