She smiled. “I’ve no idea who commits that indefensible abuse of the centralized heating system, but I’m sure they can be persuaded.”

“I’m very grateful,” I told her. “Would you excuse me?”

I had just seen the Apocryphal man enter the front door. I found him in the living room, staring absently at one of the Vettrianos.

“Really?” he said when I told him I had some loganberry. “Show me.”

His face fell at the meagerness of my offering, but a promise was a promise, and we sat down on the sofa.

“You told me yesterday you could remember a time before Model Ts—when the Ford flathead was the vehicle of choice.”

“Yes?”

“I had a look in the Leapback Book. Flatheads were disposed of at the Third Great Leap Backward—one hundred and ninety-six years ago.”

“So your question is—?”

“How old are you?”

He thought for a moment and then counted on his fingers “I’ll be four hundred and fifty-two years this August. A card might be nice, but don’t worry about a present. Unless it’s jam, of course.”

“How can you live so long?”

“By not dying. See this?”

He pulled up his shirt to reveal where NS -B4 was scarred into the place his postcode should have been.

“It stands for ‘Negligible Senescence—Baxter #4.’ That’s my name—Mr. Baxter. Now, if you had to devise a historian, what would be your design parameters?”

I had to think about this.

“Intellect, for analysis.”

“You’re very kind. What else?”

“An excellent memory.”

“Flatterer. Anything more?”

“Longevity?”

He smiled. “Precisely. Unlike you, I don’t have any of that tiresome obsolescence that is both the bane and boon of mankind.”

I stared at him for a moment without speaking.

“You must have seen a lot.”

He shook his head. “Not a lot— everything. You recall I told you I was once a historian? I was lying; I still am. But Baxters don’t teach; Baxters observe. They note, they file, they compile reports.”

“For whom do you do this?”

“Head Office.”

“But since no one studies history anymore,” I pointed out, “what’s the point of recording it?”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he said slowly. “I don’t exist to record your history; you exist to give me something to record.”

It was an interesting concept, although quite clearly loopy. One might just as easily suppose that we are here only to give function to houses, or to give a market to Ovaltine and string.

“So let me get this straight,” I murmured. “We are here only to give you something to study?”

“In one. I’m amazed you’ve taken so easily to the concept. Those that can be troubled to muse upon the meaning of life are generally disappointed when they figure it out.”

“In that case,” I said, thinking quickly, “what is the meaning of your life?”

He laughed. “Why, to study all of you, of course. It’s the perfect symbiosis. Once my studies are complete, I will be recalled to the faculty at Emerald City to present my findings.”

“And when will that be?”

“When the study is complete.”

“And how will you know when that is?”

“Because I will be recalled to Emerald City.”

“That’s insane.”

“If you look around, you won’t find much that isn’t.”

I had to agree with this, but the Apocryphal man, perhaps unused to having a chance to explain himself, carried on.

“There were initially ten Baxters, but despair took all but one. The weakest willed was always going to be the last Baxter standing. Sadly, it was me—I will have to shoulder the responsibility on my own.”

“What responsibility?”

“Without me, no one’s life has any meaning.”

“I thought Munsell said that color was here to give our lives meaning?”

“Its function is to give life apparent meaning. It is an abstraction, a misdirection—nothing more than a sideshow at Jollity Fair. As long as your minds are full of Chromatic betterment, there can be no room for other, more destructive thoughts. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” I said, confused by Mr. Baxter’s odd view of the world. “What was the Something That Happened?”

“I was born after the Epiphany. I don’t know what happened. But if you want to find out, then you should return to Rusty Hill and finish the work Zane and Ochre started.”

“The painting of the ceiling?”

“Everything is there in the ceiling,” he said. “All it needs is a key.”

I recalled the strong feeling of anticipation I had felt at the appearance of the Pooka. As with the Perpetulite’s hidden panel and the harmonics running Everspins, there was far, far more to the world than I supposed, and quite possibly a lot more to us.

“But—” I was interrupted by three loud raps at the door. Aware that I should not even be acknowledging Mr.

Baxter let alone talking to him, I went to the door to see the caller away.

It was Courtland Gamboge. He was on his own, and his manner seemed . . . businesslike.

“Twenty-two minutes.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Twenty-two minutes,” he repeated, “until the train departs. You surrendered your Open Return to deMauve, and I’ve a spare. This time tomorrow you can be back in the arms of your sweetheart. No trip to High Saffron, no chair census, no getting married to Violet, nothing. It’s life as it was before you came out here to the Fringes.”

“I’m still down eight hundred merits.”

“You’ll have to sort that out for yourself.”

“And the catch?”

“No catch,” he said with a forced smile. “We give you a ticket, and you get on the train. You don’t owe us anything, and we don’t owe you anything. Clean slate. It’s like you were never here.”

“I need to tell my father.”

“You can leave a note. He’ll understand. Twenty-one minutes. If you’re going, you have to go now.”

They had timed it well, and the decision was an easy one to make. I took the proffered ticket.

“Good lad,” he said, “I’ll see you to the railway station.”

Open Return

Courtland’s timing was indeed perfect: The train had just pulled in when we got to the railway station. Bunty was in her usual place and nodded to Courtland, who turned and walked back toward the village without comment. The day was by now blistering hot, with barely a cloud in the sky, and the trainspotters on the slope above fanned themselves with their notebooks to keep cool.

I opened the carriage door, smiled a greeting to an amiable-looking Blue woman in a hat and veil and sat by myself in the nearly empty carriage. I looked at Bunty, who was still seated on the platform, and she stared at me with as much disdain as she could muster, which was considerable. I took a deep breath and settled back into my seat. The train would leave as soon as the linoleum was loaded, and since I was impatient to be away, time seemed to slow down. I didn’t know what the Jade-under-Lime Council would say when I arrived back early, but I didn’t really care. I was away, and alive.

“Master Edward?” came a voice. “There’s a telegram for you.”

It was Stafford, who smiled and tipped his cap. I thanked him, and asked him how he knew I was here, to which he replied that he was simply picking up a fare, and always had at least a half-dozen telegrams to deliver.

“Off for long, sir?” he asked.

“For good, Stafford. Thanks for everything.”

“Most kind, sir. I hope things turn out delightfully uneventful for you.”

“Yes,” I said slowly, “I hope so, too.”

“Back to the usual routine, then is it, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” I replied, “I expect so.”