Inkwill put the dispatches down and sat again. He organized a wad of papers, took up his pencil and began to quiz Rossamund with all manner of question: age, eye color, height, weight, origin, race; on and on they went. Often they were incomprehensible: political affinities, species bias. Whichever answer Rossamund gave, no matter how incoherent, was filled in on the relevant forms. When each form was completed, Inkwill rewrote it twice more. Having completed this task, he then looked over the foundling's newly redrafted documents and papers and read the covering letter with fixed attention.
Rossamund's eyes nearly bugged from their sockets as he waited, breath held, to see how these temporary certificates would be received.
"I see," Inkwill said at last. "Witherscrawl won't like these; neither will the Marshal… 'tis no matter. These are perfectly legal." He gave a slight smile as his attention shifted to the boy before him. "Been through some… interesting times getting here, have we?"
Rossamund nodded emphatically. "Aye, sir, an adventure of them."
Inkwill's smile broadened. "You'll have to tell me sometime." With that he took out yet more documents and began copying pertinent details from Rossamund's papers. When the registry clerk was done, and all the forms properly blotted and indexed, he politely told Rossamund that he was to now make his way over to the other clerk.
"He is our indexer, and he is called Witherscrawl. He will enter you into our manning list, so that from now on you will be called on the roll, and be reckoned a lamplighter." Inkwill stood and shook Rossamund's hand once more. "Welcome to the Emperor's Service."
"Thank you, Mister Inkwill," Rossamund returned, somewhat bewildered. "I will try and do my very best, just as I was taught to, sir."
"Good for you. Now take this receipt and this excuse-card to Witherscrawl. I will see you tomorrow."
With that, Inkwill went on with whatever it was he went on with, and ceased paying any attention to the foundling.
Clutching a wallet of new papers and certificates, Rossamund stepped cautiously across the gap back to the sharp-faced, sharp-mannered clerk Witherscrawl.
"Um… Mister Witherscrawl, I…" he began.
With a sour look, the clerk snatched the receipt and excuse-card from Rossamund's hand.
"I, ah…" the boy tried.
"Shut it! I know my business!" The indexer looked down at the excuse-card with sinister deliberation and a cruel turn to his mouth. A hoarse growl wheezed in his throat. "Little weevil couldn't do a simple thing like keep his most important papers safe…!" His beady eyes shot Rossamund an evil glare. "Makes me wonder why we are even bothering to take him in. Sit down!"
With a start, and, as there were no chairs about, Rossamund obediently sat on the cold stone floor.
Taking a pencil in both hands, Witherscrawl proceeded to write furiously into several books and ledgers, and onto several lists. When each entry was done, he would thump it violently with a wooden handle attached to a large, flat sponge. Rossamund winced at every blow.
Witherscrawl eventually leaned over his desk and looked down upon the foundling, his eyes squinting meanly behind his spectacles. "You have certainly taken your time to get here," he spat. "Gave Germanicus an awful messing around, you did. Too good for us, are you, to make your way promptly?" He poked a finger at Rossamund's face. "A lamplighter's life is punctuality, boy! You had better get your habits about this, or your time with us will be brief-troubled and brief."
Those were familiar words.
"Ah-aye, Mister Witherscrawl."
The clerk leaned across the desk and sneered. "Do not address me, boy, as anything other than 'sir.' Have you got that? You don't need to know my name, and you certainly have not earned the privilege to use it!"
Rossamund felt his neck contract like a turtle's. "A-aye… sir…"
Finally, and with half-uttered protestations about the inconvenience, Witherscrawl led Rossamund through a small side door and down the narrowest corridors to a small, drab cell with flaking walls. This room, furnished with only a metal stretcher (not unlike the one he had slept on for most of his time at the foundlingery), was to be his bunk for the night.
"Tomorrow," Witherscrawl informed him, "you will be woken at five of the morning, if you are not already up by then, and must move immediately to the parade yard, for the calling of the roll. Then you'll meet the Lamplighter Marshal, our officer commanding. Then you will receive your routine and begin your instruction. Do you understand?"
"Aye, sir." Rossamund was beginning to feel, all over again, the familiar doubts about the desirability of this occupation. Without a bath or even a wash to clean off the grime of travel, he was told that he was to have his bright-limn extinguished in no more than fifteen minutes.
Extracting another "Aye, sir!" from the new arrival, Witherscrawl left Rossamund to prepare for sleep. The only thing on the foundling's mind, though, was the letter he held in his hand: the precious letter with dearest Verline's unmistakable writing upon it, the letter addressed to him personally. It was like a sweet song to his tired soul, an encouragement from those far off-he was still thought of, he was remembered.
He sat down on the cot, causing it to creak loudly even under his slight weight. Hands shaking a little with excitement, he pried open the seal and many securing folds to reveal the message within. The date-twenty-third day of Lirium-was scrawled at the top. It had been written five days ago, the day Rossamund had been discovered hiding in that boxthorn by Europe. Eagerly, he read on: My dear and most missed Rossamund, How I wish I could right now see you here in front of me. I would hold you till you squirmed out of my grasp and stood there looking at me bashfully, like you used to do. As this cannot be, simple correspondence is all I have (I thank Madam Opera for teaching me my letters!).
Yet I hug you even now, in my heart, and pray constantly too that you might be safe and thriving. It's silly of me I know but I miss you-see! My tears have smeared the ink! One day, find your way back to me, even just for a visit, so I might see you grown and well, and be filled with pride at what a fine man you are undoubtedly becoming. We could take a rest-cure to my sister, so I might show you off to her as well.
I have to tell you too that dear Master Fransitart is determined to come to you at Winstermill, or wherever you will be stationed on the Wormway. Though he does not show it, nor say what the cause is, I can tell that he is greatly distressed. All he will say is that there is something he should have told you long ago-though he will not speak what that is. He says that he must tell you only, in your company alone, and does not want to risk such things in letters. Oh Rossamund, what can it be? Do you know?
Regardless, what he has to say is not so much of my worry, but rather that he is getting old, as vinegaroons go, and his pith is beginning to fail him. I don't want to worry you, Rossamund, heart-of-my-heart, but I think you need to know, so that you might be ready to care and comfort him, who has done as much for you for so long, when he finally arrives to you. I am frightened that this journey will be his last, my heart, so look out for him-he says he intends to leave for Winstermill as soon as winter is past its worst and the season is fit for traveling once more for one of his poor health (he listened to my pleas in this at least). Expect him within the last week of Herse, or the first week of Orio at the latest. Look out for him then, won't you?
I must end, for Madam is demanding her bath, but reply to this the instant you get it, for I-we-ache to know that you are well.
Master Fransitart sends you his blessings, or he would if he knew I was writing you. If he did know, I am sure he would tell you to stay at your task till he comes, no matter how anxious I might get.