“Done.”

The shop bell tinkled and Violet deMauve walked in. We both instinctively gave a respectful bow and she returned our greeting with an almost imperceptible inclination of her head.

“Ah!” she said. “The new bananas are in. Just what I was after.”

She opened her purse.

“How much, Tommo? If you try to overcharge me I’ll poke you painfully in the eye.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Violet,” said Tommo, enjoying the pleasure of seeing her disappointed, “I’ve just sold the banana to Master Edward here.”

“Oh,” she said, turning to me, “then I will buy it from you. I am prepared to be generous—I will be more than happy to pay two cents over the price charged by Tommo.”

“It’s not for sale,” I said as Tommo moved away to look busy elsewhere.

“How funny!” exclaimed Violet, blinking rapidly. “For a moment there I thought you said it wasn’t for sale.” She lowered her voice to a growl. “Now—how much?”

“I’m sorry, Miss deMauve, but I’m keeping it.”

A look of incredulity seemed to well up inside her; then, after a moment or two, she smiled.

“It’s another one of your ‘no’ jokes isn’t it? Like at lunchtime?” She rested a hand on my cheek for a moment. “You’re so sweet—but I’m really in a dreadful rush and if I’m not back in a few moments, Papa—Head Prefect Papa—might be miffed. Do you want to see a head prefect miffed?”

“Not really.”

“Correct answer. Now, how much?”

“It’s not—”

“Tommo?” she said, beckoning him over as you would to inform a tea shop attendant that you’d just found a dead mouse in the teapot. “Is there something wrong with Russett? He doesn’t seem to quite get it.”

Tommo stayed where he was, skulking behind the picture-postcard display rack.

“Russetts are like that, Miss Violet,” came Tommo’s voice, “contrary.”

“A demi,” I said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She stared at me again, took a half-merit coin from her purse, stuffed it in my hand and walked huffily out of the shop. I stood there for a few moments until she returned, took the banana and walked out again.

“Wow,” said Tommo, coming out from behind the display, “I like you. You’ll suffer for it later, but anyone who tries to annoy the deMauves is a friend of mine. What can I get you?”

“I’m going to need a half pound of pudding rice,” I said, “and peaches, boot polish, a quince, one large turnip, a tin of sardines and a bag of sprinkles.”

Tommo took out a notebook and scribbled in it.

“Problems?”

“Not at all,” he answered, “but with all those ingredients I’m just reminding myself never to dine with you.”

I walked back across the square to put on the rice pudding, have a bath and ready myself for the Chromogentsia. I looked into the bathroom on the way past and noticed that the shower curtain had been pulled back. Of our unknown lodger there was no sign. But that wasn’t strictly true. Lying on my bed was a pre-Epiphanic snow globe of the sort that might change hands for hundreds of merits. I shook it, and the white flecks floated upon a scene of tall buildings and a woman holding a torch in the air. It wasn’t mine, and I’d never seen it before. But I was willing to bet it hadn’t been blown there. “You’ve stolen my snow globe!” came a voice from the door.

I turned to see the Apocryphal man glaring at me.

“I did not!” I declared indignantly. “I found it on my bed.”

The Apocryphal man stared at me for some moments in silence. When he spoke next, it was with a voice tinged with sadness.

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

I shook my head.

“It means I’m not invisible!”

Three Questions

“You mean,” said the Apocryphal man, once I had explained that he had been ignored only because of an arcane rule, “I’ve been walking around the town naked all these years and people saw?” “Pretty much. But since you don’t technically exist, there can’t be any embarrassment, either.”

“Oh,” he said, much relieved, “thank goodness for that.”

I stared at him for a moment. Apocrypha could be anything from the tangible, like that notoriously unlisted big bird with the long neck that was twice the size of an ostrich, to the abstract—such as a forbidden idea or taboo discussion point. But this was the first human Apocrypha I’d encountered. The thing was, he didn’t look any different from us—except for his postcode, which was truncated. He had NS-B4 scarred just below his collarbone. I was going to ask him why, but it seemed rude. Besides, he spoke first.

“That broth last night was excellent, wasn’t it?” he said.

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“What was for pudding?”

“Pickled onions and custard. Can I ask a question?”

“It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On whether you have any jam.”

“I’ve got lots,” I replied, delighted that the Apocryphal man could be bought so cheaply.

“But not any jam,” he added with a mischievous grin. “I want . . . loganberry!”

This was another matter entirely. Jam was expensive, but you could get it. Loganberry, however, was a bit like off-gamut color. It existed, but was almost impossible to get your hands on. It was the preserve of the Ultraviolets, and its manufacture was strictly controlled. The Apocryphal man saw my face fall and giggled.

“Yes, loganberry. My question-to-jam ratio is three to one. One jar, three questions. It’s a good deal.”

“One jar for five questions,” I suggested.

His face fell.

“You have loganberry?”

“Possibly.”

“Then . . . two questions and a follow-on.”

“You said three just now!”

“That was when I thought you didn’t have any.”

“Four.”

“I respect a hard bargainer,” he conceded. “Three questions, a juicy snippet and some wisdom. Final offer.”

“Okay.”

“You do have some loganberry, I take it?”

As chance would have it, I did. A jar that I’d been given many years before, just after Mother succumbed to the Mildew. I fetched it from my valise and handed it over. The Apocryphal man took the jar gratefully and, using his grubby fingers in a most revolting manner, proceeded to eat the entire pot. I watched in dismay as he devoured in a couple of minutes something that would have taken me at least six months. I stood in silence until he had scraped out the last atom of jam and licked his fingers, which were now a good deal cleaner.

“That was good,” he remarked agreeably, handing back the empty jar. “What’s the first question?”

I thought for a moment. His demi-postcode was intriguing, but there were bigger questions to ask.

“Why are you Apocryphal?”

“I’m actually a historian. Head Office always felt it would be easier to study society if those doing the studying were invisible, so that’s why I am ignored by statute. It’s just been a while, and I think I may have become muddled. But then they canceled history during one of those interminable Leapbacks, and here I am, like a cobbler in a world without feet.”

“Why did they Leapback history?” I asked.

“It was a logical extension to the deFacting,” replied the historian with a sigh, “and in a world devoted to Stasis, there’s no real need for it. After all, this week is not substantially different from last week, or next week, or a week I can remember thirty-seven years ago. Oh, no, hang on, I got married that week.

Okay, the week after that.”

“I wasn’t in the world thirty-seven years ago,” I replied, “so it was substantially different to me.”

“What was your grandfather’s name?”

“Same as mine: Eddie.”