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 retrousse 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?”