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.

“It’s mostly theoretical,” replied deMauve. “And we have a ninety-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle for rainy afternoons.”

“But someone lost the picture,” grumbled Yewberry, “and there’s a lot of sky.”

“Challenging, we call that, Mr. Yewberry,” remarked deMauve. “Master Russett will be rostered Useful Work by Mr. Turquoise tomorrow, and I will have the junior Red monitor show him around the village.

As part of this year’s Foundation Day celebrations we’ll be performing Red Side Story. If you want to contribute voice or instrument, my daughter Violet is holding auditions. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes,” said Dad. “What’s fainting in coils?”

“We have no idea, but the Rules state we have to offer it as a sport.” And that was it. Following the usual courteous farewells, bows, shaken hands and Apart We Are Together salutations, the door closed, and we were left alone in the hallway.

“Eddie?”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Keep your eyes and ears open. I’ve seen a few odd villages in my day, but nothing like this. What was all that about Jane, by the way? The Prefects actually looked frightened of her.”

“She doesn’t have anything to lose,” I replied simply. “She’s up for Reboot on Monday.”

“Ah,” said Dad, “what a waste of a good nose.”

The front doorbell rang. Dad opened it to find a junior Grey messenger, who told him that there had been another accident at the linoleum factory.

“But there’s no hurry,” said the young lad cheekily, “unless you have a swatch that can stitch heads back on.”

Dad tipped the messenger, picked up his traveling swatch case and made for the front door.

“Keep your eyes open, Eddie. Things here seem a bit rum.”

“Robin Ochre and his ‘irregularities’?”

“Among others. And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t put so many sugar lumps out next time the Council come around.”

I wandered back into the kitchen, where Jane was washing the dishes, and asked her what she had put into the scones.

“You’re better off not knowing. And if you think not snitching on me is going to grant you any favors in the youknow department, you’ve got another think coming.”

“You’ve got me all wrong,” I said, trying to sound as though the notion of some illicit youknow hadn’t crossed my mind.

“Sure,” she said sarcastically, “next you’re going to tell me you’re saving yourself for your wedding night.”

“That’s . . . no bad thing,” I said slowly, and she laughed. Not with me, but at me. It felt humiliating. I tried to get her on the defensive by repeating the awkward question: “How did you get to Vermillion and back this morning?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “It’s not possible. And we’ve never met before, remember?”

“You don’t like me, do you?”

“That would take effort,” she replied. “Indifference is much, much easier. Listen, you did me a favor, and I did you a favor. So we’re quits.”

“It was hardly equal,” I replied. “I saved you a whole bunch of awkward questions, and all you did was stop me eating scones.”

“If you knew what I’d put in the scones, you might think differently.”

“What—”

“I’m done,” she said, drying her hands on the towel and getting ready to leave, “and what’s more important, we’re done. Speak to me again and I’ll break your arm. Make a comment about how cute and retrousse you think my nose is and I’ll kill you. Don’t think I won’t. I’ve nothing to lose.”

“But you’re the maid. What if I need extra starch on my collar or something?”

I wished I hadn’t said it. I’d wanted to simply keep on engaging with her at any cost, but the comment came out all reedy and needy. She picked up on this right away. It was abundantly clear who had the upper hand. She oozed authority. But it wasn’t the sort of authority that comes from a fortuitous birth gift; she had something else—a sense of clear purpose and strength.

She took a step closer and stared at me, trying, I think, to figure out if I had any hidden depths. Then, after satisfying herself that I hadn’t, she made for the door.

“If you want anything, you can leave me a note.”

And she departed, leaving me feeling deflated and somewhat confused. I’d thought Outer Fringes would be uncomplicated and wholly parochial, but in the short time I had been out there, it had begun to seem more subtle and complex than anything my uneventful existence at Jade-under-Lime had thrown at me.

There were, however, two things in my favor. First, she had moved from threatening to break my jaw to threatening to break my arm, which I think was a step in the right direction. Second, and far more important, Dad had given me the Grey Purple Pretender’s spoon. And engraved on the back, as with every other personal spoon, was his full postcode: LD2 5TZ. I wish now that I had ignored it, but I didn’t. The yateveo’s barbed snatch-boughs were already descending.