She was also carrying a cake: a plain, jamless sponge cake, but with the unusual luxury of a single bright red glaceed cherry atop a sheet of perfect white icing.
“The new swatchman?” she asked in an incredulous tone. “You seem barely out of short pants.”
“That would be my father,” I replied. “He’s with Mrs. Gamboge, sorting out the malingerers. Can I help?”
“I suppose one must get used to the swatchmen getting younger,” she said, sighing, as if I’d not spoken.
“Welcome to East Carmine.”
I thanked her, and she told me that her name was Widow deMauve, that she could see lots of purple and that she was our next-door neighbor. After relating a tedious yet mercifully short story regarding a fatal industrial accident that had left three households struggling to find a cleaner, she finally asked me if I would like the cake.
“That’s very kind,” I replied, taking the cake from her, “and with a cherry of all things. Would you like to come in?”
“Not particularly.”
She paused for a moment, and then leaned closer. “Since you are new here, it would be only fair to warn you of Mrs. Lapis Lazuli.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Despite her honeyed words and faux generosity, she’s a thieving, Rot-dodging congenital liar whose contribution to the village would be much improved if she were soap.”
“You don’t like her?”
“What a suggestion!” replied the Widow deMauve in a shocked tone. “She is one of my closest and dearest friends. She and I log Pooka sightings. Have you seen one recently?”
“Not recently,” I replied, not thinking an ex-head prefect would concern herself with something as childish as specters.
“We also run East Carmine’s reenactment society—would you care to join?”
“What do you reenact?” I asked, which was a reasonable question, since there wasn’t much to reenact except scenes from Munsell’s Life, which was too dreary to even contemplate.
“We reenact the previous Friday every Tuesday, then every Saturday morning is reenacted the following Thursday. It’s a lot of fun when the whole village gets involved. At the end of the year we reenact the highlights. Sometimes we even reenact the reenactments. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I made no reply, so she pointed at the cherry cake.
“That will be half a merit, please.”
It was a ridiculous price, even from someone who could see a lot of purple.
“However, if you decide not to eat it, I would gladly buy it back at cost—minus the seventy-five percent handling fee.”
“The cake?”
“The cherry.”
“Can I buy the cake without the cherry?” I asked after a moment’s thought.
“Really!” she said in an affronted tone. “What point is cherry cake without the cherry?”
“Having trouble, Mother?”
A man had trotted up the three steps to the front door. He was dressed in long prefectural robes that must have been pure magenta. He was undoubtedly the head prefect. He was also middle-aged, tall, and athletic, and he looked vaguely affable. Behind him were two other brightly colored and wholly authoritarian figures, who I assumed were the rest of the prefects. Widow deMauve piped up, “Mr. Russett is refusing to pay for the cake I made him.”
The head prefect looked me up and down. “You seem a bit young for a swatchman.”
“Please, sir, I’m not Mr. Russett, I’m his son.”
“Then why did you say you were?” asked Widow deMauve suspiciously.
“I didn’t.”
“Oh,” she said in a shocked tone, “so I’m a liar now, am I?”
“But—”
“Are you refusing to pay?” asked the head prefect.
“No, sir.” I paid off the old woman, who chuckled to herself and hurried away.
Head Prefect deMauve—I assumed this was he, even though he had not and would not introduce himself to a junior—stepped into the house and looked me up and down as though I were a haunch of beef.
“Hmm,” he said at last. “You look healthy enough. Are you bright?”
It was an ambiguous question. Bright could mean either “intelligent” or “highly color perceptive.” The former question was allowable; the latter was not. I decided to meet ambiguity with ambiguity.
“I believe so, sir. Can I suggest you make yourselves comfortable in the drawing room?”
Along with deMauve were the Blue and Red prefects, who I would soon learn were named Turquoise and Yewberry. Turquoise appeared a decent chap, but Yewberry looked a fool. I saw them to their seats before hurrying back to the kitchen.
“The prefects are here, Ja—” I checked myself just in time, then continued, “Listen, what do I call you if I can’t use your name?”
“I’d really prefer it if you didn’t speak to me at all. But if you had even an ounce of self-respect, you’d use my name anyway.”
It was a challenge. I looked around to see if there were any sharp objects within easy reach, and could see only an egg whisk.
“Right, then,” I said. “Jane, the prefects are—” I hadn’t realized that egg whisks could hurt so much, but then I’d never had one chucked at me before. It caught me just above the forehead. That infraction alone—never mind the impertinence, disrespect and poor manners—would have netted her at least fifty demerits if I wanted to make something of it, and a 10 percent bounty to me for reporting it.
“You’ll never get any merits or positive feedback at this rate,” I said, rubbing my head. “How do you expect to get on in life?”
She gave me a weary look.
“Oh,” I said, “do you have any merits or positive feedback?”
“No.”
“And you don’t think that’s bad?”
She turned and fixed me with her piercingly intelligent eyes.
“There’s more to good or bad than what’s written in the Rulebook.”
“That’s just not true,” I replied, shocked by the notion that there might be another, higher arbiter of social conduct. “The Rulebook tells us precisely what is right or wrong—that’s the point. The predictability of the Rules and their unquestioning compliance and application is the bedrock of—”
“The scones are not quite done. You take in the tea, and I’ll follow.”
“Were you listening to a word I said?”
“I kind of switched off when you drew breath.”
I gave her one of my most powerful glares, shook my head sorrowfully, gave an audible “tut” and, after picking up the tea tray, left the room in what I hoped was high dudgeon.
The Prefects
1.1.06.01.223: The position of prefect is open only to those with a perception of 70 percent or above. In the event that no one is available, an acting prefect with lesser perception may be appointed until a suitable perceptor is found.
When I returned to the drawing room, the prefects were discussing Travis Canary and his burning of the post. I couldn’t help thinking that disposing of dead people’s mail wasn’t actually an offense but a public service. More interestingly, I couldn’t help but notice that the Council had purloined all the sugar lumps in my absence. I poured the tea as politely as I could, but my hands were trembling. Prefects made me nervous— especially when I hadn’t actually done anything wrong.