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.

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.

“So, Master Russett,” said Head Prefect deMauve, “what can we expect from you?”

“I will strive to be a worthy and useful member of the Collective during my short stay,” I said, defaulting to Standard Response.

“Of course you will,” he replied. “East Carmine has no room for skivers, loafers and freeloaders.” He said it with a smile, but I took it for what it was: a warning.

“Travel is a very great privilege,” he continued, “but can also lead to the spreading of disharmony, not to mention the Mildew. What is the reason you travel, Master Russett?”

“Actually, sir, I’m here to conduct a chair census.”

They exchanged looks.

“You have orders to this effect?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sally will be interested in helping, I’m sure,” murmured Yewberry.

“Was it for Humility Realignment?” asked deMauve, looking at my badge.

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope you learn from it, Master Russett. It would be a huge dishonor to your forefathers to waste all the Red they’ve worked hard to achieve, now wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Russett family scandal was annoyingly well known. Three generations ago an eccentric forebear with considerably more Red than sense decided to marry a Grey. He was called Piers Burgundy, was a prefect and distantly related to First Red. His name and hue were lost in the union, and the diluted perception of barely 16 percent that emerged in their son meant a dynastic downgrade to Russett. We’d been attempting to regain our lost social standing ever since. The whole thing had been unthinkably scandalous, even by today’s standards, but not against the Rules. Marrying for love was not forbidden; it just didn’t make any sense. “If you want your grandchildren to hate you,” the saying goes, “marry down-spectrum.”

The prefects talked among themselves while I handed around the tea, but they all suddenly fell silent. Jane had just arrived with the scones. Both Yewberry and Turquoise looked vaguely worried, and recoiled a little as she approached. I realized then that Jane’s enmity was universal. She didn’t just hate me; she hated everyone higher up. This meant her dislike of me wasn’t personal, which allowed me at least a meager slice of delusive hope—something to build on, at any rate.

“Thank you, Jane,” said deMauve, who seemed to be the only person not wary of her.

“Sir,” she replied, placing the steaming-hot, sweet-smelling plate of scones on the table while Turquoise and Yewberry watched her carefully.

“Spoon packed and ready to go?” asked Yewberry in a needlessly provocative manner.

She looked at him contemptuously, bobbed out of habit rather than politeness and walked out.

“That’s one I won’t be sorry to see the back of,” murmured Yewberry. “Quite out of control.”

“A hard worker, despite the antisocialism,” remarked deMauve, “and her nose is very retrousse.”

“Very,” agreed Turquoise.

They stopped chatting to help themselves greedily to the scones.

It wouldn’t have been considered good manners for me to eat with them unless invited, so I sat quietly, hands neatly folded on my lap. I was thinking about Jane again. Yewberry’s comment about whether she had “packed her spoon” could refer only to Reboot. You didn’t take much with you, but you always took a spoon. Like Travis Canary, Jane was destined for the Night Train to Emerald City to learn some manners.

“She makes a good scone, though,” said Yewberry, helping himself to another.

“Might even be worth a merit,” replied Turquoise.

“It won’t help her,” replied Yewberry, and they all laughed.

“Master Russett,” said deMauve, washing his scone down with a mouthful of tea, “I think I should keep your return ticket for safekeeping. There are elements within the village who are eager to attempt an unauthorized relocation. Have you been asked to sell it yet, by the way?”

“No, sir,” I replied without a pause. Dorian’s secret offer would remain just that—secret.

“We’ll give you ten merits if you report to us who asks.”

“I’ll remember that, sir, thank you.”

“Jolly good. Well, hand it over, then.”

“I—um—would like to keep it, if that is all right.”

“Well, it isn’t all right with me one little bit, Russett,” replied deMauve sharply. “Perhaps you think we are sloppy with our responsibilities here in the Fringes? If your Open Return were to be stolen, your ability to broaden yourself would be much curtailed.”

He was right. Due to a loophole in the Rules, an Open Return could never be questioned or rescinded, and was invaluable to anyone attempting an illegal relocation—hence the two hundred merits Dorian had already offered me.