But then, just as I was about to confirm my rejection of Gamboge’s Direct Order, take the five hundred hit, reduce my merits to zero and kiss farewell to an Oxblood marriage this decade, relief came from an unexpected quarter—the postman.
He walked into the small knot of people, nodded us all a greeting and gave out the mail. The situation had an odd, even surreal quality about it. If a piano should suddenly have fallen from the sky or a talking bear rode past on a bike, I would not have been unduly surprised. We all stood there, momentarily paused. We said nothing as the mail was handed out and just looked at one another suspiciously.
“Oh, look,” said the postman, “there’s even a package for you, Penelope.”
He handed the youngest Gamboge a parcel, tipped his cap and moved off. And as soon as he had, the balance suddenly tipped in my favor. I recognized the parcel.
“Okay,” said Courtland, “last chance. Are you refusing a Direct Order?”
I stared back at him. I had been sent to the Fringes to learn a lesson in humility, and I was—but not from the prefects or anyone in authority. I was learning it from the Greys, who were harboring damaged Nightloss in their attics at huge personal risk to themselves.
“You speak of integrity?” I said, my voice no longer tremulous. “Would that be the same integrity that had you allocate Travis Canary’s postcode the day before we even knew he was dead?”
There was a deathly hush. Travis had carried a prestigious TO3 postcode from the traditional Yellow Honeybun Peninsula. It was the sort of postcode that could open yellow doors. The sort of postcode that could get a Yellow away from a Fringes village forever. It was the sort of postcode, in fact, that a pushy grandmother and a murderous uncle might do anything to procure, so that their granddaughter and niece would have a better chance in life. Penelope Gamboge. She had been allocated Travis’ code on the last day possible—her twelfth birthday.
“I sent Travis’ personal effects back to his postcode,” I said, “thinking the redirects wouldn’t be up yet. I was wrong. The parcel has just been delivered.”
Bunty and Penelope looked confused, but Sally Gamboge and Courtland looked at each other, then at the parcel. The arrogant veneer suddenly dropped, and there was silence for almost a full minute.
“He was Nightloss and as good as dead,” growled Mrs Gamboge, “so I just preempted the inevitable. I’ll take the hit for that.”
She stared at me, and I stared back. They might argue their way out of the Daylighter in Travis’ head or the reallocation, but not both together. But I think the Gamboges knew that.
“This census is henceforth canceled,” said Prefect Gamboge quietly. “Bunty, hand Master Russett back his assignment.”
“What—?”
“Do as I say, Miss McMustard.”
She handed it over, and I considered it was probably time to leave, so I walked quickly away, leaving a foursome of loathing and loathed Yellows within a knot of disgruntled Greyfolk, whose sixteen charges remained unmolested and secret. I also left a Grey with a retroussé nose who was, I hoped, impressed enough to join me on the trip to High Saffron.
Slugs, Jam and Tickets
7.3.12.31.208: Reckless disrespect of the lightless hours will not be tolerated.
When I got home, there was a note from Violet reminding me that we had arranged to meet at lamplighting that evening for a romantic walk, and that I was to brush my teeth and put some moisturizer on my lips. She had also sent round some jam. Some loganberry. It was a small pot, such as you might find at a jam-tasting session organized by the sector jam-in-chief. I smiled to myself but Violet’s kindness notwithstanding, I cleared out the broom cupboard so that I would have a safe retreat if she came calling unexpectedly. I even practiced a form of “Violet escape drill” in which I could be noiselessly inside the cupboard from anywhere within the house in under five seconds. I had just completed a front-door-to broom-cupboard dash in under four seconds, and had emerged from the cupboard much pleased with myself, when a voice made me jump.
“By all that’s navy, young man, what are you doing?”
It was Mrs. Lapis Lazuli, and she must have walked in the back door unannounced.
“I was—um—rehearsing for hide-and-seek.”
“Hmm,” she replied in her odd, imperious way that I knew was hiding someone deeply devoted to story and librarying, “not some sort of ‘hiding from Violet’ procedure?”
“Maybe that as well.”
A smile cracked upon her austere features.
“I don’t blame you. A frightful child is Violet—quite horribly spoiled. I hear you’re going to High Saffron?”
I told her this was so, and she reiterated her belief that there was a library hidden within the overgrown oak and rhododendron forest, and that she wanted me to keep an eye out for it.
“I’m humbled by your optimism,” I told her. “No one else thinks I have even the slightest chance of coming back.”
“Ah,” she said, faintly embarrassed, “I had—um—made provision for that eventuality. Might I explain?”
I sighed. “Go on, then.”
“This box contains two homing slugs,” she said, passing me a beautifully crafted wooden container no bigger than a goose egg, “each in its own compartment. The first is marked ‘Hoorah, yes, there’s a library,’ and the second, ‘No, worse luck, there isn’t.’ I’ve logged the Taxa number on each. All you have to do is release the appropriate slug when you get to High Saffron. Do you want me to run over the details again?”
“I think I’ve got it. You know that High Saffron is over forty miles away?”
