Tommo took the hint and dashed off.

“He wants to marry me,” she said, leaning on the tabletop for support and looking not at me, but just above my left eyebrow, “and Mother’s given me a free choice in the matter. Do you think I should?”

“He thinks you have money.”

She gave out a snort.

“We don’t have a bean.”

“Then probably not. I’m Eddie Russett, by the way.”

“The swatchman’s son?”

“That’s me.”

“You’re quite handsome—I like your nose especially.”

“It was a birthday present.”

“What else of interest did they give you?”

I decided to change the subject as she was being a little too forward.

“Tommo said you were searching for harmonic pathways.”

“The earth is awash with silent musical energy,” she replied in a dramatic tone, “in the rocks and ground, heath and fields. E-flat, if you’re interested, but high up the scale, so impossible to hear. It’s like an energy-bearing harmonic zephyr that channels along certain pathways, moving my pendulum as a breeze stirs wind chimes—an energy that binds all things together as one—a Harmony of the Spheres.”

I said nothing, which was probably quite revealing.

“I know,” she said with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. “That’s what everyone thinks. Would you like to give me a spoon?”

I started, taken aback at her forthright suggestion.

“Well, no, yes, I mean, that is to say—I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Dessert, soup, bouillon or tea—I don’t care which. From Rusty Hill. You are going there, I think?”

“Oh, a spoon. I thought you meant—”

“That I wanted to buy some youknow? Come on, Eddie, you’re not that handsome. But while we’re on the subject, are you any good at kissing? I need someone to practice with, and you look like you could do with the cash. If we cut Tommo out of the equation, we can save a small fortune.”

“How much kissing were you planning on doing?” I asked, thinking that a “small fortune” from 5 percent saved could mean enough to wear my lips out—and my tongue, too, if that’s what she had in mind.

She shrugged. “It depends on how good you are at it, I suppose. Friend?”

“Friend.”

“Special friend?”

“Let’s just stick to ‘friend’ for the time being.”

“Here’s your tea,” said Tommo, glaring at me since Lucy was almost sitting in my lap.

“No tea for me,” she said, eyelids drooping. “In fact, I could do with forty winks.” And as if to affirm this, she slumped onto the table and started snoring.

“Is she usually like this?” I asked, and Tommo shook his head sadly. The penny dropped. She was well and truly greened. And if the prefects got wind that Lucy had been seen limed in public, there would be serious trouble—not to mention all the wagging tongues.

“Hey, Lucy,” I said, shaking her shoulder, “it’s time for a walk.”

I instructed Tommo to grab an arm, and we heaved her to her feet. With much moaning and complaining, we escorted her from the hall.

“We need deMauve’s front door,” I said. “The lime that Lucy’s been peeking is the yellow side of green, so we need the red side of violet to counteract what’s charging around her noggin at present.”

“Does that work?”

“You don’t grow up in a swatcher’s house without learning a few tricks.”

Tommo needed no more persuasion, and we walked the increasingly unsteady Lucy toward the Prime Residences.

“Look at the door, Lucy,” I told her. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel better,” she moaned. “They did him in, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“No one did anyone in,” explained Tommo. “It’s the color talking.” This was very possible. On the occasions when I’d arrived home to find Dad a bit limed, he’d spoken complete drivel, often without trousers, from atop the sideboard.

She stared at the door for a full minute, but we couldn’t see any improvement. I cursed as I realized why this wasn’t working—she’d had an eyeful of the hard stuff.

“She’s got hold of some Lincoln,” I said. “Red door—and hurry!” We dragged her across to Yewberry’s painfully bright front door, and told her to open her eyes. The effect was instantaneous, and dramatic. She gave a sharp cry, winced and held the back of her head as the pain of reverse discordance kicked in.

“Munsell’s hoo-ha!” she cried.

“Not so loud,” I said, “and give me one more look—of a count of at least five elephants.”

“Crud,” groaned Lucy as soon as she had counted off the elephants, “are you usually bright yellow?”

“It’s just your visual cortex reconfiguring,” I explained. “It will soon clear.”

We took her home, and I let her flop in the window seat while Tommo went to fetch a glass of water.

“Ooh,” she mumbled, “my head.”

“Where’s the Lincoln?” I asked.

She stared at me unsteadily. Her eyes seemed to flick around my features before staring at me intently, but in a queer manner that brought disturbing memories of my mother, who’d had the same habit. I’d never thought of it before, but it was possible that my mother had also been something of a greener. Lucy closed her eyes and started to sob silently. I passed her my handkerchief, and she wiped away her tears.

“Where’s the Lincoln?” I asked again.

She thought for a moment, blew her nose and pointed to a copy of Old Yeller lying on a table nearby. I flicked through the pages and soon found what I was looking for. A blazingly bright swatch about the size of a picture postcard and of a green so powerful it seemed to fill the room with an infectious aura of dreamy happiness. I glanced at it and a warm sense of welcome torpidity momentarily washed over me.

“Five hundred demerits if you’d been caught with this,” I murmured, folding the swatch color side in. But instead of showing any remorse, she grabbed my wrist and stared at me intensely.

“They killed my father!”

“Lucy,” I said, “no one does the murder anymore. There’s no need. There are procedures.”

“Then why—” But she never got to finish. Tommo walked back in, and Lucy, who had been looking more and more unwell, promptly threw up all over the floor.

We found a mop and cleaned up while Lucy decided to sleep it off.

“Thanks for that,” whispered Tommo as we walked out of her house a few minutes later. “We can’t have the future Mrs. Cinnabar up on a charge of being saturated in public, now can we?”

“Lucy told me someone did the murder on her father.”

“As I said, it was the Green talking. Everyone knows he was Chasing the Frog; the prefects decided to lie for the good of the village. The communal fine would have been pretty swingeing—even more so for the prefects.”

This was true; with spectral rank came privilege, but also greater punishment when something went wrong. A prefect could be sent to Reboot for something a Grey would be fined fifty merits.

“Did Lucy say why she thought he was done in?”

I had to admit that she didn’t.

“Well and truly greened,” repeated Tommo, “and in an exciting way, a bit Lulu. Probably a tiger at youknow. Did I hear her offering you a friendship just now?”

“Yes.”

“Blast! She’s always turned me down when I’ve asked. In fact, I’m the only Red not on her list of friends.”

I decided to be diplomatic. “Perhaps she thinks of you as more than a friend.”

“That must be it,” he replied, much relieved. “Now, Rusty Hill—you won’t forget my shoes, will you?”

“Lucy wanted a spoon—and Mrs. Blood a pair of sugar tongs. Perhaps I should write a shopping list.”

“No need,” said Tommo. “I’ve got you one here.”

I looked at his list, which seemed to have everything on it: doorknobs, a pram, nail scissors, a trifle bowl, a butter dish, a unicycle tire, any shoelaces at all and a mackintosh, preferably in blue, which was silly, as I wouldn’t be able to tell. Tomio, it seemed, saw my excursion as a good marketing opportunity.