“She seems generous in that respect,” I said slowly.
“I was thinking of having a donor eyebrow sewn on,” said Jabez, “but if they attached it badly I’d look quizzical for the rest of my life. Are you thinking of asking her out on a date?”
“Not anymore.”
“I don’t know why I did,” said Jabez with a frown, “probably that nose of hers. It’s quite something, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “it certainly is.”
“Just don’t tell her. She . . . doesn’t like it.”
“Hullo!” said Tommo, who had just reappeared. “Eddie, this is Jabez Lemon-Skye. He’s first-generation Green, so hardly objectionable at all. What’s going on?”
“Eddie and I were just discussing how to get a date with the Nose.”
Tommo raised his eyebrows. “So you are interested in Jane?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Sure you are. I’d leave her well alone, if you want my advice.” He gave out a conspiratorial chuckle.
“And if we’re talking about guilty secrets, Jabez is a love child. His parents married because—get this— they couldn’t bear not to! Weird, huh?”
“I’ll not be made ashamed of it,” remarked Jabez with great dignity, “but muse on this: When you meet an Orange or a Green, you’re not looking at wasted primal hue, but the product of a couple motivated by something more noble than the headlong rush for Chromatic supremacy.”
Up until that point, I hadn’t really thought about it that way. The Russetts had been trying to make up our lost hue for over a century. Marrying into the Oxbloods would finally take us back to where we were before my great-grandfather married the Grey. Red was my destiny, if you like—the hue I was born to.
“If we’re being so open with one another,” declared Jabez with a smile, “perhaps you can tell Eddie how you like to stare at naked bathers.”
“That’s a scurrilous untruth!” declared Tommo. “I wasn’t staring—I was simply asleep with my eyes open, and they happened to walk past.”
There was a pause. I didn’t really know what to say to make conversation with a Green, so said the first thing that came into my head. “What’s it like seeing green?”
Jabez lowered his voice. “It’s quite simply . . . the best. The grass, the leaves, the shoots, the trees—all ours. And do you know, the subtle variations in shades are almost without number—in leaves, from the brightest, freshest hue when unfurling, to the dark green in late summer before they turn and we lose them. Thousands of shades, if not millions. Sometimes I just sit in the forest and stare.”
“He does, you know,” Tommo put in. “I’ve seen him. But I’d not swap my reds for his greens if you paid me a thousand merits—Tommo’s not going to be taken by the Rot fully conscious, no, sir.”
It was one of the downsides of being the Color of Nature: When the Mildew came for you, the Green Room had no effect—even with offset spectacles. If Green, you had to go the hard way. Fully conscious, and slowly asphyxiated as the spores inexorably clogged up your airways. Some Greens took the matter into their own hands to effect a quick way out, and others joined a self-help syndicate, much against the Rules.
“That’s the difference between you and me,” replied Jabez, staring at Tommo with a smile. “A lifetime of nature’s rich and bounteous color in exchange for five hours of suffering? The forest wins hands down every time.”
“Not for me,” Tommo replied cheerfully. “As soon as the spores start sprouting, I’m diving headfirst into the endorphin soup without so much as a ‘Thanks, guys, it’s been a heap of number twos.’ ” Jabez considered it time to go before Tommo became too insulting.
“Welcome to the village, Eddie—and listen to one word in eight from walking Reboot here. Friend?”
I paused for a millisecond. I’d never accepted a friendship from a Green before. In fact, aside from twelve Oranges, six Blues, Bertie Magenta and just recently Travis, all of my 436 friends were Red.
“Friend.”
He gave Tommo a friendly shove, and departed.
We walked along a cobbled street lined with shops of varying description and usefulness. I noticed a tailor, a hardware store, a mender, Dorian’s photographic studio, a combination wool shop and haberdasher’s and a Head Office-approved forksmith. Tommo pointed out people of interest, and introduced me if he thought it appropriate.
“That’s Bunty McMustard. The most poisonous woman in the village.”
“We’ve met already.”
“Then you’ll know. When she succeeds in prizing Courtland out of Melanie, the offspring will be so devious they’ll spontaneously combust—but you didn’t hear me say that.”
“Of course not.” But I was thinking about Rusty Hill. “You said you could fix things, Tommo.”
“Most things. Courtland was overplaying it when he said ‘anything.’ ”
“My dad’s going to Rusty Hill tomorrow, and I need a reason to go there with him.”
He bit his lip. “Do you know how many people died in the Mildew outbreak? Eighteen hundred. If I was truly without respect for the Rules—which I’m not, by the way—I’d be over there like a shot. There have to be at least a hundred spoons kicking around—and if I can find one with a postcode that is unregistered, it means we can add another worker to the Collective, and any village will pay handsomely to boost their population. Pots of cash, see—but I still wouldn’t go.”
“Why?”
He looked around and lowered his voice. “Pookas!”
“There’s no such thing as Pookas. It says so in the Rules.”
“That’s what everyone at Rusty Hill thought. But there were stories. So are you sure you want to go?”
“Are you sure you want the Lincoln?”
“Leave it with me,” he said, thinking hard. “I might be able to come up with something.”
We passed the janitor’s workshop, where a battered Ford Model T was being judiciously oiled by a man in coveralls.
“Hello, Spoonpacker,” he said, addressing Tommo. “Is that Master Russett you have with you?”
“That’s me,” I answered.
“Welcome to East Carmine,” he said with a mildly superior air. “I’m Carlos Fandango, the janitor. Is Tommo here giving you the grand tour?”
I nodded.
“Good show. Fine fellow, but don’t lend him any money.”
“Sell his own granny, would he?”
“You heard about that? Terrible business.”
“At least I can tell when a tomato is ripe,” retorted Tommo, who didn’t much care for having his besmirched family name besmirched even further. The tomato comment was a demeritable breach of protocol, not to mention downright rude. Fandango, however, simply ignored him, and told me that he would be taking my father to Rusty Hill tomorrow, and would be outside the house at eight o’clock sharp.
I said I’d relay the message. Tommo, hot with indignation that his insult had had no effect, tugged on my sleeve and said we had to move on.
“Fandango is only fourteen percent Purple,” said Tommo as we walked away. “He puts on all the airs and graces, but before his Ishihara he was a Grey. Four points lower and he’d be out in the fields or laying burlap in the factory. He has high hopes for cashing in on his daughter Imogen, though, who they think will turn out to be a fifty-percenter.”
“He married a strong Purple?”
“Quite the reverse.”
He pulled a faux-shocked face, indicating that the Chromatic disparity between parent and offspring might suggest a bit of fence leaping. And on this occasion, for profit.
“The Fandangos went to Vermillion to celebrate at the Green Dragon after being allocated an egg chit,” he explained. “The bridal suite there is known as the Rainbow Room—for a price, you can have whatever color child you want.”