As I listened to the story I stared out of the window. I could just make out the faint disc of a full moon rising through the trees of a distant hilltop. I shivered and pulled the covers over my head.

Breakfast

I was awake before dawn. Unable to sleep, I leaned on an elbow and stared into the darkness. I couldn’t even tell if my eyes were open or shut. The darkness swirled about me like charcoal maggots in a coal cellar. I touched the hands on the bedside clock to confirm that it was near dawn, then heard the faint buzz of the first heliostat on auto-align toward the rising sun. Another started up, and then a third, and soon the air was filled with the cheery buzz of the clockwork chorus. This was joined by the birds whistling and chirruping the new day, and before long, as I stared into the inky blackness, the faintest glimmer of red punctured the curtain of darkness. It soon became a distinctive thin crescent, then a semicircle and very slowly sightfulness returned to my room. First the door frame bathed in the dim glow of deep red, then the room itself, slowly reassembling itself as the rays of the new day slowly crept about my small chamber, banishing the blackness.

I arose, washed my face and dressed in my Outdoor Adventure #9s, which consisted of long shorts, a safari shirt and stout footwear. I then trod carefully downstairs to make some tea. I hadn’t even gotten as far as the kitchen before the sun vanished behind heavy clouds and the room dropped to barely a single foot-candle above threshold. After bumping into the furniture several times in an effort to set breakfast, I gave up and fumbled my way to the settee in the corner of the kitchen.

I awoke to find that the day had brightened. Dad was dressed, and doing some work at the kitchen table.

“Good morning,” he said with a smile. “Who’s Rude Girl? You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“Did I mention any names?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not sure.”

I had been dreaming. Jane and I were swimming together in a millpond-still lake at dawn. Water vapor had been rising off the surface, obscuring the shore and isolating us from the world. I had been telling jokes, and she had been laughing, even at the bad ones. We had been about to kiss when Constance had arrived, standing up in the prow of a rowboat, dressed in flowing red robes. She opened her mouth to say something when I woke up.

“You also mentioned something about a rabbit,” Dad added.

“It had gills and was nibbling our toes,” I said with a frown.

He laughed and asked me how I was. I touched the cut on my mouth where I had fallen on the wheelbarrow the night before. It was still sore, but a lot better, and I told him so.

“They didn’t find Travis,” he remarked.

“No,” I replied. “They rarely do.”

“You showed some grit,” he added, “and that’s a good thing—but don’t do it too near the prefects.

You’ll only draw attention to yourself.”

I asked him what he meant by this but he simply shrugged, and I headed off to the town hall, as I still had time to grab some cooked breakfast.

I stopped at the post office on the way, and since shop hours were extended to make full use of seasonal daylight, it had been open for half an hour by the time I got there. It was tidy yet immeasurably ancient, but despite this, the original red paintwork was still tolerably bright.

“Are you sure you’re happy with this?” asked the telegram clerk as she stared at my poetical efforts. “It seems a bit, well, rubbish to me.”

She was a late-middle-aged woman who reminded me of my twice-widowed aunt Beryl. Very kind, but annoyingly straight talking.

“Constance isn’t looking for a husband who’s intellectually challenging,” I explained, trying to pretend that I had deliberately downplayed my skills.

“Just as well,” she replied, then, once she had counted up the words, added, “You could add three more Xs and it wouldn’t cost you any more.”

I thought for a moment and then declined, as I didn’t want Constance to think me too forward. Mrs.

Blood then asked me to confirm line breaks before charging me an outrageous thirty-two cents. I suggested that this might be somewhat exorbitant, and she informed me that she’d waive the fee if I brought back a set of sugar tongs from Rusty Hill. I said I’d do my best, and she smiled sweetly and told me she’d tap my message down the line right away.

The town hall was as town halls generally are: spacious, and smelling of boiled cabbage and floor polish.

I walked carefully around the prefect carpet that was set near the entrance, nodded respectfully to where the Book of the Gone was sited, then blinked in the relative gloom. Far away at the opposite end was the stage, framed rather delightfully by ornate plaster moldings. To one side were the kitchens, and to the other were large oak double doors, which would be the Council Chamber. This was strictly out-of-bounds, except for twenty minutes in a resident’s life: This was where they held the Ishihara.

I helped myself to some porridge and a bread roll with a regulation scoop of marmalade, then sat down opposite Tommo at one of the red-hued tables. The room was relatively empty as the early shift Greys would already have eaten, and most Chromatics rarely bothered to get out of bed unless it was their turn to do Boundary Patrol or something. I noticed Jane finishing her breakfast, but she didn’t look in my direction. Tommo was there, he told me, to keep me from falling into good company.

“Travis wasn’t found,” I said.

“He will be. Listen, are you going to pull a night stunt like that again? It makes the rest of us look bad when someone does something pointlessly worthy.”

“What if it had been you?” I returned, and Tommo simply shrugged.

“Tell me,” I said, “is there anyone living in our house except us? On the top floor, I mean.”

Tommo looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“You mean aside from the one we can’t talk about?”

I nodded.

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I thought I heard noises.”

But Tommo was no longer paying attention. He had pulled out a comb with lamentably few teeth and was hurriedly making himself look presentable.

“Spot check?” I asked.

“More important than that. Do me a favor, would you? Try to make yourself as unattractive as possible.

It won’t be hard, I know—but do your best, hey?”

“What?”

“That,” he said, indicating a girl who had just walked in, “is the Lucy Ochre I was telling you about. Each time I see her she’s more gorgeous. But you know what I like most?”

“Her sense of humor in agreeing to see you?”

“No. Despite her father’s wholesale theft of village property, no charges were ever brought. She must be sitting on a fortune. And when you’re married, it’s share and share alike.”

“You’re just a huge romantic at heart, aren’t you?”

“If there’s cash involved, I’m anything you want me to be.”

I shook my head sadly, and switched my attention to Lucy, the daughter of the previous swatchman. She had long, wavy hair, was petite and pale and was looking around in a mildly confused manner. Dad and I had seen her the day before holding a pendulum down by the bridge. As soon as she looked in our direction Tommo waved, and she walked over in an unsteady manner.

“Hello, Timmo,” she said, sitting down.

“It’s Tommo, actually,” he corrected. “I thought you might like to sit with us, my dove.”

She stared at me for a moment.

“I could kill for a cup of tea.”