“I . . . like to think so,” I replied cautiously, looking around to see if there were witnesses in case she tried something.

She picked up on my nervousness and raised an eyebrow. “What are you so worried about?”

“The last time you smiled at me, I found myself under a yateveo.”

She laughed. The sound was lovely—yet quite out of character. It would be like hearing a fish sneeze.

“Honestly,” she said, “are you going to drag that up every time we meet? So I threatened to kill you.

What’s the big deal?”

“How can you not think it’s a big deal?”

“Okay, I’ll demonstrate. You threaten to kill me.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Come on, Red, don’t be such a baby.”

“All right: I’ll kill you.”

“You have to say it like you mean it.”

“I’LL KILL YOU!”

And she punched me in the eye.

“Ow! That hurt. And how could that possibly demonstrate that it’s no big deal?”

“You might have something there,” she said thoughtfully. “It could have been a bit rude of me. But let’s face it, you are a bit pointless, and the world will certainly carry on spinning without you.”

I rubbed my eye. “You really have a winning personality, don’t you?”

“Steady,” she said, again with a slight smile. “I’m supposed to be the sarcastic one.”

“What in Munsell’s name is going on?” Miss Bluebird had just walked out of the school. She was carrying a huge pile of papers, and had a look of shocked disbelief on her face. “Did I just witness a lethal threat and an up-color assault?”

It was time to think fast, and when it comes to making up lieful deceits on the spot, I soon realized that Jane was even better than Tommo. “Far from it,” she replied innocently. “Master Edward and I were discussing the best way to mock-fight in Red Side Story.”

“We’re attending the auditions together,” I added, “aren’t we, Jane?”

She gave me a brief grimace, but nodded.

“It was most convincing,” replied Mrs. Bluebird, full of admiration. “I’m adjudicating this evening—perhaps you might demonstrate the technique for us all?”

“As many times as you want,” replied Jane happily.

“Splendid!” replied Mrs. Bluebird. “See you there, then.”

As soon as she was out of earshot, Jane turned to me and said in a low growl, “We’re not going to the auditions.”

I had to agree, as being punched endlessly wouldn’t be much fun. In fact, I’d prefer to just lose an eyebrow and be done with it.

“We should keep moving,” said Jane, “before we raise any suspicions. If anyone comes within earshot, talk to me about what you’d like for dinner, and then castigate me about the poor starching of your collar.”

We walked off, and after a moment of silence I said, “You were waiting for me. Did you want something?”

“No,” she said, “but you do. Word in the Greyzone is that a sad Red wannabe with no imagination and a lump in his trousers needs help to get his leg over some unobtainable Alpha crumpet back home.”

“Aside from the subtly imbedded ‘I don’t like you’ message hidden in your statement, what does that mean?”

“It means I heard you wanted some poetry written.”

“And you’re the best poet in the village?”

“By a long way.”

I attempted to take advantage of the narrow window of opportunity that had just opened, and asked if she’d like to discuss it down at the Fallen Man over a d’nish pastry.

“I’d sooner stick a bodkin through my tongue.”

“You really don’t like me, do you?”

“It’s not just you. You might say I am impartial in the politics of the Colortocracy—I despise all Chromatics equally.”

“Would there be any point in asking what’s going on in Rusty Hill, and how Zane and you relate to Ochre and the selling of the village swatches?”

“None whatsoever.”

“I thought you might say that . . . and we should have mutton on Wednesday,” I said, as Yewberry was walking past, deep in conversation with the Colorman about pipeline routing, “and with salad, not vegetables.”

Yewberry acknowledged my presence with a nod of his head, but the Colorman actually greeted me with a polite “Edward.” I replied, “Matthew,” which I could see impressed Yewberry.

“Right,” said Jane as soon as they had passed, “poetry. Who’s the bunny?”

I took a deep breath. “The ‘bunny,’ as you so indecorously call her, is an Oxblood, Constance Oxblood, and her father runs the stringworks in Jade-under-Lime. We’ve been seeing each other for several years, and we’ve even—”

“Do I look as though I’m interested?”

“Not really.”

“You’re right. The details of your hopeless quest to sacrifice your individuality on the altar of Chromatic betterment is about as exciting to me as pulling clodworms out of the juniors. Do you love each other?”

“I’m sure that in the fullness of time we will come to regard each other with—”

“That’s a no, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I replied with a sigh. “She needs the Red, and my family need the social standing.”

“How awesomely romantic! Have you told her? It would put the union on a business footing, and you’d save a small fortune in flowers, chocolates and poets.”

“She knows. It’s just a game, really. Besides, the old-color Roger Maroon is the odds-on favorite—despite his lack of Red, intelligence, charm and looks. Here,” I said, handing her a letter I had been drafting, “you may like to use this as a basis.”

“Drivel,” she said, scanning the words quickly. “Were you really going to send that?”

“The bit regarding the Caravaggio was okay,” I replied a bit stupidly, “and I thought it important to mention the queuing. Should I scrub the paragraph about the rabbit?”

“It’s all sheep and no shepherd,” she remarked and started to write on the back of my letter as we walked. She scribbled, crossed out and then wrote again, a bit like an artist trying to capture a likeness.

She looked quite lovely, and it wasn’t just her nose. The hair that wasn’t tucked into her ponytail dropped in front of her eyes several times, and she pushed it out of the way behind her ear, where it would stay for perhaps twenty seconds or so before making its way out again. I could have watched her for several circuits of the village, and fervently hoped she was a slow poet. Unfortunately, she wasn’t.

“There,” she said a minute later, and handed over the finished product.

Rouge of my heart, intertwined with double-hued destiny, Thread of my thoughts, constant and rubicund legacy, Filament of my future, endeared unto my expectation, Cord of my emotion, seared with eternal elation.

“That’s . . . beautiful,” I murmured.

Although the meaning wasn’t at first obvious, it seemed to have the right sort of words in it. Fairly long and not used that often. It also sounded intelligent, and had a lot of string references, which would go down well with Constance’s mother. More important still, it was a lot better than I could do. “Should I place it at the beginning or the end of the letter?”

“This is the letter, numbskull. You just put Tim or Peter or whatever your name is at the end. No Xs, no kisses and none of that ‘My heart yearns for you, poopsie’ nonsense.”

“It’s ‘honey bear,’ actually.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing. What do I owe you for the poetry?”

“You can have Constance on me. All I need is a favor.”

I looked across at her. “I have a feeling it’s probably not to scratch your back or put up some shelves.”

“No. What do you know about this Matthew Gloss character?”

“You mean His Colorfulness? Not very much.”

“But he’s kin, living in your house, and you called him Matthew in public. You wouldn’t have done that unless he’d allowed you to.”

“We’re getting along okay,” I conceded.

“I’d like to know what he’s doing here.”