A few minutes later, Penelope returned with her Yellow prefect grandmother in tow.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Mrs. Gamboge, and we all dutifully stood.
“Thomas Cinnabar denied the protocol,” the odious child gushed self-righteously, “and then told me to bog off—three times.”
“I’m proud to plead guilty to the bog-off thing,” Tommo said cheerfully, “but I’d like to apologize unreservedly to Miss Penelope under Article Forty-two and plead fair comment under Rule 6.3.22.02.044.”
“Agreed,” replied Gamboge, who must also have thought Penelope something of a pest. “You will be penalized only five merits, for failing to respect the authority of a lunch register monitor. Do you even have any merits, Cinnabar?”
“One hundred and eight below zero, ma’am.”
“Then you’d better do something to redeem yourself between now and your Ishihara on Sunday, hmm?”
Penelope was grinning broadly, and had brought out her book so she could be awarded the half merit as bounty. Gamboge told Tommo to pull up his socks and departed, with Penelope skipping along at her heels.
“Was that really worth it?” I asked as we sat again.
“Sure,” said Tommo with a grin. He handed Penelope’s pencil to a nearby confederate, who put it in his pocket and walked briskly away. “Watch our little friend now.”
We both turned to look at Penelope Gamboge, just as she realized that she had lost her pencil. She looked in all her pockets, then started searching the floor with increased desperation.
“Two demerits for losing Council property,” mused Tommo, “and another demerit for failing to complete the register in time. Plus I get fifty cents on the Beigemarket for the pencil.”
I laughed.
“So,” Daisy resumed, jerking a thumb in my direction, “who’s Russett going to marry?”
“Tommo has a vibrant imagination,” I said. “As soon as I’ve counted all the chairs, I’ll be off, so it’s a bit moot, to be honest.”
“Eddie here will be your husband, Daze,” said Tommo.
She laughed, and I felt uncomfortable. “Don’t sweat it,” she said, placing a warm hand on the back of mine. “It’s only Tommo’s bit of fun. Marry who you want—or don’t. As you please.”
If only it were that simple. She gave me a good-natured wink, thought for a moment and then said, “But just out of curiosity, who do I have to theoretically battle for Russett’s conjectural affections?”
“Tommo’s sister,” I said.
“Tommo doesn’t have a sister,” said Daisy.
“I added her for accounting purposes in my fantasy marriage league,” he confessed breezily. “Cassie doesn’t have a brother either, and Simone, Lisa, Torquil and Geoff all have existence issues. But it increases the size of the marriage market and gives us the illusion of increased choice.”
“For which,” added Daisy with a smile, “we are all extremely grateful.”
“Actually, Daisy dear,” said Tommo, “Eddie’s turning out surprisingly well. I was going to reserve final judgment on his nuptials until we witness his performance at the boys-versus-girls hockeyball match.”
“Pardon?” I asked, this being the first I’d heard of it.
“It’s a yearly East Carmine tradition,” explained Tommo. “We just let them win, and they go away happy.”
Daisy looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “In truth,” she said, “we thrash you allto withinaninch of your worthlesslives—the humiliation is delightful. Excuse me. I need to speak to someone before deMauve starts to bore our chops off.”
“What do you think?” asked Tommo as soon as she had left.
“She seems very pleasant.”
“You see? I told you I was good at this marriage-guidance lark.”
“Hello,” said a pale youth as he sat down next to me. “I’m Doug, Daisy’s brother. I understand you’re going to marry my sister?”
“According to Tommo.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” he assured me. “A fine sense of humor and a terrific kisser—if a little too much tongue for my taste.”
I must have looked shocked, for he stifled a laugh and was nudged by the fellow next to him, whereupon they both started shaking with suppressed mirth at the joke. I was going to say something dazzlingly amusing and erudite in reply, but I couldn’t think of anything, so instead just grinned with affected good humor.
“Whose toe is this?” asked Doug when a small black object plopped into his glass as he poured himself some water.
“Tommo’s.”
He picked it out and slipped it into someone else’s mug farther down the table.
“Good afternoon, Edward.”
Dad had just arrived at the table, and he wasn’t alone. He was with a woman about his age, that is to say, in her late forties. She was wearing a dazzlingly bright red dress that sparkled when she moved—she was liberally draped with jewelry, bright red gemstones in silver settings. Her outfit probably contravened several dress codes and anti-showiness directives, but I couldn’t see anyone truly complaining, as she looked magnificent.
“Good afternoon, sir,” I replied politely, since the prearranged “Edward” code meant he was with a lady he was trying to impress.
“This is Mrs. Ochre,” my father explained, “an old friend.”
“Good afternoon,” I said, thinking her mode of dress was an odd way to show mourning, unless that was what was meant by the black velvet choker around her neck.
“She’s asked us to join the Chromogentsia this evening for the Debating Society meeting,” continued my father.
Since I wasn’t yet Ishiharaed, I didn’t officially have the 50 percent-plus perception required to join the Chromogentsia. But children of members were allowed to attend in order to help out, since Greys were barred, lest listening in to the Debating Society’s conversations “gave them ideas.”
“I accept,” I said politely. “Thank you very much.”
She seemed pleasant enough, if a mite flirty and not a little overdressed. I didn’t think it would help if I remarked how saturated her daughter had been that morning, so instead I just said I was pleased to make her acquaintance and was sorry for her loss. She thanked me and said the Debating Society would look forward to meeting us—and could I bring a rice pudding?
The conversation ended with the raucous sound of hundreds of chairs being pushed out, as anyone who was sitting down suddenly stood up and shuffled to find the correct place when deMauve and the other Council members filed in. I let myself be guided by the shuffle and ended up at the end of the table with Tommo to one side and Doug on the other.
DeMauve
1.03.02.13.114: Pocket handkerchiefs are to be changed daily, and are to be kept folded, even when in the pocket. Handkerchiefs may be patterned.
“Good afternoon to you all,” the head prefect began. He was greeted with a murmured “Good afternoon” in return, the three thousand or so bored voices a low rumble in the hall. He was actually a long way away, but a large voice trumpet was suspended from the ceiling in front of him, and he spoke into that. Old Man Magenta’s voice was so loud, he never needed one.
I’d attended six and a half thousand assemblies in my life, and according to current longevity estimates, I would probably attend twenty-two thousand more before I was done. They were tedious after the first couple of hundred, and none but the Yellows really paid any attention past the thousandth. For the rest of us, assembly was just a hole in your lifetime, wrapped in boredom. Whispering, dozing, prodding one another and passing notes were so utterly forbidden that they simply weren’t worth the risk, so the majority of villagers used assembly as a time for silent contemplation. Fenton claimed to have learned to sleep with his eyes open, which would have been useful if it were true. I just used the time for doing mental arithmetic, refining my theories about enhanced queuing or trying to figure out a loophole plausible enough to enable me to go into the potentially profitable spoon business. It had been tried before, but never successfully. Randolph Aubergine had attempted to market “half-scale models” of garden trowels, but the concept didn’t pass the strict Rule Compliance Procedures, and the idea was abandoned.