She smiled.
“I won’t live to see the return of the slug,” she said, “but the next generation of librarians shall. Time is something we definitely have on our side. Is there anything I can do for you in return?”
I thought for a moment.
“I’d like to hear the end of Renfrew of the Mounties this evening—about whether he catches the train robber or not.”
She smiled. “I’ve no idea who commits that indefensible abuse of the centralized heating system, but I’m sure they can be persuaded.”
“I’m very grateful,” I told her. “Would you excuse me?”
I had just seen the Apocryphal man enter the front door. I found him in the living room, staring absently at one of the Vettrianos.
“Really?” he said when I told him I had some loganberry. “Show me.”
His face fell at the meagerness of my offering, but a promise was a promise, and we sat down on the sofa.
“You told me yesterday you could remember a time before Model Ts—when the Ford flathead was the vehicle of choice.”
“Yes?”
“I had a look in the Leapback Book. Flatheads were disposed of at the Third Great Leap Backward—one hundred and ninety-six years ago.”
“So your question is—?”
“How old are you?”
He thought for a moment and then counted on his fingers
“I’ll be four hundred and fifty-two years this August. A card might be nice, but don’t worry about a present. Unless it’s jam, of course.”
“How can you live so long?”
“By not dying. See this?”
He pulled up his shirt to reveal where NS -B4 was scarred into the place his postcode should have been.
“It stands for ‘Negligible Senescence—Baxter #4.’ That’s my name—Mr. Baxter. Now, if you had to devise a historian, what would be your design parameters?”
I had to think about this.
“Intellect, for analysis.”
“You’re very kind. What else?”
“An excellent memory.”
“Flatterer. Anything more?”
“Longevity?”
He smiled. “Precisely. Unlike you, I don’t have any of that tiresome obsolescence that is both the bane and boon of mankind.”
I stared at him for a moment without speaking.
“You must have seen a lo
t.”
He shook his head. “Not a lot—everything. You recall I told you I was once a historian? I was lying; I still am. But Baxters don’t teach; Baxters observe. They note, they file, they compile reports.”
“For whom do you do this?”
“Head Office.”
“But since no one studies history anymore,” I pointed out, “what’s the point of recording it?”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” he said slowly. “I don’t exist to record your history; you exist to give me something to record.”
It was an interesting concept, although quite clearly loopy. One might just as easily suppose that we are here only to give function to houses, or to give a market to Ovaltine and string.
“So let me get this straight,” I murmured. “We are here only to give you something to study?”
“In one. I’m amazed you’ve taken so easily to the concept. Those that can be troubled to muse upon the meaning of life are generally disappointed when they figure it out.”
“In that case,” I said, thinking quickly, “what is the meaning of your life?”
He laughed. “Why, to study all of you, of course. It’s the perfect symbiosis. Once my studies are complete, I will be recalled to the faculty at Emerald City to present my findings.”
“And when will that be?”
“When the study is complete.”
“And how will you know when that is?”
“Because I will be recalled to Emerald City.”
“That’s insane.”
“If you look around, you won’t find much that isn’t.”
I had to agree with this, but the Apocryphal man, perhaps unused to having a chance to explain himself, carried on.
“There were initially ten Baxters, but despair took all but one. The weakest willed was always going to be the last Baxter standing. Sadly, it was me—I will have to shoulder the responsibility on my own.”
“What responsibility?”
“Without me, no one’s life has any meaning.”
“I thought Munsell said that color was here to give our lives meaning?”
“Its function is to give life apparent meaning. It is an abstraction, a misdirection—nothing more than a sideshow at Jollity Fair. As long as your minds are full of Chromatic betterment, there can be no room for other, more destructive thoughts. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” I said, confused by Mr. Baxter’s odd view of the world. “What was the Something That Happened?”
“I was born after the Epiphany. I don’t know what happened. But if you want to find out, then you should return to Rusty Hill and finish the work Zane and Ochre started.”
“The painting of the ceiling?”
“Everything is there in the ceiling,” he said. “All it needs is a key.”
I recalled the strong feeling of anticipation I had felt at the appearance of the Pooka. As with the Perpetulite’s hidden panel and the harmonics running Everspins, there was far, far more to the world than I supposed, and quite possibly a lot more to us.
“But—”
I was interrupted by three loud raps at the door. Aware that I should not even be acknowledging Mr. Baxter let alone talking to him, I went to the door to see the caller away.
It was Courtland Gamboge. He was on his own, and his manner seemed . . . businesslike.
“Twenty-two minutes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Twenty-two minutes,” he repeated, “until the train departs. You surrendered your Open Return to deMauve, and I’ve a spare. This time tomorrow you can be back in the arms of your sweetheart. No trip to High Saffron, no chair census, no getting married to Violet, nothing. It’s life as it was before you came out here to the Fringes.”
“I’m still down eight hundred merits.”
“You’ll have to sort that out for yourself.”
“And the catch?”
“No catch,” he said with a forced smile. “We give you a ticket, and you get on the train. You don’t owe us anything, and we don’t owe you anything. Clean slate. It’s like you were never here.”
