We stared at each other for a moment or two, until Violet burst into laughter and pushed my shoulder playfully. “You Russetts! Always larking about. Don’t forget the orchestra. Wednesday afternoons straight after tea. Oh, and by the by—there seems to be a toe in your water jug.”

Another girl had arrived on the scene. She was of slighter build than Violet, and looked as though she had been practicing hockeyball. I knew this because she was holding a hockeyball stick.

“Well, well,” said Violet with a sneer, “Daisy Crimson. I hear you’re to audition for the part of Maria—don’t feel rejected when you fail to get it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Daisy, giving Violet a polite smile, “did you say something? I was thinking about sheep.”

Violet smiled without any hint of joy and walked off, pushing against Daisy’s shoulder as she did so.

“Well,” said Daisy, sitting down and, after seeing the toe in the water jug, helping herself to Tommo’s glass, “a hideous fate awaits anyone who marries that. Who’s the favorite at the moment?”

“Your brother,” said Tommo, “on even money.”

“I’ll have to take him to one side and have a word. Violet as my sister-in-law would be an unspeakable horror. Hello. I’m Daisy Crimson. You must be Edward.”

Tommo nudged me, and I remembered that she and I were due to be married—according to Tommo’s fantasy marriage league, anyway.

“Eddie,” I said, shaking her hand. “Friend?”

“Friend.”

She was actually rather pretty. She looked older than her years, with shoulder-length hair and a thin dappling of dark freckles across the bridge of her nose, which was, as Tommo had remarked, quite pointy.

“Double hoorah on the Caravaggio retrieval,” she said. “Up until now the village has been a bit heavy on the Postimpressionists, and our Picasso is on loan to Yellowopolis, which is having a retrospective.

Watch out for the deMauves, by the way—meddling with that bunch would be like eating a scorpion sandwich.”

“That’s what I like about this village,” I observed. “Everybody is so nice to one another.”

“She’s right about the scorpion sandwich,” Tommo put in. “That’s why I didn’t factor Violet into your marital-prospect rundown. Besides, Doug Crimson is our strongest Red— he’s the one who’s going to pull the short straw and have to slip the ring on her trotter.”

“How does Doug feel about marrying into the deMauves?” I asked.

“Fervently hoping he has less red than he thinks,” murmured Daisy, who undoubtedly had concerns for her brother.

I knew what she meant. Although no one could cheat the Ishihara, and most people had a general idea of what they could see, there were often surprises as recessive bestowals popped to the fore. Even children of longtime Greys could suddenly discover a perception they never knew they had. The yearly Ishihara tipped village politics on its head and kept the prefects on their toes—and relatively free from excess.

“Master Edward?” said a voice nearby. I turned to find a small girl aged no more than twelve holding a clipboard. She was smartly turned out and had a Yellow Spot with several honor badges next to a shiny SENIOR JUNIOR MONITOR badge.

“Hello,” I said in a friendly manner. “What can I help you with, little girl?”

“You can help me by canning the patronizing backchat—unless you want my thumb jabbed in your eye.”

My face dropped.

“You couldn’t reach,” Tommo retorted. “We’re both here, so why don’t you just tick the stupid lunch register and toddle along?”

“You have to say ‘Here’ after I’ve called your name. It’s the Rules. If you don’t want to do it my way I’ll simply report you for obstructing a monitor, and you can explain yourself to a prefect.”

“Bog off, girlie,” he growled, “and when you’ve done that, bog off again—and then a third time, in case the first two were ineffective.”

She narrowed her eyes, glowered for a moment and then walked off.

“Penelope is the youngest Gamboge,” Tommo explained, “Courtland’s niece and the Yellow prefect’s granddaughter. She hasn’t got as much Yellow as those two, but enough to make her troublesome.”

A few minutes later, Penelope returned with her Yellow prefect grandmother in tow.

“What’s going on here?” demanded Mrs. Gamboge, and we all dutifully stood.

“Thomas Cinnabar denied the protocol,” the odious child gushed self-righteously, “and then told me to bog off—three times.”

“I’m proud to plead guilty to the bog-off thing,” Tommo said cheerfully, “but I’d like to apologize unreservedly to Miss Penelope under Article Forty-two and plead fair comment under Rule 6.3.22.02.044.”

“Agreed,” replied Gamboge, who must also have thought Penelope something of a pest. “You will be penalized only five merits, for failing to respect the authority of a lunch register monitor. Do you even have any merits, Cinnabar?”

“One hundred and eight below zero, ma’am.”

“Then you’d better do something to redeem yourself between now and your Ishihara on Sunday, hmm?”

Penelope was grinning broadly, and had brought out her book so she could be awarded the half merit as bounty. Gamboge told Tommo to pull up his socks and departed, with Penelope skipping along at her heels.

“Was that really worth it?” I asked as we sat again.

“Sure,” said Tommo with a grin. He handed Penelope’s pencil to a nearby confederate, who put it in his pocket and walked briskly away. “Watch our little friend now.”

We both turned to look at Penelope Gamboge, just as she realized that she had lost her pencil. She looked in all her pockets, then started searching the floor with increased desperation.

“Two demerits for losing Council property,” mused Tommo, “and another demerit for failing to complete the register in time. Plus I get fifty cents on the Beigemarket for the pencil.”

I laughed.

“So,” Daisy resumed, jerking a thumb in my direction, “who’s Russett going to marry?”

“Tommo has a vibrant imagination,” I said. “As soon as I’ve counted all the chairs, I’ll be off, so it’s a bit moot, to be honest.”

“Eddie here will be your husband, Daze,” said Tommo.

She laughed, and I felt uncomfortable. “Don’t sweat it,” she said, placing a warm hand on the back of mine. “It’s only Tommo’s bit of fun. Marry who you want—or don’t. As you please.”

If only it were that simple. She gave me a good-natured wink, thought for a moment and then said, “But just out of curiosity, who do I have to theoretically battle for Russett’s conjectural affections?”

“Tommo’s sister,” I said.

“Tommo doesn’t have a sister,” said Daisy.

“I added her for accounting purposes in my fantasy marriage league,” he confessed breezily. “Cassie doesn’t have a brother either, and Simone, Lisa, Torquil and Geoff all have existence issues. But it increases the size of the marriage market and gives us the illusion of increased choice.”

“For which,” added Daisy with a smile, “we are all extremely grateful.”

“Actually, Daisy dear,” said Tommo, “Eddie’s turning out surprisingly well. I was going to reserve final judgment on his nuptials until we witness his performance at the boys-versus-girls hockeyball match.”

“Pardon?” I asked, this being the first I’d heard of it.

“It’s a yearly East Carmine tradition,” explained Tommo. “We just let them win, and they go away happy.”

Daisy looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “In truth,” she said, “we thrash you allto withinaninch of your worthlesslives—the humiliation is delightful. Excuse me. I need to speak to someone before deMauve starts to bore our chops off.”

“What do you think?” asked Tommo as soon as she had left.

“She seems very pleasant.”

“You see? I told you I was good at this marriage-guidance lark.”

“Hello,” said a pale youth as he sat down next to me. “I’m Doug, Daisy’s brother. I understand you’re going to marry my sister?”