“Constance sent me a reply,” I said. “Your poem went down really well.”

“That’s a huge weight off my shoulders, Red. I hardly slept a wink last night, worrying whether you two would find the unhappiness you deserve.”

Her sarcasm was starting to grow on me in an odd sort of way. But she wasn’t so fond of small talk and rounded on me. “What did you tell the Colorman?”

I wasn’t quite so fearful this time. Maybe I was beginning to understand her better. “I didn’t tell him anything about you—just some daft theories of my own. But I’ll confess I’m confused and don’t know who to trust.”

“You can trust me.”

“Can I? Robin and Zane are both dead, and the Colorman tells me there’s twenty thousand merits kicking around somewhere. You were involved, and His Colorfulness is looking for you. The question I want to ask is this: Did you have a hand in Ochre’s death?”

For the first time since I’d met her, she looked genuinely upset. “Absolutely not. Robin’s death benefits no one. It was the worst thing that could have happened to this village and all who live here.”

“So who killed him? And don’t tell me he was Chasing the Frog or had misdiagnosed himself.”

She looked down for a moment, and her voice went quieter.

“I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t. There aren’t many things that scare me, but whoever got to Ochre, they scare me.”

“I didn’t have you down as the ‘being scared’ sort.”

“Well, you don’t know everything, do you?”

“That’s an improvement. Twenty-four hours ago you had me knowing nothing.”

She recovered her composure, and when she spoke next it was with her usual vigor.

“What have you found out about the Colorman?”

Before I knew what I was doing, I was telling her everything. Consciously, I was in a quandary over loyalties. Unconsciously, I was with Jane all the way. “He knows there was a third person in the swatch scam. It’s his only concern. I told him there might be someone in the village who can see at night, and he couldn’t have been less interested.”

“You told him what?”

“That there—”

“I heard. Someone who can see at night? What makes you think that?”

I told her about the wheelbarrow, but she, like the Colorman, wasn’t impressed.

“What else did you tell him?”

“Only that there was something hokey about Ochre’s death—and Travis was a murder.”

She shook her head sadly. “Look here,” she said. “You seem like a vaguely okay person—for a Red.

Just count your chairs and head home. You’ll wangle a ticket somehow. All these questions are not going to make you smart or worldly-wise or any better off. They’re going to make you dead.”

“That means you kind of care about me, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all. I play the long game and I may need a favor from you one day—dead people don’t do favors.”

“You didn’t have to tell me that. You could have let me believe you cared.”

“You’re too old for a nursemaid, Red. Yours.”

“What?”

“YOURS!”

Strange as it might have seemed, the ball was actually coming our way. I took the shot and whacked it up-pitch, where, as if by magic, Jane was already waiting to receive it. Imogen Fandango was in goal, but she didn’t stand a chance, and the ball zipped past her so quick she didn’t even see it. The whistle blew and the fighting stopped, except for Tommo, who was tussling with Cassie and seemed to be coming out the loser. Daisy’s whistle blowing a quarter inch from their ears made them stop, and they growled and snapped at each other before calming down.

“You’ve got a new idea for a strategy,” said Courtland as we all gathered for a confab. We’d lost Jabez, who was being stitched up by Dad on the touchline, but no one cared about numbers anymore.

“I have?”

“Yes, and here it is: I’m going to be striker and everyone else works my defense. Tommo, you tackle Daisy and pocket her whistle. Once I get the ball, all you have to do is defend me in whatever way you can. The Grey—”

“It’s Jane,” said Jane.

“Very well. Jane takes my right flank, because no one will dare tackle her, and Keith, you take my left, because I know you can soak up a beating without going down.”

“Okay,” said Keith.

“Right,” I said, since it sounded like a good plan, even if illegal. “What do I do?”

“Nothing,” growled Courtland. “Your job is to carry the can.”

“Come on,” said Jane, “is this really necessary? I know Russett’s a drip, but he is a guest in the village.”

He ignored her, and they all walked off to the bully-point.

“What’s going on?” I said to Tommo as he walked past. “My job is to carry the what?”

“The can,” repeated Tommo with a snigger. “Surely you know? The team captain has to take full responsibility for his team if they cheat. And with the amount of merits you’ve got, we can do a fair amount of cheating. And listen, I think Courtland’s seriously browned off with you about something—and I’m not that pleased with you myself. You lied to me. You lied to all of us.”

I stood there dumbfounded as the clacks from the bully-off started, and play began. Within a second, Courtland was off, Daisy had been parted with her whistle and the violence had begun.

Demerits and Violet

“Two broken collarbones, three twisted ankles, two fractured tibias, bruises without number, a thumb half torn off, two fractured wrists, Gerry Puce with a compound break to the femur and Lucy had to have her ear stitched back on.”

“The ear I can explain. She was on the subs bench and—”

“Quiet, Russett.” Head Prefect deMauve closed the report and stared at me. “What in Munsell’s name did you think you were doing? Leading a legion of first-strike retaliators against a horde of marauding Riffraff?”

It was half an hour after the game ended, and Violet and I were in the prefect’s chambers to account for our actions. The game had developed into a violent free-for-all and gone rapidly downhill from there.

Daisy had broken Tommo’s thumb to retrieve her whistle, then blown it so hard and for so long that she passed out. Dorian had the presence of mind to take a photo, thus preserving the unprecedented event for all time, and the violence only stopped when I whacked the ball into the Green Room’s walled enclosure, where no one dared enter. Of the players, only those wise enough to have scattered avoided serious injury, and the damage was pretty evenly distributed between the teams, with Courtland accounting for most of it. He lashed out at anyone with whom he had a score to settle—which was almost everyone, it seemed—safe in the knowledge that I, as captain, would be called to account for his actions. He could have nobbled me, too, but he didn’t; I think he wanted to see me humiliated and demerited before he had his revenge.

I had Violet sitting next to me as codefendant. The girls’ team had also decided to ignore the rules and attack anything that moved—which was pretty much what they usually did, only with the legality of a whistle.

DeMauve was sitting on a raised dais, with the Council in a semicircle in front of and below him. As he spoke, they pulled long faces, shook their heads and gave out accusatory “tuts.” We were still muddied and bloody: I had got away with only bruising, and Violet had a hastily stitched gash on the back of her head. Her hair, which this morning had been so perfect, was now matted with blood.

“Puce’s femur may take a month to be completely right again,” said Turquoise in a sober tone, “and every day away from work is a day lost to the Collective. Finbarr Gardenia’s collarbone was pushed through the skin—he may be permanently lopsided. What do you say to that?”