Mindful of my father’s wish for me to be as quick as possible, and with the possibility of still-active Mildew spores, I quickly opened the climate case, released the painting from its heavy ornate frame and rested it on the floor. It was large—almost six feet by four—and I had to carry the stretched canvas very carefully to get it down the narrow stairs without bumping into anything.

I placed the painting against the wall outside and quickly consulted the street map, then set off. The address of the Purple wrongspot was three streets away, and this would be the only opportunity for me to investigate.

I walked down the main street, past more scattered detritus, empty shops and the remnants of a population who looked as though they had attempted to leave, then given up. Grasses and wildflowers had germinated in pockets of windblown soil, and brambles snaked and coiled without encumbrance. After a few minutes’ searching I found the last known address of the wrongspot. The front door looked shabby and unused, and the windows were boarded up. I was disappointed, but also hugely relieved. I had taken this issue as far as I could and now could quite happily let it go to concentrate on more socially responsible matters. I was about to hurry back to the Caravaggio, and thence to the bridge to meet my father, when I noticed that although appearing unused, the cobbles outside the door were clear of weeds. I paused, my heart beating fast, and without thinking, knocked politely. There was no answer, so I pushed open the door and was met by a sight of such extraordinary magnificence that it quite took my breath away.

Zane G-49

I was looking into the front parlor of a house that until recently had been very much in use, as the smell of food and soap lingered in the air. The room was large, and cluttered with bric-a-brac, tools, pots of paint, a Racy Novel or two and random items of scrap artifacture. There was a bowl of apples on the sideboard, and several smoked eels hung from the ceiling. All this, while unusual, was not the most magnificent thing in the room. For placed about the shelves, sideboard and picture rail and hung from the walls were perhaps a hundred or more lightglobes, all shining brightly and raising the level of illuminance of the interior to that of daylight. At night it would hardly be night, and fear would be banished. Zane would have found them in the Chapter House’s “forbidden cupboard,” because unlike most Leapback, lightglobes were too volatile to be placed beyond use by the blacksmith’s hammer, so were either stored by the prefects, thrown in deep lakes or buried.

But the globes weren’t the only Leapback in the room, nor the most remarkable. Propped against a pile of books was a reconstructed remote viewer in a bespoke wooden frame. It was made up of about fifteen parts, the largest of which was the size of my fist and the smallest barely bigger than a one-merit piece. Unlike the small shards that we uncovered from time to time, and upon which the smallest and most inconsequential images flicked and jiggled, the fifteen component parts of this viewer produced a single, vaguely coherent moving picture that could be followed with relative ease, and I leaned closer to stare at the fine detail. Even though the picture jumped from viewpoint to viewpoint with bewildering rapidity, it seemed to be a dramatic play of some sort, with a couple in a bedroom somewhere. That they were Previous was in no doubt, as the difference between the sexes was comically exaggerated, and they had subtle features with eyes that seemed as hollow as the children in the Ovaltine wall painting. I moved closer and realized that I could hear the people in the viewer actually speak. They used a dialect that was obviously ancient but understandable. The woman seemed to say something about how the man wasn’t the same one she had known ten years before, and he retorted that it wasn’t the years but the mileage, which I didn’t quite understand. He used the pet name “honey,” which would indicate they were married, but I could see no wedding rings, which was confusing. As I watched, the man showed the parts of his body where he wasn’t hurt, and the woman kissed them in turn. He eventually pointed to his lips and she kissed them, too, which would have been a sneaky trick, had she not realized what he was up to, which I think she did, and I laughed out loud.

“How much do you know?”

By rights I should have jumped a foot in the air, but Jane’s presence was somehow oddly inevitable. She was staring at me with a mixture of surprise and suspicion on her face. My first thought was about how she had traveled here. I had last seen her at breakfast—barely ninety minutes ago and fourteen miles away. Without a Ford, an impossible feat—like her journey to Vermillion the day before. It was as though she could leap from place to place, like a Pooka.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point asking how you got here?”

“None at all. I’ll be honest, Red—you had me fooled with that shamefully ludicrous ‘I’m an idiot who fancies you’ act. And I don’t fool easily. But right now, I need to know who you are, how much you know and what you think you’ll do with the information.”

I blinked twice. I was glad that she seemed to now have some respect for me, even if through a misunderstanding, but as long as she kept thinking that I wasn’t groping in the dark, perhaps she might reveal just what she and the wrongspot had been doing in the Paint Shop that day. Or better still, start to like me.

“I’m sorry about Zane. It seems he was a friend of yours.”

“Two days ago he was a friend. This time next month he’ll be tallow, methane and bonemeal. How long have you known about him?”

“Oh, a while.”

“What else do you know?”

“About you—but only since Vermillion.”

“And who have you told about us?”

“Why don’t we discuss this over tea at the Fallen Man?” I asked, attempting to be suave. “I’ve heard the scones are excellent—or at least, more edible than yours.”

But she didn’t go for it. “I’d sooner discuss it right here and now.”

“Then perhaps,” I replied, “you should tell me what you were doing in the Paint Shop?”

She lapsed into silence for a moment, and moved across the room to touch one of the lightglobes. She didn’t need to—she was just positioning herself between me and the exit. I’d asked the wrong question.

It told her that I didn’t know what she was doing in the Paint Shop. On reflection, a better question might have been “How long has this been going on?” or even “Tell me the whole story, right from the beginning—and leave nothing out.”

“Are you working for Thorny Yellowood?”

“I’m no fan of the Yellows.”

“You risked your life to save one last night.”

“He was a friend.”

“If that’s true, then you’re a privateer, in it for the merits. Which is arguably worse.”

“It is?”

“Of course. Snitching for the good of the Collective is misguided loyalty. Snitching for cash is nothing but personal greed.”

“Oh.”

“Irrespective of your motivations, I’ll take what you’re selling,” she went on, “but I need to know the quality of the silence I’m buying.”

I stared back at her, trying to figure out what I should do, and feeling hopelessly out of my depth.

“Unless,” she added, “you really are as dumb as you look and have stumbled onto Zane and myself by accident?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I blurted in a vain attempt to regain lost ground. “How could I have known Zane lived here?”

This seemed to make sense to her, but at that moment I heard a distant whistle from my father. I was overdue. And if I didn’t come back, he’d start to look for me.