“I need to tell my father.”
“You can leave a note. He’ll understand. Twenty-one minutes. If you’re going, you have to go now.”
They had timed it well, and the decision was an easy one to make. I took the proffered ticket.
“Good lad,” he said, “I’ll see you to the railway station.”
Open Return
2.6.32.12.269: The Leapback list shall be maintained by the most westerly village in Green Sector East. Fresh Leapback shall be chosen in reverse alphabetical order.
Courtland’s timing was indeed perfect: The train had just pulled in when we got to the railway station. Bunty was in her usual place and nodded to Courtland, who turned and walked back toward the village without comment. The day was by now blistering hot, with barely a cloud in the sky, and the trainspotters on the slope above fanned themselves with their notebooks to keep cool.
I opened the carriage door, smiled a greeting to an amiable-looking Blue woman in a hat and veil and sat by myself in the nearly empty carriage. I looked at Bunty, who was still seated on the platform, and she stared at me with as much disdain as she could muster, which was considerable. I took a deep breath and settled back into my seat. The train would leave as soon as the linoleum was loaded, and since I was impatient to be away, time seemed to slow down. I didn’t know what the Jade-under-Lime Council would say when I arrived back early, but I didn’t really care. I was away, and alive.
“Master Edward?” came a voice. “There’s a telegram for you.”
It was Stafford, who smiled and tipped his cap. I thanked him, and asked him how he knew I was here, to which he replied that he was simply picking up a fare, and always had at least a half-dozen telegrams to deliver.
“Off for long, sir?” he asked.
“For good, Stafford. Thanks for everything.”
“Most kind, sir. I hope things turn out delightfully uneventful for you.”
“Yes,” I said slowly, “I hope so, too.”
“Back to the usual routine, then is it, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” I replied, “I expect so.”
“Master Edward?”
“Yes, Stafford?”
“Never underestimate the capacity for romance, no matter what the circumstance.”
“You mean Jane?”
But he didn’t answer.
“Pleasant voyage, Master Edward.”
He tipped his hat a second time, and was gone. I sat back in my seat again, confused and annoyed. Stafford might have been pulling my leg, of course—or may not have meant Jane at all. I tried not to think about her and instead concentrate on what I had learned: Don’t rock the boat, don’t stand out, respect the Chromatic scale and, above all, don’t try to improve queuing. From what I’d seen in East Carmine, I now had all the tools necessary for a long and prosperous life. With a bit of luck, I would marry Constance, keep the Collective well supplied with string and give the Oxbloods the Reddest son they had ever had. It all seemed so simple, really, and in some respects, I thanked my lucky stars that I had been given the opportunity to allow clarity to be brought to my dangerously unsociable outlook.
I saw the stationmaster ready his flag, and for the first time since I had arrived in East Carmine, I felt myself relax. I smiled and looked out the window. The only alighting passenger looked like Bertie Magenta. Same large ears and mildly dopey demeanor. I looked closer. It was Bertie Magenta. He was dressed in a light synthetic-violet three-piece suit with matching hat, and was carrying a small overnight case. He held a perfumed handkerchief to his nose and had wrapped his shoes in newspaper, presumably to avoid soiling them.
“Bertie?” I said, having lowered the carriage window. “Is that you?”
“Hello, Eddie,” he replied. “Are you leaving?”
“It’s a long story. What in Munsell’s name are you doing here?”
“Very droll,” he said wit
h a laugh. “Another one of your quippy japes?”
“Not at all,” I replied, “I really want to know.”
“Because you sent for me. Something about a frightfully vivacious sub-Beta gal who would be willing”—he leaned forward and lowered his voice—“to offer favors on approval.”
“Tommo!” I cried, suddenly realizing what had happened. Foolishly, I had mentioned Bertie’s name in his presence.
“No, I think her name’s Imogen, and she looks and sounds like just the sort of filly I’m after. If she’s half as purplicious as you made out in your telegram, I will happily give you the fifty-merit introduction fee you asked for.”
“There’s been a misunderstanding.”
“What?” said Bertie. “You mean she’s not available?”
“No. Well, yes, I suppose she is, but—”
“Welcome to East Carmine!” came a voice, and I turned to see Tommo and Fandango walking along the platform. Behind them in the station yard was the village’s Ford. Bertie was being given the full treatment, and while Fandango greeted Magenta warmly and led him toward the Ford, Tommo leaned on the window to talk to me.
“What are you doing on the train, Eddie?”
“Something I should have done the moment I got here. And just for the record, you had no right to contact Bertie.”
He smiled. “I meant to explain what I was up to, but I couldn’t think of a way of doing it without your flying into a rage. So I didn’t.”
“You forged a telegram from me!”
“Let’s just say I might have misrepresented the sendee a little bit. It’s no worse than lying about the rabbit. In fact, I’m doing the Magentas a favor—always a good move, if you know what I mean.”
“But Bertie’s a vacuous oaf. I wouldn’t wish him married to my worst enemy!”