“Killjoys,” murmured Yewberry.
“Frightful business,” remarked my father, “Ochre’s fatal self-misdiagnosis.”
“It was indeed,” replied deMauve in a sober tone. “The loss of a swatchman is always regretful, and misdiagnosis is a tragic waste. But it might have been for the best.”
The other prefects appeared uneasy, and I frowned. There was something strange going on.
“For the best?” echoed Dad. “How is that possible?”
Turquoise chose his words carefully.
“There were . . . irregularities regarding the village’s swatch,” replied Turquoise, referring to the large quantities of healing colors stored in the Colorium. A Chromaticologist’s Long Swatch might hold up to a thousand individual shades—well beyond the small traveling set my father carried.
Dad asked what sort of “irregularities,” but deMauve suggested only that they should “meet at the Colorium to discuss it” after tea.
“It’s a situation of the utmost delicacy,” added Mr. Turquoise.
“Did you see our crackletrap as you came in?” asked Gamboge, expertly changing the subject as deMauve helped himself to his third scone.
“One could hardly miss it,” replied my father in a distracted manner. “Most impressive.”
“We have a lot of lightning down this way,” she continued. “Drills are carried out regularly. You’ll find full instructions on the back of the kitchen door.”
There was a pause.
“I understand,” said deMauve, staring at my father intently, “that you were witness to an incident at the National Color outlet this morning?”
“News travels fast.”
“We were telegrammed by Vermillion’s Yellow prefect.”
Dad replied that this was indeed so, and outlined what had happened in the Paint Shop while the prefects listened intently.
“I see,” said deMauve as soon as Dad had finished. “It seems the Grey who committed the outrage of wrongspottedness succumbed to the Mildew soon after he was transferred to their Colorium. They wondered if perhaps you knew anything that could shed light on his identity.”
Jane had returned with a fresh pot of tea and extra cups, and was doing everything extra slowly so she could listen to the conversation.
“He was an LD2,” said Dad after thinking for a moment.
“There are eighty-two LD2s on the national register,” remarked Gamboge, “and it will take a while to trace them all. None of our twelve match the age and description. Purples are quite rightly not asked for verification, so they don’t know when he arrived, or from where.”
“Then I’m sorry I can’t help you,” replied Dad.
“No other clues?” asked Gamboge. “Something you might like to volunteer? Either of you?”
“No,” said my father.
I glanced at Jane, who was looking at me carefully. She knew I was aware of her connection with the wrongspot, and if she’d been anyone else, I would have told. Despite what Dad said about Russetts not snitching, I needed every merit I could lay my hands on if I was to have a chance with Constance. She liked chocolates, and they were expensive—especially ones with colorized centers. Snitching on Jane would bag me at least fifty merits.
“No, sir.”
Jane stopped straightening the tea things and quietly moved off.
“Right, then,” said deMauve. “I’ll telegram Vermillion and let them know.”
They settled down to small talk after that. Dad declined a scone but drank tea, and they talked about unicycle polo, and how the East Carmine team won silver at last year’s Jollity Fair.
Jane walked back in. She was carrying a salver with a note on it.
“Excuse me,” she said in her most polite manner, “but an urgent message has arrived for Master Edward.”
“Me?” I asked, somewhat surprised, but I took the message, thanked her and read it, then placed it in my top pocket. She curtsied and left the room without another word.
“Would you care for a scone, Master Russett?” said deMauve, since they had almost had their fill.
“They’re actually very good.”
“Unusually . . . piquant,” said Turquoise.
“Tangy,” added Yewberry.
“You are most kind,” I replied, “but I shan’t, thank you.”
Usually, I liked scones—but I couldn’t help but refuse on this occasion. The note Jane had handed me read: Don’t eat the scones.
We signed the village register after that. Names, parents, postcode, feedback, merit tally and how much of what color we could see. Dad filled in his as “Red: 50.23%,” and I marked mine as “Untested.” I noticed that Travis had signed in just above us. He carried a highly influential TO3 4RF postcode, so originally hailed from the traditional Yellow homeland of the Honeybun Peninsula. More interestingly, he carried a 92 percent feedback score. A model resident—right up until the moment he set fire to the post.
“I’m sorry to appear untrusting,” said Mr. Yewberry once we had filled in the register, “but would you mind? It’s the Rules.”
We loosened our shirts and showed him our postcodes, and he compared them to our merit books. As a double check he also looked at the pattern of black and white lines that grew from our left-hand nail beds, and compared these to our record, which took a little longer.
We passed verification, and the prefects had a swift look at our merit status and feedback score, which they seemed to approve of, as no comment was made. My feedback was good, at almost 72 percent, but my merit score less so. Aside from my recent fine for attempting to improve queueing, I generally kept my nose clean, hence my 1,260 merits. Two hundred above the thousand required for full residency wasn’t much, but at least I was there. With it I had the right to marry once I’d taken my Ishihara, have seconds at dinner, wear a patterned waistcoat and a whole lot more besides. My father had many more merits, as befit his years, profession and senior monitor status. He would have had more still, but he had been fined a packet when he lost a swatch two years before. Dad had been down to eight thousand the last time we had discussed it, and anything beyond the three thousand earmarked for my dowry would go toward a hardwood conservatory.
“Hmm,” murmured deMauve after he had read Dad’s total. “Impressive.”
“They were my wife’s,” said Dad simply.
“Indeed?” replied deMauve, no longer so impressed. “She must have been a fine woman. We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Was it lightning?” asked Mrs. Gamboge in a hopeful sort of voice.
Dad paused, hoping that they wouldn’t press him, but these prefects were different from our bunch. Old Man Magenta might have been a fool and a martinet, but he knew when to let personal matters drop.
“Swan attack?” suggested Yewberry.
“It was the Mildew,” interjected my father in a quiet yet forceful voice, “and our grief is a private matter.”
“We apologize,” said deMauve simply. He gave us back our books and rose to his feet. “No more will or should be said.”
They made their way to the front door, where they all solemnly shook hands with my father in turn.
“It may take you a few days to understand the peculiarity of village customs,” said deMauve, “but I will start you off. Although we’re relaxed about dress code, and first names are generally acceptable, we do insist that ties will be half-Windsored, and lateness to mealtimes is not tolerated. Mandatory sports for girls are squash and hockeyball; for boys, cricket and tag-footy. Voluntary sports are tennis, extreme badminton, croquet, fainting in coils and rowing.”
“You have a broad enough river?” asked Dad, who used to scull quite a lot back home.