“However, if you decide not to eat it, I would gladly buy it back at cost—minus the seventy-five percent handling fee.”
“The cake?”
“The cherry.”
“Can I buy the cake without the cherry?” I asked after a moment’s thought.
“Really!” she said in an affronted tone. “What point is cherry cake without the cherry?”
“Having trouble, Mother?”
A man had trotted up the three steps to the front door. He was dressed in long prefectural robes that must have been pure magenta. He was undoubtedly the head prefect. He was also middle-aged, tall, and athletic, and he looked vaguely affable. Behind him were two other brightly colored and wholly authoritarian figures, who I assumed were the rest of the prefects. Widow deMauve piped up, “Mr. Russett is refusing to pay for the cake I made him.”
The head prefect looked me up and down. “You seem a bit young for a swatchman.”
“Please, sir, I’m not Mr. Russett, I’m his son.”
“Then why did you say you were?” asked Widow deMauve suspiciously.
“I didn’t.”
“Oh,” she said in a shocked tone, “so I’m a liar now, am I?”
“But—”
“Are you refusing to pay?” asked the head prefect.
“No, sir.” I paid off the old woman, who chuckled to herself and hurried away.
Head Prefect deMauve—I assumed this was he, even though he had not and would not introduce himself to a junior—stepped into the house and looked me up and down as though I were a haunch of beef.
“Hmm,” he said at last. “You look healthy enough. Are you bright?”
It was an ambiguous question. Bright could mean either “intelligent” or “highly color perceptive.” The former question was allowable; the latter was not. I decided to meet ambiguity with ambiguity.
“I believe so, sir. Can I suggest you make yourselves comfortable in the drawing room?”
Along with deMauve were the Blue and Red prefects, who I would soon learn were named Turquoise and Yewberry. Turquoise appeared a decent chap, but Yewberry looked a fool. I saw them to their seats before hurrying back to the kitchen.
“The prefects are here, Ja—” I checked myself just in time, then continued, “Listen, what do I call you if I can’t use your name?”
“I’d really prefer it if you didn’t speak to me at all. But if you had even an ounce of self-respect, you’d use my name anyway.”
It was a challenge. I looked around to see if there were any sharp objects within easy reach, and could see only an egg whisk.
“Right, then,” I said. “Jane, the prefects are—” I hadn’t realized that egg whisks could hurt so much, but then I’d never had one chucked at me before. It caught me just above the forehead. That infraction alone—never mind the impertinence, disrespect and poor manners—would have netted her at least fifty demerits if I wanted to make something of it, and a 10 percent bounty to me for reporting it.
“You’ll never get any merits or positive feedback at this rate,” I said, rubbing my head. “How do you expect to get on in life?”
She gave me a weary look.
“Oh,” I said, “do you have any merits or positive feedback?”
“No.”
“And you don’t think that’s bad?”
She turned and fixed me with her piercingly intelligent eyes.
“There’s more to good or bad than what’s written in the Rulebook.”
“That’s just not true,” I replied, shocked by the notion that there might be another, higher arbiter of social conduct. “The Rulebook tells us precisely what is right or wrong—that’s the point. The predictability of the Rules and their unquestioning compliance and application is the bedrock of—”
“The scones are not quite done. You take in the tea, and I’ll follow.”
“Were you listening to a word I said?”
“I kind of switched off when you drew breath.”
I gave her one of my most powerful glares, shook my head sorrowfully, gave an audible “tut” and, after picking up the tea tray, left the room in what I hoped was high dudgeon.
The Prefects
1.1.06.01.223: The position of prefect is open only to those with a perception of 70 percent or above. In the event that no one is available, an acting prefect with lesser perception may be appointed until a suitable perceptor is found.
When I returned to the drawing room, the prefects were discussing Travis Canary and his burning of the post. I couldn’t help thinking that disposing of dead people’s mail wasn’t actually an offense but a public service. More interestingly, I couldn’t help but notice that the Council had purloined all the sugar lumps in my absence. I poured the tea as politely as I could, but my hands were trembling. Prefects made me nervous— especially when I hadn’t actually done anything wrong.
“So, Master Russett,” said Head Prefect deMauve, “what can we expect from you?”
“I will strive to be a worthy and useful member of the Collective during my short stay,” I said, defaulting to Standard Response.
“Of course you will,” he replied. “East Carmine has no room for skivers, loafers and freeloaders.” He said it with a smile, but I took it for what it was: a warning.
“Travel is a very great privilege,” he continued, “but can also lead to the spreading of disharmony, not to mention the Mildew. What is the reason you travel, Master Russett?”
“Actually, sir, I’m here to conduct a chair census.”
They exchanged looks.
“You have orders to this effect?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sally will be interested in helping, I’m sure,” murmured Yewberry.
“Was it for Humility Realignment?” asked deMauve, looking at my badge.
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope you learn from it, Master Russett. It would be a huge dishonor to your forefathers to waste all the Red they’ve worked hard to achieve, now wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Russett family scandal was annoyingly well known. Three generations ago an eccentric forebear with considerably more Red than sense decided to marry a Grey. He was called Piers Burgundy, was a prefect and distantly related to First Red. His name and hue were lost in the union, and the diluted perception of barely 16 percent that emerged in their son meant a dynastic downgrade to Russett. We’d been attempting to regain our lost social standing ever since. The whole thing had been unthinkably scandalous, even by today’s standards, but not against the Rules. Marrying for love was not forbidden; it just didn’t make any sense. “If you want your grandchildren to hate you,” the saying goes, “marry down-spectrum.”
The prefects talked among themselves while I handed around the tea, but they all suddenly fell silent. Jane had just arrived with the scones. Both Yewberry and Turquoise looked vaguely worried, and recoiled a little as she approached. I realized then that Jane’s enmity was universal. She didn’t just hate me; she hated everyone higher up. This meant her dislike of me wasn’t personal, which allowed me at least a meager slice of delusive hope—something to build on, at any rate.
“Thank you, Jane,” said deMauve, who seemed to be the only person not wary of her.
“Sir,” she replied, placing the steaming-hot, sweet-smelling plate of scones on the table while Turquoise and Yewberry watched her carefully.
“Spoon packed and ready to go?” asked Yewberry in a needlessly provocative manner.
She looked at him contemptuously, bobbed out of habit rather than politeness and walked out.
“That’s one I won’t be sorry to see the back of,” murmured Yewberry. “Quite out of control.”
“A hard worker, despite the antisocialism,” remarked deMauve, “and her nose is very retrousse.”
“Very,” agreed Turquoise.
They stopped chatting to help themselves greedily to the scones.